“What you’re doing is wrong. How long do you think you will get away with this?”
Roth raised his eyebrow and laughed.
I imagined from Ridgewood’s puckered nose that he could smell the blended stench of excess saliva and stale cigarettes that emanated beyond the loathsome man’s stubby teeth.
I shivered. Poor Ridgewood.
He’d been threatened with his livelihood and extorted for a relatively inconsequential amount of money by a man purporting to uphold and regulate one of the country’s most expansive environmental legislative acts ever passed by Congress.
Regulations that were intended to help, not hurt.
Made by good people, not assholes like Roth.
“For as long as I choose.” Roth’s sneer faded, and his face hardened. “Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Ridgewood. Your principles and cleverness are no match for my spotless reputation.”
“I may be outmatched, but I’d rather have principles than be crooked.”
Roth warned, “A few have tried to take me on, and they silently watched with hopefulness and horror as I squashed them like the bugs that they were. Keep in mind, this isn’t personal. It’s just a business transaction. You keep your quarterly payments coming, and I will watch out for your best interests at Region VIII. If you do that, we will get along just fine.”
Ridgewood watched the craggy-faced, stumpy man make his way back to his government-issued SUV. Roth waved casually. “Think about it. See you after lunch.” Then he drove off.
I’d had time to climb out of my position and check the recordings. They were solid. I had him.
Ridgewood stared at the empty parking lot, looking lost for many long moments before turning back toward his asphalt plant.
I studied him as I made my way through the yard. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He removed his well-worn hard hat whose smudges of grease and patches of dirt were like medals of honor awarded to an experienced commander. He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
I imagined he was seriously weighing his options. I approached him and clapped him on the back. “You did it. I have him. Recorded and witnessed.”
He let out a deep breath. “What next?”
“Pay him. Cash. I’ll record it. Don’t worry.”
He turned and walked back toward his office.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my checkbook and go to the bank.”
He looked so sad. I had to do something to cheer him up. “Bert?”
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Twenty. Not more than twenty-five. Roth was lying about the opacity.”
He spun on his heels, gawking at me.
“Two months ago. Recertified. I keep up as a Method 9 opacity reader. And you were right. Your lawyer should call me as the expert witness to your testimony.”
The grin that split his handsome face was all I needed as thanks.
COYOTE CRIES STUDIED THE nicks on his bedframe.
He’d been counting the days until his parole hearing. He’d never done that before. There was no point counting days. He had plenty of time to waste. But he’d been waiting for this day, this moment, for two decades. And now it was fast approaching. He had to be prepared.
Ready for anything.
He had flawlessly set a plan in motion to assure his release. A plan to ensure no one would be at the parole hearing to testify against him.
No one.
He’d be freed.
He could almost taste the sweet revenge he’d take against the man who’d stolen his freedom.
After that, he’d move on to the list of all those people who had double-crossed him or refused to help him. More than anything, Coyote Cries hated disloyalty. And there were plenty in his organization who’d been disloyal to him, who had taken more than their agreed share, who had cut product without his permission, or forgotten their place, or made decisions for him. Or as him. He intended to make good on that list after he paid a long overdue visit to the man who had arrested him, just to claim Top Tenner status.
When he was arrested, he’d posted bail. He’d had plenty of money socked away for that, even though the prosecuting attorney smirked when the judge announced the excessive amount. They never dreamed a Lakotan like him, one of the original people, had that kind of cash. But he did. Much more, in fact. Business on the rez was good back then. Still is now, after all this time. Not just good, but growing.
When he was out on bail, he’d used the precious days to wrap up his plan for continuing his work while he’d be doing time. And of course he’d attempted to pay a visit to the asshole lawman who’d arrested him. But he’d been unable to complete the job. Instead, he’d had to settle for less.
Coyote Cries loathed settling.
He’d grown accustomed to getting what he wanted when he wanted it. Especially when it came time for grudges and revenge. He needed to settle this old score before he could truly see himself as able to move on with his new life as The Reverend.
He rubbed his thumb across the grooves in the black paint of his bedframe. The day was coming. He would reach the moment of redemption soon, despite someone’s efforts to keep him here. He frowned, pressing his thumb against the frame until his skin turned ghostly. The sharp nicks pierced his skin.
He was imaging strangling the neck of whoever’d been sabotaging his release. Someone had been trying to convince the prison guards that he was a fake; that he was not really as spiritual as he claimed to be. Someone had told the prison guards about his stash and the illicit materials he’d been selling to the other prisoners.
But he’d managed to convince most of the guards that the stash had been planted for revenge—against his belief in God and his people—and as a warning to other prisoners to turn their back on reformation and redemption.
He’d successfully explained that rumors about his feigned belief in God were easily and naturally disputed, as evidenced by his decades of unfaltering commitment and dedication to his religion that were witnessed by seasoned guards. Only two guards, who were newly hired, seemed skeptical about the forty-six-year-old Native American’s story. The other guards believed every word Coyote Cries spoke because he’d demonstrated for years that he was who he said he was.
Even though he wasn’t.
Jeremiah Coyote Cries was disciplined. And he was patient. He could be anyone he needed to be as long as he got what he wanted.
And he wanted out.
But the seasoned guards couldn’t persuade the two new guards that Coyote Cries was an honest, forthright man who’d made some bad choices as a young man. Neither could he. In all his years, he’d been able to convince anyone of almost anything. But not these two.
Why not? he wondered.
Not even when he shared a quote with them—a very successful quote he was famous for using that was getting more hits on social media than the cat that did backflips. He told them, “No one can believe in one thing and do another. Maybe for a moment, but not for a lifetime. What I believe and what I do are the same thing.”
But they weren’t convinced. Someone inside had been brainwashing these two.
He lifted his thumb, sucked off the blood, and grabbed his well-worn Bible. He flipped through the pages and landed on his favorite passage.
Jeremiah 22:17.
His mantra.
Your eyes and your heart are intent only on your own dishonest gain, on shedding innocent blood, and on practicing oppression and extortion.
What dishonest gain might those two be after? Maybe they’d discovered his wealth, his power that he so carefully kept secret. Maybe they wanted a cut? That didn’t seem likely with these two Dudley Do-Rights. No, not that. More likely, they’d heard something about him. They were cautious. They distrusted everyone in the population.
They were scared. That could work to his advantage. But first he had to find out exactly who was trying to destroy him. T
hen, he would make the prisoner who ratted him out to the new guards pay for his indiscretion.
This parole hearing was everything to him.
Although he knew that Snake was no snitch, Coyote Cries suspected he might know or could find out who was talking. And if Snake did know, their “talk” yesterday morning would’ve convinced him to confess. But he hadn’t. So Coyote Cries would be patient. Snake would figure out who was squealing.
He’d been keeping close tabs on the fish, the newest prisoner, who had only been in the joint for three weeks, and Snake had alluded that he was likely the leak, too. But Coyote Cries needed time to confirm it. Until then, he had assigned his most trusted and loyal soldier to shadow the fish.
The gossip at the mainline, the prison cafeteria, was that some prisoners had suspected the new guy was a correctional officer in disguise—a plant or a spy placed in the system to find out information about other inmates. The rumor was that he was no more a wife-beater than the Pope and was too clean-cut to be anything but an undercover agent.
A Dudley Do-Right—like the two new guards.
Maybe all three of them were in it together. A shakedown. He’d keep a closer eye on their interactions and ask his only confidant if the fish had spent any time with the new guards alone.
The underground prison network of communication was a haven of information. No one other than the convicts themselves could participate in the elaborate data link. Even though the administrators were always trying to infiltrate it, they hadn’t yet succeeded in any of their attempts.
The thought that this newest prisoner had been introduced into the population as the lawman’s latest attempt to break the prison code was completely plausible. And the guards might be his protection. Yes. There was something to that supposition.
He smiled.
He rose from his bed and walked to the door, knowing the quiet time lockdown before dinner was almost over. Just then the locks popped, and the doors opened throughout the cellblock. He padded out of the cell and merged into the flow of prisoners headed to the mainline to eat.
Coyote Cries sensed he was onto something. The two new guards … the fish … Although he wondered if the feds would allow one of their boys to be “done” by the booty bandit … Maybe that story was fabricated, but Dillinger, his number two guy, said it had been confirmed. He was a legitimate source. He would never lie.
On second thought, maybe the correctional plant himself started the rumor about being messed with by one of the booty bandits, wanting the news to spread as quickly as it did so he’d appear to be one of the blues. It made sense. Coyote Cries would find out. He’d either confirm directly with the booty bandits, or he’d corner the newest prisoner and invite him into the confessional.
With The Reverend.
A DOZEN LONG-STEMMED YELLOW roses in a magnificent bouquet that was probably delivered yesterday brightened my doorstep.
My mother said she would be sending me a day brightener to remind me how proud my family was of me for going back to work. She was always thinking of others and had yet to ever let me down. I scooped up the plump vase and fumbled with the keys to my apartment. Beulah nudged my leg with her nose. She had wanted to come home, and we were finally there. To stay.
I glanced over at the family photo on my counter. There are eleven of us.
My parents named all nine of us kids alphabetically for saints. That was Mom’s choice. She’s Irish Catholic. Our Norwegian middle names were Dad’s choice.
I was named Genevieve Liv Bergen. My brother, Dismas Ole Bergen. All the girls but me go by their first name: Agatha, Barbara, Catherine, Elizabeth, Frances, and Ida. My two brothers, Dismas and Hubert, go by their middle names, Ole and Jens.
I’d like to say that a name means nothing; that it predestines a child in no way. But I’ve found as my siblings age, they were named exactly as they should have been.
Agatha Ardnis, my oldest sister, channels both the patron saint for volcanoes and is an eagle spirit, as her Norwegian name indicates. She’s an artist who tends to favor cutting torches over paint brushes, is strikingly beautiful, and can get any of us to do just about anything anytime. She claims to be “the oldest and the meanest.” Not true—she’s one of the kindest.
Barbara Bera was an officer in the Army. She’s afraid of nothing and as tiny as Elizabeth. But never underestimate their strength. Barbara, the patron saint of mining, and Bera, the Norwegian word for spirited, suit my second oldest sister to a tee.
Catherine Carlsdatter is a Catholic nun who loves to eat and dotes on everyone. Catherine is the patron saint of learning, and Carlsdatter refers to my grandmother’s maiden name. Everyone loves Sister Catherine. And Sister Catherine loves everything chocolate. Especially Chubby Chipmunk and Mostly Chocolates—locally made Black Hills delicacies. Both are absolutely to die for.
Dismas Ole runs the family business with my dad. Dismas was the good thief who was crucified to the right of Jesus Christ. And my oldest brother is indeed my father’s right-hand man. And who the hell knows what Ole means in Norwegian? Just Ole.
Elizabeth Eldrid is the wild-card elfin sister who changes jobs as often as she changes hair color. She amuses me more than anyone on the planet. Saint Elizabeth was the patron saint of widows and young brides, and Eldrid means fiery spirit in Norwegian. She’s never been married, which is ironic considering her saint’s name. Elizabeth and I tend to get into a lot of trouble together. Fiery spirit, indeed.
Frances Frida is a telemarketer who works from home. She is most certainly her Norwegian name, which means beautiful, and Frances was the patron saint of migrants. Far from being a wanderer, Frances is the omnipresent buoy for all of us during any of life’s storms. I tend to think that’s why God chose her to raise Noah, my nephew with severe cerebral palsy. Frances is simply the saint of the family.
Hubert Jens is an integral part of the family business and beloved by the employees. Hubert is the patron saint of hunters, and our Hubert loves to hunt or fish in every spare minute of his time. And Jens? I’ve forgotten what that means in Norwegian. Just simply Jens, I suppose. But he is far from being a simple man and is, in fact, quite complicated and interesting.
Ida Ingrid, the youngest—singer, model, and actress. Not just a singer, an opera singer. No wonder her name means prosperous beauty. She is every bit of it, with the operatic voice of an angel. And quite wise on top of it all.
I was seventh born. Between Frances and Jens. Genevieve Liv Bergen. St. Genevieve is the patron saint of disasters and fever. Go figure. If asked about my name, I stick to Liv Bergen, which means life as a mountain dweller.
My parents, David Garth and Jeanne Kiara Bergen, are incredible gifts.
My dad, Garth, is of Norwegian heritage, owns and runs a mining company, and is a popular local icon. Oh, and a US Congressman.
My mom, Jeanne, is of Irish descent. She’s the glue in an incredibly tight family and a saint who owns a Mary Poppins purse. The only thing I hope to inherit from my parents is the magic purse.
I collect rocks that represent each of my family members, and the one that represents my mother is the most beautiful of them all. It’s a crystal and my favorite. When a madman serial killer swiped the crystal from my room in Fort Collins over a year ago, the depths of hatred and instant panic I suffered in that moment of recognition that I had failed to protect her drove me insane. The wound was deep and visceral.
No one will ever harm my mother without going through me. And a lot of other fiercely protective siblings, too. Red Rover, Red Rover. Send the assholes over. We’ll take care of them.
I set the roses on my kitchen counter where they were visible from everywhere in my tiny apartment, tossed my overnight bag on a chair, and filled Beulah’s bowl with water, which she lapped greedily. Now to some food—for the dog, not me.
I poured myself a glass of merlot and glanced through my stack of bills, sorted by priority. While I opened each envelop, I called my brother.
“Genevieve
,” he said before I could get out a hello.
“Dismas.”
I glanced over at the yellow roses and imagined her whipping that huge bouquet out of that tiny purse, putting them in the back of my Jeep without me knowing it, and arranging for someone at this end to place them on my doorstep before I got out of the car. That would be my mom. She can do anything.
“What’s up?” my brother asked. “You left a rather cryptic message.”
I’d been waiting for Bert Ridgewood to wrap things up in his office after Roth had left. So I made use of idle time and called Ole.
“Wondering if you can help me.”
“Of course. Name it.”
“Remember that guy I told you about?”
“Dick Roth? The EPA inspector?”
“I wouldn’t normally ask, but you mentioned that you and Dad were going to attack this situation together if Roth ever came back. Think I can use you as bait in a sting operation?”
“Happy to do it. When do you need me?”
And that was that. Clearly, they weren’t afraid of the risk. No regard for inconvenience or even danger. My brother was there for me, and we’d have a good time taking that lowlife down.
We set the plans and said our goodbyes.
I swallowed more wine and foraged for anything I could find in my fridge. I was hauling out some crackers, an unopened brick of cheese that hadn’t yet expired, and some buffalo sausage, thinking at least I had some protein, when someone knocked at my door.
I set my bounty down on the counter and peeked through the fisheye and gasped. It was Streeter Pierce. He’d never come to my apartment. I didn’t even know he knew where I lived.
I swung the door open.
I had so many things I wanted to say to this man, but I just stood there staring with my mouth hanging open like a shored guppy. My mind just couldn’t wrap itself around what I was seeing.
I must have stood there for far too long, because he finally asked, “May I come in?”
“Oh, of course. Sorry,” I said, stepping aside and motioning for him to come in.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 6
