Lot’s return to Sodom

by Sandra Brannan

  “Nah,” Bly grunted, “they’re from New Mexico.”

  Just as he spotted the state name that Bly was referring to on the bottom rocker of their colors, a beer bottle shattered against the wall inches from Streeter’s face.

  MY THINKING SEEMED CLEAR at the time. I had decided to drive the circuitous route to Nemo via I-90 through Sturgis and up Vanocker Canyon. What better people to explain my story to than federal agents, dozens of crime scene techs? But when I drove past Nemo toward Broken Peaks all the tents and people were gone. No crime scene techs. No agents. No one.

  I had glanced in my rearview mirror the entire way and had seen motorcycle after motorcycle behind me, the idea of running away from Mully and his Lucifer’s Lot toward Nemo through Sturgis ridiculous in hindsight. But now I was finding comfort in a place I knew well. Legs trembling, hands shaking, I fumbled with the padlock and swung the gate open to our family’s quarry road. I hurriedly pulled the truck inside and closed the gate behind me.

  My comfort didn’t last long.

  Before I could wrap the chain around the swing gate and slam the padlock shut, the rumble of motorcycles turning off the highway onto our long gravel road made me jump. The bikers were less than fifty yards from me.

  My hands trembled and the padlock slipped through my fingers into the gravel at my feet. My feet wouldn’t move when I looked up and saw Mully’s broad grin, he and his posse heading straight for me. My steel-toed boots scrabbled across the crushed stone as I bolted for the truck. The door wasn’t even shut before I yanked the stick into gear and sped toward the quarry, trapping myself against the unforgiving mountain of iron that rose in front of me. Between a rock and a hard place.

  Staring in my rearview mirror the entire time, I whipped the pickup into the shadows of the trees. Just before I reached the large pieces of equipment now dormant, intending to park between them for cover, I heard the rumble of motorcycles lurch through the swing gates. I pulled a sharp left between the 980 Cat loader and the Atlas Copco drill, jammed the truck into park, and scrambled out the door, fumbling for Jens’s Browning pistol and shoving it into the back waistband of my jeans. I climbed up the ladder into the cab of the loader in long, quick strides and ducked low in the seat, hoping they hadn’t seen me. I whipped off the stupid sunglasses I’d been wearing and took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

  I had tried to ditch Mully and his boobs for a second time that day. While they circled the block for the third time, I had sneaked out to Jens’s truck the same way Roy Barker had sprung from the windowsill. I revved the engine, put it in reverse, and headed in the opposite direction. I had gotten a jump on them and even saw one of them spill his bike when they U-turned to chase me. I had floored it all the way here, thinking if I headed toward where they camp, toward the throngs of authorities at Broken Peaks, it might be the last place they’d look for me.

  The entire time that I was fleeing for my life, all I could do was rack my brain to remember the name of the guy in the Old Testament who lost his buddy and hero, Elijah, in battle and got sent by God to Jericho to purify their drinking water only to be hassled by a bunch of young boys. I remember pudgy little Sister Delilah hopping around from foot to foot, her wimple pinching an extra three or four chins, while she imitated the teasing boys: “Get out of here, Baldy! Did you hear us? Get lost, Baldy!”

  I don’t know if that’s really in the Bible or not, but I seriously doubt that Sister Delilah would ever lie—or had the vivid imagination creating such a story would require. For some crazy reason, though, these thugs reminded me of those young boys taunting Baldy. Only I wasn’t bald. But the most engrossing part of her story was that Baldy got so pissed off, he glared at and cursed the boys in God’s name, conjuring up two even more pissed-off bears that came charging from the woods and ripped forty-two boys to pieces.

  A sublime story to any third grader.

  And now, here I was, not fooling anyone with my clever attempt to ditch these guys by heading here, remembering those forty-two little bastards and thinking they were bearing down on me as they neared the quarry, their leader, Mully, staring directly at me. For the life of me I couldn’t remember the incantation Baldy recited to summon the two indignant bears.

  But I was grateful to have this Cat.

  Remarkably, I felt safer inside the loader. I was a soldier inside a tank and knew I could outmaneuver half a dozen bikes with the bucket of this beast if I needed to. But I couldn’t do that if I was sitting like a lame duck.

  As I bolted into action, my fingers flying to the key in the ignition, I growled, “One Cat is better than two bears. Any day.”

  The loader quickly roared to life. I enjoyed the surprise that registered on the faces of the approaching bikers. Needing both hands, I simultaneously worked the shift and steering wheel with my left and the bucket tilt and lift with my right. I kept the gun stuffed down the back of my pants and quickly backed the loader out of its spot. Maneuvering the lift and tilt in fluid motions, I squared the loader to the road like an angry mother bear pawing at the ground, challenging the bikers to come at me. Following Mully’s lead, they all slowed to a stop a few feet in front of me, unable to encircle me since my loader blocked the steep road, the only entrance to our quarry.

  With no hand free to grab the pistol, I shifted the loader into drive, my foot firmly on the brake, my other on the gas, ready to lurch forward toward the line of bikes. Mully dismounted his bike and walked a few steps in my direction. I pulled the lift back with my right hand as far as I could and punched the gas. I watched the alarm register on the bikers’ faces as the arm of the bucket sailed skyward high above their heads. At its peak, I let go of the lift lever and pulled my hand back to the tilt lever, pulling just enough to angle the teeth of the bucket menacingly toward the heads of my unwelcome visitors.

  My heart pounded and the loader idled in the moments that followed. It was as if time and all movement stood still, other than my labored breathing and my pounding heart. If any of the bikers made a move toward a gun or released either hand from the handlebars, I was prepared to drop the jagged steel teeth and bucket on their heads, charging their bikes like one of those biblical bears and ripping them to shreds, leaving a heap of tangled chrome and mangled bones for the criminalists to sort out later.

  At least that was my initial thought.

  Mully remained unnervingly still, looking nothing like a taunting boy, and I remembered the Sig Sauer or Glock I had seen beneath that leather jacket yesterday when he was in Sturgis. I edged my hand to the waistband of my jeans, gripping the loaded Browning just in case. Careful not to let them see the movement of my hand from their ground-level positions, I slipped the Browning next to the tilt and lift levers and repositioned my free hand back onto the lift.

  The longer the bikers remained inactive, the easier it was for my breathing to settle into a steady calm. I leveled my steely gaze directly at Mully, feeling nearly invincible with my foot stomped hard on the brake, my right hand back in position to lower the lift if necessary.

  In the sliver of time that defined either the last moments of my life or theirs, I imagined myself nestled in the palm of God’s hand, life coursing through the veins of red iron ore that would give the granite fingers behind me the strength to hold me steady. I felt like Elijah’s prodigy who had invoked the bears, only I had a Cat and a Browning, and my ears were filled with Luciano singing the role of Calaf as he proclaimed, “Nessun dorma!”

  Nobody shall sleep.

  I had concocted a weird mix of Old Testament lore and operatic fable, but I was at peace. And my face must have given me away.

  Incredibly, Mully lifted his hands in surrender and took two steps toward my loader, directly under the iron teeth welded to the lip of the bucket. He just stood there. Staring at me. For what seemed like … forever.

  Nobody shall sleep because victory was eminent. The boys would either leave me at peace or were about to be ripped to pieces.

  Vincero! Vi
ncero! Vincero!

  I will win!

  I released my grip on the lift lever and felt for the pistol, lifting my hand and leveling the sights directly on Mully’s testicles, preparing to shoot through the loader’s big glass windshield, aiming low and knowing the angle of the glass would deflect the bullet for a kill shot higher than my aim.

  Mully offered a shrug. Through the cab and over the idling engine, I heard him say, “I just want to talk with you, okay?”

  His calm, soothing voice yanked me from my peace, unnerved me, scattered Luciano’s victorious aria.

  “Not okay,” I shouted, my mind willing my hand not to tremble or my eyes not to show fear.

  After a long moment, I saw Mully’s eyes soften into amusement and a smile play in the corner of his mouth. Oddly, his charm and this entire ordeal made the unknown Prince Calaf, the man motivated by an overwhelming power of love, materialize right in front of me. And for a split second I forgot that Mully was an outlaw, the leader of the Lucifer’s Lot motorcycle gang, the guy who was trying to kill me.

  His smile reached his eyes just as he shrugged again and said, “Okay.”

  I was a bit confused and told myself to stay alert, that this was all a seductive trick to lull me out of my readiness. As he turned slowly on his heels, I discarded the Browning and slid my right hand back onto the lift lever, ready to drop it with any sudden movement.

  “This ain’t dawn, Calaf, and I will win. Not you,” I growled at his back.

  He must have heard me, because Mully drew up short for a second, turning enough so our eyes met.

  I swallowed hard and prepared myself for the worst.

  “Did you say … Calaf?”

  After pinning me with his stare, eyes filled with a mischievous secret, he erupted in laughter. Not mocking, more like joy. Then he simply walked away. He swung his leg over the seat of his Harley. Before stepping his bike backward a few paces and making a U-turn, he offered me a wicked smile and a gentleman’s nod that reminded me of the tight, practiced bows reserved for royalty.

  As he bowed, I could have sworn he said, “Princess Turandot.”

  As he led his restless boys out of our quarry entrance road in a small dust cloud of rumble, the line of bikes turned right onto Nemo Road.

  I hadn’t noticed I was holding my breath and dripping with sweat, my leg trembling from stomping so long on the brake. I lowered the lift and tilted the bucket back as I eased the loader into its parking spot, killing the engine.

  I don’t know how long I sat curled up in the seat, waiting for the adrenaline to ebb, but it was enough time to reflect on what had just happened and to allow the roar in my ears to disappear. What had seemed like a good idea at the time was a disaster. All I had managed to do was wedge myself into an isolated area with nowhere to run. A kill or be killed situation, my second in a month. The stress of it all must have affected me because the fear of what might have been was overshadowed by the power Mully’s charm held over me.

  Just as my pounding heart started to calm, I heard a knock on my window. I think I screamed, but it came out as an unusual sound. More like a gurgle. I sat upright and found myself pointing the barrel of Jens’s Browning at Tommy Jasper, who simply stared at me through the big glass window of the cab door.

  “What are you doing, Liv?”

  My shoulders sagged and I tossed the gun onto the seat beside me like it was a rattlesnake about to bite. I extricated myself from the cab onto the platform beside him, my legs feeling like rubber.

  “Bad day?” he asked. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held tight, not thinking how, at his age, he must be precariously balanced on the ladder, too.

  “Shitty day,” I said, using him as my buoy until I settled my nerves. “Almost as bad as yours yesterday.”

  “Huh.”

  Apparently, Tommy Jasper was a man of few words, but he seemed completely calm about having had a loaded gun leveled at his face and a woman using him as a human crutch. I was far more discombobulated than he was. He lowered himself to the ground and waited for me to follow on wobbly legs, gripping tightly with both hands to the rungs of the ladder. The gentleman he was, Tommy offered me a hand as I stepped off the last rung onto solid ground.

  I let out a long sigh, glad to reach dry land after bobbing around in that sea of confusion.

  “I was just finishing up with my cutting. Baling tomorrow. Want to join me for a bite at the Nemo Guest Ranch?”

  “Love to,” I said. “Maybe we can talk for awhile. Have a drink.”

  He didn’t seem surprised that I was insisting on our becoming fast friends, considering we had just met the day before. And despite the gun thing. Oh, crap. I had left the gun in the cab of the loader.

  “How’s your brother holding up? I heard that girl was his companion,” Tommy asked, holding open the door to his 1974 IH Scout for me.

  “She was and he’s not doing so hot,” I answered honestly, crawling in and buckling up. I’d retrieve the gun when I got back after dinner. After I was sufficiently calm not to point it at anyone else.

  When we got to the restaurant, my eyes darted around the bar to make sure none of the faces belonged to a member of the Lucifer’s Lot, and I asked Tommy if we could choose a table in the back corner. He obliged.

  When I asked the waitress to bring me nothing but two shots of vodka and a Coors Light, Tommy asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head. “No, but thanks for being here.”

  He nodded. Later, I was grateful that Tommy had placed an order for two hamburgers, knowing I wasn’t clearly thinking for myself. We ate in silence. The dinner was perfect. Once again, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. My energy bolstered and mind cleared, fear dissipated, and I was back to my almost normal self.

  “How about some coffee while we talk?”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said, my eyes skipping from face to face around the room.

  The waitress brought us two coffees, and I got right down to business and told Tommy everything that had happened yesterday and today, including the two close calls with Mully and the Lucifer’s Lot bunch.

  “You should call the agents and tell them everything, Liv. You know they think these people may have something to do with Michelle’s death, don’t you?”

  I confessed about my eavesdropping on the crime scene technicians all day today at the fence post by the big rock overlooking the creek, and he laughed.

  “The stories Clint told me about you are true,” he managed, sipping his coffee.

  “What stories?”

  He just shook his head. “Now, that wasn’t very smart, coming toward their campground. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do now. Tell me what the agents said after I left yesterday. Do they know what happened to Michelle?”

  “I spent several hours with those people yesterday and a few more with some agents today, probably while you were holding up that fence post.”

  His eyes were kind, more alive than they had been when I first met him. And he had a sense of humor.

  “I just don’t know how I can help them,” he said evenly. “They gave me a photo of Carl Muldando, the man you refer to as Mully.”

  He fished in his denim shirt pocket and pulled up a 3 x 5 glossy of the man who had been after me since yesterday. It was indeed the man I knew as Mully.

  “And they think Mully killed Michelle?”

  He leveled a gaze my way. “Sheriff Leonard thought so from the git-go. I think that big dog, the one named Shankley, is pressuring the other agents into arresting Mully for that girl’s death. But I didn’t get the same sense from the other two agents who came up to talk with me today.”

  Thinking of the two I kicked out of Jens’s house, I asked, “Was one of them wearing a fedora?”

  He nodded. “Agent Blysdorf. Stewart. Nice young man. Could use a shave.”

  “And the other was Agent Pierce, right?”

  He nodded. “Funny first name. Skeeter or
Scooter or something.”

  “Streeter,” I said, resisting the smile that automatically came to my lips. “Do they think Jens is the killer?”

  “I don’t think so. They knew he was here Monday morning. At Nemo. And Clint told him he’d known Jens most of his life and that he couldn’t imagine Jens capable of such a thing.”

  “The big dog, Shankley. Is he the boss or something?” I said sipping my coffee and feeling the vodka leave my limbs.

  “Director of the FBI office in Rapid City. Or whatever they call it.”

  “So Agent Blysdorf and the others work for Agent Shankley? Why did they give you the picture of Mully?”

  “They wanted to know whether I’d ever seen him walking around in the forest or on Broken Peak property Sunday or Monday. I told them of course I had seen a bunch of them Lucifer’s Lot hoods, but I never took much of a notice to their faces. The Schillings often tell their campers to eat here at the Nemo Guest Ranch. I told him those guys were rooting around at the campground on Sunday and ate supper here.”

  “Supper as in lunch?” I clarified, working the time line in my head.

  “Yep. Ted’s wife, Cecelia, served them. Nervous about it too.”

  “Nervous because they were part of the Lucifer’s Lot?”

  “No, nervous that Eddie would show up with them. Cecelia doesn’t like Eddie Schilling. Won’t let her girls near him.”

  This surprised me. “A problem with Mr. Schilling?”

  His lips thinned with distaste. “Nothing but rumor, I suppose.”

  “What are the rumors?” I asked hopefully.

  “I don’t want to be a part of any rumors,” he said. Nodding at the woman near the kitchen, he added, “Ask Cecelia yourself.”

  She was standing in the kitchen doorway talking with our waitress, and I excused myself to talk with her. Her wary expression only intensified with my question. “Cecelia, I’m Liv Bergen. Can I ask you a question about Eddie Schilling?”

  “What about?” She was direct, to the point, her chocolate brown eyes unwavering.

  “Tommy Jasper tells me you don’t take a liking to the man. Can I ask you why?” Only in South Dakota, I realized, could I be so forward with a complete stranger.