“Shank did exhibit a lot of paranoia throughout this investigation,” Bly agreed.
“Schilling had access to the creek, which is close to the campground, and to the secluded wooded area where he could easily hide and where they found the footprints. He had admitted to asking Shank to help him get out from under the Lucifer’s Lot thumb of always having to offer the campground exclusively to them each year during the rally. He probably had plans to sell the campground, abandoning the only reminder and tie he would have to his crime. He would have access to little trinkets left behind by the bikers each day, probably the FTW pin placed intentionally in Michelle’s hand. He would have the most to lose both personally and professionally if he allowed Michelle to live and tell her story of his attraction to the teenage girls on his sports teams.”
“And a whale of a tale if she threatened to tell everyone how he nearly committed incest with his fourteen-year-old illegitimate daughter,” Bly speculated. “It would make perfect sense why he would have killed Michelle and tried to pin the blame on the Lucifer’s Lot leader. Stupid and risky, but it makes sense coming from a desperate man.”
Streeter stared out the window at trees rushing by in the dark sliced by the sweeping high beams on each corner. He clearly understood why Michelle would have gone ballistic once she saw Schilling as Char told it. She probably didn’t appreciate seeing her baby in the exact same position she had been a decade and a half earlier with the guy.
He imagined Michelle driving out to the campground to confront Schilling, threatening to turn him in to the authorities if he didn’t leave Char alone, if he didn’t stay completely away from her. Maybe she even broke the news for the first time that Char was his child. He imagined Schilling denying it, infuriating Michelle and antagonizing her to a point of a violent rage. It would have been easy for Schilling to overpower her, hitting her on the head with a flashlight when she got out of control, maybe the same flashlight Michelle had dropped on Skyline Drive when she first saw the couple in the car on Dinosaur Hill.
Once Schilling realized Michelle was serious, he couldn’t just let her go and risk having her tell the authorities. He probably convinced her or forced her to walk the distance to the creek, then smashed her on the back of her skull. He had to finish her off.
Streeter understood now why Mully seemed to have no clue about Michelle Freeburg, angered by the thought that someone was setting him up as the fall guy for her murder. He was set up.
As if Bly was reading Streeter’s mind, he said, “That would explain why Schilling got so nervous when you asked why he thought Mully killed Michelle. Remember that? He said the room might be bugged.”
“He knew that Mully would kill him if he found out Schilling fingered him, let alone set him up for the murder.”
In an urgent voice Streeter asked, “Do we have word on the search warrants yet?”
“Let me check. I’ll need to pull over, though, before we lose this signal completely,” Bly said.
“Hurry,” was all Streeter said, running through the story that was unfolding in his mind.
They were at the King Road intersection, the peak in Nemo Road, and cell phone coverage was spotty at best. Streeter thought about the latest turn of events and wondered what Liv had done in response to what she had learned from Char. The best Streeter could hope for was that, if Liv did act on impulse and head to the Lazy S to confront Eddie Schilling, she found the place teeming with Lucifer’s Lot members pulling up stakes and heading to Colorado, causing her to delay the confrontation with Eddie until morning.
After punching a few buttons on his phone’s mini-keyboard, Bly reported, “I got a text from Sue that the papers are on their way to Judge Usher’s house now. He will approve the search warrant.”
“Good,” Streeter said. “Let’s move. Quickly!”
Hesitating, Bly shot him a look and added, “And I got a text that Shank released Mully.”
“What?!” Streeter snatched the phone from Bly’s hand. “How long ago was that?”
The slender woman in the tight slacks and an even tighter blouse looked around the quiet office. The courthouse wouldn’t open for hours; at this hour it was completely empty except for the custodians who were busy mopping the hall. She patted her brunette hair, securing the knot she had hurriedly fashioned after being roused from sleep. She turned on her computer, the soft glow illuminating the otherwise dark office. She didn’t want to bother messing with the timer for the lights, the device intentionally complicated to discourage county employees from working overtime. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she scanned the sketchy information she’d hastily jotted down on a napkin. Within minutes, the whir of the printer signified that the final drafts were ready.
She lifted the receiver and hit number one in her speed-dial list. “Judge Usher? I’m finished with the search warrants. Can I stop by in fifteen minutes to notarize your signature? In triplicate, right.”
She replaced the receiver, clacked the keyboard, and generated two more copies. As the printer once more whirred its reply, she lifted the receiver a second time and punched in a familiar number.
“Mully? It’s me.”
She rolled her eyes as she listened to his admonishment.
“I know this is your cell phone number and that I’m not supposed to call you on it. That’s why I said, ‘It’s me.’ I didn’t have time to call you from a payphone. Listen, this is important. I just typed up a search warrant you might be interested in.” She thought about him in front of her—beneath her—daring her to tantalize him, a provocative curve to her lips softening her otherwise prim face. “For the Lazy S Campground.”
She straightened the pile of papers, tidied up the top of her desk, and twisted her wrist to check the time.
“Not for you. Edward Schilling. The office and his car.”
Flicking off the computer, she acknowledged, “I thought you’d appreciate it. Forgive me for breaking your rules? Later, baby.”
I PULLED UP TO the campground, thankful that the lights were still on in the building and the rest of the campground was quiet. The tents, a camper, and two vans were still there, but no motorcycles. And no Mully. I knew I would lose my resolve if he showed up, so I was thankful there was no sign of him. Probably still being questioned by the agents, but he would be hopping mad once he was released. And if he wasn’t, the other three who got tackled through the thick glass and smashed into the stainless steel vats would be. I intended to be in and out of here before any more excitement clouded my judgment.
I flicked my lights off before pulling into the campground, wishing I still had Jens’s Browning tucked in my jeans. I thought about going up the road a piece and retrieving it from the loader, but worried that if Schilling saw my lights out there in the pitch-black valley, he might call the police. Or worse, disappear altogether, and I’d lose my chance of ambushing him with the information I had unearthed.
I backed in near the front door just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat for some reason. I waited for a minute, debating again if I should go retrieve the pistol from the loader. When the thought of delaying my departure from here made my knees tremble, I decided to take my chances. I double-checked the Dictaphone I’d strapped to my ribs with duct tape, just under my left breast, to make sure it was secure. I’d found the miniature device at Jens’s house and loaded it with fresh batteries and a seventy-minute tape. I needed to make sure this wasn’t just for my ears only, and I was desperate to help Jens move beyond his grief by learning the whole truth and nothing but the truth about Michelle.
I pulled the key from the ignition and dropped from the driver’s seat onto the gravel. As the crunch beneath my feet sounded in the still night, I wondered if the crushed stone had come from our quarry or if it was from one of our competitors. If I could think about making a buck at a time like this, I knew I was comfortable about confronting one or both of the Schillings. As solid a decision as the rock beneath my feet. My dad’s favorite biblical passage
came to mind, Luke telling me to look to the rock from which I was hewn, the quarry from which I had been dug. And to gather strength, I stole a quick glance over my left shoulder toward Nemo Quarry, toward the discarded Browning that I knew was in the black beyond.
Even without the Browning as security. I just prayed they were both here, hoping Schilling’s wife would buffer me from any ill will Eddie Schilling wished on me as I confronted him about his seedy past.
Swinging the door wide open, before my eyes adjusted to the lights, Samantha and Eddie Schilling emerged from the back bedroom, rumpled with sleep and not pleased to see me. My eyes rolled skyward in silent thanksgiving for prayers answered.
“Howdy, folks,” I said, waggling my fingers.
Unimpressed, Mr. Schilling asked, “What the hell are you doing here again, Liv? Do you know what time it is, for chrissake?”
Mrs. Schilling eyed the lump on my forehead, but Mr. Schilling was totally oblivious and nonobservant. I tried on my best lie, in my best Columbo impersonation. “Well, to be honest, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about something you said that just didn’t make sense, and I thought you might clear it up for me.”
Mr. Schilling checked his watch. “At one thirty in the morning? What, are you accustomed to having your loyal subjects attend to your every whim at all hours?”
Ignoring the obvious dig about my family’s success, I dug deep for the right tone of humility. “Forgive me. Really, I am so sorry about waking you. I really didn’t think it through. Lord knows, I’ve read enough articles about you to know all the reporters agree you accomplish so much in your life that you must never sleep.”
His demeanor changed. I had successfully turned the tables on him, making myself his loyal subject. I nodded meekly, and was thankful when Mrs. Schilling piped in with, “Oh, this ought to be good.” I was glad she was here to hear all of this; she’d be a kind of protective shield. I wouldn’t need my gun after all.
I stole a glance in her direction. In contrast to her husband’s mussed-up hair, her blonde locks were pulled back in an attractive ponytail. And I thought she looked better without makeup. More real.
“You said you didn’t know Char Freeburg that well, yet you were spot on about her being at Hope Smith’s house,” I said, hoping I was approaching this correctly. “How is it that you were so accurate?”
“Good guess?” he said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at his wife for support. “That’s what was keeping you awake? Take a sleeping pill next time, will you?”
“Eighteen girls on the team. Another twenty or so underclassmen. You have a vague recollection of who Charlene is, yet you knew exactly who she’d be staying with since Sunday night,” I said, making sure I had moved over close enough to him to catch everything he said on tape, yet not get too close for him to grab me.
“Hey, like I said. Lucky guess.” He offered his signature grin.
“I think it was more than luck. And do you know what she had to say about Sunday night?” I hoped Mr. Schilling would be so nervous about what Char had revealed that he would confess to his wife, that he would make it easier on her by telling the truth rather than have her hear about it from me or from the authorities.
The color in his face drained, his grin slacked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Do you want to tell her or should I?” I motioned to Mrs. Schilling, who sat with her arms crossed over her faded sweatshirt, her eyes boring into her husband.
“She’s lying,” he said to his wife. “You know how it is. Everyone trying to make me look bad. They’re jealous, that’s all.”
“I haven’t even told the story yet. How do you know I’m lying or that it’s bad?” I said, measuring my words carefully.
Samantha Schilling never took her eyes off her husband. I watched as his shoulders sagged and he flopped into a chair at the second table, far from his wife. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—look at her.
“I knew Char, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he admitted.
“And tell your wife how well you knew Char,” I demanded. “And how well you knew Michelle.”
His wife sat up in her chair, tapping her foot, waiting for her husband to answer my questions.
“You know how it is, Samantha. I love you,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Twenty-four years, Eddie,” she said, containing her simmering anger quite well.
“Samantha, come on,” he said, finally looking over at her.
“You could never keep your pecker in your pants, Eddie. Not even when we were dating.”
His eyes followed her as she rose and slipped on dainty little tennis shoes, then walked over to the door and slipped hiking boots on over them. I was intent on the fact that she was about to leave and I wasn’t through extracting her husband’s confession, so I didn’t even consider the absurdity of her actions. Until much later.
I blurted, “You killed Michelle, didn’t you? She came up here to tell you to leave Char alone, to warn you that if you didn’t, she’d tell everyone that you were Char’s father, and you killed her.”
Mrs. Schilling pulled up short. “What did you say?”
“Killed her? Sunday night? Me?” he said, his jowls drooping even further in horror.
A stronger, more confident Mrs. Schilling turned back toward me at the door, a serene expression washing over her face.
“That’s right,” I said, willing her to sit back down and listen as I accused her husband. “You raped Michelle when she was only thirteen. Messed with her for a year until she finally had enough. She had your illegitimate child. How many other girls in between? Until you started seducing Char? Your own flesh and blood.”
“I never knew,” he said, all the color in his face drained away. “My child?”
“Michelle came up here Sunday night to warn you to leave Char alone, didn’t she? And you killed her.”
He looked at his wife, his eyebrows furrowed. “But I wasn’t here Sunday night—”
The rumble of Harleys sounded down the highway, cutting off Mr. Schilling’s sentence. His face blanched even whiter. His wife stepped out the door and looked in the direction of the noise, motioning for me to follow her.
“It’s them. Eddie, you have to deal with Mully and the Lot. They can’t know Liv is here. Come on!” she shouted at me, grabbing a flashlight and tugging my hand as though I were a small child. Within seconds, together we sprinted through the parking lot, hopped the barbed wire fence, and splayed ourselves in the deep meadow grass just as the bikers’ headlights swept across us and into the campground. If the creek had been any farther from the fence or if either of us had not been as fit, surely they would have caught us like deer in their headlights. I had discovered a newfound respect for the woman lying next to me. She was strong and quick-witted, not a dullard like her husband.
I was trembling, trying to process in my mind what was unfolding before me. I could see the flurry of activity as a dozen, maybe two dozen, Lucifer’s Lot gang members dismounted their bikes and scurried about the campground. The tents collapsed quickly, flashlights and headlights darting about with the movement. Women were packing pots, pans, and other belongings into the vans as the rest of the bikers made short work of tearing down camp. I could see Mr. Schilling standing in the doorway, the light giving his silhouette a halo effect, none of the bikers stopping to answer his questions. “Fellas, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”
I heard the rumble of more Harleys coming from town, and I knew before I saw them that it would be more of the Lucifer’s Lot. That it would be Mully.
Sure enough, the lead biker was none other than Mully. The agents had released him.
A groan escaped my lips and Samantha pushed my head into the grass and hissed, “Stay down!”
I did as I was told, hearing but not seeing her husband as he shouted, “Mully, what’s wrong?”
Samantha yanked on my hand again and said, “Come on. Now!”
I s
crambled to my feet as she pulled me through the rest of the meadow, across the creek, and up the other side of the bank. We scurried across another short stretch of meadow before we reached the trees. The woods were dark. Still holding fast to Samantha with my left hand, I warded off the thwack of tree limbs against my face with my right. My feet were scrabbling over rocks and branches, but she easily found purchase on the path through the woods, and I was thankful for her familiarity with this route. My breathing was heavy and ragged by the time she finally pulled up short and turned to look back at the Lazy S. I paused with my hands on my knees, doubled over to catch my breath for a minute or so, before I went over and stood beside her. We were looking down at the campground from a distance well beyond the Broken Peaks lodge and cabins.
We were on a hill—maybe half a mile from the Lazy S—just off our Nemo Quarry fence line, but not quite to the big rock. The lights that danced around the otherwise inky black campground were not unlike a well-orchestrated ballet, with the headlights of motorcycles, campers, and vans all falling into line and merging onto the highway in the direction of Nemo. The plume of dust left behind hung above the campground and eventually settled, as did my breathing.
One biker lagged behind, slowing as he came from behind the building and neared my truck. I squinted to make out his features, his movements. It was Mully. He just sat there, staring. Eddie approached him, and Mully gripped him with one hand around his neck, shouting something. Demanding something. In the still of the night, I thought I heard Mully speak my name. Eddie was pleading, pointing toward the woods into which Samantha and I had disappeared, shouting, “She ran off! She ran away!”
Mully stared off into the darkness and I shuddered, thankful I was closer to the loader than he was to me. Just as I was about to tell her my plan of retrieving the Browning as protection and hightailing it back to the campground before Mully killed her husband, a car in the distance, its headlights on high beam, stitched its way along the ribbon of Nemo Road. Mully released his grip on Eddie, gave him a shove, and took off after his pack, headlights on his bike turned off until he was well down the highway.
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 31
