Lot’s return to Sodom Read online

  He smiled.

  “Good, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “He speaks!” I joked.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at his watch. He reached for the second sandwich and unwrapped it, taking more time between bites.

  Rubbing his knees with his free hand, he said, “Dr. Morgan tells me I’m getting old. Nothing I can do about these aches and pains. Just parts wearing out. Anymore, I’m so tired all the time, all I do is sleep.”

  “Sorry to wake you up a little while ago, by the way. Didn’t see you lying there.” I’d heard of Dr. Morgan, although I’d never had the pleasure of meeting him. His reputation preceded him as the best and most beloved family practice doc in the Hills. For some reason, I thought I’d heard he’d retired. To Tommy’s insistent rubbing of his knees, I asked, “You okay?”

  He shrugged.

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  “No idea,” he said, sounding eerily similar to Eeyore. “Hours, days. A lifetime.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  Tommy sighed and craned his head to look out the window to his right, my left, toward the meadow filled with uniformed men and women working the crime scene. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve been working these fields. Know every rock, every crevice. Run across some strange things from time to time. But nothing like this.”

  I didn’t move, careful not to disrupt his flow of thoughts and recollections.

  He took in a deep breath and thumped his head against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. “Nothing like that.”

  Poor guy. I waited several beats before asking, “Want to talk about it?”

  As the time ticked, I cursed myself for asking, for rushing Tommy. I was afraid I’d never get him to tell the story before either Clint returned or the authorities arrived to ask him the same questions while I waited on the other side of the door.

  “You used to wear long braids,” he said, his eyes still closed. “You’re one of Garth’s daughters.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all I said. And I waited some more.

  Eventually, he opened his eyes and sat very still.

  “Haven’t talked about it yet. Not even with Clint. No one’s really asked except you.” His eyes pierced mine, and I’m not sure if it was out of anger or gratitude. Then he added, “Don’t know if I really want to put words to what I saw.”

  I nodded, thinking of my reluctance to put to words what I saw earlier in Sturgis. Or my ordeal last month. Or my fears of returning to my house in Fort Collins again. Alone.

  He pulled out a threadbare handkerchief and honked his nose.

  “Not much I can offer, but I’m happy to be your sounding board,” I said.

  His gaze was distant now. He looked puzzled, and I wondered if I’d lost my opportunity with my persistence. For the longest time, he didn’t speak, and I figured he wasn’t going to, but when he had finished the last bite of his second sandwich and drained the last of his Coke, he said, “Canadian thistle are nasty little plants. Tough to kill. Even tougher on my cattle.”

  I was wondering what the hell this noxious weed had to do with him finding a dead body earlier today. I contemplated grabbing his shirt collar and shaking him until he snapped out of it. Then I thought better of it. Tommy was an old-fashioned rancher somewhere around seventy, after all. And one thing I’ve learned as a native South Dakotan is that you don’t rush a good story, particularly one told by an elder who’s a rancher or a farmer. Regardless of how painfully slow it was to extract the story out of Tommy, I reminded myself not to screw up my one chance to find out what happened. And not to embarrass Clint.

  Tommy took a deep breath. “I sprayed earlier this spring. Thought I got most of those little buggers. Tough to do. Even tougher to do without my wife’s help. She died a little over a year ago.”

  I felt guilty when I recognized the discomfort that had started to roil in my belly was impatience. It dissipated quickly when I recalled that this poor man had been out here all day with nothing to eat or drink after stumbling across a dead body and having just experienced what must have been the worst year of his life.

  Gently, I asked, “What did she die of?”

  “Liver cancer. Dr. Morgan wasn’t able to save her. Didn’t even make it to the chemo phase. She passed quickly.” He snapped open a lighter, flicking the igniter several times with his thumb, as if it were a nervous tic at the mention of his wife’s disease.

  “And did you get it?” Noting his confusion, I blushed, realizing he assumed I was asking if he had contracted cancer, too. “All the Canadian thistle, I mean,” I hurriedly clarified.

  He nodded and a crooked smile touched his lips. “Most of it.”

  “Good for you,” I smiled back, observing that he had stopped flicking the lighter and had eased it back inside a pocket. “Do you feel like talking about this morning?”

  He straightened and cleared his throat. “I am talking about this morning.”

  I blushed again at the reprimand.

  “I was walking along Boxelder Creek to check on Canadian thistle, and in the distance I thought I spotted a patch of field bindweed downstream. A big patch of it, all white and clustered. As I walked I wondered if maybe it wasn’t field bindweed after all, but hoary cress or something. Eyes aren’t so good these days. It was a ways off, and I had lots of time to think about it. I wondered how that particular weed came onto my fields, since normally all I see is the thistle and the occasional tansy. Then I started thinking maybe it came in on the tires of these trucks, since the patch was just south of the quarry haul road.”

  I could see the wheels turning as he was figuring how to solve his fictitious noxious weed problem, which was easier for him to stomach than the truth. He was stalling, sharing as many details as he could that led up to what he found without getting to the discovery itself.

  “I walked for some time along the banks and never had another glimpse of white like I did way up the creek.” He slipped the lighter out of his pocket and started flicking the wheel with his thumb again. I waited, knowing he was on the brink of sharing the moment. He spoke quietly, almost inaudibly. “I’ve never seen a dead person before. Not before the undertaker worked on ’em, that is. Not even Judy. She died in the hospital in the middle of the night. They didn’t even call me until the next day. Had to die alone.”

  His voice broke, and I realized I was holding my breath.

  “It wasn’t hoary cress or bindweed,” he said simply. “First, I saw her legs as I rounded that last bank. Then I saw. She was naked, and I covered my eyes and called out, ‘Miss? You okay?’”

  His thumb flicked faster across the wheel of the igniter. Flick. Flick. At first it took him awhile to push himself up from the bench, but after he rose, he walked easily toward the window, clearing his throat as he did. I fell in line behind him and stayed close. He pointed toward the massive cluster of people just past our haul road on the other side of our fence. “She was right there. On Broken Peaks ground. By the big rock. See where the man with the red bandana on his cowboy hat is standing? Right there.”

  Standing on my tiptoes, I peered past his shoulder to see out the small window, spotting the man with the telltale hat. I knew the spot well. We used to go down by that rock after work and throw our lines in to catch some dinner, then take turns making different barbecue recipes for fresh rainbow trout. I could see how Clint and the portable plant team missed the body when they came in to work this morning and how all the customers’ truck drivers missed it as well. The big rock obstructed the view from our haul road.

  “Haven’t even called the Benders yet,” he added, referring to the out-of-state owners who vacation for a few days at the property only once each year. “I was afraid she was dead,” Tommy nearly whispered, “by how still she was and from the looks of the blood and all. But I still hoped she would answer me. I tried to find her pulse. Without touching much. You know. I couldn’t find it. So I called out for help. Clint
heard me. Don’t know how above all the equipment noise, crushing and all. Those guys are always busy, you know?”

  “I do. They work hard. Like you do,” I said, trying to keep him talking.

  His intake of breath was ragged. “I just stood there. Her body was crumpled on the bank of that creek.”

  His eyes were staring at nothing and seeing something that changed his expression to one of repugnance and fear.

  “How did she look?” I whispered.

  “She looked … dead,” Tommy said, blinking once. “She was completely naked. She had a mass of dark tangles, hair everywhere, and at first I didn’t see the blood that had pooled beneath her head. All I saw was the mass of blood and … stuff on the back of her head. It all looked like … like more hair, dark and … oh, there was so much of it. Blood, I mean. The back of her head was all smashed in, like a discarded melon. I imagine she hit it on a rock when she fell or something. She was on her left side at the bottom of that shallow bank. Her hair and the blood were caught in the creek’s flow.”

  “You were walking with the creek downstream, right?”

  He nodded.

  “And her hair was caught in the creek’s flow?”

  He nodded again.

  “So her body was in the creek?”

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t in the water. Just her hair. She was on her left side, her feet toward me, her head positioned downstream, but not in the water. Just her hair.”

  “She was on the right side of the bank as you face downstream? Opposite side of the bank from where we are, from this mining operation?”

  “Yes. I called to her.” He said with a nod. “She didn’t answer.”

  Because she was dead, I thought. “You said she was completely naked?”

  “Not completely naked, no. She was wearing shoes. Running shoes. That was it.”

  “Where were her clothes?”

  He shrugged.

  A shiver must have run through him by the way his shoulders shook. “God’s cruel trick. Clint should have been the one to see her body when he was down by that rock earlier in the morning.”

  My stomach flipped. “Clint was down at the big rock? In the morning? When?”

  “When I was fixing my tractor.”

  “I mean, what time was that?”

  “Oh, I’d say sometime around six thirty or so. When all his guys were starting up the equipment.”

  “What was he—”

  Clint White came through the door and gave me a look that told me time had run out. I nodded once, knowing the authorities had arrived to interview him and Tommy. I heard a truck honk, signaling the need to be loaded.

  “Will you cover for me?” Clint asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the awaiting truck.

  “Absolutely,” I said, my heart racing. I imagined the naked, dead body, Clint just inches away from her, and struggled to wrap my mind around the idea that Clint White could possibly be that brutal to another human being.

  He darted back outside, the door closing quickly behind him, presumably to escort the authorities into the humble office.

  I did not want whoever was on the other side of that door to find me with Tommy or I’d probably be stuck here for hours. I didn’t want to be caught in the wide net that was likely being cast to find clues and I certainly didn’t have anything to offer. I much preferred to load the trucks while Clint was in with Tommy being interviewed, and then I’d make a quiet exit once Clint didn’t need my help any longer. But I couldn’t leave without asking one more burning question.

  “What was Clint doing by the big rock, Tommy?”

  “Smoking,” he said. “Just stood there leaning against the rock, his back to the creek, and smoking a cigarette. I just wish he would have stumbled across her body rather than me having to.”

  I cleared the food from our lunch and asked, “Anything around her? Blanket? Weapons? Anything?”

  Tommy shook his head, “No, nothing. Nothing but a pile of my vomit. Felt like stampeding buffalo in my throat, it was so violent.”

  “Anything about the body that struck you as odd?” I wadded up the paper towels and empty cans and tossed them in the garbage barrel.

  “Just the hand.”

  “The hand?”

  “Well, she was on her left side. Her left arm was stretched out onto the bank, away from her body, away from the creek, as if to protect it from the water. And even though her hand was still cupped, I saw the pin.”

  “The pin?” I asked, retrieving a cold Coke from the fridge and handing it to Tommy.

  “Yeah, a pin. The kind of pin you see men wearing on caps or jackets, I guess. It was stuck in the palm of her hand, like she’d been holding it tight. Some blood dripping down her palm.”

  “Was there anything on the pin, Tommy? A picture? Writing?” Hearing Clint talking just outside the door, I grabbed my hardhat, leather gloves, and safety glasses and headed toward the side door.

  “Yeah, letters.”

  I glanced at the front door as the knob turned and said, “Tommy, I have to go now. They’re here to talk with you about this morning. You’ll do great. Your wife would be proud of you. Stay strong.”

  He smiled at me, an easier smile now. I started down the steps and had the door nearly closed behind me just as Tommy called out, “The letters on the pin. FTW. Did you hear me? FTW.”

  Fuck the world, I thought, as I gave a nod and shut the door just in time to hear Clint introducing Tommy to the authorities. I peeked up over the ledge of the windowsill and saw a big, heavy man in a suit that Clint’s muffled voice introduced as Agent Bob Shankley, and a second man, a biker dude with long, black tangles of hair and a face full of fuzzy beard, introduced as Agent Stewart Blysdorf. The FBI. The second agent, the hairy one, glanced my way and I ducked beneath the window. I didn’t think he spotted me.

  I crawled along the rocks and around trees until I was in the shadows and then made my way to the parked 980 Cat loader. I climbed up the ladder and into the cab. It felt good to be back in the driver’s seat again, back into the comfort of a loader. My chest filled with a happiness I hadn’t felt in weeks as I snapped the seat belt across my lap. I couldn’t resist a hearty laugh as I released the parking brake and started working the lift and tilt levers. The impatient truck driver waiting for his load glared at me when he saw me laughing. Although I suspect he thought I was somehow making fun of him, I lingered in that happy place for several more moments before giving a flitting wave and stabbing my bucket into the iron ore pile.

  THOUGH LOCATED IN THE heart of downtown Denver, the federal building nevertheless manages to maintain an unobstructed view of the gorgeous Rocky Mountains. Standing in his boss’s southwest-corner, eighteenth-floor office, Streeter Pierce was temporarily distracted by the spectacular view of the sun setting behind those mountains.

  Calvin Lemley stretched out in his soft leather chair and propped his feet up on the huge mahogany desk. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Streeter said with a frown. Taking a seat again at Calvin’s computer, Streeter zoomed in on one of the photos that had been e-mailed to Calvin from South Dakota a few hours prior for a closer view of the skull. “Definitely.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  With Calvin looking on, Streeter studied the electronic photos one at a time. The large man, identified as the seventy-eight-year-old landowner Ernif Hanson, was lying facedown on a rock, arms stretched over the edge and skull crushed from behind. No rocks were on the grassy hillside except for the large jutting outcrop on which the body lay. He had certainly not fallen or been bucked from a horse and smashed his skull against the rock; otherwise, he’d be on his back—unless he had been conscious and tried to crawl for help. But from the limited view of the camera lens, Streeter couldn’t see any trail of blood that would indicate that. Instead, it appeared as if the body had been posed where it lay. And the wound was perfectly round.

  Streeter noticed that in the background, a well-groomed trail s
naked along the valley bottom, and someone from the Rapid City Bureau had marked the graveled path Mickelson Trail. Also running along the trail was a tiny creek marked North Fork Rapid Creek, where cows were gathered and drinking as the crime scene technicians took pictures. The date stamp reflected today’s date.

  Eyeing the close-up of the dead man’s skull, Streeter studied the markings more closely.

  “But it’s an unsolved. Those stick with you, Cal.”

  “So this is definitely the work of the Crooked Man?”

  Streeter nodded.

  Calvin pointed to the screen. “What’s the Mickelson Trail?”

  “It’s an old railroad bed that was abandoned and converted to a public trail in honor of the late Governor George Mickelson, who was killed in a plane crash.”

  “Oh, that’s why the name sounded familiar. Tragic.”

  Streeter retrieved the other electronic file attached to the e-mail Calvin had received from Calvin’s counterpart in Rapid City, Bob Shankley, Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the Black Hills. The photo of the naked woman lying along the creek bed clearly showed that her skull, too, had been crushed by a blunt object, but Streeter was sure a different perpetrator had committed this murder. This even though the bodies were both found on the same day—albeit different locations in the Black Hills—the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally within easy distance of each crime scene.

  “This one was not the handiwork of the Crooked Man?” Calvin asked.

  “That’s what I’m saying. Shank is wrong about this.”

  Calvin leaned back and rubbed his eyebrows, glancing at the clock. Streeter knew Calvin had a family to go home to and felt guilty for pinning him down with questions about the photos for so long. But instinctively, Streeter knew this was important.

  “How can you be so sure, Streeter? Both had the back of their skull smashed and neither died instantly; left to die slowly over time.”

  “Look,” he said, clicking the necessary keys to make both photos appear side by side. “See here? The obvious. Our female vic is naked. The male vic is not.”