Lot’s return to Sodom Read online

  “Freeburgs tell you that?”

  He nodded. The Freeburgs probably had no clue and would have to have a memorial service rather than a funeral. At least until the authorities released the body.

  I hated this.

  I didn’t know what to say. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words. Couldn’t think of one word of comfort for him. Nothing. After years of Jens joking about me zipping my lip, kicking me under conference room tables to warn me when to shut up, I could not find the words when he needed them—me—most.

  What an imbecile I am.

  “It sucks,” he added, his shoulders drooping, his head thumping against the glass behind his seat.

  Jens was one of the finest orators I had ever known. His incredible command of the English language and his ability to pinpoint a description that conjured vivid images, tastes, sounds, and smells resulted in speeches that brought tears, laughs, applause, no matter what the event. The enormity of his sorrow was evidenced in the phrase he was reduced to at this moment.

  Tears welled in my eyes and I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat.

  “I am so, so sorry.”

  Jens sat that way, his eyes closed, his hands limp in his lap, for a long time. The ping and clank of the cooling engine was the only sound on his quiet street. I sat perfectly still. Sitting still is difficult for a person like me, who can wear her clothes threadbare from the inside out. I steadied my breathing, imagining how he must have felt when he received the call after they found Michelle’s body. Jens had talked to me about asking her to marry him. Then they had that terrible argument on Sunday night and he hadn’t seen her since. After we relentlessly teased him yesterday at Gunner’s about apologizing to Michelle, he swallowed his pride and decided to call her parents, only to discover that they hadn’t seen her, either. Then he called her at work. She hadn’t shown up. He must have had a horrible, sleepless night. Then there was the call early this morning.

  Now, Jens is left to pick up the pieces of his shattered life, hamstrung no doubt by regrets, blame, and what-ifs that will soon follow, if they hadn’t already come to haunt him.

  After what seemed like hours, Jens took a deep breath, opened the door, and pulled my bag from the back of his truck without saying a word. I followed him into his house in silence and sat down on the couch. He tossed my bag into the spare bedroom and pulled two beers from the refrigerator, handing me one. We twisted off the caps and guzzled. I was not about to point out it was seven thirty in the morning. I had sunk to a new low after breaking my own record of lows yesterday for drinking at inappropriate times of the day. Ah, whatever.

  “So where do you go from here?”

  He shook his head and took a swig. “I’ll figure that out later. I’ve got to get through the next three days.”

  “What happens in three days?”

  “I already told you, the funeral. And the reception at Mom and Dad’s after the interment.”

  I was getting on his nerves already and I wasn’t used to seeing Jens this surly. I needed to steer clear of any argument or the details and snatched the first thing that came to mind. “What the hell does that mean, anyway? Internment? I thought internment meant incarceration or something. Why do they call a burial and imprisonment the same thing?”

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of Jens’s lips. “Interment. Not internment.”

  “What?”

  “Internment means imprisonment. Interment means burial, you boob.” A smile, weak as it was, crept to his lips before he drained the rest of his beer. I knew he’d get through this. He was still in there somewhere. He retrieved a second beer for himself. “I gave you the first because you’re a guest. We’re over the pleasantries, though, and you’re going to have to serve yourself from here on out.”

  “Got it,” I said, tipping my beer and stretching out on the couch.

  He stretched out in the recliner and kicked off his shoes.

  “How are Char and the rest of the family taking this?” I braved.

  His face tightened. “Char is still missing.”

  “What?” I nearly choked on my beer.

  Jens had told us that the argument he and Michelle had gotten into Sunday night was over Michelle’s little sister Char, who had run away. Again.

  “Michelle never found her,” Jens said. “At least, not that I know of.”

  “And the Freeburgs?”

  He shrugged again.

  “They weren’t all that surprised when Char disappeared. They still think she just ran off somewhere. They’re pissed as hell that their oldest daughter is dead and Char doesn’t even know it because of her selfishness. Their words, not mine.”

  “She’s just a teenager,” I said. “What if something happened to her, too?”

  “I don’t think anything’s happened to her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Jens shrugged again. “She was difficult.”

  “What fifteen-year-old isn’t?”

  “Fourteen,” Jens said.

  “Why’d she run away, Jens? Did Michelle ever tell you that?”

  Jens stared out his picture window to the hushed street beyond. I could see he was watching the little old man across the street who was weeding his yard in his slacks and a button-down shirt, his work clothes nicer than most people’s dress clothes these days. Hell, nicer than I’m dressed today, I thought, looking at my jeans and light jacket.

  “Liv, I don’t know if I should be telling you anything,” he said, staring at his neighbor.

  I could probably count on two hands the number of times he had called me this, so its significance now was not lost on me. “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t even talked to the FBI yet.”

  “And?”

  “And Mom says we’re supposed to be gentle with you.”

  “Gentle?”

  “Because of what happened in Fort Collins. With your trauma and all.”

  I scoffed and drained my beer, rolling off the couch to retrieve a second one. “It’s nothing more than getting my muscles back into normal conditioning, my nervous system back in sync. I’m not the delicate flower she’s made me out to be, Jens. You can talk about this with me. Really.”

  “And you won’t freak?”

  “Why would I freak?” I asked, standing over him as he slumped.

  He folded himself into a sitting position in the recliner and stood up beside me. I laser-locked my eyes on him, having to crane my neck to stare him down, to prove I was strong enough, even though I felt like a dwarf next to him, hence his nickname Moose. He draped his hands on my shoulders and answered quietly, “They consider me a suspect.”

  “Bullshit!”

  He nodded.

  “Well, that sucks,” I added, stomping off to the couch and flinging myself onto it. So much for not freaking.

  “No, the fact that Michelle is gone forever sucks. The rest is all just noise.” He sank back into the recliner.

  “Have you hired an attorney?”

  He shook his head and buried it in his hands. “When would I have had time to hire an attorney? It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning. I just found out about all this a few hours ago. The police questioned me from the instant I showed up at the morgue at five thirty in the morning at the Freeburgs’ request. They told me I’d be hearing from the FBI soon and to stay close to home. I hope they didn’t stop by while I was up at Mom and Dad’s to get you.”

  I remembered Clint White telling me that he saw Jens at the Nemo General Store yesterday morning. Michelle was found only a few miles from there, right next to our family’s iron ore quarry.

  Jens had opportunity.

  I bolted upright, ignoring the scream of sore muscles, and knelt beside his chair. “I’m sorry about Michelle. I’m sorry it had to end this way. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry about you having to plan for the funeral and me not being able to help comfort you. But you can’t minimize the fact that the authorities co
nsider you a suspect. You need to protect yourself. You were the last one to see her?”

  “No, whoever murdered her was the last one to see her.” His look said, “Are you stupid or something?”

  “I mean were you the last one to see her besides her killer?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Hubert Jens, listen to me.” He dropped his hands and stared at me. Full names were reserved for Mom when we were in trouble for something. “I’ll stay with you as long as you like. I planned on going back to work in Fort Collins next week. It’s going to be crazy around here between now and then. I’ll stay as long as you need me, but you must hire an attorney. A good one. Protect yourself. Do you hear me?”

  A long silence passed. Jens’s eyes narrowed. “I do need you. I need you to find out what happened. Find Char.”

  I shook my head. “The police are all over this. Dozens of them.”

  “How do you know that?” he queried.

  I almost gave it away and quickly moved on. “I don’t. I can only imagine. And if, as you say, the FBI is involved, this is serious shit. You don’t need me. You need a damn attorney.”

  I was rewarded with an unexpected gleam in his eyes. “That New Year’s resolution to stop swearing continues to work magic for you, huh?”

  “Shut up, this isn’t funny,” I said. His smile was only fleeting. I found my way back to the couch, sinking into a deeper funk.

  Jens stared at the floor. “I won’t be able to do anything, especially now that the FBI has named me a ‘person of interest.’ You have to help me.”

  I stared at the ceiling. “How? What can I do? I’m not a cop. I don’t know anything about what’s happened to Michelle.”

  A loud rapping on the door gave us both a start. The familiar voice at the door hollered through the screen, “Yoo-hoo. Jens? Boots? Are you there?”

  Jens shot me a glance and started talking quickly. “Start with Clint. Today. Before they get to him and force him to stay quiet about this.”

  “Clint who?” I pretended.

  “Clint White. Our Nemo Quarry supervisor.”

  “What does Clint have to do with—”

  “Jens?” Catherine’s voice called again.

  “That’s where they found Michelle’s body.”

  “At our Nemo Quarry?” I acted as if this was news to me.

  “Nearby. On Bender’s place. That’s why they think I’m a suspect.”

  Another long silence passed. Jens took a deep breath and steeled himself. He looked me in the eye and shook his head before calling, “We’re in here, Catherine.” Then he offered quietly, “I’ll find an attorney if you find out what happened.”

  I nodded. “Only if you tell me everything. Like why you were at the Nemo General Store yesterday morning.”

  “How did you—”

  “Just give me the keys to your truck,” I hissed. “I don’t have time for you to take me back to Mom’s for the Gray Ghost and I don’t even want to think about the consequences of stealing Sister Catherine’s Cadillac Seville.”

  He nodded and tossed me his keys.

  “I’ll go up there under one condition.”

  “I said I’d find an attorney,” he barked.

  “Okay, two conditions. That, and you break the news to Mom that I wasn’t able to keep my promise about that doctor’s appointment this morning.”

  He grimaced.

  We both rose to our feet to give our sister a hug. Although I rarely saw her wear the tunic, scapular and wimple, Catherine was never seen in public without her veil, despite the Vatican suggesting that wearing habits was no longer a requirement of nuns. Spreading my arms wide, barely able to touch my fingertips across her back, I rushed in for the first hug because I knew if I didn’t, I’d get lost in her ample bosom for too long, losing too much precious time. Better Jens than me, stuck to her like a tiny magnet, hugging a refrigerator, unable to resist the magnetic pull. After a few long moments of squashing against her massiveness, me unable to catch my breath, she released me and cradled Jens in her embrace instead. I excused myself and scuttled out the door, glad that for once Catherine’s timing was spot on, because I wouldn’t have left him alone and I would have never made it to Nemo in time to catch Clint as Jens had asked me to do.

  And Sister Catherine would have a rosary buddy for the next few hours.

  “HER NAME IS MICHELLE Arlene Freeburg,” Bob Shankley announced, clicking to the next slide in the projector.

  The debriefing started precisely at nine, three minutes before Streeter arrived. The aide who had greeted him at the airport had phoned Shankley to tell him Streeter would be delayed because of a ruckus a canine had caused in the airport baggage claim area and that they were on their way, yet Shank made his point by starting without him. A small squad of eight men was seated in the conference room listening to their boss present the current status of the Freeburg murder case.

  A young woman with straight, dark hair and tired eyes stared at the camera yielding little more than a sad smile. With an ounce of effort, the woman in the picture could be quite beautiful, even remarkable. With the right haircut, a touch of lipstick, and self-confidence, Michelle Freeburg would have been striking. As it was, she seemingly had intentionally uglified herself, trying to appear unappealing, unattractive.

  “She was twenty-eight, was killed sometime between late Sunday evening and early Monday. Autopsy is being conducted as we speak and will further pinpoint time of death,” Shankley continued, scowling at Streeter as he found an empty seat in the back. The slide changed to a graphic picture of how Michelle Freeburg’s body was found. “She was reported missing late yesterday morning by her boss, was last seen by her boyfriend Sunday night before being murdered. Michelle Freeburg was a loner, independent, quiet. Early yesterday morning, her body was found at the banks of Boxelder Creek about three miles southeast of Nemo on private ground known as the Broken Peaks, a summer home for the owners of Tasty Treats, the national burger chain. The Benders haven’t been to the place since October of last year and were just contacted this morning about the activities. A rancher and caretaker for the Benders stumbled across her body while walking the creek bed. His name is Tom Jasper, a seventy-two-year-old who leases ground in that area for grazing cattle and for baling hay. We questioned him late yesterday afternoon and he is not a suspect. Had absolutely nothing to do with this other than to be the unfortunate bastard who discovered the body.”

  Shankley advanced the presentation from the digital photo of an aged Tom Jasper, with the previous day’s stamp date, to the next photo, which was of a man with a gray and black beard and mustache, neatly trimmed, wearing a red and silver bandana tied into a skullcap on the top of his head. The photo was a close-up from the chest up, and the subject was looking to his left, seemingly unaware of the camera. He was wearing a dingy, black leather vest with nothing underneath, exposing gray and black chest hair and a tattoo on his right arm. From the near-frontal angle of the photo, the tattoo appeared to be of a man carrying a gun, pointing forward, and wearing an oversized devil’s suit. The letters “’cifer’s Lot” were clearly visible above the figure in black ink, and some indistinguishable letters could be seen to their left.

  Shankley pointed to the symbols on the black vest and said, “This is why we’re involved.” He slammed his pointer against the screen on the emblem sewn to the bearded man’s vest. “The ‘one percenters’ means this guy is a member of an outlaw motorcycle club. See the ‘1%’ above the letters ‘M.C.’ right here?” He pointed to the abbreviation on the other side of the vest. “Law-abiding citizens comprise 99 percent of all motorcycle riders; these people are proud to be the one percent who are not law abiding, the criminals.”

  Someone in the front asked, “What does the pin mean?”

  Shankley pointed at the small metal pin attached to the vest. “FTW stands for ‘fuck the world.’ This picture was taken at last year’s rally. Carl J. Muldando, a.k.a. Mully, leads a chapter in Northern Colo
rado and attends the rally annually just to make some money for their club. We have dozens of photos taken of him over the years with the FTW pin proudly displayed on the lapel of his black leather jacket, his colors. We have a witness, who would like to remain anonymous, who told us yesterday that the pin is no longer on Mully’s jacket and that he, and several of the bikers he rides with, have new wings on their jackets.”

  Streeter knew all about wings, but couldn’t remember exactly which color wings signified which acts and would ask later.

  The SAC continued. “By the way, he’s also lost the beard and sports only a mustache the last we know. Looking a little more clean-cut lately. Don’t let the filthy colors fool you. They’re forbidden to clean their soiled jackets and vests. Never forget that these guys are professionals. Back to the FTW question. Ms. Freeburg was found clutching the pin in her left hand, maybe ripped from her attacker, her murderer. The pin was the same type FTW that Mully used to wear on his colors.”

  The room was silent.

  “We also have a witness who can place Mully near the Broken Peaks crime scene area Sunday evening around supper time,” he added, flashing an arrogant smile at Streeter.

  All of this seemed a bit too neat, in too short a time frame, for Streeter’s taste, reminding him anew of Shank’s tendency to make an emotional and vindictive decision rather than a professional one. He wondered what beef Shank had with Carl J. Muldando to have made him the prime suspect already.

  “How did this guy become a suspect?” Streeter asked, noting a hint of disdain in Shank’s expression. All heads turned around to Streeter.

  “Been keeping my eye on him for some time. Ever since you left nearly ten years ago. I happen to believe he is our key suspect as the Crooked Man.”

  The room erupted in nervous whispers.

  Shankley shouted over the noise. “And we have enough evidence already to put this guy away for the murder of Michelle Freeburg. There’s hard evidence and he had motive and opportunity.”

  “What was the motive?” Streeter asked.