Bluetick Revenge (9 page)

“No.”

“During your time with Bugg did you ever hear him refer to any law enforcement officer by name?”

“I’m sure I did,” she said.

“Do you remember any specific names?”

“Not off the top of my head,” she replied. “A lot of times he would just say ’that guy’ or ’that fucker,’ something like that.”

“Did you ever hear him refer to a man named Steve Lowell?” It was now clear that the black man in the photograph was Lowell,
the ATF agent killed in Wyoming about six months ago.

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you ever hear any other member of the Sons of Satan mention that name?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know his name. He was from Wyoming.”

“What did he say?”

“He told Thad that Lowell had been taken care of.”

“When was this?”

“Last summer sometime.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “June or July.”

“Where did that conversation take place?”

“At a bar in Rollinsville.” Rollinsville is a town of a few hundred people six miles south of Nederland. A lot of westbound
trains pass through it before entering the Moffat Tunnel and heading down the other side of the Continental Divide into Utah,
Nevada, and ultimately California. The town boasts only one bar—the Black Bear.

“Would that be the Black Bear?” Livingston asked.

“Yes,” Karlynn replied.

“I’m going to show you some photographs. Please look them over and tell me if the man who told Bugg that Lowell had been taken
care of appears in any of these photos.” He handed her several mug shots. By this time I had more or less been sucked into
the whole thing, so I moved my chair closer to the table. The men in the mug shots all looked like felons.

“That’s him,” Karlynn said, pointing to one of the mug shots.

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever seen that man prior to the time he told Bugg that Lowell had been taken care of?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“I’ve probably seen him a dozen times, mostly with Thad. He comes to Denver a lot. We went up to Wyoming a couple of times—Thad
likes to visit other chapters. I saw him at Sturgis once.”

“And you don’t know his name?”

“I already told you I don’t,” she said. “Everyone calls him Mongoose.”

“Did you know what Mongoose meant when he said Lowell had been taken care of?”

“I had an idea,” she said.

“What did you think he meant?”

“I thought it meant that Thad had ordered someone to be killed.”

“Why did you think that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I could just sort of tell.”

“Did you ask Bugg what it meant?”

“I didn’t have to ask,” she said.

“What was Bugg’s reaction when Mongoose told him Lowell had been taken care of?”

“He really didn’t have one,” she said. “It was just another business matter.”

“A business matter?” Livingston said, his voice full of scorn. “He thought murdering a federal agent was a business matter?”

“Ease up,” I said, “she didn’t kill the guy.” He looked at Valeska.

“You see,” he said, “this is why we’re not supposed to let guys like him sit in on these things.”

“Let’s just move on,” Valeska said.

“All right,” Livingston sighed, “at any point did Mongoose say how Lowell had been taken care of?”

“He said something about someone named Skull. Skull had done a good job, something like that.” Livingston and Valeska looked
at each other. The revelation of Skull’s involvement was new.

“Do you know who Skull is?” Livingston asked.

“No. He was just some guy Mongoose found.”

“Had you ever heard of Skull?” Karlynn let out a little laugh.

“You hang out with bikers,” she said, “you’re gonna meet a few guys named Skull.” She had a point. The name sounded vaguely
familiar even to me.

“Well, had you ever heard Bugg or Mongoose mention Skull before?”

“No.”

“You’re positive?”

“I’m positive,” she said. Livingston decided to move on.

“During the period prior to Mongoose telling Bugg that Lowell had been taken care of, had Bugg said anything that led you
to believe he wanted someone killed?”

“No,” she said.

“Had he expressed concern about anything with respect to the Sons of Satan or any of the Wyoming chapters?”

“Well, I knew something was going on. He spent a lot of time on the phone with Mongoose and some other guys from Wyoming just
before that man was killed. He went up there several times. Lander, Riverton, that area. Mongoose is the boss up there.”

“What did you think was going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Like maybe someone up there was asking too many questions.”

“What made them think that?” he asked.

“Thad can smell a cop or a snitch a mile away,” she said. “It’s like he’s got some kind of radar—he can just tell.”

G
IVEN
K
ARLYNN’S ASSERTION
that Bugg could smell a cop or a snitch a mile away, I figured I’d better do something to convince him I was earning the
five thousand dollars he’d given me. So I spent Tuesday morning putting up posters all over the Peak-to-Peak region while
Scott stood watch over Karlynn at my home in Nederland. Each poster was 8½ ´ 11. The top half showed a black-and-white photo
of Karlynn. Beneath that was a physical description as well as my name and telephone number. I plastered the casinos in Black
Hawk and Central City and went as far south as Idaho Springs. Then I went north as far as Estes Park. I didn’t worry about
the area west of the Peak-to-Peak Highway because it contains no towns and very few roads. The Continental Divide takes care
of that.

To the east of Nederland is Boulder. I figured I could place some posters down there in the afternoon while Karlynn met with
her new therapist—the former Miss North Dakota, Kendra Carlson. Karlynn had approached me about it Monday evening. “Maybe
it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for me to see a shrink,” she had said. I called Nancy and she recommended Kendra. I wasn’t
sure how Karlynn would take to doing therapy with the woman she’d described as being too high-maintenance for me, but Karlynn’s
impending entry into the Witness Protection Program didn’t allow much time for therapist shopping. Nancy had given me Kendra’s
home number and I had set up an appointment for the next afternoon.

Now the three of us—Karlynn, Scott, and I—were in the waiting area. Karlynn was pacing, Scott was reading
Sports Illustrated
, and I was just sitting with my eyes closed and trying to remember where I’d heard the name Skull before.

The door to Kendra’s office opened and a middle-aged woman exited. She had just finished crying. Kendra bade her farewell
and encouraged her to call if she felt the need. Then she looked at us. She wore green tailored slacks, a white blouse, and
black pumps. She had styled her long, dark hair with a bow that matched her slacks. Her makeup was still perfect. Karlynn
was right—Kendra was high-maintenance, at least in terms of the time spent on her personal appearance. On the other hand,
feminine beauty can make up for a multitude of shortcomings. Probably why they call it makeup.

“Hello, Pepper,” she said as she extended her right arm. Her red nails were perfect, and her smile was wide and gracious.
I stood to shake her hand, and Karlynn followed suit. “Hello, Karlynn,” she said. Karlynn shook her hand as well. Scott glanced
up to size up Kendra, looked at me, then went back to his magazine. “Well,” Kendra said to Karlynn, “shall we get started?”
Karlynn looked apprehensive. I gave her a pat on the shoulder and promised we’d be back in two hours.

Boulder is an expensive college town nestled up against the base of the Rockies. But for one topless club, there aren’t many
venues likely to attract bikers. And to convince Bugg that I was earning my money, the posters had to go where Bugg’s men
were likely to see them. So Scott and I stopped at the topless club to put up a few posters, then drove east to Longmont.

“That’s one good-looking therapist,” Scott said as we rolled down the highway past snow-covered fields. “I didn’t see a wedding
ring.” I didn’t reply. After several minutes he asked, “How’s the karate going?”

“I haven’t done squat with it since Karlynn and Prince moved in.”

“You have to practice every day,” he said.

“I understand, Sensei,” I said, just a trace of wiseass in my voice. He requires other students to address him that way, but
I don’t do it outside class. I had been studying karate with Scott for several years, but boxing came more naturally. I had
gradually conceded, though, that karate is more useful in street situations, if only because it does not limit you to using
only your fists.

Traffic slowed as we came into Longmont. It is an agricultural town on the fertile plains of eastern Boulder County and hosts
more than its fair share of biker bars. Not to mention cowboy bars and Mexican bars. “Tell me again,” Scott said, “why we’re
putting up posters asking people to call us with information about a missing woman when, in fact, the missing woman is with
us, and the people most likely to see the posters want to find the woman and kill her.” I said nothing. He knew why we were
doing it and was just remarking on the humorous nature of the whole affair.

At two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon I wasn’t worried about running into Anvil at a biker bar in Longmont. But of course,
that is exactly what happened. As Scott and I were about to enter our fourth Longmont establishment, I looked through the
window in the solid-wood door and saw the big man playing pool. I put my arm out to prevent Scott from opening the door. “What’s
up?” he said.

“See that guy playing pool?” He peered in.

“Yeah.”

“That’s Anvil.”

“The one from the mall?”

“In the flesh,” I said.

“Let’s just staple one of these to the door and get out of here before he sees you,” Scott said.

“Why don’t you go in and make his acquaintance,” I said. “Be interesting to see how he reacts when he learns you’re looking
for Karlynn.” He looked at me and resigned himself to it. Without responding to me, he pulled open the heavy door and went
in.

I saw him approach the bartender, a lanky man in his mid-twenties with a ponytail and one of those thick cowboy mustaches.
The bartender pointed to an area of one wall covered with posters and business cards. Scott tacked up one of our posters,
then walked over to what was apparently Anvil’s table and waited for Anvil to finish his game. When Anvil finally missed a
shot and his opponent took over, he sat down and drank from a glass of beer. There was a pitcher on the table, as well as
a hardcover book. Scott said something to him and held out one of our posters. Anvil responded and Scott said something back.
Then Scott handed him a poster. Anvil studied it, said something to Scott. After a few more exchanges, Anvil shouted to the
other player. He walked to the table, still holding his cue, and took the poster from Anvil. He looked at it, then shook his
head from side to side. Scott thanked them and headed for the door.

“Well?” I said as we walked toward my F-150.

“They wanted to know why I was interested in Karlynn, and I told them I was working for a private eye Bugg had hired.”

“Quite true,” I said.

“They knew who she was, but they both claimed they hadn’t seen her for a couple of months.” I started up the truck and headed
back to Boulder on the Diagonal Highway. “Why do you think Anvil would lie about that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t sure Bugg had really hired a private eye. Maybe Bugg hasn’t told anyone he hired
me.”

“Maybe Bugg knows you’re the guy Anvil saw with Karlynn, and he’s just jerking you around until the time is right to kill
you both.”

“I didn’t get that impression,” I said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Anvil is more literate than your average biker.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“He’s reading Plato’s
Republic
.”

I
T WAS
nine-thirty on a Thursday night. I had taken Karlynn to therapy sessions for three straight afternoons. The jury was still
out on whether it was doing any good. “I guess I have to work on my fucking self-esteem,” was all she had said after the first
session.

But now she was in the living room, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, continuing work on her list of one hundred things she wanted
to do in her life. Prince was dreaming doggie dreams beneath the dining table. I was in my study with Buck and Wheat, drinking
herb tea and reviewing my file on my cousin’s death.

It would not be accurate to say Hal’s death had haunted me. We just hadn’t been that close after grade school. On the other
hand, I had never completely let go of it either. The event was usually hidden in the back of my mind, but never quite gone.
But something Karlynn had told the FBI during her interview Tuesday had slowly been pushing the incident back to the forefront
of my consciousness.

So for the past two hours, after finishing a pizza we had ordered, I had been sifting through an accordion file containing
old police reports. As I reviewed each document, the details came flying back to me.

My cousin had been working a Rockies game at Coors Field. He loved working baseball games because he got to see them for free.
At 10:04 p.m., just as a game against the Dodgers was winding down, he left the ballpark to prepare for the mass of spectators
that would soon flood the streets. He heard screaming and observed two white males beating a black man in front of a warehouse
a few blocks to the north. He drew his weapon and ran toward them. His last radio report indicated one of the white men appeared
to be beating the black man with the butt of a pistol while the other prodded him with a bat.

By the time other officers arrived, it was all over. Hal lay dead in a pool of his own blood, as did one of the skinheads—the
one with the bat. The Nigerian immigrant, though badly beaten, was alive and was transported to Denver General. He never regained
consciousness and died a few hours later as a result of brain hemorrhaging.