Three Can Keep a Secret (17 page)

I ignored it.

“Noah, it seems to me Lucy was quite clear when she told you to leave and never come back. What was it about those words you didn’t understand?”

The woman standing beside the passenger door turned slowly to stare at Noah, her jaw jutting out to a dangerous angle. “You said you hadn’t been here. You said you hadn’t talked to Lucy for weeks!”

Noah’s eyes darted from side to side. “Oh, yeah, well. I guess I forgot I stopped by the other day. I was in Souderton on business. You know. For the church. Just thought I’d come for a minute.”

“Is that so?” Her voice could’ve shattered it was so chilly.

“And that’s how long you’re staying today,” I said. “A minute.”

“And who might you be?” the woman said.

Noah looked like he wanted to die.

My smile felt as cold as the woman’s voice. “I might be the one who owns this farm. I’m Lucy’s boss.”

She crossed her arms and pouted. “So where is Lucy? I didn’t come all this way to be turned out.”

“That’s too bad, because Lucy’s not here.”

“Out gallivanting around already?”

I wanted to slap her. “And just who are you? Seeing how you’re trespassing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Lucy’s sister-in-law. Shelby. I’m sure you’ve heard all the horror stories.”

I smiled some more. “Actually, she’s never mentioned you.”

Her mouth twitched. “I’m Brad’s sister. I hope she’s at least mentioned
him.
”

I’d had enough. “What do you want? I’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

They looked at the throng of people in my yard.

I clarified. “Unwelcome ones, I mean.”

Shelby turned to Noah. “Well, this is just great. I’m so glad you convinced me not to call ahead of time.”

Noah blushed fiercely.

“We all know why he did that, don’t we?” I said. “Now why don’t you folks head back to Lancaster. There’s nothing for you here.” I looked at Noah. “Unless you really want to wait for Lucy. I’m sure she’d be ever so happy to see you.”

Shelby stomped the gravel. “I’m not leaving till I talk to her. You go on home if you want, Noah. I’ll call Scott to come get me.”

Noah shook his head. “He’d love that for sure.”

I tuned out their bickering and thought. My very being wanted to heave them out on their cans, but having Lucy tell them to take off would probably be more effective in the long run.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal. You get back in your car and wait over there.” I pointed toward the end of the lane where there was a graveled side spot. “When Lucy gets home you may get out.” I smiled at Noah. “If you dare.” I wasn’t envying him his time in the car with Shelby, who looked ready to pop him one. But that was his own fault, for disobeying Lucy’s direct orders.

I kept smiling until they got back in the car and pulled it to the side. Then I found Jermaine and Jethro.

“See those folks?” I pointed toward Noah and Shelby.

“Sure,” Jermaine said.

Jethro nodded.

“Why don’t you give them a wave, let them know you see them.”

They did as I asked, and I tried not to laugh at our guests’ shocked expressions.

“If they even try to get out and snoop, could you discourage them?”

Jethro smiled. “It would be our pleasure.”

I patted his right biceps, appreciating the hard muscle underneath his T-shirt. “I owe you one.”

Feeling more secure about my uninvited guests, I slung Lenny’s pillowcase over my shoulder and continued the trek to my office. With a groan I settled in my chair and pulled the newspaper clippings from the bag. I ignored the headlines of the articles and stacked them according to date. Several area newspapers were represented, the
Philadelphia Inquirer
being the most prominent, and there were a few pictures mixed in with the prose.

The first article was innocent as far as I could tell. Mal had shown his bike at Lansdale’s Bike Night, held in mid-August of 1976, and had won first place for the original paint job. A very young-looking Lenny stood smiling beside Mal, who sat astride his fancy Sportster. Probably the bike he had told me about—the red and black one his wife was jealous of. I wondered if Lenny had done the painting or if Mal was just as talented.

The next article was a study of motorcycle gangs in the area—namely the Pagans, the largest outlaw club in the nation other than the Hell’s Angels—including what their different personalities and businesses consisted of. The Priests were mentioned—Lenny’s club—as well as a few other small groups. The InSex, the Wild Ones, and the Serpents.

I sucked in my breath. The Serpents. The mother of Lenny’s daughter and his daughter’s boyfriend had serpents tattooed around their biceps.

I skimmed the article and understood why the Mrs. Joneses of the world were afraid of bikers. If I thought these folks comprised the whole biker world, I’d never sleep at night, either. Drug smuggling, prostitution, Mafia connections, production of methamphetamines. Just to name a few stellar contributions to society. For being only one percent of the biker world they sure did a lot of nasty stuff.

The Pagans are some of the worst, and they hang out all along the Eastern seaboard and beyond. There are a lot of Pagans in the Philadelphia area, and probably in my northern suburb, too, but they keep to themselves. If you need to compare them to something, I’d say they’re kind of like sharks. You leave them alone and don’t spread blood in their water, they’ll most likely ignore your very existence. Unless, of course, you accidentally cut them off with your truck and they decide to pull out their sawed-off shotguns. But that’s about as likely to happen as Jaws showing up in your swimming pool.

Lenny’s name popped up again in an article, and that familiar chill ran down my spine. The Priests and the Serpents both figured in this article. Seems the two gangs were having disputes over who owned what territory and things were getting a bit out of hand. Lenny, Mal, and that guy named Scott Simms had been brought in for questioning after a bloody fight broke out at a bar in Hatfield. No one had been killed, but several people had been treated and released at the North Penn Hospital ER.

I took a moment to stand up and pace, shaking my hands and doing some deep breathing. Nothing I was reading was making me feel any better about Lenny’s present predicament. And seeing what Lenny’s life had once involved, I was really wondering what had sent him toward his current law-abiding lifestyle. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had acquired a family, and had decided they deserved something better.

Chronologically, the next article was the one I had already read at Lenny’s. The one detailing the explosion and deaths at the Serpents’ clubhouse. I read it again, making sure I hadn’t missed any details.

After digesting that article again, I didn’t want to read more, but knew I had to. And the next story clinched the bad feeling that had been growing in my gut.

It seemed the Priests finally took over the Serpents and their territory after the explosion. From what law enforcement officials could make out, the Serpents had been storing weapons and explosive devices—illegal, of course—in the back room of their club. Something had caused the materials to ignite during a supposedly secret meeting of the club’s officers. The president and the secretary/treasurer had both been killed, while the enforcer and vice president hovered in critical condition at the hospital. The sergeant-at-arms had somehow escaped with no more than minor injuries.

Police didn’t have much hope of clearing up what had happened, seeing as how the Serpents weren’t willing to help much. The little the club members told the police led the investigation nowhere, and while nothing overt was said about the Priests’ part in the killings, law enforcement was waiting on pins and needles for retaliation to begin.

A spokesman from the Priests said none of their members could have been responsible. The entire club had been at the Reading Beer Bash, and no one wanted to miss that—it was their biggest annual outing. Besides, who ever said they were involved in criminal matters? Needless to say, law enforcement was skeptical about such a vague and unprovable alibi.

“Let them kill each other off, as far as I’m concerned,” said one officer, who for obvious reasons wanted to remain anonymous. “I just hope they do it somewhere innocent people won’t get caught in the cross-fire.”

Kind of like how TV preachers—and churches like Yoder Mennonite—thought about gays and AIDS until they learned better.

But even though law enforcement couldn’t prove anything, Lenny, along with Mal and Scott Simms, had been dragged in to “help the police with their inquiries.” All had been released with no further questioning that had been reported.

Had Lenny really killed people? My stomach contracted, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to make use of my wastebasket. The nausea eventually eased, and I forced myself to take a look at the last article.

This announced the birth of Kristi Rochelle Spruce to Lenny and a woman named Vonda Dane. I swallowed. Vonda was the name tattooed on Lenny’s arm. I had never known who was behind the design, and certainly had never imagined she was the mother of Lenny’s child. I still couldn’t believe Lenny was a father and had never told any of us. I wonder if Bart even knew.

Which led to another big question: Why had Kristi—and her mother, apparently—disappeared from Lenny’s life? And why had Kristi suddenly reappeared?

I hoped Lenny had a good explanation for all of this, because murder was something it would be hard to look beyond, even for someone who loved him as much as I did.

For the second time that week, I turned to the Internet. AskJeeves.com pointed me toward several articles about the Priests and the Serpents—some the same ones I had in hard copy—and a few more about Lenny. An award he’d gotten for a paint job, another scrape with the law, nothing that shed any light on our present situation.

Mal was just as elusive. An article about his business selling bikes, the clip from way back about Lansdale Bike Night, and not much else.

It was with Scott Simms I hit pay dirt.

There were the same articles mentioning Lenny, Mal, and Simms, several more for various law-breaking activities—assault, bar fights, DUIs. But the one that made me stare slack-jawed at my screen was only a few days old.

It seemed Scott Simms had died the weekend before in a motorcycle accident. The accident Abe had brought to my attention, where the guy was riding to work and was broad-sided at an intersection.

Scott Simms’ nickname was The Skull.

Chapter Thirty-three

“What are they doing here?”

Lucy stood in my office doorway, her face a mask of anger. I shook myself out of my shock over The Skull and glanced out the window to see Noah and Shelby standing uncertainly behind their open car doors. Do they get out, or don’t they? Did Lucy see them, or not? Was this ferocious-looking collie going to rip their faces off, or just bite them in the ass?

“Hey, she’s your sister-in-law,” I said. “And he’s your…whatever.”

“Don’t remind me.” She went to the window and peeked out above the air conditioner, groaning. “Why did I ever do it?”

I froze, wondering if I was actually hearing something important. She didn’t continue.

“You guys date?” I asked.

“For a bit. I thought it would be good for me. He was Brad’s best friend, an MYF sponsor at the church—I mean, he’s a good guy. It started out okay, but geez, he’s just too much. And my sister-in-law—the head case out there—about had my hide. Besides betraying her brother, I was taking the man she’d been after ever since Brad started hanging out with him in elementary school.”

What was she telling me? She’d had an affair with Brad’s best friend? While Brad was confined to his wheelchair?

“I broke it off a couple months ago when I realized I had to get out of Lancaster. You’d think we’d been dating a couple years instead of a couple months the way he freaked out.”

So no extramarital shenanigans. I was relieved.

“You think he’s behind the graffiti?” I asked.

“Noah? He doesn’t have the guts.”

“He had the guts to come here again today. In her presence. And he’s about the right size. Whoever was here that night was no Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

She wrinkled her nose and backed away from the window, bending over and touching her toes. When she straightened, she blew out a sigh. “I guess I’ll go send them away before one of the Granger brothers eats them.” She brightened. “Or maybe I can get Peter to talk to them about church and how teenagers should be taught. They’d love that. Noah gets very defensive of his oh-so-perfect MYFers.” She walked out, slamming the door behind her.

MYFers, I thought. High schoolers. Not old enough to go after custody of Tess, but just the right age for spraying obscenities on garage doors.

I watched as Lucy strode across the driveway. She stopped several feet from her visitors, her hands on her hips. I couldn’t hear what the three of them were saying, but I could certainly read their body language. Noah’s face fell further and further toward shame, while Shelby looked ready to explode.

In the end Lucy stalked into the house while Shelby and Noah got into their car. They drove away, not looking back. So much for our daily soap opera.

When I turned back toward my computer, the newspaper article about The Skull had not disappeared. I needed some huge answers from Lenny.

I picked up the phone and called Harry.

“You find somebody to hang with Lenny?” I asked.

“I tried. Couldn’t find anyone, so I went myself, caught up with him at the Barn. Thanks a whole helluva lot.”

“What?”

“Lenny about ripped me a new one. Told me he didn’t need a baby-sitter, and I’d better take off fast or he’d make me wish I did.”

I sat back. “That doesn’t sound like Lenny.”

“Tell me about it. I told him you were concerned about his safety, and that just made him madder. I had to respect the man’s wishes, as well as my own safety. Sorry.”

“Me, too. He still at the Barn?”

“Was there when I left him. Can’t say more than that.”

“Thanks, Harry. I’ll make it up to you.”

I should never have left Lenny’s well-being to someone else, no matter how tired I’d been. I grabbed my keys and went out to my truck.

The Biker Barn was dark and empty. I put my hands up to the door and peered into the show room, but couldn’t see anything but silhouettes of the iron horses and their accessories. Lenny’s bike was absent, and if Harry hadn’t told me, I would have never known that Lenny had even been there.

I tried the hospital and was informed visiting hours had not begun. The guy at the front desk assured me there was no way a huge, red-bearded biker could’ve made it past his radar.

I drove to Lenny’s house. Same luck. No lights. No open doors. A quick walk-through, using the key from the garage to let myself in, produced nothing of use. It didn’t even look like Lenny had returned since I’d snooped the night before.

I put the key back and sat in my truck, staring at the row of homes stretching the length of the street. I hoped desperately that Lenny had gotten himself somewhere out of harm’s way. We knew without a doubt these people meant business.

And besides Lenny’s safety, he owed me an explanation. Owed Bart. Where in the hell was he, and where could I get information if he’d disappeared?

The answer struck me suddenly, and I wondered why it had taken me so long to consider it. Mal Whitney. I put the truck into gear and drove toward Route 663 and Mal’s place.

The warehouse was closed up tight when I arrived, but a light shined through a little window cut into the siding. I pounded on the door. When there was no answer, I pounded again.

“Mal!” I called. “It’s Lenny’s friend, Stella!”

I heard footsteps, then about five locks being undone. Soon the door was opening a fraction, a heavy chain keeping me outside. Mal peeked out and his eyes widened.

“You?”

“Yes, remember? Can I come in?”

The door closed and the chain scraped in its casing. Mal opened the door, peered nervously behind me as if expecting to see someone else, then roughly pulled me in. He slammed the door shut and threw all of the locks before turning to me. The light hit his face and I sucked in my breath.

“Geez, Mal, you look like hell.”

Basically the same thing Lucy had said to me, except Mal’s condition was much, much worse.

His face was a shade of gray I didn’t know people turned while they were alive, and his eyes, besides looking like someone had used them for punching practice, were bloodshot and watery above his swollen nose. His hand trembled as he pulled the familiar bottle of Jack Daniels against his chest, and his mouth worked like he was going to say something.

Instead, he veered around me, toward the back of the warehouse, where light illuminated one small corner of space. He was limping, and I saw now that the hand holding the bottle was also supporting his right side. I recognized the posture, having been doing a lot of it myself over the past several weeks. What the hell?

I took my eyes off him long enough to squint into the darkness, the bikes offering many forms of shape and shadow. I couldn’t tell if anyone else was there or not, but when I looked back at Mal he was sinking gingerly into a sagging, overstuffed chair. He wouldn’t be sitting if the people who did this to him were still around.

“What do you want?” he asked, not looking at me.

“What happened to you?”

He struggled out of his chair and paced around the lighted space, stopping when he reached the darkness to turn and stumble back the other way.

“Mal,” I said.

He lurched to a stop, his fingers picking at the one-percenter tattoo I had seen the other day. His eyes shone, glassy and terrified.

“Three can keep a secret,” he mumbled. His words barely reached my ears.

“Sweetheart,” I said.

This time he looked at me, and his eyes cleared.

“Sweetheart, please tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

He put up his hands, sloshing whisky onto the floor. “Oh God, what a mess.” A sob escaped his throat, and his mouth trembled.

I put my hand on his shoulder. His shirt felt stiff and sticky and I wondered if he’d changed since whoever pummeled him had left. I leaned back so I wasn’t casting a shadow and tried to see what I was touching. In the dim light I couldn’t tell if there was blood or what on his black shirt, but I did see the tattoo of a skull with a clerical collar on his arm—just like Lenny’s. The mark of the Priests.

I talked as quietly as I could and still have Mal hear me. “Mal, please,
please
talk to me. Before someone else gets hurt.”

A shaky sigh leaked from his mouth, and he straightened his shoulders.

“Twenty years ago,” he said. “Twenty long years.”

“When the Serpents’ clubhouse exploded? When their leaders died?”

His eyes moved to my face. “So you know?”

“About the explosion. That you were hauled in for questioning. That’s it. Is that what this is all about?”

He felt behind him for his chair, and slowly lowered himself to the cushion. He stared at the far wall for so long I thought he’d zoned out on me.

“Mal—”

“We were ordered to blow up the clubhouse. But there weren’t supposed to be people in it.” His eyes, rimmed a harsh red, filled with tears. “There weren’t any bikes in the parking lot, so we went in the back. We knew right away somebody was there. We took off like we’d already lit the match.

“Lenny and I were done. We said no way were we igniting the place with people in it. We thought The Skull felt the same. We all left.” His lips trembled, and he bit them together. “But The Skull went back. Blew up the place with the guys in it. He didn’t care. Didn’t care about the people.”

My stomach, at risk of rebellion since I’d first seen the article at Lenny’s, suddenly relaxed. Lenny hadn’t killed those people. He’d seen them, and decided against the violence.

“We knew he’d done it,” Mal said, “and we confronted him the next day, as soon as we heard. He just laughed. Said we were chickenshit thumbsuckers, that we obviously weren’t cut out for the outlaw life if we couldn’t do our jobs. And then he threatened us.”

Mal erupted from his seat and resumed his panicked pacing.

“Threatened you?” I asked. “With what? That he’d kill you, too?”

Mal stopped. “No. Our families. My wife. Vonda and Kristi. Said if we breathed a word to anyone, he—or any number of the guys in our club—would make us sorrier than we’d ever been.”

I dropped my head into my hands, now thoroughly confused. “But The Skull’s dead. Why is someone coming after you now?”

Mal spun around, his face anguished. “Not just someone. Lenny’s
daughter.”

“But
why?”
I pictured the tattoo on Vonda’s arm, and the arm of Kristi’s boyfriend. Vonda was obviously a Serpent who came over to the Priests after the explosion. But Kristi was Lenny’s daughter, at least half Priest. “Why is Kristi trying to kill her own father?”

His mouth twisted. “Because after all this time…she thinks Lenny did it. She thinks he killed those people, and then four years later he abandoned her.”