The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (5 page)

The big man kicked hard with his boots. Diego winced in pain as he reached under his sleeve and touched the silver knife with his fingertips. This dog was getting rabid.

 

The woman in the cowboy hat pulled Gaston back. "You boys cut this out!"

Diego eyed Gaston and was amazed that he was listening, moving behind her. This same woman had been sitting at a back table eating the whole time. How much had she heard?

Diego kept his hand on the blade under his sleeve.

He couldn't place her age, maybe fifty, but time had treated her well. Her clothes were simple, just a light pink tank top and faded blue jeans with black cowboy boots. She had long, light brown hair under her hat, some of it graying but all of it teased out as if it were still the eighties. Her sweet face was punctuated by bright, pink-violet lipstick.

Gaston appealed to her. "This is the guy that killed Steve, Mom."

"I know who it is," she snapped back, "and he's right. Steve was an asshole who liked to fight and finally went and got himself killed."

The woman spoke with a strong southern melody that almost sounded sweet even when stern.

Gaston's face burned as his voice hit a grave note. "He called you Mom, just like the rest of us."

Diego didn't think the two looked related but lumping the dead man into the same family was a stretch. Steve was Mexican.

Diego sat up slowly, leaving the silver strapped to his arm and wiping tomato juice off his face. "You're in charge of this gang, I take it?"

"It's a motorcycle club, honey." The woman turned to Melody. "Get Mr. Torre—de la To—Get Mr. Diego another drink, will you?"

The bartender smiled. "You sure he didn't have too much?" She began filling a glass with ice anyway.

Diego rubbed the bump on his head and saw that he wasn't bleeding. His body was sore, though. The last few days had been rough and being kicked didn't help.

He grabbed his sunglasses from the floor and stood up with a slight whimper. As he tried to put them back on his forehead, he noticed that one of the arms was broken and a lens had fallen out. Diego rolled his eyes and tossed them to the ground.

As he returned to his seat, the bartender placed a fresh glass in front of him. Gaston paced back and forth and then threw his arms up. "Wait, so we're just gonna let him sit in here like nothing happened?"

"Shut up, Gaston," said Melody in an almost musical yet certainly annoyed voice.

"Well," he stepped back a few feet with an indignant expression on his face, "I seem to be outnumbered by pussy."

"Don't forget to count yourself." Diego's eyes flashed. "It's a common mistake."

The tall man looked like he was going to go at it again, but it was the older woman who spoke up.

"Boy, what are you doing in this town? You can plainly see your sister ain't anywhere near here."

The answer caught Diego off guard. Finally, somebody was being straight with him. "What happened to her?"

Melody jumped in. "Sanctuary wasn't really her cup of tea."

Mom shook her head. "It was more than that. That girl wanted to be in the MC, but she didn't want to prospect. She wanted everything handed to her. I told her it wasn't a good fit and she moved on."

"What?" Diego felt the frustration coming back to him. He couldn't stand the thought of having to track her to a different town. "Well, where did she go?"

"Heads up, Mom," Gaston called out. He was looking out the front window. "Police." Diego saw a dark green car pull up.

"Well, great." Mom took her hat off, placed it on the bar, and fixed her hair. "He's probably just here for one of his drinking spells, but the both of you better get out the back all the same."

"I'm working, Mom," Melody pleaded.

"Shush now. Go back to the clubhouse."

She sucked her teeth and hissed through her lips, but Melody obeyed.

Gaston, on the other hand, walked slowly, pressing his boots hard into the wood floor as he stepped up to Diego. He cleared his throat in a measured manner and cracked his knuckles. "I think it goes without saying what happens if I see you again." Gaston cracked Diego's sunglasses under his foot. "If you were any kind of smart, you'd listen to Mom and disappear." Then the tall biker walked backwards towards the front door.

"I said, out the back," Mom insisted. Gaston just stood in place, grinning his big teeth at the woman in defiance. Then the front door opened.

Detective Maxim Dwyer stepped inside, draped in the same black suit he'd been wearing the last time, only now he had a white panama hat on as well. It had a medium brim and an indented crown with brown trim. It didn't really match the rest of the outfit.

Gaston turned and purposely positioned himself in the detective's path. Maxim just stopped, cocked his head, and sneered at the man. Diego chuckled. He'd been the subject of that same stare before.

After a moment, Gaston just shrugged and walked around the man, leaving Sycamore Lodge. Then Maxim took off his hat and greeted Mom.

"Hello, Deborah. I'm glad I caught you."

Her cheeks almost exploded as a large smile crossed her face. "So good to see you, Maxim! You're here a little early today. And it's Debbie, hon."

The detective's eyes locked on Diego and had a slightly puzzled expression, like he was wondering what the biker was doing here. Maxim nodded his head slightly. "Noticed your Scrambler parked outside."

Once again, Diego leaned his back against the wooden bar. "Nice hat."

Deborah threw her hands up and acted shocked. "Well, I don't know where this bartender went off to, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you poured yourself one."

"Not this time," said Maxim quickly. "I'm here concerning the death of Esteban Varela. He was a member of your club, was he not?"

"Call him Steve, honey. This ain't Mexico."

"He was one of yours, wasn't he?"

Diego saw fear or apathy reflected from the other Sanctuary officers, but Maxim was different. Something was driving him. Two days ago he was investigating a murder and now maybe the wolves who had escaped, but something told Diego that the detective was chasing something altogether different.

Mom turned around and walked to the bar, putting her painted nails on the edge. "Yes. It was terrible what happened to that boy. Tell me," she started, "where are you with that investigation?" Her eyes looked a strange shade of orange in the red light, and they traveled from her hands to Diego's face. "Did you ever find the murder weapon?"

Diego quickly glanced at Maxim, who was suspiciously watching them both. The biker instinctively wanted to cover the knife in his sleeve with his other arm but didn't want to make any telling movements. The detective was too observant. It was well enough hidden where it was.

"Unfortunately, Debbie, we've had no luck sweeping the area and no one we interviewed here that night saw anything." Maxim looked around at the few stragglers still in the bar like he was condemning them. "Any idea why that might be?"

Whatever third parties remained in Sycamore Lodge started to finish up.

Deborah turned to the detective and took his hat from his hand, playing up her southern charm. "Well you know how small town folk are. They don't always trust authority."

Diego picked up his new glass as he sat watching and couldn't help chiming in. "I suspect it depends on the authority."

Maxim ignored the comment. "And what about the man and the woman who escaped custody? Do you have any idea where they are now?"

Mom twirled the detective's hat in her hand methodically. "Well, you know I wasn't here that night, but I'm told they were drifters, not associated with the MC. No one at the clubhouse knows anything about them."

Maxim nodded knowingly. He looked like he expected these answers. But Diego wondered about the gang's operations and cut in again. "Where exactly is your clubhouse, Mom?"

Deborah pursed her violet-pink lips and crow's feet hugged her experienced eyes. "Dear," the woman started, impatiently, "I ain't your mommy and my clubhouse is deep in the woods of Sycamore." Deborah looked straight at the biker. "Your sister ain't there, and I don't know where she is."

She turned to the detective and put her hand around Maxim's tie, brushing off some lint. "And more importantly, it's outside your jurisdiction, sugar. So don't go getting yourself into trouble."

The woman pulled off the sweet act pretty well, but nobody got into her position without being able to bite, and she was starting to bare her teeth. Deborah placed Maxim's hat gently back atop his head and said, "Y'all are just gonna need to trust me."

Diego put his drink down when he noticed his hand was shaking in anger. His sister was somewhere else and he needed to be there. Maybe that place was the Seventh Sons clubhouse or maybe there was something there that would lead him to her, but what was damn sure was that this woman's smug disregard wasn't helping him.

The biker softly slid from his barstool as he controlled his breaths. He felt the need to act, but what was he to do with a police officer present?

Instead, the detective broke in.

"You know what? I've changed my mind."

Maxim walked around Mom and slipped behind the bar. He grabbed himself a Maker's 46 from the top cabinet, placed it next to the biker's tomato juice, and filled a rocks glass halfway. Maxim stared at the drink and slid it in little circles along the wooden surface, swirling the liquid within.

"Sister, huh?" he said without even looking up. Then Maxim brought the glass to his lips and swallowed it in one gulp.

Diego hadn't mentioned Angelica to Maxim the last time they'd met. Maybe he should have, but he didn't want the motive of a kidnapped sister entering the cop's judgment. The detective had still suspected Diego's guilt, even though it couldn't be proved, but there was no sense adding an alibi to his arsenal.

"Ms. Holton," said Maxim, his tone more gruff, "I already got reamed for doing my job by the marshal yesterday afternoon. If you have any concerns for me, I'll ask that you leave them to him."

He poured himself another round and held the bottle up to the biker. Diego, still standing, put his hand on top of his glass. Maxim shrugged.

"Secondly," he continued, "concerning my jurisdiction, it is true that the reach of the marshal's office does not cover all of Sycamore and that your clubhouse is far outside of Sanctuary, but this lodge is in my town. And, at this moment, you are right in the thick of it."

Deborah fumed but held her false grin well. "Your town, is it?" Deborah crossed her arms over her chest. "I suppose you aren't aware that Sycamore Lodge existed here long before your town sprang up?"

Maxim sighed. "That was well before your time, Deborah."

"Well, thank you for noticing," she said defiantly. "It's true just the same. This lodge was an outpost in the nineteenth century for the surveying of Beale Wagon Road. The trail was ordered by the president himself, and he appointed his friend, Edward Fitzgerald Beale, to build it. Water, flat ground, a straight shot—it was the best path west for hundreds of miles before Route 66 and the Interstate ran across the more tenable land to the south."

The detective blinked back his obvious boredom. "I'm not in the mood for one of your history lectures. Is all of this leading somewhere?"

Deborah glared at him. "The point is that this building has been here for a long time, and it has outlasted many masters. Through the boom times to the founding of Sanctuary to the isolation of the highways, this bar has withstood. All of Sycamore, really. And the Seventh Sons ain't no different."

"You're from Alabama, Deborah. You didn't have anything to do with the club twenty years ago."

"Maxim," she said, "I feel sorry for you. It's tradition and family that give meaning to life."

The detective tilted his head in a careless gesture. "You're not going to make me arrest you, are you?"

Deborah's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Just filling in blanks. I'd like to start with you coming down to the marshal's office and answering some questions for me. You'd be a big help in the investigation." Maxim assumed an exaggerated expression of concern. "And of course, with your friend being the victim, I'm sure you'd like to assist in any way possible."

Deborah had a look on her face like she was properly dumbfounded. The woman was definitely more surprised than upset by Maxim's insistence.

Diego watched them both intently as he sat down again. He had learned that the detective was not a werewolf the other night when he didn't turn, but he hadn't been sure how friendly he was with the gang. Because of their potentially illegal operations, motorcycle clubs often bought out the authorities, after all.

Instead, Maxim looked to be crossing an invisible line. Diego recalled an older police sergeant complaining to Maxim about the prisoners the night they were arrested. If the detective was indeed prioritizing justice over procedure, then perhaps he was someone who could be trusted.

The roadhouse was now empty except for the three of them. Maxim was holding his second bourbon, and this time he sipped from it. Deborah paced a few steps away and came back as she mulled over his proposal. Diego thought it was obvious to everybody that the gang was up to no good. The real question was how deep Maxim wanted to dig.

"I really miss your Lola," said Deborah with soft words. "She often spoke of your stubbornness." Diego perked up at this revelation. "Sometimes she even thought it was a good thing."

It suddenly became apparent to Diego just how small of a town he was in. Everybody in Sanctuary seemed to have deep ties.

"I know you like to tell yourself that your drinking got heavier after your wife disappeared, Detective." Mom rapped her fingernails on the bar. "Truth is, you were always a hopeless drunk."