The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (6 page)

Diego watched as Maxim spun a silver ring around his finger with one hand and killed off his drink with the other. "Thanks for your cooperation, Debbie."

The detective walked out from behind the bar and headed for the front door. Deborah went to the table with her plate of unfinished fried chicken and picked up a gold-sequined purse. The woman pulled out a compact and casually reapplied her pink lipstick as Maxim waited. Then she returned to the bar and placed her cowboy hat back on her head, facing the biker.

"I didn't like your sister, Diego. She was a princess and riled my people up." Deborah's orange eyes glistened. "Gaston was in over his head. Angelica wasn't cute on him. She was here for the power... and I told her to get out."

The woman walked out through the door that Maxim was holding open for her. She paused in the warm air, pulled a pair of large sunglasses from her purse, and put them on. Taking the opportunity to get another word in, she turned around and the sun reflected off her silver lenses.

"Y'all are just two boys looking for two girls. There ain't nothing special about that."

She continued outside and left Maxim standing a moment longer. He looked back at Diego. "I didn't know you were missing somebody..."

The biker watched the detective as he failed to finish his thought. Maxim, also, was looking for someone. That's why he was pushing people who didn't like to be pushed. Diego had to respect that, even if the man was poking at wolves.

He gave a small nod to return the sentiment, and Maxim walked out the door.

 

Diego de la Torre sat alone in the roadhouse. The rays of the sun peeking through the windows were longer now. In time, they would fade and the shadows would take over, welcoming a new throng of drinkers yelling above live country music. But before all of that happened, Diego had Sycamore Lodge all to himself and his thoughts.

The quiet should have been more soothing.

It hadn't been easy tracking Gaston to Sanctuary but it had been straightforward. He belonged to a gang with some notoriety. He was a loudmouth. Whatever obstacles Diego had encountered along the way, he'd always had a trail to follow.

But now his sister might be on her own. Or she could be missing, like the detective's wife. In one way or another, Angelica was still lost out there, and she needed him.

Without finishing his drink, Diego stood up and placed his wallet on the bar as he counted a few bills. The brown leather wallet was well-worn. Through the yellowed plastic ID window, he saw an old picture of himself under the words "United States Public Health Service Commissioned Corps." He folded the wallet back up and returned it to his back pocket. That wasn't him anymore.

On the counter, next to the money he'd laid out, was the Maker's 46 that Maxim had taken from the cabinet. Diego gave it a long look and then slid his fingers across the hardwood, nudging the bottle off the bar. The glass shattered as it hit the floor.

The biker walked out to the patio and put his hands up to shield his eyes from the glare. He would need to buy another pair of sunglasses. Jumping off the stone porch into the sand, Diego welcomed the heat of the sun and walked up to his Triumph, the lone bike outside Sycamore Lodge.

This was true freedom, outside, on the road.

As he was putting his riding gloves back on, Diego heard a Harley engine rev up from behind the bar. He turned his head and saw Melody slowly pulling up beside him.

He chuckled. Guess she didn't make it back to the clubhouse yet.

She didn't ride with a helmet or other gear, but then again, she didn't need the protection. Her magenta hair whipped her face as the wind picked up. Diego looked down her body and traced over her shapely legs straddling the large bike. It was a heavy hog with scratches and dirt and replacement parts—a far cry from her meticulous wardrobe.

Melody stopped her bike right next to him. "Have you ever considered that what you're looking for doesn't exist?"

The woods were thick here and there were no other buildings in sight. Even the winding road disappeared into them. One direction headed back into town, and the other into the wild, some degree closer to his answers.

"Is it true what Deborah said, that she's gone?"

Melody returned a smirk. "Mom can seem scary at times but she's a sweetie. And Gaston, don't you worry about that dummy. Angie knew how to handle him."

Angie? His sister hated that nickname. Angelica was much prettier. Why wouldn't she want to use her full name?

"She knew you'd come for her, you know," the girl continued. Melody's green eyes almost looked sad. Her chest heaved in her corset as she reached out and handed him a sealed envelope. "She wanted you to have this."

Diego grabbed the letter. It was unmarked except for a single "D."

Melody planted her foot in the sand and leaned over from her bike, into Diego. She pressed her lips against his and closed her beautiful eyes. Diego wrapped his arms around her and the two shared an embrace.

When she pulled away, she left her soft hand on his cheek, rubbing his trimmed goatee with her thumb. "Your sister was a better kisser."

A stunned Diego watched as Melody righted her bike and walked it forward a few feet. Her pale cheeks blushed slightly, and she gave him one last wink and rode away.

The biker wiped his mouth with his glove as he watched her full figure disappearing around a turn, no doubt heading back to the clubhouse.

Diego ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single paper within. On it was the handwriting of his sister: "Mind your own business, bro."

The biker shook his head; he couldn't help but form a slanted smile with his lips. Where did that leave him?

With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Diego withdrew the silver blade from his sleeve and slid it into a special casing in the exhaust on his bike. When it snapped into place, it looked like a part of the engine, indistinguishable as a separate piece, much less a weapon.

The biker pulled his full-face helmet over his head. Despite the rest of his outfit being a matte black, this piece was a flat gold color that clashed with the shaded lens. He couldn't be completely devoid of style, after all.

Diego jumped onto his Scrambler and wondered where to go next. The bike kicked into gear and threw dirt into the air, and he sped down the asphalt. A new breeze picked up and sailed into the trees, carrying his sister's letter with it.

 

 

 

 

 

Some days started better than others. In the present circumstances, Maxim had barely taken his jacket off and already Sergeant Hitchens was lecturing him.

"Let me explain something to you, Dwyer, for your own benefit."

The detective resigned himself to a sigh. He couldn't proceed with his work until he got this over with. He walked over to his desk and sat in his swivel chair.

The Sanctuary Marshal's Office was a small department. The main room was an open space that had desks for all nine officers. The high walls were lined with skylight windows, but the dirty glass and fluorescent lights bequeathed a musty air of the seventies.

It was likely that the other two shift officers were out on patrol because Barney Hitchens was Maxim's sole companion this morning. While it was customary to speak above the irregular humming of the old air conditioner, such an impersonal gesture wasn't the style of the fatherly veteran.

"Hitchens, did I ever tell you that you were like the black uncle I never had?"

"Thank the Lord for that. I try to get Gutierrez to heed my advice but that boy isn’t right in the head. I saw you finally convinced him to shave his face!"

The officer grabbed the padded chair on the side of Maxim's desk and pulled it away to account for his large girth. "Hell," the old man started as he plopped down in the chair facing the detective, "if I was really your uncle I would've whooped your ass a long time ago."

Besides the sergeant's longtime friends, most officers working for Barney Hitchens found him to be unnecessarily abrasive. For Maxim, it was the opposite. The fact that the detective's Criminal Investigation Unit didn't answer to the patrol sergeant certainly helped avoid friction, but there was more to it than that. Enemies cajoled; friends complained.

Many times this friendship materialized in the form of advice.

"When someone," he began, enjoying his soapbox, "let's say the marshal, for instance, tells you not to do something, and you go ahead and do that thing anyway—well, you're at least supposed to pretend that you didn't know better."

Hitchens, of course, was referring to Maxim's investigation into the Seventh Sons Motorcycle Club. Until three nights ago, the rumors of local werewolves were unfounded in the detective's eyes. Finally, after twelve years on the job, Maxim had seen the proof that he'd needed. Two bikers that had been in his custody transformed and escaped under the full moon. For Maxim, that changed everything.

However, one vital thing that did not change was the marshal's advisement to stay out of club affairs. The detective had ignored the mandate yesterday and brought the Seventh Sons president in for questioning.

Maxim sighed again and shook his mouse back and forth to wake his computer up. "She came in to talk to me of her own free will, Hitchens. She wanted to help find the killer—"

"Son," he snapped, "don't use that fool excuse on me!" Hitchens looked at the detective with wounded eyes. "And you'd better think twice before telling that to the marshal, now. He's not as cordial as I am."

Maxim couldn't hide his smirk. It was true that Deborah didn't exactly volunteer to come to the station. The outlaw club was brash and anti-authority, and its members equated helping the police with betrayal. Based in the unincorporated Arizona wild of Sycamore, the Seventh Sons had mostly managed to avoid run-ins with Sanctuary police. But recent infractions, particularly the murder at Sycamore Lodge, warranted a breach of terms—at least in Maxim's eyes.

"She was friends with my wife, Hitchens."

"Mmm hmm," he acknowledged, dismissing the sentiment. "And you think she's not friends with the marshal too? I'm just telling you to watch your back around her because she's watching hers. And if it's in a corner, she will bite you."

Maxim opened his drawer and shuffled through a stack of notes. He didn't doubt what the sergeant said but thought his worrying was overprotective. Maxim wasn't pushing anybody too far, at least not yet. His hand locked onto the paper he was looking for.

"It's funny," Maxim mused, allowing his thoughts to take him off course. "Lola and I got into fights all the time, so of course Deborah always despised me. But after my wife disappeared, Deborah treated me better, almost like she felt sorry for me."

"Is that what this is all about? Lola again?"

Maxim slammed his desk drawer shut. When his wife had disappeared, he did everything he could not to unravel.

"You know," said Maxim, "I moved to this town with her to become a police officer."

Hitchens nodded slowly. "Twelve years is a long time."

"And I'm good at it," continued Maxim. "But that didn't help Lola..."

Maxim had remained professional and focused on work without her, making sure not to take any actions that could be considered personal. Over the last two years, he had done things the way they were supposed to be done. And still, in the end, it hadn't gotten him what he needed.

As was often the case of late, Maxim stared wistfully at the silver wedding band he wore. Could he truly say that he had lived up to the commitment it promised?

Hitchens shook his head and went limp, relaxing back into his chair. "You did all a man could do, son."

Maxim simply turned the ring around his finger and watched the etched symbol complete a revolution.

"You did interviews, swept the area, checked neighboring towns, put out statewide and national alerts—"

"None of that worked." Maxim closed his eyes as he remembered the pressure he had been under. "A year in to being a detective and it was the first big case that I couldn't break. I was so concerned with being a good cop that I didn't think to be a good husband."

"But Maxim," said the sergeant softly, "you're a good person. Following procedure is just part of that. It's all this," he said, motioning at the paper in Maxim's hand, "that is going to destroy everything you've worked for."

Hitchens was too afraid of riling the wolves up. He was an old-timer who no longer took risks because the only thing he considered was what he could lose. But he did sound convincing.

"And it still won't get you Lola back," he added.

Lola. Maxim didn't delude himself—he knew they had been having problems. Things hadn't been perfect, but the hope of better times, the chance to right wrongs, was no longer afforded to him. It was almost enough to make a man lose himself.

Maxim kept his head down. "Is it weird that I still feel like an outsider in my own town? Without her, I have no sense of permanence. I have no real ties to Sanctuary."

Hitchens had no answer.

The droning air conditioner only served to remind Maxim of what little effect it was having. Beads of sweat invaded his buttoned white shirt. He needed to get his mind focused on work.

The detective opened his eyes and stared at the list of names on the paper in his hand. Maybe they were suspects, maybe they were wolves; the main thing was that they were a list of people to find and interview. While this new path he was on was actively discouraged, for the first time since Lola went missing, he felt free of invisible chains.

Maxim handed the paper to the sergeant. "This is a full list of the Seventh Sons membership."

Hitchens raised his eyebrows and counted down the names. "She humored you, you know that?" Maxim watched the man's eyes as he scanned the list, seeing if there was any recognition, but Hitchens didn't seem surprised by anything he saw. "Still, can't say I'm not impressed you got her to do that much."

A muffled discourse from the marshal's office interrupted the men. That's when Maxim noticed that the door was closed, and he looked to the sergeant with an inquisitive glance.

"Don't ask," said Hitchens, "because I'm willing to bet that your turn is next. Still, you should see the piece of work that he's talking to in there."

The back wall of the main office was made up of heavy brick and was the original boundary of the building; the small office and interrogation room had been added in more recent years. There was a window next to the door pane, but the old glass was yellowed with age, and the door was not meant to be transparent. Maxim stubbornly eyed the cloudy silhouettes as he always did, but he could never glean what transpired within.

The sergeant explained. "The prissiest, whitest Indian girl I've ever seen walks up in here like she owns the place, doesn't even look at me, storms in his office, and slams the door. They've been in there for over an hour now."

Maxim raised his eyebrows. "You don't think they're going at it, do you?" The detective swiveled his chair around to face Hitchens and said, "You might have to arrest her for sexual conduct with a minor."

Hitchens erupted into laughter and covered his mouth to muffle his mirth. Instead, the man succeeded in making awkward hissing noises as the air escaped his lips. "Now you leave that boy alone. He's not all that bad."

"Not that bad?" asked Maxim. "Mayor Boyd appoints his son as Marshal Boyd when he's half your age, and you think that's fair?"

The sergeant shook his head back and forth slowly despite Maxim's reasoning. "Your problem is you think you have a say in these things. Trust me, you don't want that job."

"I didn't say that I wanted it, just that I could do it better. But what about you? You've been here longer than anyone except for Cole."

The sergeant leaned in to whisper. "No way would I want to juggle the things that are thrown his way. That boy is probably nose-deep in government ass right now." The man made a ring with his fingers and fitted them around his lips to get the point across, then reclined with a boisterous smile. "Although, I might not mind it with this particular government ass. You'll see. You should take a shot at her when she comes out. Might do you some good."

Great, another dating conversation from the guys at the station. Women were complicated enough on their own. He didn't care to get them tangled into his work. Not now.

Maxim sat quietly, spinning his wedding band around his finger, waiting to see if Hitchens had anything else. It was a lonely moment, and Maxim felt like he was fighting against the world with every decision.

The sergeant, likely sensing the detective's outward isolation, threw the list of names to the desk. "Our couple isn't on here, huh?"

He was talking about the werewolves who escaped custody the other night. They didn't have IDs on them and were in the wind before they were identified. But they knew something and had to be found. That's why Diego, the third man arrested, had given them chase.

"I've verified that everyone on that list is not one of the fugitives. I've been told that they aren't in the motorcycle club and have fled town."

The officer knocked on Maxim's desk for good luck. "Don't worry. We'll find them." The heavy man slowly lifted his weight as he stood up. "You can't just take a shot at one of us and get away with it."

Maxim nodded. No one can attack police officers. That steadfast rule applied even to werewolves. Any violation needed a swift response, otherwise the department appeared vulnerable. Maxim was glad that Hitchens felt the same way.

"Have you heard from Kent?"

The veteran's face brightened. "The stitches in his neck aren't pretty, but they've kept his head on."

Maxim winced. It was grim imagery but the truth was nowhere near as serious as it sounded. The wound was, by all accounts, superficial. As Diego had suggested, the detective had made sure that Kent got his rabies treatment, but Maxim was still nervous about his condition. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to the kid.

Hitchens sucked his teeth to make a sound of disapproval. "Honestly, if we never see those two again, it would be too soon. I doubt they're stupid enough to come back to Sanctuary."

It was true that, without knowing their identities, it was a long shot to ever find them again. That troubled the detective. While Sanctuary certainly benefited from their disappearance, Maxim viewed it as a clear loss. Diego was chasing those two for a substantive purpose. If they knew anything about the man's missing sister then, just maybe, that information would also lead to his wife.

"Dwyer," said Hitchens, making sure he had the detective's attention before proceeding. "It might just be best to move on."

Maxim snickered. Moving on. That's what he had been doing for the last two years. Maybe it was finally time to stop moving, turn around, and tackle the problem head on.

He stopped Hitchens before he left. "You know, Sanctuary is a small place," said Maxim. "Maybe they didn't think they needed to run very far." The sergeant shrugged but Maxim had to complete his thought. "I really wish I could search the Seventh Sons clubhouse."

A grim expression answered Maxim's suggestion. "Son, you would lose your badge if you did that, and the MC wouldn't even let you in." The sergeant turned his back on the detective and walked to his desk.

Maxim put his feet up on the chair that Hitchens had vacated and leaned back, weighed down by his thoughts. "Yup."

 

The door to the office opened halfway and a man not yet thirty stood behind it. The marshal was a stoic figure with short blond hair and clean-cut features. His blue eyes and small mouth seemed hidden in the middle of his face and his big ears just accentuated his boyish appearance. Combined with the blue power suit, he exuded an aura of inexperience.

Maxim watched to see who would exit the office—there was a reason Hitchens was all worked up—but no one passed through the doorway and the marshal didn't move. Instead, his piercing eyes bore into Maxim, and he waved his hand to beckon the detective inside. Then the marshal abruptly stepped away from the door and into the confines of his private office.