The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1)

by Domino Finn

  "Damn it, Maxim!" Diego lashed out as if he was familiar, even comfortable, with conflict. "What do you think is going on here?" The man's shoulders heaved up and down as he panted hard. He was getting worked up again, either because of the adrenaline of the interrogation or because all the events of the night were finally catching up with him. "What do you think is happening in Sycamore?"

  The two men stared at each other in silence. Maxim was unsure how to respond, but he was done with the supernatural theories. Seeing was believing—not stories, not talk.

  The detective thought he heard some murmuring on the other side of the window, but he threw his hand up to signal them to stop any interference. Maxim was a little more heated than he wanted to be but he was still in control. He didn't want any interruptions now.

  Instead, he slowly walked to the door and leaned his back against it to hold it closed. With a sly smile on his lips, Maxim simply stared at the harried prisoner.

  For some time Diego de la Torre, in his hospital gown and tube socks, was a figure of resolute determination. But Maxim waited and the man's heaving slowed, his posture softened, and he eventually sucked his lips into his mouth and shook his head.

  "Maxim," he said in a muzzled voice, "we're going about this the wrong way." Diego reclaimed his seat and ended the standoff. The resigned man touched the tips of his fingers together as he pondered his next words. Maxim stood up straight, off the door, eager for what came next.

  "You might have your theories about what went down tonight, but you need to understand that these people, all of them, are very dangerous."

  Maxim brushed his wedding band with his other hand. "Now you've finally said something I do believe."

  Diego continued in a somber tone. "How can a man judge what actions are appropriate without knowing the truth?"

  The detective put his hands on his hips and sighed sympathetically. "Our actions come back to haunt us, Diego." Although Maxim was trying to gain the man's trust, he almost believed in what he said. "In a way, all I really do is make sure karma holds up. We need to, all of us, be accountable for the things we do."

  Diego stared down at the table, subdued. This was the moment, Maxim thought, for the truth to come out. The prisoner opened his mouth and stopped midway through, mulling over his next words carefully. He wiped the hair on his lips and swallowed hard. Maxim began pacing around the room in a circle as he watched the man come to terms with his current situation.

  "What do you know of the supernatural, Maxim?"

  The detective rolled his eyes as he stepped around the table. He expected a confession. "I don't."

  Diego raised his head and said, "Sycamore has a problem with werewolves."

  Maxim slowed to a stop behind the sitting prisoner. He leaned his head down and whispered into Diego's ears, "You're the one with the werewolf problem."

  Diego blinked. "And what does that mean?"

  Already prepared for the question, Maxim had his cell phone in his hand. He turned the screen on and gently placed it on the table in front of the suspect. Diego glanced down as 3:19 a.m. illuminated the glass for several seconds before reverting to black.

  "It looks to me like we've gone far over your twenty minutes. If there was a shred of sincerity in you, shouldn't you be transformed by now?"

  Diego appeared slightly confused, scrutinizing the blank screen. "It should have been now," he stuttered, "but planetary alignment varies from—"

  "Enough with the stalling! I haven't seen a werewolf in thirty-two years, and that's not changing tonight."

  Maxim hovered over Diego's back and the man turned his head awkwardly to face him. "If you don't believe me, then what are we doing here?"

  The detective's open hand quickly struck the table, his silver ring making a loud thump on the cheap wood. "The confession, Diego! You said if I took you down to the interrogation room you would give me a confession!"

  The suspect turned to face forward again, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "Yeah, I said that," Diego started slowly, "but if I admitted to committing a crime, then you'd put me in prison."

  "That," said Maxim as he circled the table, standing where his chair used to be, "is precisely the point."

  Diego pressed his closed fist into the table softly to stress the matter. "Unless I'm not guilty of anything."

  Maxim crossed his arms. "Then why say you're going to confess?"

  v.

  Suddenly, muffled gunshots shattered the peace of the night.

  Maxim instinctively squatted down for cover, looking left to right, but it was hard to pinpoint the source of the shots. The interrogation room was sound resistant and at the end of a hallway, so most noise funneled from that direction anyway.

  As the startled detective reached for his firearm, he backed into the corner and got an encompassing view of the door, the window, and Diego de la Torre all at once. The prisoner sat quietly stern, hands in fists, looking both calm yet ready to strike at any instant.

  The detective pointed his Glock 22 at Diego.

  "Those were police discharges," Maxim said. "What are they firing at?"

  The prisoner did not waver under the gun but his voice did ease up to sound more soothing. "Do not shoot me, Maxim."

  A cacophony of metal thrashed above and wild footsteps scampered overhead. Maxim's experienced hands did not falter.

  "If anyone comes for you, to try to break you out, I will make sure you don't step a single foot outside this room." The barrel of his pistol aimed squarely at the prisoner's center mass.

  Diego raised both of his arms carefully, empty palms facing the detective. This time there was no magic trick. The prisoner was still calm under pressure but at least appeared to be taking the threat seriously.

  "Maxim."

  Suddenly the door swung open with a heavy urgency. Both men quickly turned to face the intruder. It was Gutierrez, except instead of his usual lackadaisical grin, he wore an expression of pure panic.

  "Sir! The prisoners upstairs, they're escaping!"

  "Shit!" Maxim quickly stood up straight, pointed his gun at the ground, and tried to regain his composure. A sideways glance at Diego confirmed he was sitting attentively in his chair, still safely chained to the table.

  Gutierrez, however, was spooked. Without Hitchens and Cole, he needed a senior officer to lead him through this. "Where's your weapon, rookie?"

  "What?" he said, confused by the question. "Right here." Gutierrez pointed at the gun holstered to his waist.

  "Well get that firearm into your hand and cover my back!"

  Diego stopped him as they took a step to the door. "Maxim, I said I would guarantee your safety. I can only do that if you stay here with me!"

  Gutierrez stared at the prisoner with uncertain eyes and looked to Maxim.

  "I have an officer up there, Diego."

  "Then at least uncuff me. Let me go up there with you. I can help."

  The rookie ran his eyes between both men. He had a skeptical expression but not one of disapproval.

  Maxim, however, knew that winging things in these situations got people hurt or killed. There was a right way and a wrong way to do things, and he needed to set the example if no one else would.

  "That's not happening."

  The detective shoved Gutierrez out of the interrogation room with him, slammed the door shut, and locked Diego de la Torre in with the company of a table, two plastic chairs, and a video camera.

  Upstairs, a quick series of pistol discharges rang out.

  The two policemen sprinted through the main office. Seeing no other officers in sight, they continued up the stairs to the clinic. Maxim took the lead, only slowing near the top of the steps, pointing his gun forward towards the double doors. The rookie behind him did as he had been trained and stayed a few steps back on the opposite wall, occasionally making sure no one was behind them.

  "Sir, if we get through this, I swear I'll shave my face!" Gutierrez shook his head nervously. "I really don't want to
die with this stupid gringo mustache!"

  At the threshold of the clinic, Maxim surveyed the scene and slowly advanced. The light in the hallway was nearly blinding after emerging from the duskiness below. The reception desk was still empty, and Kent's chair, once leaning against the wall supporting the officer, was lying on its side in the same spot. Next to it on the floor was his handheld device, still playing a chiptune.

  He couldn't see anything else, but Maxim heard coarse breathing from within the hospital room.

  The detective signaled Gutierrez to stop and inched to the left side of the hallway, opposite the open door. Maxim stepped to the left once, then again, and again until the innards of the bedroom were revealed to him.

  It was dark inside but there was enough ambient light to see. Three of the beds had been thrown around the room. The two that had held the prisoners were bent in haphazard twists and had their aluminum bars broken off. The clay table lamp was shattered, its pieces strewn about the floor, and Maxim noticed crumbled pieces of plaster casts interspersed with the debris.

  Kent was in the far corner, sitting against the wall, holding his neck and spitting out ragged breaths. Renee, the clinic nurse, was also present, kneeling down, attending to his wound.

  Above the two of them, what was left of the glass in the window framed a jagged portrait of bent wire and open air. Both prisoners were gone.

  "Not possible," hissed Maxim in a state of bewilderment. He stepped forward with his weapon raised and heard the crunch of clay under his feet until he reached the window. The gap in the ripped wire mesh was wide enough to afford egress to the prisoners.

  The concrete plaza in front of the building was a twenty foot drop below. From there it was only a short distance to the street. One of the faux-antique light posts made of plastic resin had been snapped in half; its illuminated dome, still lit, rested on the sidewalk. Further yet, lying aflutter in the middle of the wide road, was a hospital gown.

  Maxim projected a path past the well-lit town square and jerky movement caught his eye. Racing up the cross street in the distant darkness, he saw two large blurs retreat behind a building. Then the small town of Sanctuary, partially illuminated by the elemental light of the full moon, returned to its normal lull.

  Maxim cursed to himself as he turned away, still incredulous at what had just occurred. He had seen it with his own eyes. How was that possible?

  Kent spoke up, suddenly forcing the detective to return to the present moment. "I got some shots in them, sir." He sounded weak.

  Maxim put his free hand up, motioning for silence from the wounded officer. "Don't strain yourself. Is he going to be okay, Renee?"

  The nurse was strangely cool considering the crimson on her hands. "I'll need to call the doctor back for stitches but it looks minor."

  Relief swept over Maxim as he allowed himself to breathe out. He holstered his weapon and nodded at Gutierrez, who was standing in the doorway, to do the same. With his right hand, the detective leaned down and patted Kent on the shoulder. He was unsure of what to say. He had questions but now wasn't the time. Gutierrez pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed the doctor.

  For a moment, the world around Maxim was frozen. It was a surreal experience as the truth dawned on him. He wasn't sure if Sanctuary felt larger or smaller, but somehow it seemed as if he was standing in the middle of a giant car crash. Then something tugged at him, reminding him that he was the only thing not in motion.

  Suddenly the detective remembered Diego locked up downstairs and had a sinking feeling. Maxim broke out into a sprint and dashed by Gutierrez, past Kent's toppled chair, through the double doors, and down the steps.

  After the recent commotion, all Maxim could think about was how empty the police station seemed by comparison. He rushed through the large office and into the back hallway, fumbling with his keys. The seconds ticked by in slow motion as the lock turned and Maxim sprung the interrogation room door open.

  Not sure what to expect, he burst in, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol on his belt.

  Diego de la Torre sat upright with a reserved stillness, wearing an amused expression on his face, his hands firmly secured to the table.

  "Maxim. Good to see you are still alive."

  The detective let out a nervous chortle, relieved that Diego was still in custody. "What the hell happened up there?"

  The prisoner looked at Maxim with admonishment. "Really, what have we been talking about this last half hour?"

  The detective's breaths still came quickly. As he waited to recover himself, he stared at Diego and envied his composure. "And what about you?" said the detective, exasperated.

  "Well," he began nonchalantly, as if this were routine, "I told you I would give you proof of werewolves, and I also said that I would guarantee your safety. But most importantly," said Diego, a smile crossing his lips, "I made sure I wasn't anywhere near those two when they turned. In case you haven't picked up on it yet, we aren't on friendly terms."

  Maxim could not ignore the man's smug satisfaction. But how could he be angry? Yes, he had been manipulated, but Diego's actions probably ended up saving both their lives.

  Gutierrez walked up to the open door of the interrogation room, scratching the back of his head. "The doctor is on his way, and Kent looks like he'll be good."

  Diego interjected. "If anyone has been bitten, make sure they get a full rabies vaccine regimen." Both officers looked at each other with furrowed brows.

  "What is it you do exactly, Diego?" asked the detective. "Are you chasing these wolves then?" The prisoner sat silently as he pondered the questions. "Did you stab that man?"

  "Why, Detective Dwyer, I was not involved in that incident in any way." Diego, mixing his accent with a hint of playful wit, continued. "I'd read that biking through these lush woods was a majestic experience, and after a long day of exploration, I figured I would stop at a dive bar and meet some of the local color."

  The prisoner stared deadpan at the two officers. Maxim knew what was happening. He had seen this before. Without the other two prisoners to question, Diego's account of victimhood would be unchallenged. What's more, with the other bikers actually having attacked Kent and escaping police custody, that scenario even appeared likely. If Diego's records came back verifying that he didn't live in Sanctuary, and without proof of him having committed any crimes, he would likely be set loose without charges.

  The thing was, Maxim wasn't sure if that bothered him anymore. He now knew that the rumors about the werewolves had some foundation. He had proof the Seventh Sons were dangerous. It was hard to fault Diego if he had somehow drawn their ire. The man would need to spend the night here, probably, but would almost surely be released in the morning.

  Diego de la Torre was a free man, and he knew it.

  "Maxim, when can I pick up my bike?"

  The detective's left hand cupped his temples as he tried to knead away the stress.

  "Just tell me this first. The man that died..." The detective was going to ask a question, but he got tripped up by the phrasing. What could he ask that Diego would actually answer truthfully?

  "He was one of them," the prisoner jumped in with, seeming to actually confide in the officers. "And very dangerous."

  Without removing his hand from his face, Maxim closed his eyes. "Get him out of here, Gutierrez."

  As the prisoner was unlocked from the table and shuffled out, Detective Maxim Dwyer took a few extra moments to compose himself. How could he have been so blind? But the reflection of light on his wedding band energized him with renewed purpose. There was more going on in Sanctuary than he had allowed himself to acknowledge and it had taken a stranger to show that to him.

  With a calloused sigh that indicated the weight of the work ahead, Maxim reached over to the video camera and hit the stop button. This one would get erased.

  Part 2 - The Pack

  i.

  Two days ago, Diego de la Torre had killed a man. The death hadn't been part of t
he plan, but in retrospect, that had been primarily due to the fact that there had been no plan at all. Sometimes, the biker reasoned, when all sensible avenues have been exhausted, risk was the only remaining recourse. At least, that was his justification as he returned to the scene of the crime.

  Sycamore Lodge stood boldly against the relentless Arizona sun. The isolated roadhouse was an old fashioned mix of stone and wood and belligerence, the kind of place where nobody had any upstanding business. Near enough to fall within Sanctuary town limits yet deep enough in the Sycamore woods to retain its wild identity, the bar attracted a diverse population of outsiders. As such, it had become a popular haunt for the local motorcycle gang.

  The biker pressed his gloved hand against the door and took a breath. Last time he was here, that night, a raucous crowd had filled the patio and the doors had been kept open for easy passage and a cool breeze. Tempers, however, had remained high. Perhaps now, at this early time of day, the heat would suppress the more vile nature of the bar's occupants.

  Diego was wearing his full leathers now. His heavy black jacket was armored with inner metal plates, and he had steel-toe long boots with padded knees under his black leather pants. Everything he wore was a dark, matte shade of black that purposefully absorbed all traces of light. Running along the right side of the outfit were heavy scuffs from when he had slid off his bike. Diego grimaced as he pushed open the heavy door. After being released from police custody, it had taken him all of yesterday to sleep the soreness off. But that had been time enough.

  The daylight had trouble penetrating indoors despite the large windows lining the wall. Diego waited for his eyes to adjust to his dim surroundings after pulling off his sunglasses. They were cheap and plastic, just bought this morning to replace the ones he had smashed in the accident. If only all mistakes were so easily corrected.

  Diego squinted his black eyes and Sycamore Lodge fell into focus. The main room had a long bar and wooden cocktail tables and cushioned chairs. Antler sconces emanated red light and cast shadows like fingers reaching out of hell. The raised wood floor rung hollow under Diego's heavy boots and seemed to interrupt the quiet murmur of the patrons.