by Domino Finn
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."
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.
v.
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.
Part 3 - The Hunter
i.
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, t
hat 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.