by Domino Finn
So much for her noble quest to save her family.
For a moment, Kayda wondered if she was the problem. She only entertained the thought as long as it took her to clamp onto the next culprit: men. Not all men. Not some kind of feminist outlook under the guise of empowerment. Just the men in her life. Her brothers, one dead and one heading that way. Her grandfather, pushing her to earn the respect of her tribe and stay in Arizona. Even Maxim and Diego.
Kayda had taken a shine to the biker, but there was something he wasn't telling her. Some bond that he shared with the detective. And when she had found out that Maxim was the one who'd killed Skah, she didn't think she could trust either of them anymore.
Now, for the first time, Kayda felt herself aiming that mistrust at her brother. She had grown up a lot in the last few days. The shock of seeing her mutilated brother. The ordeal in the desert. Now she was admitting that many of the men she knew weren't what they seemed. It was unavoidable, she thought, to not become colder as a result of her experiences. At the same time, it told her that she needed to open her eyes to the world. To stop seeing what she wanted to see.
What was it her pahmi had said? See more than everyone else sees. Then understand more as well.
Kelan grumbled as he sat on the edge of the bed, searching the floor. "Nurse!" he screamed, patience waning. A woman with a deadpan expression peeked in. "Where are my boots?"
"Sorry," said the nurse. "There was a mix-up. I'm looking for them." The woman eyed Kayda and Kelan together and pouted. "You're not planning on leaving already, are you? The detective was pretty clear—"
"My boots."
The nurse sighed loudly, dramatically, and left the room.
"I swear," said Kelan. "They'll do anything to keep me here."
Kayda was privately relieved at the delay. Maxim had told them that Kelan was here for his protection. Whether that was true or not, there was no telling what her brother would do once he was back on Main Street.
"Do you even know what you hope to accomplish here, Keekee?"
"Do you? Don't forget that you're in Sanctuary too. What? You can start shit but I can't? And I told you not to call me that."
Kayda didn't say anything. In a way, it was hypocritical of her to be scolding her brother. She couldn't say one thing and do another. She didn't want to be that type of person. If respect was what she sought, she had to be above that.
Kayda took an unusually deep breath. Her ribs strained against the tight wrappings and she flinched at the sudden pain in her side. She imagined compassion in Kelan's brown eyes.
"Just go back home before you get even more hurt," said her brother.
"I can't return to Pahmi empty-handed."
"I said 'home,'" reiterated Kelan. "The reservation isn't that for you. It never was. Go find your white father."
The girl was speechless. Here she was being cast aside again. Being marginalized. Disrespected. Why was it that she fought so hard for those that didn't want her?
The nurse finally returned holding a pair of sand-colored boots. She dropped them unceremoniously beside the bed and disappeared again. Kelan snorted and began lacing them.
Kayda watched, entranced by the banal motion, stewing in her thoughts while her brother prepared to leave her. All the mercenaries—Hotah, Yas—they all wore the same boots. Kayda tried to remember if any of the gunmen last night had them on.
"Who are you to tell me what to do?" she shot back finally, a little heated. "All my life you've told me I wasn't one of you. You ignored me while you chased your big brother around, trying to fill his boots. Wear your uniform like a good mercenary. Put on your war paint. Puff out your chest. Are you so determined to follow your brother to the grave?"
Kelan pounced to his feet with a suddenness that startled Kayda. He grabbed her arms and pulled her toward him. The jerking motion evoked images of her cracked rib snapping completely, but she bit her lip and the pain subsided.
"The Seventh Sons have done nothing but shit on us! Use us! My brother tried to work with them. Economics, he said. But it was the wrong tactic. I'm not going to follow his path."
Kayda withstood her brother's ire. He seethed just inches from her face, but she didn't look away. "Let go of me," she said calmly.
"I told you not to follow me," he said, ignoring her request. "You should have stayed in New York. The desert is not the place for you. I thought you would have learned that on your ride up here."
Kayda dropped her jaw. "How do you know about that?" She hadn't told her brother about the motorcycle accident. She hadn't told anyone.
He released her. "You were always so stubborn. You should have cried your way back to the airport and hopped on a plane out of Arizona. Instead, you go and talk to the police. To our enemies."
Kayda could barely focus on her brother's words anymore. She kept thinking that Kelan knew. He knew about her spill on the 89. He couldn't have caused it. Kayda didn't know much about motorcycles but she was pretty sure the accident was her fault. So how was it possible that her brother found out about what happened?
Chuck Winston. He was there. He was the one who had nearly run her off the road. He had seen her, Kayda thought. He had looked right at her and walked away.
"Is Chuck working for you now?" she asked. "You had him run me off the road and leave me there to die?"
"What?" exclaimed her brother. "You're crazy. He called us when he found your bike at the bottom of the hill. It had me and grandfather worried."
Tears came to Kayda's eyes. She was suddenly very unsure what her brother was capable of. She thought she could finally see it. A hint that the boy she had grown up with was not telling the truth. A hint that Kelan was lying.
"What's happening to you?" she asked, half sobbing. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to panic. But the weight of years of naivety was heavy.
Her brother stood coldly in front of her. He was a statue. His physique was never as impressive as his older brother's—Kelan was shorter, more wiry—but it was obvious they were of the same stock. Kin.
His iron stance wavered ever so slightly. Kayda stared at him through blurred eyes. Oh my God, she thought. Bright red contrasted against his dark features.
Kayda didn't know how she hadn't noticed before, but her brother had an open wound below his chin. A cut across his neck. Blood welled from the stripe and it grew longer, like a line of paint being brushed across a canvas. It must have been a wound from the fight. It must have been treated and stitched and was just opening up now. It bled profusely.
"Kelan, you're bleeding!"
Kayda lunged forward to steady her brother's faltering posture. She pushed him back to sit on the bed. Even as he fought her away in confusion, she applied pressure to the wound, to stem the tide of red.
"What are you doing?" Kelan gurgled. "Get off me!"
Kelan threw his little sister away from him. His temper flared and he wasn't gentle about it: Kayda flew backwards and slammed into the wall. Her cracked rib reminded her of her failing strength—the pain nearly caused her to pass out. It was a great feat of strength that she managed to merely collapse on the floor. Kayda cried out loudly this time, not caring to hide her weakness any longer.
Kelan had used his wolf strength. He had thrown her across the room with little regard for her safety. He'd never done that before. Never crossed that line. Kayda didn't know if she was crying from the pain or from the disappointment.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded.
Kayda hunched on the floor, staring at the linoleum, breathing rapidly. Her brother took a step towards her then stopped, his rage negating any sympathy he may have felt. He was panting like a lunatic and Kayda checked to see if he was okay.
She was startled by what she saw. The smooth skin of Kelan's neck, devoid of stubble, was clear. There was no blood. There was no wound.
Chapter 32
The pathologist led the two men to Omar Rivera's stitched-up corpse. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves and stret
ched them over his hands, keeping his curious eyes on Maxim. "I don't usually have an audience down here."
The detective shrugged and didn't explain. Raymond thrust his hand out. "I'm Agent Garcia, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm helping run this now."
Maxim thought the word "helping" was subjective.
Dr. Medina shook the man's hand while his gloves were still clean. The two men exchanged some banter. Most civilians were enamored with the FBI; Maxim couldn't begrudge the ME the opportunity to schmooze with a fed.
As Maxim waited patiently, he noticed a new tag on one of the freezer doors. The newest body. Gang violence had led to a civilian death, and he was now dealing with the fallout. Maybe all this was what Maxim deserved.
"So Doctor," said Garcia, locking his hands behind his back expectantly. "We're all ears. Why don't you just give us the full information dump?"
"I'll give you what I can. Detective Dwyer already had a good handle on the situation, based on his notes."
Maxim shot a competitive glare at the FBI agent. Someone backing him up was validating, but also disappointing. The detective knew how to read crime scenes. He was able to drive investigations deeper without needing to wait on the ME, but all detectives wanted information handed to them. A lucky break. It wouldn't be so bad for a case to be easy once in a while. From Dr. Medina's initial tone, it didn't sound like there would be any leaps in progress.
"We've discussed his notes," said Garcia, "but we don't want to treat them as fact just yet. I expect your conclusions to be independent."
"I understand the scientific method," answered the doctor. There was a hint of anger in his voice. Maxim smirked as the agent continued to burn his bridges in Sanctuary. The ME then corrected his tone, speaking as a doctor would to a patient who disagreed with a diagnosis. "The crime scene and the detective's impressions are often invaluable. This isn't a full-service morgue but I'm able to give our victims some personal attention. Furthermore, we have a county technician running the blood work, ballistics, and DNA. I can assure you that, while our resources might not match the Bureau's, we know how to investigate homicides in Sanctuary."
"Of course. I didn't mean any offense, Doctor."
Maxim ground his teeth. He should be enjoying this more but all he could think about was the level of distraction already caused by the federal intervention. He wanted to get right down to the cause of death. The real cause of death. Of course, Maxim couldn't make his concerns known. The apparent cause of death was obvious to anybody without knowledge of wolves or silver. So, ignoring the posturing of the two men, Maxim asked the next best question.
"What can you tell us about the bullet types?"
Garcia furrowed his brow. Dr. Medina paused, but welcomed the interruption.
"Three or four bullet types in the body. The shotgun was easy to isolate. So was the two-two. The other bullets, whether from one shooter or two, are all 9 mm."
"So why the speculation about an extra shooter?"
"Firsthand, based on your notes," answered the doctor, glancing hesitantly at Garcia. "But there's more than that. The majority of the bullets in the body are 9 mm, with separate groupings."
Garcia cut in. "So there were three or four gunmen using light arms and a shotgun."
"Which doesn't match the gunmen who attacked Sycamore Lodge," reminded Maxim.
The FBI agent rubbed the stubble on his chin. "You said there were two trigger men last night. The driver makes three. It could be the same crowd."
"Possibly the right numbers, but definitely the wrong guns. If Omar Rivera was a hit by the same guys, why wouldn't they roll up with assault rifles?"
"Maybe it wasn't a hit. Maybe Rivera surprised them."
Maxim cocked his head. It was a possibility. Something about it sounded right, but it was still too disorganized. Sloppy. Maxim wasn't sure what to think yet.
"The victim put up a fight," continued Dr. Medina. "Most of the blood at the scene was his. That lab tech from Coconino sent me some samples and early conclusions. I'm sure you got a copy, but the short version is that two others left blood traces at the scene. One of them was wall spatter and the other was found on the victim's knuckles, fingernails, and teeth."
Garcia raised his eyebrows. "He bit someone in the middle of a gunfight?"
Maxim smiled. It seemed an odd action without factoring in the wolf angle, but it wouldn't have shocked him anyway. People did desperate things in their last moments.
"One of the 9 mm slugs lodged into the victim's skull without penetrating it. Luckiest thing I've ever seen, like he was wearing a helmet. Regardless, this man had no chance. I pulled sixteen rounds from his body. Twenty-five more were found at the scene, not counting the three he fired from his weapon. Punctured his lungs, femoral artery, intestines. He had several defensive wounds on his arms and hand. Can you imagine that? Trying to stop a bullet with your hand? The only thing more surprising is that it happens all the time."
Maxim nodded. Desperate actions. Anything and everything for one more chance at life. He watched the pathologist point a pen at each of the bullet holes. Sixteen rounds besides the buckshot. What a way to go. Maxim's mind sharpened when the ME pointed out the bullet wound on Omar's right hand.
"Wait a minute. How did Rivera fire his weapon if he got shot in the hand?"
Dr. Medina paused to consider the question. "There's no way this man pulled a trigger with this hand after sustaining this injury. I think it's clear that his shots came first, then he dropped the gun.
Maxim snorted. That explanation didn't work for him.
"What are you thinking, Detective?" asked Agent Garcia.
"For one, Rivera never dropped the pistol. It was still in his hand when we found him."
"You think the crime scene was tampered with?"
"I don't know, but a lot of people were on the scene before I was. The boot print proves that."
"What boot print?" asked Garcia.
"I have the Coconino tech looking into it. It wasn't in the report he forwarded you?"
Garcia scratched his cheek again. "I don't know. I was mainly concerned with ballistics and solving your first case."
Maxim shook off the obvious bait. He leaned in and examined Omar's corpse. "Which hands had traces of an attacker's blood?"
Dr. Medina pressed his lips together, realizing what Maxim was inferring. "Both of them."
The detective nodded. "So how does our vic get shot in the hand and scratch someone at close quarters, then end up on the ground with a gun in that hand?"
"The three bullets he fired came first," offered Garcia.
The three shots were aimed at the door, which made sense in the obvious way—that's where the attackers had come from—but the gunman's blood was past the doorway, by the right wall. That's where Omar had fired at—and struck—his attacker.
"This bothered me at the scene. We have a vic holding a revolver that fired three shots. We recovered the slugs from the wall, which we confirmed. But a fourth shot was fired that hit one of the attackers." Maxim went over the inconsistencies at the scene. "You didn't find any .44 caliber rounds in the body?"
The ME shook his head.
"What is this about?" asked Garcia.
"I pulled one from the ceiling above the vic."
"But none in the victim or the line of fire either way. How is this round relevant? We're talking about an outlaw motorcycle clubhouse. Who knows how long that bullet could have been there?"
"I don't think we should dismiss it," countered Maxim. "I think it was the kid's single miss. It could have been a warning shot, fired before the shootout, or it could have been a wild shot during a physical struggle, proof of which does exist. With the other bullet, he hit one of the men. The gunshot wound he sustained to the hand would have come after those two shots."
This meant several things. First, they were looking for a badly injured shooter. A .44 caliber round was not easy to shrug off. Second, the pistol in Omar's hand wasn't his gun. Perhaps it
was switched with the Magnum, but for what purpose? Maxim made a mental note to search the computers for crimes committed with .44 Magnums. If the weapon was being hidden, there had to be a reason.
"I think we're making assumptions here," said the FBI agent. "Aside from Clint Eastwood admitting to being in Arizona, until we find a gang member with that bullet inside him, the presence of a .44 Magnum firearm in this crime is just speculation."
"Maybe," said the detective.
They moved on. The doctor neared the end of the description of Omar's injuries. "There was a lot of blood loss at the scene, Detective. The victim was alive for a while after getting shot, which is probably more miraculous than the slug lodged in his head. As you observed, several of his wounds occurred after he was lying on the floor. This grouping in the midsection. He was there for a long time, leaking, and more importantly, staying alive."
"Poor son of a bitch," said Garcia.
The doctor backed away from the body. "You know, there is a similarity to your last victim, Carlos Doka. This man was stabbed in the chest. The heart was torn apart, bullets and blade. Because of the condition of the body, it's impossible to tell, but a knife was the probable cause of death."
Maxim almost stumbled at the revelation. Stabbed in the heart with a silver knife? That solved the mystery of the wolf's death, but it opened up other questions. And doubts. Anybody with a knowledge of Diego's history, for one, would immediately look at him as the prime suspect. Maxim shot a sideways glance at Garcia, hoping he wouldn't suspect the man, but of course his federal connections didn't extend to secret CDC programs.
Maxim whistled softly. He couldn't think of a scenario where Diego would have committed this crime. And then to be so bold as to call it in? The thought made the detective shudder.
"The wounds are the same?"
"No," said the doctor emphatically. "There's only a superficial resemblance. For one, the first victim's heart was not stabbed, and it occurred during an incident separate from the homicide. Doka's wound had already started to heal. The reality is, there's little way of knowing if the same weapon was used. But two victims in a row got me thinking. With the damage to the torso, I might not have noticed it if not for the memory of Carlos Doka."