The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3)

by Domino Finn

  Their disagreement escalated into an argument. Annabelle sat still, brooding. Maxim worried about her, but as hands-off as he'd been thus far, he couldn't afford to give them more space, more time.

  "An eight-year-old girl is lost," he pleaded. "If your daughter knows anything of material value, we need that information."

  Olivia was about to explode. "Can't you see she doesn't like these questions?"

  And then, finding an unlikely lull in the yelling, Annabelle spoke.

  "The only way not to be sad is to be happy."

  Both adults stopped long enough to focus on the girl.

  "What's that, dear?"

  "The only way not to be sad is to be happy. Gulliver said that once."

  Olivia's shoulders heaved and her breathing slowed. "I wouldn't take anything your father says too seriously."

  "I know," said Annabelle. "I don't. But he was right that time. I want to be happy. I want to live out there, in the forest."

  For a moment, Olivia's jaw was frozen to the ground. She watched her daughter with an expression that was a mix of horror and shock. Then she jutted her chin forward and shook her head. "You're not going outside again."

  "You can't stop me, Mom. I'm old enough now. I don't need to be babied."

  "You weren't eating anything, honey." Olivia turned to the detective and shook her head as though her daughter was being silly.

  "I don't need food," protested the girl.

  Her mother did a double-take. The severity of the situation began to sink in. The words weren't just combative—they had deranged implications. Maxim wondered how she hadn't noticed before. Suddenly, Olivia changed her demeanor.

  "You're tired, Annabelle. You should go to bed."

  "But I'm not tired, Mother. I hate sleeping."

  "Go to bed!"

  The ire in Olivia's voice had reached a dangerous pitch. The woman was trembling. At her limit. There was no room in her tone for an appeal, and the girl, as troublesome as she was, filed up the staircase silently.

  When they were alone, Maxim studied Olivia Hayes. The poor woman was on edge and didn't know what to do. She bobbled between pacing, taking sips of wine, and staring out the window. For a while, instead of saying anything, Maxim ran the events over in his head, focusing on the words, making sure nothing slipped by.

  Then he realized Olivia was crying.

  He stepped softly to the window. "Are you okay?"

  The woman's back was to him. Her short blonde hair hung over her slender neck, leaving her shoulders bare. When she didn't answer, he softly touched her back.

  Olivia Hayes spun around and buried her head in his chest. Her hands clasped tightly to his back, and he could feel her nails digging into his suit jacket. Her cries turned into a sob, and Maxim put his arms around her slender figure and waited for her.

  Women like Olivia Hayes didn't open up much. Maxim didn't know her. He didn't know if the money had changed her, or the divorce, or the daughter. He didn't know what Olivia had done to get where she was, but he knew she was tougher than most mothers he'd met. She was always on the offensive. Always looking ahead.

  Soon enough, she brushed her tears away, but she still clung to him. Still leaned her head on his shoulder.

  "She's acting strangely," she mumbled. "Different, somehow."

  The detective darted his eyes to the staircase to make sure they were speaking privately. "She's traumatized. That's natural. It's good that you got her a therapist."

  Olivia tensed for a moment in his arms. "She's saying crazy things."

  "At least she's talking now."

  Olivia pulled away and playfully slapped Maxim on the shoulder. "Be nice," she warned. He couldn't help but smile.

  "I understand this is difficult, Olivia. I really do. But you and Annabelle, you're the lucky ones. She made it back safe. You guys have each other, even if the relationship is strained right now."

  Maxim suddenly felt awkward, still half-embracing the woman while playing detective. He released her. There was a lot of tension between them, he realized. Too slowly. Olivia, taking his cue, let her smile wane.

  Maxim continued. "There's another mother in Flagstaff who's crying every night wondering where her daughter is. She might not be lucky enough to ever see her again. Just try to talk to your daughter, okay? Just try to get her to open up. I need to know if she saw anyone out there. I need to know if she had help."

  Olivia Hayes frowned and wiped her eyes. Her tough exterior crept into her features again, and she straightened up.

  Chapter 20

  Diego put his last cigarette to his lips. He hadn't chain-smoked like this in years. It was a minor comfort, at least, that he didn't kill the pack in a single day.

  It was now Wednesday morning. Two days after Hazel Cunningham disappeared. The first forty-eight.

  Diego thought of the TV show and wondered if that was really a thing. Was there actually a forty-eight hour threshold that drastically reduced the chances of a murder or abduction being solved? For the girl's sake, he hoped the police wouldn't move on so quickly. He knew they'd get answers eventually—they were methodical like that—but his main concern was the behemoth of bureaucracy moving at a snail's pace.

  Diego? He had his own way of doing things. A way that got results. Right now that meant sitting on his Scrambler outside a post office and lighting a smoke at ten in the morning.

  He didn't know why he hadn't mentioned the lead to Maxim. Or mentioned Red. The thing with Jason Bower had turned into a clusterfuck, but it worked itself out. Diego was okay. They had at least a tiny bit more understanding of the situation. Well, maybe knowledge was a better term, because Diego de la Torre had no understanding of what a crying kid in the forest meant.

  A Williams, Arizona PO Box. That was all Diego had to go on now. An old man who'd been turned away from Quiet Pines the night before anything happened.

  Except that wasn't entirely true anymore. Jason's encounter occurred that night. Something strange had happened the night before Hazel went missing. It just hadn't involved the girl or Julia. That was the one promising sign that silenced Diego's doubts. Why he told himself he could easily waste another day doing this, when he feared deep down the smart play was to make an appearance at the tow yard and apologize to Harry Pendle.

  No, Diego pushed the cowardly thought from his head. There was a link here. Finding Red would get him a step closer. And he wouldn't get the police involved until he could prove that.

  So it was nice when Diego finally had a turn of luck.

  Well, it wasn't entirely luck. The outlaw's skill set consisted of brawling, tracking, and shooting people. He always had a puncher's chance when his task involved one of those three. So when he saw a red-haired old man limping down the sidewalk, wearing an old iron brace on his right leg and holding some sort of cane as tall as he was, Diego smiled confidently.

  So much for another pack of smokes.

  Red was an old man, impressive in both his frailty and his hardiness. Diego couldn't tell his age from this distance, but the man was skinny and pale, hunched over his staff of a cane, with a head of bright red hair and bushy eyebrows to boot. He was dressed plainly, just a white undershirt and overalls, but it was his frame that made an impression: he was tall and had oversized arms, thin but lengthy, except for hands that were the size of bear paws. Despite the leg brace, he walked with an even gait and long stride, and had he stood up straight and been in the prime of his life, Diego knew he would be witnessing an intimidating figure.

  Diego smoked his cigarette and waited as the man disappeared inside the post office. He would need to play this one differently than Jason Bower. Be more discreet. Less direct. He wasn't sure if Maxim would extend him another favor if he got into trouble again so soon. At any rate, Williams PD and the sheriff's office were different beasts.

  Ten minutes and a stick of gum later, Red emerged from the building empty-handed. He shielded his eyes from the harsh sun and made his way back the way he came. I
t was likely he just checked his mail. Diego considered following on foot, but there was no telling how far the old man was going. Besides, the Triumph was illegally parked.

  The biker waited until Red was nearly out of sight before starting his Scrambler. He lowered the black facemask on his gold helmet and idled forward a couple of blocks before parking again, making sure not to get too close. Strangely enough, Red didn't turn down any of the residential back streets. Instead, he headed into an industrial section.

  That made Diego's job more difficult. Fewer pedestrians meant he stood out, but he managed to block the old man's line of sight by hiding behind a parked truck here or there. Eventually, Red turned onto a set of train tracks, moving along them, out of Williams.

  The biker considered what little he knew of the man. Red lived in the Sycamore wild. Away from the bustling towns, even those as small as Williams. He was a loner who liked his privacy and freedom. That made him strange to the conformist crowd. Suspicious, even.

  The man began to hobble on his bad leg. Some combination of rough terrain and failing endurance caused him to lean into his crutch more. He appeared older.

  Diego gave him ten minutes. Red was a speck in the distance before he needed to move. The tracks leaving the city didn't have a real access road, just a worn dirt path. The passage cut through the wild, with thickening trees on either side. There was no way for Diego not to stick out, so he settled again on distance.

  Thus far, Red hadn't glanced back a single time. This was a man who was used to being marginalized. Ignored. It worked in Diego's favor now.

  The biker rode the black Scrambler along the tracks, moving as slowly as he could. It wasn't a good plan—it wasn't even a plan at all—it was just action. Implementation. That's what he did best. He would save the elaborate deceptions for Maxim.

  Unsurprisingly, like all poorly conceived strategies, it was destined to come with a hitch. This happened when Red, perhaps hearing the low rumble of Diego's motorcycle, searched behind him.

  There was no way to hide and no point in trying. Instead, Diego continued forward at a solid pace, faster than before, so as not to appear peculiar. The old man trudged ahead some more, then stopped and leaned on his crutch, watching Diego advance.

  The biker—helmet on, facemask down, head forward—drove right by Red. His appearance was a curiosity, maybe, but it wasn't overly suspicious. They were just two men who crossed each other's paths. Furthermore, it was impossible for Red to get a good look at him.

  To keep up the ruse, Diego continued ahead. He forced himself not to look back. Besides, Red was clear in his rearview mirrors. The old man struggled ahead on uncertain footing, but Diego left him in the dust soon enough.

  When Diego de la Torre was far enough ahead that Red was out of sight, he slowed down again and lifted his facemask. He cursed. Maybe he should have followed Red on foot. But his plan hadn't been a complete failure. He had made progress. Even if Red's destination was uncertain, the old man was a compass, pointing him closer to his goal.

  The biker idled ahead, scanning both sides of the tracks, hoping for any signs of activity. Any sign of Hazel. This slow pace continued for a mile until he noticed a clearing to the north.

  He'd almost passed it because it wasn't especially visible from the railroad tracks. Surrounded by trees, the clearing was shaped like a flag lot, with a thin path heading into it before it widened. But it was the trees that ultimately caught Diego's attention.

  Dead logs, with no apparent cause for their condition, lay haphazardly in the open area. The space was barren of actual growth, leading him to believe it had been caused by a fire or other event.

  Without another thought, Diego pulled his Triumph past the clearing and parked within the tree line. The old man had to be at least a twenty-minute mile behind him. Maybe twice that. Leaving his helmet and riding gear on, Diego crept through the brush and to the dry land. Brown grass, black logs: the spot was a bubble of death cutting into the predatory life of Sycamore.

  In the center of the clearing, obvious to any curious enough to look, was a faded yellow and brown RV.

  Act 2 - Hell on Wheels

  Chapter 21

  Diego was alone in the clearing, but he instinctively ducked. Something about the surroundings creeped him out. It wasn't the type of thing that was easy to explain—it happened at a subconscious level—but the combination of isolation, dead foliage, and the worn vehicle made his skin crawl.

  This was it: Red's RV. The man preferred to live in the wild, just off the tracks, alone but within easy walking distance to town for supplies.

  Train tracks weren't like streets. They cut through the wild without civilizing it. No cars pulled over here. No passengers or pedestrians busied themselves in these woods. The iron horse would announce its presence from a mile away and cause the earth to rumble, but it would roar past and allow the land to settle. Until the trees were cleared and man paved over the dirt, this forest would be wild. But, like a lot of Sycamore, it was a national forest. Protected. Conserved. Ruled by a natural order.

  Fallen trees were the only natural features of the clearing. The grass was barely there, dry, dead. For whatever reason, the healthy trees yielded a few hundred feet of space before their dense walls resumed.

  Diego glanced back toward the tracks, barely visible through the brush. Maybe Red thought this was a good place to park. The clearing allowed the RV easy access to the dirt road. The wheels of the heavy vehicle wouldn't get caught in thick brush. It was possible the clearing even kept scavenging animals at bay.

  Taking maximum advantage of the cushion, the old motor home was parked in the very center of the area. It was a large vehicle, once white but now yellowed by age. A brown stripe ran the length of its boxy frame over the wheels. The front windshield and grill was flat like a bus, but slanted at a slight angle. The whole thing looked like a slightly aerodynamic shipping container with windows, all tinted black except for the front cab area.

  Spray painted on the visible left side were the words "Keep Out."

  Diego didn't know anything about RVs, but he knew this one was old. Its style screamed the seventies, at least. Small sections of paint were chipped away, a tail light cover was missing, and one of the windows had a flat piece of particle board drilled over it. As decrepit as it appeared, however, it was obvious the vehicle was road ready. The tires were fairly new and it had updated Texas plates.

  Some of the surrounding items didn't appear as well kept. An old sofa sat against the back of the RV, half of the faded fabric ripped away revealing the wooden frame underneath. There were no cushions except what was built in, and much of that padding was torn open and exposed. Various bottles and gallon water jugs, some filled, some not, littered the area. A stack of wooden pallets formed a makeshift table. A broken-down gas generator sat beside it. A plastic blue rain barrel waited to collect water. Another barrel, this one metal, served as a fire pit. It contained ash enough to evidence a year's worth of heat.

  Red was a survivalist, then. An old man who'd had his fill of society. He'd made the choice to break away and live by his own rules. That made the man an outcast, but Diego could understand the outlook. He'd run away from the Commissioned Corps when he couldn't take it anymore. He'd joined the motorcycle club and quit when he didn't belong. Tightly regimented service had a way of squeezing away the excess. Red's sentiment wasn't so far off. As long as he still respected the rules of society.

  As long as there wasn't a little girl inside that RV.

  "Hello?" Diego called out.

  Immediately, he regretted making the noise. His instinct was that, if someone was watching him, saying "hi" would ease suspicion. Now that he thought about it, though, he figured if someone had kidnapped a little girl, a stranger poking around would always be viewed as a threat.

  Still, no one answered, and Diego heard no sounds. The biker wasted no time and peeked in the windows.

  A black film lined the inside glass. As bright as it was out
side, the tinted windows might as well have been opaque. Even cupping his hands to his face against the glass, Diego couldn't see a thing.

  He circled the vehicle looking for a weak point. Only the front windows of the long RV were clear, and peeking in them didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary. The passenger seat was used as a shelf, holding a small stack of Field & Stream magazines, a box of Kleenex tissues, a package of cheese-sandwich crackers, and three empty Aqua Vitae water bottles. A twine necklace hung from the rearview mirror, a metal cross pendant facing the driver.

  The biker peered deeper into the motor home, but a makeshift curtain was draped across the back of the seats, attached to the ceiling with hooks.

  Diego backed off the doorstep and frowned. He didn't want to do anything illegal—not again—but he didn't have many options. He was alone and never carried his cell phone with him. If there was a chance Hazel was inside this truck, he was the only one that could help. There was no way he could walk away.

  "Is anyone there?" Diego called out. He gave it a minute and then approached the thin door on the far side of the vehicle. It, too, had a blacked-out window. The biker gritted his teeth and knocked.

  As he waited, Diego considered whether it was finally time to replace that shotty he'd lost. Something about this primitive home made him feel defenseless. Guns set people on edge, instigated conflict, and made him look guilty. He wanted to avoid that, ideally, but it would have been comforting in his grip.

  At least he still had his riding jacket on. Under the left sleeve, strapped to his forearm, was his knife. It wasn't much, but he could defend himself with it.

  When no one answered, Diego tried the door. It was locked, of course, as were the cab doors. The biker slid his knife from its sheath and went to jimmy the side door open. It was an old lock, and the metal bent away and snapped open without too much damage. A musty smell wafted from within. Diego covered his nose and climbed aboard.