by Domino Finn
On his way past, Maxim peeked into the kitchen but didn't see Olivia. He continued through and glanced up the wooden staircase. It was strange. Where was the girl?
Olivia appeared behind him and seemed to read his thoughts. "Annabelle's been in a pouty mood since yesterday."
Maxim accepted the glass of red. "Is that when it started?" he asked.
"What do you mean by that?"
The detective shook his head. "Just trying to get into her headspace. That's all." Maxim tasted the red. He wasn't cultured enough to identify what he was drinking, but it tasted okay and had a bite.
Olivia beckoned him back to the sofa. When she sat, she tapped on the cushion beside her. Maxim chose the couch across from her. She smirked.
"You're a tough man to figure out, Detective."
Maxim sipped his wine. "Yeah? How so?"
Olivia leaned back and stretched her arm out in a sultry fashion. "It's obvious you're attracted to me."
Another gulp of red. After a moment, Maxim cocked his head. "Well, I don't see what's so hard to figure about that. I'm sure you're used to it. You're a very pretty woman. And single, from what I can tell."
"I'm not the only one without a ring on my finger," she said. Maxim's thumb instinctively moved to the spot above his knuckle, now barren of the silver band. "Are you going to tell me you've stayed distant because you're a professional?"
"Something like that, Ms. Hayes."
Olivia laughed. Maxim hadn't called her that in a while. It felt forced and artificial, and they both knew it. They drank in silence, but something told Maxim that while he thought the moment was awkward, the woman entirely enjoyed it.
Mercifully, she broke the silence.
"I hope I don't offend you by saying this, but you strike me as the type of police detective that gets emotionally invested in his cases."
"If you mean I care about the victims, I plead guilty. I want to get Annabelle all the help she needs. The same goes for anyone else."
Olivia swirled her glass of bubbly and frowned. "I don't want you visiting her anymore."
"Hazel—"
"I don't want to hear about other people's children. I can only do what's best for mine. If that means grounding her until she shows progress with Bertrand, then that's what I'll do."
Maxim nodded in disappointment. After yesterday's car ride, he hadn't expected anything more. But his suspicions acted up again.
"You're on a first name basis with the psychologist?"
"Dr. Collins?" she asked, moving back to formalities. "He's the family therapist. He said you two spoke briefly."
"He mentioned me?"
Olivia seemed bored with the questions. "In passing."
The detective wondered what words they shared about him but didn't bother asking. He asked a question he already knew the answer to instead. "So he has sessions with you as well as her?"
"He counseled me and my husband before we went through with the divorce. He also helped Annabelle get through it."
"If you ask me, she's never gotten through it."
Olivia sipped her wine. "Dr. Collins says there are residual issues. She was getting better until this recent episode."
Maxim nodded even though the doctor had conveyed a different impression to him. "Is your daughter at his office now?"
"No," said Olivia. "She's upstairs. But she's seeing him soon. Of course, you already know that. Don't play coy with me."
Maxim didn't take her meaning. Olivia saw the puzzlement on his face.
"Isn't that why you're asking? So you can interview my daughter under his eye?"
He shook his head. "I didn't know they had a session today. He said he just saw her Tuesday."
"He's here every Thursday morning. Tuesday was just an emergency. After getting Annabelle back on Monday, I couldn't wait."
Maxim couldn't blame Olivia. Annabelle barely said a word the first day she was back. But something else Olivia had said stood out to the detective.
"Wait. Do you mean the doctor comes here?"
Olivia didn't understand the question. "His weekly session."
"No, I mean Bertrand Collins comes to the house?"
"Yes. He holds a morning session in her room. She's safer under this roof. Besides, she's more comfortable there. She doesn't like going to his office."
Maxim glanced towards the staircase to make sure Annabelle wasn't around. "Isn't it odd for a practicing psychologist with an office to pay house visits?"
"He's…" started Olivia, trailing off for a moment, "familiar with the house."
He knew it. Maxim shook his head and put his empty wine glass on the table. "Familiar, huh?"
The woman shrugged and stood up. "I'll get you another glass."
"Hold on a second."
Olivia turned around sharply. "Detective, I know what you're going to ask, and the answer is none of your business. All you need to know is that anything is long over and our relationship is strictly professional now." She cut out of the room before Maxim could respond.
So there was the wildcard Maxim was searching for. Annabelle's parents were divorced, and Olivia had a relationship with their marriage counselor. Even though it was over, it must have been hard for the girl to confide in the man who was with her mother. Had Dr. Collins ever been a father figure in the picture? Had he been abusive? Maxim realized he didn't know enough about the man yet.
The detective glanced at the staircase again, wondering if it was too late to cancel the second glass of red. Something shimmered on the smooth wooden surface of the steps. It wasn't just a fresh coat of polish. There was movement. A thin ribbon of water snaked across several steps, dribbling onto the next, stretching halfway down the staircase.
Maxim stood up as Olivia reentered the room.
"What is that?" he asked. He moved toward the stairs.
Olivia huffed. "I told you I don't want you talking to her—"
"The water, Olivia. Why's there water running down the steps?" Maxim took the first step and scanned what he could see of the second story. He thought he heard water running.
"The bathroom!" she chimed. Olivia rushed past him. She was quick. Maxim hadn't even noticed her putting the wine glasses down.
He followed her up. A few yards down the hall was a closed door with a bar of light seeping beneath. Water flowed from the crack and across the wood floor. Olivia frantically jiggled the handle.
"Annabelle? Annabelle, open the door!"
Maxim marched forward and sternly brushed the woman aside. He lifted his foot and planted it under the handle. The cream white door frame splintered and the bathroom opened up to them. A fresh wave of water escaped into the hallway, soaking their shoes. The bathtub and sink faucets ran at full power, both basins overflowing. Annabelle Hayes stood in the middle of the bathroom wearing pajamas. She stared at her submerged bare feet.
"What are you doing?" cried Olivia, barging past the stunned detective and shutting off both faucets. Olivia grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and attempted to shake her from her reverie. "Annabelle!" She dragged the girl away, into her bedroom.
Maxim flipped the sink and bathtub levers to drain the basins, but they didn't give easily. Something jammed the plugs. Maxim stuck his hand in the tub drain and pulled at the cloth clogging it. He yanked out a black sock and a bubble announced the blockage cleared. He did the same with the sink and took the wet articles to Annabelle's room.
The girl was covered in a bathrobe. Her mother fussed at her hair with tears in her eyes. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?" she asked.
It surprised Maxim how neat the room was. No punk-rock posters or teen idols adorned the walls. No slew of stuffed animals or clothes on the floor. Also strange was the Ouija board laid out on the bed, which had been stripped down to the mattress.
"Where are the bedsheets?" he wondered aloud.
Annabelle spun around and dropped her jaw in shock. "Get out of my room!" she yelled, clutching her arms tightly around her robe.
> Maxim suddenly realized the girl was old enough to deserve privacy. He'd been examining the contents of her room while she was half naked. He hurried outside and glanced up and down the hall, then down at his wet shoes. He kicked at the water and threw the wet socks to the ground.
It was only then that he realized: one of the socks was not a sock at all. It was a black, nondescript pair of girl's underwear.
Chapter 34
Quick in, quick out. That's what Diego swore as he approached the outlaw motorcycle clubhouse. Off a dirt road in the middle of Sycamore, it wasn't an easy place to find unless you had a legitimate reason to be there.
The MC used to be Diego's pack. He'd rolled with them for a year before everything went to hell. The biker had realized there was a difference between real outlaws and him. The guys in this cabin? They were killers, eager to fight the necessary turf wars to stay in control of the Interstate and their drug business.
Diego de la Torre had the skill set for the job, but he also had a conscience.
The front door opened before Diego could knock.
"The golden boy returns home!" mocked Gaston from the doorway. He was a stout man, imposing, with a muscle shirt and head of spiked hair. He flexed his bicep as he held the door open.
"Not today," muttered Diego.
"You're riding without gloves these days?"
"I... lost mine in the forest. It's a long story. I can explain inside."
"Sorry," said Gaston quickly. "Only club members allowed in here."
Diego grimaced. The president was still sore that Diego had chosen a different path. But they were friends, ultimately, with a lot behind them. Both bikers were just blustering, and Diego waited it out with a bored expression.
Gaston measured him. "You've been avoiding us."
"Just trying to get my head straight."
The MC president nodded. "You're not bringing your buddy Maxim out here again, are you? He's always asking favors without giving any in return."
Diego shook his head. "I've about had it with the cops. But I do need a favor myself."
Gaston scoffed but didn't appear disappointed. He knew Diego was here for a reason. "It figures. Let's talk business." The big man went inside and collapsed on a couch. Diego followed but remained on his feet. He noticed West Wind silently watching them, leaning against a pool table with his arms crossed. Diego nodded at the Apache, who returned the gesture with a straight face.
"Kind of empty in here," said Diego.
Gaston shrugged. "Our guys have a bit of a break. After calling them in the last two days, I figured they earned it."
Diego agreed. As promised, Maxim had mobilized much of Sanctuary to search for Hazel. The bikers weren't residents but they'd sort of adopted the town. Most of the MC had spent long days in the forest with the other volunteers. If anybody knew the woods, it was them, but they had still turned up empty.
"She's still lost, Gaston. And worse, if we don't do anything about it, it'll happen again."
"I hope you're not asking for more manpower. We tried, man."
"It's not that. There's something in the woods. Lights. Children. Kayda said—"
"You visited the Yavapai?" Gaston stood up suddenly and Diego realized his mistake. "I've declared them off limits. Nobody goes down to Chino Valley without my say so."
Diego gritted his teeth. "I'm not yours to command, Gaston."
"Just the same, I can't have you cavorting with her. She's our sworn enemy."
"Your enemy."
He chuckled derisively. "Do I need to remind you what you did to her brother with that knife?" West Wind snickered in the background.
Diego didn't answer. He only regretted his actions for Kayda's sake. Kelan had deserved what he got. Diego had done what needed doing.
Gaston brushed it off and laughed again. "You were always such a pain in the ass, Diego." He returned to his seat and relaxed. "Hell, I couldn't even control you when you were a one percenter."
"Still is one," cut in West Wind, his first real words of the encounter. "If you ask me."
The president shook his head and turned back to Diego. "Can you believe this guy? The hardest man in my group has a soft spot for you."
Diego shrugged. "I'm likable that way."
"Ain't that right. How did our little witch receive you?"
Diego bobbed his head back and forth as if it were on a scale. "Still trying to figure that out. But she understood I was looking for a girl. She likes kids. She didn't give me any trouble."
Gaston turned to the Apache. "Her own little army," he announced. "The reservation's gonna be a different place in fifteen years." West shrugged.
"I need a gun," said Diego, getting to the heart of the matter.
Gaston feigned surprise.
"And money's a little tight."
Now the president really was surprised. He laughed and West shook his head and disappeared into the back. "So that's your business," concluded Gaston. His face grew serious. "Except it's not really business if you can't pay."
"It's just a shotgun."
"Mmm hmm. I remember your shotguns. You have expensive taste. Who is it you need to shoot?"
Diego hesitated. "I don't know who it is. Or what it is. There's something in Sycamore."
Gaston snorted. "Look, Diego. The scariest thing in the woods is us. Especially if someone's taking children. If that was happening around these parts, I'd know about it. And I'd eat them alive."
Diego knew the wolf meant that literally.
He thought about what Kayda had said, about not limiting knowledge to what was already known. The MC thought they were the toughest customers on the block. The only thing going. But more was out there. Diego couldn't prove it, and he wasn't even sure how much he believed, but there was something in the forest that needed shooting.
The biker was a trained hunter. It didn't much matter what the prey was, as long as it deserved it.
West Wind returned to the room and placed a heavy piece of metal in Diego's hands. It was a brand new Benelli M4 autoloader shotgun. The monotone weapon had metal the color of smoke—a far cry from the bright silver of Diego's old one—but everything else was identical.
"Just like the one you lost," said the Apache. "We ordered it the very next day. By the time we got it, you were gone, but I held on to it. I knew you'd come asking one day. Guys like us can't lay brick for a living."
"The last one was towing cars, actually."
"Whatever," chuckled West. "I figured you earned it."
The MC president grumbled at the kind gesture but West ignored him.
Diego shook the man's hand in thanks. Gaston just shook his head.
"See, Diego? Everyone likes you. Even I like you. And that's your problem."
The biker hefted the shotgun, testing the familiar weight. "How's that a problem?"
"Because you're too eager to help people, man. You put yourself out there too much. It's gonna catch up to you one day."
Diego winked at his friend. "Yeah, well, not today. And I owe you guys one."
"There you go again," said Gaston. "And you're damn right."
The biker hurried to the door. All he needed now was a pair of new riding gloves and plenty of buckshot, and he'd be good to go.
Chapter 35
Maxim leaned his back against the Spanish-style door, arms crossed. It was a relaxed posture with an intimidating function. The man approaching on the walkway recognized his path was blocked pending another conversation.
"Hello again, Detective," said Bertrand Collins.
Maxim remained against the door. "You didn't mention your sessions were held in the Hayes residence."
The psychologist stopped on the porch with a blank look on his face. "I didn't think it was germane to—"
"You let me make that call."
"Certainly, Detective. What is it you wish to know?"
Maxim moved into Bertrand's personal space. "I need to know what's really wrong with Annabelle!" he barked.
>
The man widened his eyes and frowned, startled but ultimately unimpressed with the theatrics. "We've had this discussion before. Her mental state is off limits. Your badge doesn't give you the right to break confidentiality."
"Yeah, well, while you were sitting on your high horse up in Flagstaff, Annabelle had another one of her episodes. Kind of calls your therapy skills into question. Don't you think?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Annabelle's zoning out. Not acting all there. What kind of meds have you prescribed her?"
He shook his head firmly. "I'm not a physician. I don't prescribe medicine to any of my patients. Cognitive Behavior Therapy is problem focused. I attempt to correct unhelpful thoughts and stimuli, not dull an active mind. Is Annabelle all right?"
Maxim was annoyed at his mistake. He should have realized Bertrand wasn't that kind of doctor. "She's fine. But she was standing in the bathroom as the tub and sink overflowed, oblivious to what was happening. She made a real mess."
Worry faded from the psychologist's face. "Yes. This is post traumatic stress symptomatology. It's unclear if she's oriented to time and place."
"What does that mean?"
The doctor sighed impatiently. "It means she's dissociative, Detective. She does not respond to the present as you or I would, which is why questioning her is counter-productive."
The door behind Maxim opened. It was Olivia.
"Maxim! What are you still doing here?"
He shifted his gaze between Olivia and Bertrand. "The good doctor here was just gonna sit in while I speak with your daughter."
Bertrand pinched his glasses to his nose. "Olivia, I didn't—"
She flew off the handle. "I said no, Bertrand! I won't have her subjected to it anymore."
The doctor tried again. "Olivia, I agreed to no such thing. The detective is simply pushing his weight around without concern for Annabelle. I'm sorry, Detective, but Annabelle eschews social interaction, especially with strangers. I can't allow it."