by Domino Finn
"You know," said Maxim, "I moved to this town with her to become a police officer."
Hitchens nodded slowly. "Twelve years is a long time."
"And I'm good at it," continued Maxim. "But that didn't help Lola..."
Maxim had remained professional and focused on work without her, making sure not to take any actions that could be considered personal. Over the last two years, he had done things the way they were supposed to be done. And still, in the end, it hadn't gotten him what he needed.
As was often the case of late, Maxim stared wistfully at the silver wedding band he wore. Could he truly say that he had lived up to the commitment it promised?
Hitchens shook his head and went limp, relaxing back into his chair. "You did all a man could do, son."
Maxim simply turned the ring around his finger and watched the etched symbol complete a revolution.
"You did interviews, swept the area, checked neighboring towns, put out statewide and national alerts—"
"None of that worked." Maxim closed his eyes as he remembered the pressure he had been under. "A year in to being a detective and it was the first big case that I couldn't break. I was so concerned with being a good cop that I didn't think to be a good husband."
"But Maxim," said the sergeant softly, "you're a good person. Following procedure is just part of that. It's all this," he said, motioning at the paper in Maxim's hand, "that is going to destroy everything you've worked for."
Hitchens was too afraid of riling the wolves up. He was an old-timer who no longer took risks because the only thing he considered was what he could lose. But he did sound convincing.
"And it still won't get you Lola back," he added.
Lola. Maxim didn't delude himself—he knew they had been having problems. Things hadn't been perfect, but the hope of better times, the chance to right wrongs, was no longer afforded to him. It was almost enough to make a man lose himself.
Maxim kept his head down. "Is it weird that I still feel like an outsider in my own town? Without her, I have no sense of permanence. I have no real ties to Sanctuary."
Hitchens had no answer.
The droning air conditioner only served to remind Maxim of what little effect it was having. Beads of sweat invaded his buttoned white shirt. He needed to get his mind focused on work.
The detective opened his eyes and stared at the list of names on the paper in his hand. Maybe they were suspects, maybe they were wolves; the main thing was that they were a list of people to find and interview. While this new path he was on was actively discouraged, for the first time since Lola went missing, he felt free of invisible chains.
Maxim handed the paper to the sergeant. "This is a full list of the Seventh Sons membership."
Hitchens raised his eyebrows and counted down the names. "She humored you, you know that?" Maxim watched the man's eyes as he scanned the list, seeing if there was any recognition, but Hitchens didn't seem surprised by anything he saw. "Still, can't say I'm not impressed you got her to do that much."
A muffled discourse from the marshal's office interrupted the men. That's when Maxim noticed that the door was closed, and he looked to the sergeant with an inquisitive glance.
"Don't ask," said Hitchens, "because I'm willing to bet that your turn is next. Still, you should see the piece of work that he's talking to in there."
The back wall of the main office was made up of heavy brick and was the original boundary of the building; the small office and interrogation room had been added in more recent years. There was a window next to the door pane, but the old glass was yellowed with age, and the door was not meant to be transparent. Maxim stubbornly eyed the cloudy silhouettes as he always did, but he could never glean what transpired within.
The sergeant explained. "The prissiest, whitest Indian girl I've ever seen walks up in here like she owns the place, doesn't even look at me, storms in his office, and slams the door. They've been in there for over an hour now."
Maxim raised his eyebrows. "You don't think they're going at it, do you?" The detective swiveled his chair around to face Hitchens and said, "You might have to arrest her for sexual conduct with a minor."
Hitchens erupted into laughter and covered his mouth to muffle his mirth. Instead, the man succeeded in making awkward hissing noises as the air escaped his lips. "Now you leave that boy alone. He's not all that bad."
"Not that bad?" asked Maxim. "Mayor Boyd appoints his son as Marshal Boyd when he's half your age, and you think that's fair?"
The sergeant shook his head back and forth slowly despite Maxim's reasoning. "Your problem is you think you have a say in these things. Trust me, you don't want that job."
"I didn't say that I wanted it, just that I could do it better. But what about you? You've been here longer than anyone except for Cole."
The sergeant leaned in to whisper. "No way would I want to juggle the things that are thrown his way. That boy is probably nose-deep in government ass right now." The man made a ring with his fingers and fitted them around his lips to get the point across, then reclined with a boisterous smile. "Although, I might not mind it with this particular government ass. You'll see. You should take a shot at her when she comes out. Might do you some good."
Great, another dating conversation from the guys at the station. Women were complicated enough on their own. He didn't care to get them tangled into his work. Not now.
Maxim sat quietly, spinning his wedding band around his finger, waiting to see if Hitchens had anything else. It was a lonely moment, and Maxim felt like he was fighting against the world with every decision.
The sergeant, likely sensing the detective's outward isolation, threw the list of names to the desk. "Our couple isn't on here, huh?"
He was talking about the werewolves who escaped custody the other night. They didn't have IDs on them and were in the wind before they were identified. But they knew something and had to be found. That's why Diego, the third man arrested, had given them chase.
"I've verified that everyone on that list is not one of the fugitives. I've been told that they aren't in the motorcycle club and have fled town."
The officer knocked on Maxim's desk for good luck. "Don't worry. We'll find them." The heavy man slowly lifted his weight as he stood up. "You can't just take a shot at one of us and get away with it."
Maxim nodded. No one can attack police officers. That steadfast rule applied even to werewolves. Any violation needed a swift response, otherwise the department appeared vulnerable. Maxim was glad that Hitchens felt the same way.
"Have you heard from Kent?"
The veteran's face brightened. "The stitches in his neck aren't pretty, but they've kept his head on."
Maxim winced. It was grim imagery but the truth was nowhere near as serious as it sounded. The wound was, by all accounts, superficial. As Diego had suggested, the detective had made sure that Kent got his rabies treatment, but Maxim was still nervous about his condition. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to the kid.
Hitchens sucked his teeth to make a sound of disapproval. "Honestly, if we never see those two again, it would be too soon. I doubt they're stupid enough to come back to Sanctuary."
It was true that, without knowing their identities, it was a long shot to ever find them again. That troubled the detective. While Sanctuary certainly benefited from their disappearance, Maxim viewed it as a clear loss. Diego was chasing those two for a substantive purpose. If they knew anything about the man's missing sister then, just maybe, that information would also lead to his wife.
"Dwyer," said Hitchens, making sure he had the detective's attention before proceeding. "It might just be best to move on."
Maxim snickered. Moving on. That's what he had been doing for the last two years. Maybe it was finally time to stop moving, turn around, and tackle the problem head on.
He stopped Hitchens before he left. "You know, Sanctuary is a small place," said Maxim. "Maybe they didn't think they needed to run
very far." The sergeant shrugged but Maxim had to complete his thought. "I really wish I could search the Seventh Sons clubhouse."
A grim expression answered Maxim's suggestion. "Son, you would lose your badge if you did that, and the MC wouldn't even let you in." The sergeant turned his back on the detective and walked to his desk.
Maxim put his feet up on the chair that Hitchens had vacated and leaned back, weighed down by his thoughts. "Yup."
ii.
The door to the office opened halfway and a man not yet thirty stood behind it. The marshal was a stoic figure with short blond hair and clean-cut features. His blue eyes and small mouth seemed hidden in the middle of his face and his big ears just accentuated his boyish appearance. Combined with the blue power suit, he exuded an aura of inexperience.
Maxim watched to see who would exit the office—there was a reason Hitchens was all worked up—but no one passed through the doorway and the marshal didn't move. Instead, his piercing eyes bore into Maxim, and he waved his hand to beckon the detective inside. Then the marshal abruptly stepped away from the door and into the confines of his private office.
Maxim turned to see Hitchens watching him, again covering his mouth and muffling a stifled laugh. This felt like junior high all over again. The detective shrugged and got to his feet.
As he walked into the office and closed the door, the first thing Maxim noticed was that the air conditioner in here was working. It was a cramped space that was made even more claustrophobic by the hazy windows and filing cabinets encroaching on the middle of the room. The marshal sat behind his heavy desk and motioned to the two empty seats opposite him.
In the corner of the room, squeezed between a cabinet and a fake plant, was a lounge chair. Reclining comfortably was the whitest Indian woman Maxim had ever seen. She wasn't American Indian, as Maxim had assumed; that would have been normal for the area. Instead she carried an exotic charm that could only have originated overseas.
The woman had long features: her build, arms, legs, nose, everything about her was thin and stretched. Her elbows and waist created sharp edges in her casual business suit, and she wore a frilly light blue blouse under her beige jacket.
It was her face, though, that was so striking. She wore her hair back in a ponytail to show off her ears and cheeks. Her skin had a light brown tone and was softened and smooth where the light hit it. Her features stood out in the dim lighting, and her dark brown eyes and eyebrows accentuated the contrast.
Maxim nodded at the woman, but she just looked at him with an amused expression. Maybe he had been admiring her for too long.
"You know," the marshal chided, "there are reasons we do things the way we do."
The detective took a breath and sat down.
Marshal Boyd looked absurd in his leather chair. He was a short man, and the large desk seemed built for a grander presence. Maxim couldn't imagine a better caricature of a boy feigning the responsibility of a man.
"I am responsible for protecting the integrity and reputation of this entire office," he said plainly. "As a department, we need to display a judicious balance when it comes to interacting with organizations with a footprint larger than Sanctuary. That is why dealing with Federal and State agencies is my purview."
Maxim nodded, as he knew where this was going. He'd heard the same speech before and just had to patiently wait it out. A glance at the woman showed her looking intently at him. Something stirred within him, and he felt his face redden. Again this reminded him of junior high, and the detective angrily pushed the thoughts from his head and refocused on the marshal.
"The motorcycle club is a sensitive subject," said Boyd. "My policies may appear to have no rhyme or reason, but they are in place to protect us. And you. And Officer Kent."
"Sir, a man was killed within town limits." Boyd's point was only valid so far. Besides, it was dirty of the marshal to mention Kent like that.
Marshal Boyd looked perturbed by Maxim's objection but continued speaking with the reserve of a politician. "Detective, if you had properly requested to interview the club president, then I would have approved it. The key is for these determinations to flow through me so that I can keep our greater interests in mind."
There was, begrudgingly, some sense to that logic.
The marshal had only been appointed two years ago, when Maxim was just starting to make a name for himself as a detective. Between his good track record and his wife going missing, Boyd had afforded him a lot of leeway and independence. But with Maxim's increasing frustration becoming more evident through his actions, it was clear that the dynamic between the two men was changing.
"Yes, sir," was all the detective mustered. He didn't know if it was true that he would have been allowed to interview Deborah, but there was no point in making things worse. "Next time I'll come to you."
Maxim looked down at the floor, unsure of what this was all about. Boyd certainly could have made his point without this strange woman being in the room. It was obvious there was something more to this meeting and that they were just going through the motions in order to get there. Maxim was generally a patient person, but this trip was unbearable.
The marshal nodded his head in thought. He leaned back and put his hands together like he was settling in for a long discussion. "The Seventh Sons are no doubt involved in criminal activity."
He immediately had the detective's attention.
"Sanctuary is just off the Interstate, but it's still hidden in a deep pocket of the woods and mountains. It is a convenient place for truckers to diverge from their routes and accept supplemental cargo."
Maxim nodded in acquiescence. It was common for outlaw clubs to be involved in drug muling and other gang-related offenses.
"But," continued Boyd, "most of the illegal activity happens outside of our jurisdiction. Federal authorities are monitoring the situation, and we've been advised to stand down."
"So we're just supposed to shut up and stay away?" asked Maxim incredulously. It wasn't about minor collars but professional courtesy.
The marshal's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "It might sound derelict of us initially," he said, "but transporting contraband across state lines has broader implications. We've been asked to stay idle. However, you should feel free to follow policy and use me as a conduit to request any information you need."
Maxim hissed. "Well damn if that doesn't sound like trying to get an echo out of a black hole."
Boyd raised a single shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as he typed a text message on his phone. "Now you sound like Hitchens." Maxim waited a moment but they both remained silent.
At this point, Maxim was more frustrated than nervous about the meeting. The detective turned his gaze from one to the other before locking it onto the woman. "So which one of you is going to tell me what you're doing here?"
iii.
A full smile crossed the strange woman's lips, but it was the marshal who spoke. "Detective Dwyer, let me introduce you to the reason behind our rhyme."
The woman rose and Maxim stood up to meet her. She was taller than him and moved her lithe frame smoothly. She held her hand out in the air and the detective complied with a light shake.
"Nithya Rao," she said, withdrawing her soft fingers from his grasp.
He couldn't tell her age. She had to be a bit older than him, but she could have passed for ten years younger. And she was even more beautiful from up close.
"Ms. Rao is with the CDC," said Boyd, putting his phone aside for a moment, "and is one of the aforementioned federal authorities with whom we are coordinating."
The detective's expression must have revealed his bewilderment because the woman smiled again and said, "You must have a lot of questions." Maxim now noticed her British accent, and it seemed to make her even more attractive. She returned to her seat and motioned for him to do the same.
"I am in charge of the Flagstaff area," she started as he sat, "and assigned to the Seventh Sons
, among others. By now you are aware of the reason for such secrecy in the matter?"
Maxim couldn't believe he was about to bring the subject up in front of the marshal—but there was only one reason the Centers for Disease Control would be involved. "The wolves."
Nithya nodded. "You must know that everything I am about to confide to you must be held in the utmost of confidences. I am only requesting your assistance since it seems you are already familiar with the situation and, well, given recent events, I could use a capable officer in Sanctuary."
"What, that's it?" asked Maxim. "I find out about the wolves and interview a couple of people, and now you want to let me in?"
"Is that not enough?"
Maxim thought for a moment. It sounded like he was getting rewarded for his bad behavior. "Does this mean I get a free pass to take down the Seventh Sons?"
Marshal Boyd scoffed as if Maxim was missing the point. The detective glared at him, but the smug man just shook his head, so Maxim turned to Nithya for answers.
She looked apologetic. "Unfortunately, my agency's role with the motorcycle club does not extend to their criminal enterprise."
"So you can't help me either?"
"On the contrary," she said. "The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are responsible for managing werewolf outbreaks. Aside from the national interest in keeping their existence as discreet and unofficial as possible, we are also tasked with eliminating any and all threats to the populace."
Unreal. There actually was a government initiative to keep werewolves under control. It felt like something out of a movie. As Maxim watched Nithya's nonchalant behavior and business casual appearance, however, it was clear that there was an infrastructure in place to deal with the animals.
"What are you saying?" he asked. "You don't care about the contraband, so you let the DEA and ATF deal with that while you kill or capture the werewolves?"
The marshal chuckled. Nithya looked to him for a second before turning to Maxim. "We have too many liberties in this country to imprison those infected without it becoming public knowledge, or worse, creating an epidemic in the dangerous prison population. No, there is no procedure in place for a werewolf's capture."
