by Domino Finn
"It's the same blood type as the John Doe. It looks to be a match, but we haven't confirmed that yet."
The detective nodded. The only clue they would garner from the knife was the one he already knew: the owner. Clint was still in the interrogation room. The lawyer had come and gone, but she was due for a formal interview soon. Maxim needed stronger leverage against the man than his father's knife.
"So what else do you have?"
"Unfortunately, Detective Dwyer, that completes my solid findings from the initial examination. We'll need to wait for Coconino for the lab results." The Sanctuary morgue was limited. It could only hold six bodies on ice. Autopsy one at a time. All DNA and fiber testing had to be outsourced. It was standard procedure and Maxim expected that, but he had hoped to get something more from the exam. "However," said the ME, interrupting Maxim's thoughts, "there is something else. I can't draw any conclusions from it. It's puzzling. I need to get in touch with some colleagues to identify it."
"What is it, Doctor?"
"The chest wound. There's a deep slice penetrating John Doe's lung. It was immediately obvious, but I haven't been able to conclude when it occurred. It's clear that it happened before this incident."
Maxim remembered the blackened area on the outside of the ribcage. Now, with the chest cavity opened up, the wound was not visible. "Why is that?"
"The infection. The abscess. The puss surrounding the area was not postmortem. The blackened muscle showed atrophy. Even the lung had some milky fluid around the wound."
"So our vic suffered a stab wound in the chest at some point."
"Yes. It was a serious wound, too. He would have needed immediate medical attention."
"What would that have involved?" asked Maxim.
"Well, the lung would have needed repair. The muscle and flesh stitched. I don't see any signs of that."
A picture was forming in Maxim's head. This man could have been a missing person. A prisoner. He may have survived his initial attack only to be killed some time later.
"How long could this man have survived in that condition?" he asked.
Dr. Medina shook his head. "A week, maybe. This man should have drowned in his own blood. But there's no sign of that. In fact, gauging from the deterioration and the advanced infection, I would conclude that the wound was much older than that."
Something tugged at Maxim. "How long?" Dr. Medina seemed averse to answer. "How long, Doctor?"
The man raised his eyebrows in exasperation. "It defies logic, Detective, but I would have to say months. At least. Only..."
"That's impossible," finished Maxim.
The ME nodded. "I've never seen anything like it. An exterior infection, a gangrene, sure. But a pierced lung like this would have been life threatening. Extremely painful. For this man to have been stabbed so near the heart and survived more than two weeks is a miracle."
The heart. The healthy heart. It clicked in Maxim then. This man was a werewolf. And he was struck with silver, which is why it hadn't healed. It just wasn't a bullet.
Nine months ago, Maxim and Diego had fought off Deborah and two Yavapai werewolves. Diego had stabbed one of the wolves between the ribs. It scampered off to a sure death. Except they never found the body. Diego never recovered his weapon. If the wolf had survived all that time in hiding, that would explain the lack of closure.
"Shit," said Maxim. "I have an ID."
The doctor regarded him expectantly.
"Carlos Doka. The Yavapai Indian."
Dr. Medina's eyes widened in recognition. "One of the Paradise Killers? The man that tried to kill you when you worked the case?"
Maxim couldn't tell if he nodded because he was fighting back a fierce rush of adrenaline. The Yavapai mercenaries had been working with the old Seventh Sons president. They were abducting and killing vagrants and dumping them in Paradise Tank. The case could have torn the motorcycle club apart, but Maxim had isolated the guilty parties and limited the blowback. The Seventh Sons were saved. And if anybody wouldn't want Doka to return and draw the spotlight, it was them.
Chapter 7
The Colorado River, to the north of Sanctuary, ran through the Grand Canyon. Following it west, past the vast mountain ranges and forests, the body of water persevered in the driest of climates. It cut south and formed the western border of Arizona, first lining Nevada, then California.
The river was a beautiful respite from the surrounding desert. The blues and greens were the lifeblood in the middle of sand. Many communities sprouted along the water. Where Interstate 40 met the border, the highway weaved past several trailer parks full of residents who would rather be somewhere serene than convenient. It was the type of area where people minded their own business, and the perfect spot for the Seventh Sons to meet the Pistolas.
Diego rode with the others into a clearing off the highway. They circled around an old, broken-down storage structure and saw the Mexican gang waiting by the river. Five guys sat on bikes next to a black van. West indicated others on the perimeter. Diego counted five of them standing at a distance. They each wore a black jacket with their colors on the back.
Diego wanted to slow down. To confer with Gaston quickly about the lay of the land. But it would have shown weakness to appear nervous. West and the others had already drawn their ACRs. They were ready, so Gaston and the Seventh Sons rode to the central group without hesitation.
The lower land was surrounded, thought Diego, but they weren't outnumbered by as many as he had expected. Maybe the Pistolas did mean to do business.
The bikes came to a stop at a figure with his back to them. The white patch on his back stood out against the black leather: a skull with two pistols as crossbones. The man slowly turned. His bare torso was exposed beneath the open jacket. He wasn't especially large, but his chest and arm muscles were oversized. To Diego, it was the look of a convict who had spent all his incarceration working out. Prison tattoos on his hands. He had faded words printed on his stomach and a handprint on his chest. Thick eyebrows and a mustache complemented his black hair, and he wore brown sunglasses that looked straight from the nineteen-eighties.
Despite never personally meeting any of the Sons before, the man immediately picked out Gaston and approached him.
"You the prez, huh?" he asked.
Gaston remained casually seated on his bike. He was a big guy, but his muscles were not as well-defined as the Mexican's. The Seventh Sons all knew that his strength, however, was much greater. "Gaston," he announced, loud enough for the others to hear.
One of the Pistolas leaning on the van spoke up. "Hector. He's the one."
Diego recognized the speaker as the man who'd driven the money van they had intercepted. When Diego had notified the rest of the MC, Gaston had been front and center when pulling the vehicle over.
Hector, the shirtless man, nodded to his friend and turned back to Gaston. "I hear you put a gun on my homie." It wasn't a question. The man was a veteran, well into his forties, and had probably seen as much as there was to see on the street. He wasn't afraid of strangers.
Gaston dismounted his bike and approached Hector. He towered over the shorter man and smiled. "If your guys make moves without telling us, how are we supposed to know not to?"
The man smiled back, cold eyes barely visible behind the brown lenses. He pulled in a deep breath that sounding like a boat engine turning, as if he were about to spit.
"Suave, Hector." A skinny guy behind the convict neared and patted him on the back. "We're here to do business, not front."
Diego hadn't taken note of the kid before, but he now recognized he was important. He was young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He had a bald head and a thin mustache and goatee worn in a more modern style. He wore a loose, white wifebeater under his open jacket, and his entire torso was covered in tattoos that ran up to his neck and abruptly stopped at his chin. The only tattoo on his head was a small teardrop outside his left eye. And his eyes, they were deep and dark and striking. They showed inte
lligence. And something else. Ruthlessness.
"Sergio Lima," he said, extending his hand to Gaston. They did a quick shake and capped it off by bumping their fists together. Hector spat in the dirt and Sergio chuckled. "This is my Sergeant-at-Arms, Hector Cruz. He's a little rough around the edges. Spent more of his life in a cage than on the outside. He doesn't know how to act in social situations. Thinks everything is about fronting and showing strength. Isn't that right, Hector?"
The man looked to be a stone statue, menacing and determined.
"You see?" joked Sergio. "It cracks me up. Calmate," he said to Hector, grinning from ear to ear. As Sergio turned, Diego noticed the president patch on his jacket. This young kid was the gang's leader. No wonder they made reckless moves. "So you éses hijacked our money?"
Gaston's face showed annoyance already. "We finished the delivery for you. I hope you don't mind, but we took a small fee."
"I've heard. Had to explain myself to La Eme. You can't blame a brother for trying to save some scratch."
"You've got plenty of choices. You can run up in Vegas if you want—deal with Chicago—but they're greedy. Or you can roll south of Phoenix and take your chances with Border Patrol. You know, they strip search Mexicans over there for not using turn signals. Now, if you want the easiest route, I'd suggest you run through the Sons."
Sergio Lima nodded. "I understand your position, holmes. We didn't know each other before. You can't blame me for moving money."
Gaston was firm. "You knew this was our highway."
Sergio's face tilted to the side and he pinched an eye closed, as if he considered it an open point. "Let's just say I know that now. But, I need you to understand something. I know El Paso puts up with you guys, but don't think they have love for you. We can work together, but I don't want you drawing on my boys again."
Hector Cruz stepped forward. "Or you might get some lead in your back, ése."
Next to Diego, West Wind laughed. "Better men have tried."
Sergio put his hand up to Hector and nodded at the Apache's assault rifle. A glimmer struck his eyes. "That's some serious hardware, holmes."
The sound of a bike approached them from behind. It was Omar, just arriving after watching their tail. Some of the Pistolas reached for their weapons.
"It's okay," said Diego as Omar pulled up. "It's one of our guys."
Sergio raised his eyebrows and signaled for his men to relax. "Look at this! You got a cholo riding with you! Como te llamas?"
The kid looked to Gaston, then Sergio. "Omar." He tried to sound tough. Even though he was the same age as the Pistolas president, he didn't have any of the confidence or swagger.
"Entonces, Omar. Tú eres Mexicano. You should be riding with your blood."
Omar glanced at Gaston again, then shook his head.
Sergio laughed and turned to Diego. "Y tú? You really wanna ride with these white boys and Tonto?" Besides remarking on West, Sergio was ignoring that Curtis was black. It must have been shocking for the gang to see a club of mixed race. "Why don't you come over to las Pistolas?"
Diego reached down and patted the holster on his Scrambler. "I'm more of a shotgun guy, myself."
Sergio smiled, an insincere expression that attempted to express levity. But he knew the seriousness of the meet. He was just testing their members. Getting a feel for how they reacted.
"Oh, that's right," said the Pistolas president. "Los hombres lobos. That's your blood." The Seventh Sons didn't respond. "Well, I don't care what stories you have your hood believing about you. You bleed. Just like us."
"This is bullshit," exclaimed West. The Apache wasn't much on patience, and Diego was personally surprised he had behaved this long, especially after the Tonto slur. "We're not getting paid to trade war stories. Let's get the van and get out of here." The Indian hopped off his bike and brushed past the Mexicans, towards the vehicle. West didn't wait for anyone to follow. He just went off without concern for the danger.
That's when Diego's eyes shifted to the van parked by the river. He thought this was supposed to be a meet and greet. Apparently, more was going on.
Sergio raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth into a sideways smirk. "Homie's too tough for small talk, huh?"
Gaston stared down Hector. "Every club has one."
The men moved to the rear of the van. The Pistolas opened up the back. From his bike, Diego could only imagine the contraband within. The biker observed the area to make sure it was clear. Some of the Pistolas watching from the fringes had moved in a bit. Diego glanced across the river and saw an old trailer standing alone. It was run down and appeared unoccupied. Thinking this was Arizona and that was California was strange. No indication of a border existed.
"That's it?" asked Gaston.
Sergio put his arm around his fellow president. "Call it a get-to-know-you load. Manolo will drive again. This time he stays with you. He wants to see you all the way to the hand-off in Albuquerque. If he reports back that everything went smoothly, we'll be in business."
Diego grimaced. Gaston hadn't mentioned the run to him. He had known that Diego wanted no part of a drug deal. Now it was too late.
After some more words were exchanged, Gaston shook Sergio's hand again and headed back to his bike. West stared down Hector as he followed. Both men were muscle and knew it. Somehow, they had to outdo the other. Hector continued his stoic appearance, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
"Let's roll out, brothers," said Gaston. "We've got a ride ahead of us."
Chapter 8
Maxim closed the interrogation room door behind him. Clint was seated, his hands fidgeting on the table. Next to him was his lawyer, the blonde woman who interrupted them earlier. Her hair was short and combed behind her ears. She had pinkish cheeks and a well-worn smile but looked more business than pleasure. She sat up straight with her legs crossed in pressed business pants. She was about Maxim's age. Attractive in a traditional way but a bit too plain for his tastes.
"Good afternoon, Detective. My name is Teresa Banks. I'm counsel for Mr. James." She looked over at Clint, who had a bored expression on his face.
Maxim held back a chuckle. The two looked ridiculous next to each other. Clint was a drunk with a beer belly, long hair, and a wild, bushy beard. An old-school outlaw biker to the core. His companion was a WASP, well-educated, and probably didn't even smoke cigarettes. The detective figured she was a married mother of two.
"Nice to properly meet you, Mrs. Banks."
"It's Ms., Detective Dwyer."
Maxim nodded, then saw the woman wore no wedding ring. He should have noticed that. "Fine," he said, then sat down. "I'm happy your client has finally chosen to cooperate with police."
Clint suddenly scowled. "I don't need—"
The detective shot his hand up to stop him and withdrew a paper and pen from his jacket. "I need you to read this form and sign it, Clint. It's a statement of your rights."
"I know my rights," he said in protest, brushing the form away.
"Ms. Banks?"
The lawyer slid the paper back to Clint.
"We take Miranda very seriously in this state, Clint," said Maxim. "The reason they're called Miranda Rights is because Ernesto Miranda challenged his Arizona conviction."
The older man paused as he considered that. "And what happened?"
"The Supreme Court overturned the ruling."
"So there is justice."
"Sure there is," answered the detective. "He was retried and convicted."
Clint flashed a dry smile. Teresa Banks had him sign the form and slid it back to Maxim.
"My client can't be charged with any wrongdoing," she stated as she pulled a paper from her briefcase. "Here is a statement from Melody Holton, the owner of Sycamore Lodge, stating that Mr. James was in her establishment between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. last night."
Maxim took a look at the statement. He thought about the time of death, between twelve and one. It didn't rule Clint out definitiv
ely, but Ms. Banks would stress the inconsistency in court. It was enough for reasonable doubt.
Teresa Banks allowed herself a smug smile before returning her attention to the statement. "Ms. Holton goes on to say that there were no physical altercations in her bar last night involving my client."
Maxim thought about the wording. "In her bar." It was a weak attempt at walking the line. Melody used to be a Seventh Son herself. When her mother was ousted as president and she inherited the roadhouse, she'd decided she was done with the outlaw life. Gaston agreed, but they still had a good relationship. This statement was Melody's way of not lying to police but covering Clint's ass. Maxim tossed the paper back to the lawyer.
"I'm gonna cut you off right there before you go down the wrong path with me. I've looked into things between now and this morning. I've talked to a few Sycamore Lodge regulars." The detective turned his attention to Clint. "I know for a fact that you arranged a fight in the back lot." Maxim frequented the bar himself. He knew who to talk to. It was a popular enough location that nothing could be hidden from him there. Although the witness had only mentioned that the other brawler was Native American, Maxim had more information after the autopsy. "A Yavapai."
Clint immediately stuttered. The detective had nailed it. Ms. Banks regarded the two of them.
"What is he..." she started to ask, then stopped and recovered herself. Maxim figured the woman didn't want to appear surprised in front of him.
"Listen to me, Clint. I'm not gonna arrest you for a punching match. Especially an organized one. But you know better than to tangle with the Yavapai. After the serial killings last year, you know damn well that the Seventh Sons have cut all ties."
Clint looked nervous. His eyes shifted between the detective and the lawyer. He didn't trust either of them.
Maxim pressed him. "It doesn't look good, Clint. Not when I have witnesses that put you in a fistfight hours before a Yavapai body turns up close by."
