by Domino Finn
She rode the old Harley tentatively. Kayda was an inexperienced rider, but without a car this was the best she could do. Sanctuary was only an hour away. Even less. Plus, she thought it was befitting to use one brother's motorcycle to save the other.
Kelan Doka and Hotah Shaw were troublemakers. Overworked testosterone and angst. Even worse, their antics fed off each other. The two didn't like outsiders much and they tended to be bullheaded. It was all the influence of her older brother Carlos—not here anymore, but with them in spirit. And Kayda had to stop that spirit before it made them do anything that was irreversible.
How much trouble could they get into in one morning?
The heavy motorcycle she straddled was a coarse beast. Her brother's old half helmet was strapped tight to her chin. Kayda thought it made her look tough, but part of her knew she couldn't pull off the act. She didn't wear spiked leather boots or a heavy jacket. She didn't ride like she had a chip on her shoulder. Hell, she was too scared to push the machine past fifty miles per hour.
She rode the 89 north through Chino Valley. It was out of the way and not especially interesting, but it was the land of her people. Her family controlled it. Or at least, they did when Carlos was in charge. He had always stressed the importance of being the king of something, even if it was a little-used state road through a valley that no one cared about. She tilted her head, feeling the breeze. The opinions of the outside world made no difference to her. She thought the valley was beautiful all the same. The outsiders didn't know what they were missing.
Dust continually kicked into her face. It was unusually dusty today. She wished she had gotten a helmet with a visor, or at least a pair of sunglasses. What kind of biker got on the road without sunglasses? Kayda cursed and felt silly again. She decided she would pick up a pair in town.
Then she heard the rumbling. Bikers in the distance ahead. It was stupid, but it made her nervous. The highway was fairly empty. There wasn't a lot of traffic either way, but she had passed a single motorcyclist ten minutes earlier. Kayda had tried to wave at him. She thought it was some kind of biker code or something. With one hand on the handlebars, she had rolled over a bump in the road and almost lost control. It had scared the life out of her and convinced her to slow down.
Now, with more bikers approaching, Kayda was determined not to appear an idiot again.
There looked to be several bikes ahead. Four of them. Seeing was difficult because they were shrouded in dust. The cloud was barely noticeable, but it slowly enveloped her as she pressed ahead. It wasn't something tangible that stood out from a distance; instead it was a gradual reduction in visibility. It wasn't until Kayda tried to make out the bikers ahead that she realized she was riding into the middle of a dust storm.
The wind kicked up. Grains of sand whipped against her eyes. Sunglasses, she thought. That was why she needed them.
The four bikers sped southbound in a roar of speed and practiced badassery. They moved fast in pairs, two and two. One of them hunched over, as if he was reaching for something. Their heads turned to her as they passed. For her part, Kayda kept both hands on the handlebars and stared straight ahead. She told herself it was for safety, because of the worsening weather conditions, but underneath it she was scared.
Act natural, she told herself. The girl managed a quick glance and a nod. She wasn't sure if the bikers had seen it.
She didn't see them all, but she noticed the two closer to her had half helmets as well. Still, they wore large sunglasses and bandannas over their faces, like bandits. Smart. She would need to pick up one of those too.
In a heavy gust they were gone, now behind her. Something about the group was tough. Mean. They frightened her just by their proximity. They weren't the friendly, vacation sorts. Were they the Seventh Sons? If so, she couldn't confront them now. She didn't even dare to glance back at them. Kayda felt they had seen through her. They knew she was just faking it.
But what did she care? Kayda shook her head, and with that dismissed her silly childhood notions of belonging. She wasn't in grade school trying to get kids to think she was cool anymore. She had a college degree and planned to go overseas and earn her Masters. She wasn't here for reputation—she was here for family. At first, she had told herself it was only to see her grandfather, but Kayda realized it was more. Carlos was dead now. That changed things. She only had one brother left—she wasn't going to lose him as well.
The dust was heavier. She was already within it, a dry bath of texture, now enough to darken the sun. Ahead, she could barely see the road narrow as it straddled the sheer edge of a hillside. The shoulder on the side of the road all but disappeared; in its place a short cement barrier that was barely enough to keep her from going over it. On the other side was rocky terrain before a sharp drop-off, a hundred feet to the canyon below.
The terrain there was ragged and unforgiving. She knew that men with their toys liked to go off-roading out there. They would take their trucks down the long way, jump on their all terrain vehicles, get drunk, and see who could get stuck. Kayda didn't really see the point. She figured the harsh environment was some kind of communal enemy, an adversary to bond against.
As Kayda slowed her bike, thoughts of the precipice making her nervous, she heard a noise behind her. It was a police siren, getting louder. Had the bikers gotten in trouble?
She realized the sound was past them, getting closer to her. She tried to look behind but the old bike had no rearview mirrors. Kayda's hands tightened on the handlebars and she risked a head check. She turned quickly and saw the outline of a police car, flashing lights in the storm, speeding closer.
Kayda spun around again and clutched the handlebars. She hated turning around on the bike. While it was moving, anyway. Should she stop? There was no space on the edge of the road until she cleared the hillside. No place to go but forward. Kayda tried to see through the barrage of sand. Where did this cliff face end?
She grew more tense as the siren grew louder. The cop was coming up fast. She would need to pull over. Even if he wasn't after her, he would need to speed by. Then she realized he might not even notice her in these conditions. What if he raced ahead, oblivious, and slammed into her?
Should she speed up to beat the cop to the wider stretch of road? Should she stop and hug the concrete barrier as closely as possible?
Her lights. She would turn on the motorcycle's lights, at least. That should make her stand out against the storm, ensure that the police car didn't run into her. But where was the switch?
Kayda didn't consider herself cool under pressure. Right now, in the dimming sun, in the middle of a dust storm that was getting more and more violent with each passing moment, dirt scraping her face and getting in her eyes, the police car closing in—it was too much. Her inexperience on the bike only heightened her indecision. As the car approached, her fear became palpable. She could taste it.
Something needed to be done, and she shook herself out of her reverie. That was it. She needed to stop.
Kayda slowed the bike and moved off the asphalt, the wheel skipping in the gravel next to the barrier. She glanced down, searching for the light switch but unable to keep her eyes off the road. There were no switches on the handles.
The siren was deafening, bearing down on her. Then her fear got the better of her. Kayda looked behind her.
She saw the police car. The wildly flashing lights. The breakneck speed that told her the driver had no idea she was in his path. And then she felt her motorcycle twist around.
The bike flipped.
Kayda didn't know what had happened. If she had to guess, she'd turned the front wheel into the barricade or hit a pothole. Either way, it knocked her clear off the motorcycle. Kayda slammed into the ground and rolled head over heels on the rocks. She heard the crunching of metal somewhere behind her. In that moment of unabated chaos, there was no pain, no up or down, no here or there; Kayda only tumbled and slid and prayed to anybody who would listen that the heavy machine would not
land on top of her.
The battered girl skidded to a halt in the gravel, coarse sand in her mouth. She wasn't in pain. She felt fine, more confused about what had just happened than hurt. From her vantage, lying along the side of the road, she couldn't see her bike. She was facing backwards and stared in terror at the oncoming vehicle. It flew up the highway, loosely obeying the road boundaries in the low visibility. She was suddenly confident that the car would clip her.
Without thinking, without even looking over the side, Kayda Garnett pushed herself to her feet, leaned over the concrete barrier, and fell over it.
The ground on the other side was welcome. There was limited clearance before the deadly slide down into the canyon. But this collision was more painful than the initial crash. She heard the police siren loudly blaze by, then the skidding of tires against asphalt a little further up.
The police car stopped.
Kayda lay in the sand, unable to rise. She found that strange since she had stood just seconds before. Sure, her crossing of the concrete barrier was more of a tumble than a vault, but she had been able to rise to her feet.
Now was different.
The sand in her mouth threatened to choke her and dry her insides. A sharp pain burned in the side of her chest. She tried to twist to ease the pressure: it sent a jolt through her torso up to her neck. Lying on her side in the dirt, Kayda was suddenly acutely aware of all the razor blade cuts across her body. She wore no protective gear besides the helmet. Not even gloves. Her flesh was exposed. With this realization, her skin began to burn.
The siren quieted, but she could still see the lights as a vague presence in the air. Besides the wind whipping her hair around her face, it was silent now. She clearly heard the car door open and slam shut.
It was farther away than it should have been. By how much had the cop passed her?
Sudden panic set in. She had thought she was rescued. Now she wasn't so sure. She needed to move. To get up. With an intense effort, Kayda drew herself onto her elbows, grabbed the top of the concrete wall, and pulled.
She wasn't strong enough. Push-ups and pull-ups had always been her weakness. She chided herself. No matter how hurt she was, she only needed to do one. It took an eternity, but Kayda drew her head over the barricade.
The police car had passed her a ways. By the time it had stopped, it was fifty yards ahead. It sat on the edge of the road, halfway blocking the northbound lane, its emergency lights silently strobing. A single officer lumbered towards her, holding a raincoat over his head to shield himself from the heavy assault of dust.
Kayda tried to raise her hand but it was supporting her weight on the wall. She was only leaning on it, not fully on her feet, exhausted just to have gotten that far. She searched up and down the street. Her motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. She saw no evidence that it had ever been there.
"Is anyone here?" the officer called out. It was Chuck Winston. What was a reservation police officer doing in the Quad-City? Did it matter?
Kayda answered with a gurgled cough. Now, more than ever, she felt the sand in her mouth. It was more than that. It invaded deeper, into her lungs, into her spirit. It smothered her will just as easily as her breath.
She gawked desperately at Chuck, her old friend, or acquaintance anyway. Life was funny. The man was an annoyance the night before, but now he was the sweetest sight she could imagine. A wetness cooled her face and cleansed her eyes and Kayda realized she was crying.
"Chuck," she forced out in a low rumble, her voice hoarse and scratchy. It hurt to open her mouth, but she didn't care. Chuck strode towards her and shielded his face with his arms. The man spun around as he moved, scanning the highway. He was looking for something. The bike? Her?
"Is anybody here?" he repeated, continuing his slow approach. He hadn't seen her yet. With the motorcycle lights off, in the dust storm, he may not have ever had a clear sight of what happened. But he had stopped, so there was hope.
Chuck neared, but she was only a head peeping above a concrete barricade. If the bike had gone over the edge, there wasn't a whole lot that would attract his attention.
Then Chuck stopped.
No, thought Kayda. Keep walking. But the officer just stood there and inspected the barrier. His eyes crossed over her.
He saw her.
He was looking right at her.
Kayda smiled, keeping her hand on the concrete but wiggling her fingers in a meager wave. That was it. She would be okay. Embarrassed, but alive.
Chuck Winston turned around and marched away.
Kayda tried to yell, louder this time, but the effort broke something inside her. Nothing at all came out this time. She puffed heavily as she watched her friend getting farther away, the dust picking up in speed and intensity. She summoned every last ounce of strength left in her to scream.
The officer dove out of the harsh weather and back into his cruiser. The door shut, the siren resumed, and he drove away.
"Chuck," managed Kayda, little more than a whisper. Then her grip gave out and her jaw scraped against the cement as she fell back to the ground.
Chapter 21
The Coconino County deputy leaned against the wooden beam of the clubhouse porch. It was a disinterested pose, a guard at a post. He nodded as Maxim Dwyer identified himself.
"You guys got here fast," said Maxim.
Most of Greater Sycamore was unincorporated; the Seventh Sons weren't technically based in Sanctuary. It was wild land, both its appeal and its fault. While the clubhouse resided in the county's jurisdiction, because of Sanctuary's proximity and working relationship with the club (and Maxim thought because of the mayor's pull as well), Coconino often handed off Seventh Sons cases to the Sanctuary Marshal's Office. Boyd had already confirmed it with their sheriff.
For Coconino, it was an easy deal: no negative headlines and no crimes on their books. But for Maxim, he was now two murders in the hole.
"We were in the area," said the deputy. Then he nodded towards the other car of backup deputies. "They're from the Bellemont substation."
That was the closest town to Sanctuary. He was still surprised they had beaten him to the scene. Next time he would take longer to notify them.
"Who's the detective on site?" he asked.
The Coconino deputy shook his bald head. He wasn't an old guy. It looked more like he was beating the inevitable to the punch. "No one's en route. I was advised that you were heading this up. We're just here to secure the scene."
Maxim nodded and peeked through the open front door. The body was hard to miss. Besides the deputy at the door and the two standing by their SUV, another uniform was inside. Two motorcycles were outside. A Harley lying on its side, which Maxim assumed belonged to the victim, and Diego's shiny Scrambler, which was hard to miss. There was also another vehicle outside that Maxim hadn't seen before: a gold Lexus minivan.
"You have a tech inside?"
"Thought you boys did that yourself up here," said the patrolman. He started at the approach of another vehicle. His hand went from his hip and pointed to the dirt road. Maxim turned and saw a Coconino van pulling up behind his TT. "Looks like he didn't hear we were punting the call. I can send him back."
"Actually, I don't mind the help."
The Coconino County Sheriff's Office was a larger department: more personnel to cover a more expansive area. They had civilian technicians on staff to assist with forensics. Maxim watched the young crime scene tech jump out of the van with a little too much enthusiasm. He was too bright-eyed to have been on the job for a long time, but the extra manpower wasn't unwelcome.
"What about me and Diaz? You need us too?"
"Diaz is your man inside?"
The deputy nodded.
"How about this? You can send the other car back but you two can stick around if you want."
"Sure. I could use the overtime. I'll go let them know."
Before the officer was able to take off, Maxim stopped him. "Who else is inside?" The detective
nodded towards the minivan parked out front.
"Bitch from hell. But don't tell her I said that."
Maxim immediately knew who it was and let the deputy go. "Diaz!" he yelled. The clump of heavy boots came from deeper inside until the Coconino uniform appeared at the door.
"You the detective?" asked the patrolman.
"I sure am. You mind staying outside while the tech and I take a look?"
"I didn't touch anything."
"Good job, Diaz."
Each man waited for the other to say something. It was sort of a standoff until a light bulb went off in the deputy's head.
"Okay, sir. I'll be outside if you need me." Diaz stepped around the detective and out into the yard just in time for the young tech to arrive. He was an Asian kid who looked twelve. He wore a brand new T-shirt that read "I see dead people" across the front. Maxim introduced himself and explained to him that he would be assisting the marshal's office.
"I know you," said the kid. "You're the one who cracked the Paradise Killings. You know, when I was first hired, I just missed those bodies in the morgue by four weeks. I got to do some related follow-up analysis, but the big stuff was over."
"It's never really over, kid."
"Damian." Maxim nodded and the tech got right to work inside.
Maxim followed him in. He had stood in this room not twenty-four hours ago. It was a sparse entryway—the motorcycle club wasn't well known for its interior design sensibilities—but what little possibility for disarray the room afforded was actualized. An array of micro-clues spread out before the detective, lots of little hints that alone told only part of the story. Overall, there was a narrative to build. This little room may have only been a foyer, but for two to three minutes, it was the Wild West.
The Seventh Sons clubhouse was in the middle of the Sycamore forest. It sat in a large clearing of wild white grass, with a single dirt road leading to it. The Coconino deputies had been wise enough to park away from the house, but the Lexus had trampled over any possible track marks. Not that it mattered much; there wasn't anything outside, besides the downed Harley, that caught the detective's eye.
