by Domino Finn
Diego watched them from the edge of the room, leaning under the archway leading to the living room. "Omar was a good shot and he liked heavy guns."
The lab tech pointed to the pistol in Omar's hand. "This isn't a heavy gun, but I'll give you the good shot."
Maxim studied the pistol. It was an old revolver. A .22. It was an odd choice for defense. "Has that weapon been fired?"
"We'll run the work up, but it looks like it," answered Damian. He handled the weapon carefully. "Look at this. The serial number on the bottom of the gun butt is scratched out."
The biker jumped at that. "Gaston doesn't like illegal weapons." The other two turned to him questioningly, so Diego expounded. "Like I said, the New Mexico State Police cleared everybody's handguns."
"But you said Omar wasn't detained."
"He wasn't. He wasn't with us then. But he couldn't have known that he wouldn't be pulled over. What I'm telling you is he shouldn't have had a throwaway on him."
Maxim ran his eyes over the weapon that Damian had set aside. He was hoping something would come to him, but it was just a gun. "You think Omar was up to something that maybe you or Gaston wouldn't have known about?"
Diego narrowed his eyes. "Not a chance. Don't blame him for this."
"I'm just saying the gun—"
"And I'm just saying this wasn't his fault!" Diego dropped his head to the floor and struggled to control his temper. Maxim knew the kid had been under the man's wing. His guilt was apparent, but there was something else. Diego cleared his throat and put his hands up in resignation. "Look, Omar liked revolvers—collectibles—especially from old westerns. He had a few but usually liked them with more kick. Maybe this six-shooter is special somehow. It was just bad luck that he was cornered with it."
Maxim couldn't argue the last point. He made a mental note to come back to it. "So we have, I think, two more guys breaching the door. We have pistol fire from here and here, all centered on the vic. He was hit at least ten times. He didn't have a chance."
"Twelve times, so far," corrected Damian. "It's hard to say before moving him more."
"But we know that some of the bullets came after—when he was grounded." The detective approached the body and stood over it, holding his hand down with a pointed finger as if it were a gun. "The shooters were wild. Erratic. Whether or not they were good shots at the range, they weren't trained for these close quarters. The vic went down but was still alive. They came in close to finish the job. All these center-mass shots, and the head shot, I think, look to be from this position."
"I got four slugs in the floorboards directly underneath the body. Center mass, like you said. This was one tough son of a bitch."
Maxim turned his eyes to Diego. They were the only two at the scene who knew just how tough, assuming Teresa Banks didn't know she represented werewolves.
"And lucky," finished Damian. "The slug in the head embedded into the cranium. It never breached it."
Luck had nothing to do with it. Wolves were people. Their bones could break, but they were stronger than normal bones. The Coconino deputies especially weren't privy to all that went on in Sycamore. Maxim would need to keep them, and Damian, in the dark. Especially about the next part.
Maxim's eyes moved to Omar's chest. "Then the lethal wounds were here. The heart was punctured."
"The blood pattern suggests arterial spray," said Damian. "That was it for him."
Wolves had great constitutions. They couldn't heal immediately—rather, they needed to wait until the next moon phase, their next transformation, and then they would become instantly better. But that didn't mean they were killed easily. Silver was needed, a solid in the bloodstream, to weaken their defenses, to allow them to die. It was a good bet that the ME would pull silver rounds from the body.
Which in itself was an enigma. Maxim patted the magazine at his belt. He always kept silver rounds close, but who else did? Even Hitchens and Cole didn't, in the off chance that they lost control of their firearm.
The killers either needed to be wolves or came in overwhelming force and with a knowledge of the beasts. Yavapai payback for Doka made sense.
"Did anyone know that Omar was in the clubhouse alone?" asked Maxim.
Diego shrugged. "I didn't even know he was here. Maybe whoever it was just got lucky."
Maxim cocked his head from side to side as he considered that. He didn't like relying on such proclamations. Criminals did sometimes get lucky, but usually there were clues in the how and why crimes were planned.
Maxim spun around casually and glanced out the open door. "Why would they smash the bike?" Damian watched him with a puzzled expression. "Outside. After the job was done, they left and knocked over the vic's bike. Why would they do that?"
Diego started. "You don't think the Yavapai did this."
What had Diego said about the Pistolas? A California gang that sent the club to New Mexico. Could they have been involved? "It's just..."
Diego nodded. "The Yavapai aren't bikers. Besides Doka, I don't even know if any of the others ride. Doka was the one who came up to Sycamore Lodge and associated with Deborah and the others."
"Wait," said Damian. "What does any of that have to do with the bike outside?"
"It's the ultimate disrespect for bikers to mess with another person's ride," said Diego. "Knocking it down, smashing it—men have been killed for less."
The seed of the idea began to sprout in Maxim's mind. "So bikers did this."
Damian pulled his head back. "You think the Sons executed their own guy?"
"No." The detective turned to Diego. "Do the Pistolas ride?"
The biker nodded and his expression soured. "They're an outlaw club all the way. And they would have known that the MC was in a New Mexico police station."
Okay, so Maxim had two groups of suspects. One of them gave him a way to keep this war from starting, if it hadn't already. Maxim still hadn't found proof that the Seventh Sons had anything to do with Doka's murder. If it was possible the Yavapai weren't involved with this, then something much deeper was going on.
"Let's look at the inconsistencies," stated the detective with renewed vigor. He pushed the front door so it was almost closed and moved over to Omar's position. "We have a six-shooter in the vic's hand. Three empty shells in the cylinder. Three slugs in the entryway."
"Three shots fired. Three misses," said Damian.
"Except somebody's blood is on the wall behind me."
"Could he have reloaded?"
"As fast as this went down, not likely. Not a revolver." Maxim crouched over the body and aimed his finger at the front door. "Then there's the fact that one of these defensive shots hit the front door."
Damian didn't say anything. He was still thinking over what Maxim said. He didn't get it.
"Two of the shots hit the wall, but the third hit the backside of the front door. Look at the angle of that thing. The door was closed."
"Ah," said the lab tech, finally catching on. "If the shooters just charged through the door, why would it be closed?"
"Right."
Diego shook his head as if he wasn't confident about the theory. "I don't know. That door slams shut all the time in the wind.
"It's not a whole lot to go on," said Damian, apparently agreeing with Diego. "The door could have bounced open and closed. It does look like the victim fired the revolver, for what it's worth; there are powder burns on his hand." Maxim shot Damian a harsh look as if he had been betrayed. Evidence like that was unreliable. Now he was starting to think the crime scene tech had a bit too much initiative.
Maxim grew annoyed. He liked getting more conclusive results directly from the scene. At least this one was sloppier than the high school—more evidence that it was done by a separate hand—but this was two murders in a row that weren't open and shut. That was the last thing the marshal wanted to hear. And now, the Yavapai and the Sons both had a dog in this fight. How long could Maxim keep them away from each other's throats?
&nb
sp; The detective sighed. He dropped his head and spotted a boot print in the blood. "You get a picture of this?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Yeah, but your friend said he accidentally did that when he first arrived on the scene." Maxim glared at Diego, then kneeled beside Damian.
"Do me a favor, along with making sure you have fingerprints of everyone who was inside, make sure you get boot prints too. Me, Diego, even the deputies outside. Make sure you get Diaz. He was rummaging around in here."
"S—sure," answered the tech, standing up. "The prints are on file but I'll do the boots now before they leave." Damian wordlessly went outside, careful not to disturb the doorknob. He had already dusted it for prints but didn't get anything promising. The outside handle had been wiped down, or brushed with a glove.
Maxim sighed. He needed more. Something that would point to the Yavapai or the Pistolas or someone else. Something that would give him a nudge in a specific direction while waiting on the autopsy results. It was already getting late in the day and Dr. Medina might not be able to get to the body until the morning.
His eyes swept the room, past the doorway, Diego, the hallway and the stairs, trying to see all the angles. This poor kid had maybe dug his own grave, but that didn't mean he deserved it. And anyone who pulled off a slaughter like this was only going to continue. Maxim spun his body around to scan the rest of the room, balanced on his toes with his elbows over his knees.
Something was here. There had to be. He was just missing it.
Then he remembered Crime Scene 101. Maxim laughed as he saw it, not sure if it meant anything but funny all the same.
"What is it?" asked Diego.
Maxim stared at the ceiling and the small hole in the wooden beam.
"Don't forget to look up," said the detective. "You said your man liked big guns, right?"
"Yeah."
That had to be it. Above his head, a single large bullet was lodged in the ceiling.
Chapter 24
Kayda found a rhythm to her stride that didn't strain her rib. It was definitely broken, she thought, but stiffness was the key. Any twist of her torso would send the wrath of God through her senses, almost strong enough to knock her off her feet. To avoid that, she settled into a sort of shuffling motion—keeping her upper body straight, dragging her right foot so as to keep the impact on her twisted ankle low, and trying not to bend her left elbow.
She knew she was a pathetic sight. Bits of her flesh were scraped and skinned and her clothes were covered in dirt. With a chuckle, Kayda imagined that she resembled a zombie. She had the walk and the costume—all she needed was the pallor of death. That reminded her of Halloween in New York. She had gone out with friends, all dressed as the undead. The makeup color for their skin was called "dead-guy gray."
The thought made her smile. But then she thought of her brother's skin flapping in the night wind and her mirth disappeared. A nauseous feeling rose and her throat constricted. Kayda tried to swallow but her tongue was too dry.
She was so thirsty. So tired.
Kayda pressed on, ignoring the sand in her tennis shoes. She realized she still had her motorcycle helmet on. With a tug on the strap around her chin, she let it fall to the dirt.
The sun was no longer at its high point. Perhaps it would disappear behind the peaks and leave her in the dark. It would be better that way. Cooler.
As Kayda Garnett examined the horizon, she saw a bird circling high above. She stopped and thought of her grandfather's story.
"I won't eat you, Crow."
Another smile formed on her lips, and Kayda thought she must have been delirious. What did she have to smile about? She was lost down here. Her plan to find the access road instead of scaling the sheer edge to the highway sounded like a solid one. Now she was beginning to doubt her decision. Her scabbed skin, unaccustomed to the sun the last few years, started to burn. She was dying of thirst. All she needed to do was find a road, find a person, but the only one in sight was the crow in the sky.
It would have to do, she decided. She trudged toward the bird. It flew around and backtracked and landed on trees in such a way as to never disappear from Kayda's sight for more than a moment. Her trek became easier as she pushed herself, loosening her muscles. The bird helped keep her mind off her predicament, but again she second-guessed herself. Perhaps she was mad. There was no bird. It was just a hallucination.
The more Kayda's fears grew, the harder she pushed herself. She even began to twist her stomach and lean forward as she tackled a small slope. The pain shocked her, but it was a welcome feeling. It was real. It proved she was still alive. She fought off the hurt and increased her pace as the crow flew ahead.
She didn't see where the bird landed. As Kayda crested the hill, she couldn't see anything except the rippling stream flowing smoothly over white rocks. She let out an audible whimper and shambled down until her dirt covered shoes touched the cold water. A few paces in, when the water splashed to her knees, Kayda collapsed into the stream.
Her skin burned against the sudden shock. It was painful but pleasant at the same time. Rejuvenating. Kayda imagined she was thrusting off her damaged outer shell. Shedding her skin like a snake. Like her brother. Only she was getting a new one. As the cool water soaked her clothes and washed over her body, she imagined she could breathe underwater. She opened her mouth and welcomed the fluid; her tongue absorbed it like a sponge. Then Kayda emerged, exhilarated. Alive. She saw the bird perched close by on a rock, jumping in and out of the water and shaking its feathers as if to dance.
Kayda thought of her pahmi's folktale again. "Thank you, Crow." Then the girl remembered the rest of the story. The coming flood. "Now if you could only fly me out of here."
She sighed as she sat there, dejected but not allowing the thought to spoil her paradise. She would stay there all night if she could, sitting in the stream. Even if she died, she would never be dry or thirsty again. She worked the clear water through her hair. It turned to mud at first, but surrendered and washed out of her long, brown hair, almost straight again. She rubbed her skin, softening the scabs and the burns. Kayda washed out the sand and rocks that had collected in her shoes and wiggled her toes. She felt giddy.
The crow suddenly plunged into the air, its wings wildly scattering drops of water. In seconds, Kayda's friend had left her. And then she heard why. Talking. People talking.
She slipped her soaking shoes back over her feet. Kayda pressed her hands into the submerged ground and lifted herself. She was sore but did it without crying out. When she turned around she saw a couple, a man and a woman, emerge from a thicket of bushes. They were hikers, out for their day's exercise, which meant they had a car close. The couple stopped in their tracks when they saw her, and Kayda managed to stretch her lips into a wide, welcoming smile.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked. Although Kayda had tried to put on a good show, it must have been obvious that she was hurt.
"I'm stranded," she said. "Lost." And then, for absolutely no reason at all, Kayda began to cry.
Chapter 25
Maxim knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the Sanctuary Marshal's Office. When the young desk clerk saw him, he immediately pretended to be busy. Inside, Cole and Gutierrez sat at their desks, speaking in hushed voices that quieted as soon as they noticed him. The marshal's office door was closed, which was never a good sign.
"Missed you at the crime scene," said Maxim.
Cole just shrugged. "I thought Coconino locked it down."
The detective dropped his hat on his desk and scoped around to make sure no one else was listening. "You know the drill, Cole. If I'm at the clubhouse, I want you or Hitchens to back me up."
Gutierrez chimed in. "What about me, boss?"
"You can go to Starbucks."
The rookie laughed it off and faked a wounded look, but he wasn't really offended. Maxim's message was clear: if he was going to be surrounded by wolves, he wanted at least one of them to be wearing b
lue. Hitchens and Cole were the old guys, the veterans, but they were the strongest.
"I thought the Sons wouldn't give you any trouble," protested Cole.
"Hey, man, I would usually think that too, but I won't get extra chances if I'm wrong."
Cole nodded. Motorcycle clubs weren't the most stalwart of friends. Not to cops, anyway.
Boyd's door swung open and slammed into the wall, its fuzzy glass insert shaking within its frame. The young marshal marched out, scanned the room, and faced Maxim.
"Ah, Detective Dwyer," he said, pretending to be surprised at running into him. "I'm glad you've returned. What's your assessment?"
Maxim noticed Cole and Gutierrez sit up straighter. "It was a shootout. Ballistics should tell us a lot."
"I'd rather not wait for all that. The autopsy may confirm or deny anything we have, but we need to take action before that if we mean to prevent a gang war." Marshal Boyd approached Maxim. "Do you think it was the Seventh Sons?"
"Killing their own? That doesn't make any sense. Besides, they're locked up in New Mexico."
"They were released several hours ago. NMSP notified me of the incident."
"Which was?"
"They were just held under suspicious circumstances and questioned. They were released without charges."
Maxim snorted. Diego had been right when he said that nothing would come of it. "Well, get me the timeline for that so I can rule them out. I don't think it was them. Diego was the first one back and found the body."
A voice came from inside the private office. "Why wasn't that club member brought in for questioning?" A man in a light-blue Oxford shirt and white tie emerged from within. He was a Mexican man, almost forty judging by the gray on the side of his head and peppering his mustache. His hair was shorn short and clean, except for the top of his head where it was a little longer and spiked up. The man had a big nose and a strong brow line, with deep, dark eyes. They stared at him accusatorily.
Maxim turned to the marshal. "Who's this guy?"
