by Domino Finn
That realization gave him a chuckle. The biker was at his best when he simply acted. He often paid the price for his rash decisions, but at least the pot got stirred. At least he took action.
So why did he doubt himself now?
He trudged to the living room and flipped the TV to the local news.
Diego jumped when he heard a knock on his door. His alarm turned to excitement and he hurried to answer. To find more answers. To see a clear path.
Still not fully dressed, he swung the door open to see Henriette glowering at him.
She was a cold woman, in her fifties, with buzzed gray hair. She spoke deliberately, as if to assert her superiority. "Rent's late after the third," she said sternly.
Diego sneered. Henriette wasn't the problem, but she wasn't the solution he'd been seeking. He rolled his eyes and shuffled to the kitchen bar. He picked up the check and handed it to her.
"I'm sorry. Yesterday—"
"Is this one going to clear?"
Diego pulled back and feigned a polite smile. "That last time was just a mix-up. This check's good. I included the twenty-dollar late fee."
The woman eyed the check as if it were a window directly into his bank account. She accepted it while remaining dissatisfied. "If you have trouble remembering the first of the month, you should write a note and tape it to the inside of your door."
Diego stared blankly at her. "That's a good idea." He pained another smile and nudged the door closed. The woman acted like his mother, but he knew it was his own fault. All he had to do was drop the check in the deposit slot on time and he would never have to see her again.
He leaned against the door with a deflated sigh. He'd been in Sanctuary a year and a half now. He never figured he'd blow through his finances so fast. It wasn't an issue when he rolled with the motorcycle club—they had money coming in from their extracurricular activities—but now Diego was on the straight and narrow. And on his own. That was really dawning on him for the first time.
The volume of the TV carried over a familiar voice. Diego approached the flat screen and saw Maxim Dwyer standing in the marshal's office entryway, speaking to reporters.
Chapter 10
Maxim cleared his throat.
"It's important to keep in mind that this is an ongoing investigation. Annabelle Hayes is safe and under medical care. There's no evidence of an actual crime yet, but it's our duty to look into the matter."
The Sanctuary Marshal's Office didn't have a press room so they handled these situations with as little pomp as possible. Maxim Dwyer stood outside, in front of the station doors. The marshal and patrol sergeant were behind him at each side. There was no podium, just a gaggle of reporters pressed together at the base of the steps, shoving cameras and microphones forward.
"Is this connected to Hazel Cunningham?" one of them asked.
"Not necessarily," he answered. "We are, of course, exploring that possibility, but at the moment these are separate cases. The Coconino County Sheriff's Office is running that investigation, and we are assisting them in the matter. In the spirit of cooperation, I'd like to take this opportunity to reach out to the public, see if anybody knows anything. Homeowners should search their properties. Everybody should keep an eye out in the parklands. If anyone sees anything, please call 911 and the proper authorities will be dispatched immediately."
"It's been more than twenty-four hours. Is it already too late for her?"
"Certainly not." Maxim smiled in practiced patience. His plan was to focus on Sanctuary's case and deflect attention from Coconino's, but he had to do his part for the still-missing girl. His small mention would need to be enough for now. "But I'll leave the questions about the Hazel Cunningham case to the sheriff's office."
A woman spoke up. "Isn't it irresponsible to allow Annabelle Hayes time to recover while another child is still in danger?"
Maxim studied her. The black woman was the only reporter of the bunch he didn't recognize. She was shorter than everybody else but had a personable face. That meant she could ask the serious questions without appearing to be on the attack. But she was. Her question was loaded.
"As a detective," he stated with detachment, "I need to defer to the insistence of the medical staff, but that doesn't mean the investigation is at a standstill. It is the duty of our office to be thorough and expedient for the people of Sanctuary. We are doing everything we can for Hazel Cunningham, but it doesn't help her to jump to conclusions and assume these cases are linked."
The reporters asked questions all at once. One man's deep voice rose above the others. "But you're not dismissing the possibility of a serial abductor?"
Maxim sighed. The media's MO was to stir up panic first then get the facts later. Half the reason for these press conferences was to assure the public that the world wasn't ending. "There's absolutely no evidence of that at all. We're not discounting any possibilities, but neither are we entertaining dangerous speculation."
"What about the autistic girl?" asked the mystery woman. "Alice Radford?"
Maxim blinked plainly into the cameras. He hadn't heard the name before. "Can you elaborate?"
The reporter raised a single eyebrow. "Alice Radford went missing in Williams last year. She wandered back home a day later."
Yes. Maxim remembered now. The autistic girl had been eleven years old. She'd gotten separated from her parents during a local parade. The county had been on full alert until she returned, unharmed. He'd understood the girl wasn't highly functional and was lucky to have found her way back.
Maxim nodded to present the cameras with calm confidence. "Yes. Unfortunately, situations like these are not entirely uncommon. Sycamore—excuse me—Coconino County has sprawling forests and flatlands. The territory's too large to cover easily and slows down rescue operations. That's why it's important we don't panic and assume the worst when we lack immediate results. Nine times out of ten getting lost is just that: getting lost. It can still be a dangerous matter but we should temper our conclusions. In the case of Alice Radford, there were no signs of foul play, but as that is under the jurisdiction of Williams PD and the sheriff's office, you should contact them with further questions."
Maxim stared hard at the woman. She didn't appear satisfied with his answer, but that was normal with reporters. His expression dared her to continue, but she didn't have a follow-up question.
Another reporter: "Are Annabelle's parents being investigated? Why didn't they report their daughter missing?"
Maxim considered. It was bad form to immediately attack the parents in cases like this, but it was par for the course. Once children were found, if their cases didn't add up, the questions pointed more sharply to the parents. Now that Annabelle was okay, it was open season.
In truth, detectives often had the same suspicions.
"The marshal's office is still reviewing all available information. As of now, no charges have been filed against anyone."
"Isn't it negligent of them to not know where their twelve-year-old daughter was?"
Maxim glanced at Marshal Boyd before he answered. "That hasn't been determined yet." His answer was curt. It obviously displeased the reporters.
The woman spoke up again. "But isn't it true that neither the mother nor the father had seen Annabelle since Friday? Who was responsible for her for three days?"
It surprised Maxim that she knew that much. The reporters were well versed in the case. Because they were doing background as soon as Hazel Cunningham had been reported missing, they essentially had a day's head start on him. Maxim wondered what outlet the woman worked for. She didn't wear any obvious branding.
"All I can say at this time—"
She interrupted him. "Is it true that Annabelle Hayes was camping in the woods over the weekend with her friends?"
Maxim paused. He wasn't prepared for this. He flashed the marshal an I-told-you-so expression but Boyd stoically faced forward.
The detective didn't know anything about camping in the woods. He ha
dn't spoken with the father yet. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to hold this press conference yet.
"We can't comment on specifics at this time," said Maxim firmly. "All avenues are still being investi—"
"Should we alert families not to go camping for the time being?" asked someone else.
More hysteria. But the woman in particular seemed to know specifics. She had a source of real information, possibly the father. The detective had a lot of catching up to do.
Maxim cleared his throat again. "As always, minors should be under the supervision of a parent or guardian."
Another outbreak of voices competed for his attention. Maxim put his hand up to quiet them. The woman ignored his request. "What can you tell us about what happened to Annabelle Hayes?"
The detective pouted. This had been a mistake. How could he project confidence to the media if he didn't even know what he was investigating?
Before he could speak, Marshal Boyd stepped forward. "That's all we have for you at the moment," he said, putting his hand on Maxim's shoulder. "Detective Dwyer has pressing business. As the case develops, we will share more information."
An uproar consumed the small crowd. The sergeant opened the door to the marshal's office and Maxim stepped backwards into the station. Boyd turned to look at him, his blue eyes crystalline daggers.
So far, this hadn't been Maxim's best day.
Chapter 11
Diego switched off the TV and threw the remote down. At least the press conference explained why his friend hadn't answered his call.
Diego had asked the detective to look into Hazel's disappearance, but he was mired in another family's problems now. Maxim would be playing catch-up with Annabelle's side of things. It may very well resolve Hazel's situation, but Diego couldn't sit idle in the meantime.
Julia needed him. Hazel needed him.
The biker paced back and forth between his living room and bedroom. Eventually, he made it into the bathroom and shaved, sharpening the edges of his mustache and goatee. Dark circles lined his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face to give himself a jolt, but he still looked worn out. He was tired from the long night and the sleepless morning.
He wandered back out to the main room and picked up his keys from the kitchenette bar. Beside them was a school photograph of Hazel Cunningham. Bent and worn from a day in his back pocket, it was the only image he had of the girl. He'd seen other pictures at Julia's, but this one had been the subject of his stares. This one had been burned into his mind.
Hazel was a cute kid. Brunette hair that matched her mom's, light skin with just a hint of freckles. Her eyes were darker, though, yet full of joy. There was something about childhood that prompted adoration from others. Hazel's smile was wide, with slightly crooked teeth, but something about it felt out of place in her expression. Diego studied it at length but couldn't glean any further insight.
A shake of his head helped throw off his stupor. There wasn't time for this. He pulled on a white T-shirt and grabbed his phone again.
"Pendle," answered the gruff voice on the other end of the line.
"Harry, it's Diego. I'm not gonna make it in today."
The biker could easily imagine the look on the man's face.
"This is some kind of joke, right?"
"I'm sorry, man. It's not a joke. It's personal stuff."
"This about that kid?"
"Yeah."
Harry's voice softened. "Yeah, I saw that. It's a fucking shame, I tell you. On Easter, too."
Diego waited with a frown. He didn't know what to say and he hated being beholden to his boss. Harry Pendle wasn't a bad guy. He owned the company and struggled to make ends meet. The tow business wasn't easy.
"You were out there when they found the other kid last night?" he asked.
"Yeah. We searched all around the campgrounds. East and west along the Interstate. North closer to Sanctuary."
"Those woods are huge. It could take a week."
Diego sighed. "That's what I'm saying."
Harry considered for a moment. "Look, Diego, it's a horrible thing. I mean, I hope to God they find this kid, okay? But is this woman your wife or something?"
"Hmm?"
"I mean, what's the deal? Is this your kid? I can understand the Good Samaritan thing, but you have real responsibilities. Be neighborly all you want, but do it on your own time."
"That's bullshit, Harry."
His boss scoffed. "I'll tell you what's bullshit. This is your third job this year, and it's barely April. I took you on because you told me you were a hard worker."
Diego rolled his eyes. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to put in a full shift four days a week without asking for favors." Harry waited for a response but didn't get one. "Otherwise," he continued, "you'll be looking for your fourth job."
The biker swiped at the air in frustration. He strolled over to the window and peeked through the mini blinds. The sun was out in full swing. Visibility was perfect. The sky was clear, the wind was blowing—it was a nice day to be outside.
Diego thought of his past experience with outlaw bikers. "Cage" was the word they used for cars. Today, if Diego had to sit in the tow truck all day, he really would feel captive.
"I'm gonna be looking for a little girl," said Diego. "You can fire me for that if you want."
His boss laughed. "Oh I can, can I?" he asked mockingly. "Can I? Thanks for giving me that ability, Diego. I wasn't sure if I had that power as your boss. I wasn't sure if I could fire you for not doing your fucking job."
"Thanks for keeping the big picture in mind," said Diego. "Just do what you need to do."
The biker hung up the phone. He didn't know what he needed, but it definitely wasn't this hassle.
Chapter 12
Diego parked his Triumph Scrambler outside the camping office. His bike was a sleek roadster, black and chrome and sixties inspired. A shotgun holster attached to the frame rubbed against his right leg as he dismounted. In his outlaw days, Diego carried a Benelli M4 semi-auto shotgun. He had a thing for guns, and it was a sweet weapon, but he hadn't been able to replace his lost one yet. After the tragic events of the year before, he didn't know if he wanted to. Now the holster was an empty reminder of pain and loss.
The biker wasn't completely unarmed, of course. He still packed a trusty knife that had kept him safe on many occasions. Whenever Diego went into the wild, the blade was always sheathed to his forearm under the sleeve of his riding jacket, but for now he left it on the Scrambler. It had its own spot, a custom slot built into his exhaust, hidden in plain sight.
Diego wandered the grounds with a suspicious eye. He hoped he wouldn't need to use any weapons to get Hazel back, but he would if it came to it.
Quiet Pines was a large, multi-use luxury campsite. Deluxe wood cabins took up a third of the property. Lacquered to a smooth glaze and ornamented with high roofs, the cabins had all the comforts of a fine hotel. Full electricity, plumbing, spa tubs, porch swings. It was about the furthest thing from camping that Diego could imagine, but the area was littered with pine trees and the air had the healthy smell of nature.
Individual sections were available to less extravagant campers as well. Cars and trucks parked adjacent to picnic tables and tents. Each site had its own fire pit, and each large section had its own facilities building with bathrooms and showers.
Finally, a row of RVs had their own parking spots, complete with full plug-ins. Power, water, waste management—it was all available to paying customers.
Whatever happened to sleeping bags and campfires?
At the end of his tour, Diego returned to the office where he'd parked and headed inside. A large man sat at a desk crowded with paperwork.
"Which lot are you?" he asked.
Diego furrowed his brow. "Sorry?"
"What's the lot number of the campsite you're staying in?"
Now Diego understood. "Oh, no. I'm not camping actually. I'm here about the girl that's mis
sing."
The sweaty man peered at Diego and nodded. "I remember you now. You were with the police yesterday."
It was lucky the manager remembered him. The biker bowed his head and exaggerated his South American accent. "Diego de la Torre. Nice to meet you."
The office manager didn't raise his hand to meet Diego's. "But you're not a police officer yourself," he said matter-of-factly.
So much for his good luck. "Not exactly, but I'm working with them. And with Julia Cunningham."
"Poor lady. You know something like that's never happened here? We run a very safe site."
"You can't control everything. It's not your fault."
The man nodded and leaned back in his chair, finally giving his full attention to Diego. "I'm Charlie Charles. Twice the name, twice the fun."
Diego's eyes widened. "I can see that."
"Twice the girth, too!" Charlie cracked into a boisterous laugh and Diego hoped the man was referring to his belly. "Sit down, sit down."
Diego took a seat and decided to get through this quickly. He didn't feel like listening to bad jokes while an eight-year-old was lost.
"I checked around the grounds," started Diego. "Everyone looked pretty normal. Was there anyone staying here who felt off to you?"
The office manager chuckled. "We're in Sycamore, son. Nobody would be here if they weren't just a little bit different."
Diego tilted his head and waited for a real answer.
Charlie waved his hand dismissively. "The police interviewed everyone yesterday. Since you're working with them you should have that info." The man gave Diego a wink.
"I'm more concerned with whether the police could have missed anything. Did they account for everybody?"
Another chuckle. "There's not much place to hide. The cars and RVs are all parked by their lots. I know for a fact the deputies talked to every renter. I went site-to-site with them, giving them the names of each guest."
"You have contact information for every single person on the grounds?"
