The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3) (16 page)

 

 

 

 

Quick in, quick out. That's what Diego swore as he approached the outlaw motorcycle clubhouse. Off a dirt road in the middle of Sycamore, it wasn't an easy place to find unless you had a legitimate reason to be there.

The MC used to be Diego's pack. He'd rolled with them for a year before everything went to hell. The biker had realized there was a difference between real outlaws and him. The guys in this cabin? They were killers, eager to fight the necessary turf wars to stay in control of the Interstate and their drug business.

Diego de la Torre had the skill set for the job, but he also had a conscience.

The front door opened before Diego could knock.

"The golden boy returns home!" mocked Gaston from the doorway. He was a stout man, imposing, with a muscle shirt and head of spiked hair. He flexed his bicep as he held the door open.

"Not today," muttered Diego.

"You're riding without gloves these days?"

"I... lost mine in the forest. It's a long story. I can explain inside."

"Sorry," said Gaston quickly. "Only club members allowed in here."

Diego grimaced. The president was still sore that Diego had chosen a different path. But they were friends, ultimately, with a lot behind them. Both bikers were just blustering, and Diego waited it out with a bored expression.

Gaston measured him. "You've been avoiding us."

"Just trying to get my head straight."

The MC president nodded. "You're not bringing your buddy Maxim out here again, are you? He's always asking favors without giving any in return."

Diego shook his head. "I've about had it with the cops. But I do need a favor myself."

Gaston scoffed but didn't appear disappointed. He knew Diego was here for a reason. "It figures. Let's talk business." The big man went inside and collapsed on a couch. Diego followed but remained on his feet. He noticed West Wind silently watching them, leaning against a pool table with his arms crossed. Diego nodded at the Apache, who returned the gesture with a straight face.

"Kind of empty in here," said Diego.

Gaston shrugged. "Our guys have a bit of a break. After calling them in the last two days, I figured they earned it."

Diego agreed. As promised, Maxim had mobilized much of Sanctuary to search for Hazel. The bikers weren't residents but they'd sort of adopted the town. Most of the MC had spent long days in the forest with the other volunteers. If anybody knew the woods, it was them, but they had still turned up empty.

"She's still lost, Gaston. And worse, if we don't do anything about it, it'll happen again."

"I hope you're not asking for more manpower. We tried, man."

"It's not that. There's something in the woods. Lights. Children. Kayda said—"

"You visited the Yavapai?" Gaston stood up suddenly and Diego realized his mistake. "I've declared them off limits. Nobody goes down to Chino Valley without my say so."

Diego gritted his teeth. "I'm not yours to command, Gaston."

"Just the same, I can't have you cavorting with her. She's our sworn enemy."

"
Your
enemy."

He chuckled derisively. "Do I need to remind you what you did to
her
brother with
that
knife?" West Wind snickered in the background.

Diego didn't answer. He only regretted his actions for Kayda's sake. Kelan had deserved what he got. Diego had done what needed doing.

Gaston brushed it off and laughed again. "You were always such a pain in the ass, Diego." He returned to his seat and relaxed. "Hell, I couldn't even control you when you were a one percenter."

"Still is one," cut in West Wind, his first real words of the encounter. "If you ask me."

The president shook his head and turned back to Diego. "Can you believe this guy? The hardest man in my group has a soft spot for you."

Diego shrugged. "I'm likable that way."

"Ain't that right. How did our little witch receive you?"

Diego bobbed his head back and forth as if it were on a scale. "Still trying to figure that out. But she understood I was looking for a girl. She likes kids. She didn't give me any trouble."

Gaston turned to the Apache. "Her own little army," he announced. "The reservation's gonna be a different place in fifteen years." West shrugged.

"I need a gun," said Diego, getting to the heart of the matter.

Gaston feigned surprise.

"And money's a little tight."

Now the president really was surprised. He laughed and West shook his head and disappeared into the back. "So that's your business," concluded Gaston. His face grew serious. "Except it's not really business if you can't pay."

"It's just a shotgun."

"Mmm hmm. I remember your shotguns. You have expensive taste. Who is it you need to shoot?"

Diego hesitated. "I don't know who it is. Or what it is. There's something in Sycamore."

Gaston snorted. "Look, Diego. The scariest thing in the woods is us. Especially if someone's taking children. If that was happening around these parts, I'd know about it. And I'd eat them alive."

Diego knew the wolf meant that literally.

He thought about what Kayda had said, about not limiting knowledge to what was already known. The MC thought they were the toughest customers on the block. The only thing going. But more was out there. Diego couldn't prove it, and he wasn't even sure how much he believed, but there was something in the forest that needed shooting.

The biker was a trained hunter. It didn't much matter what the prey was, as long as it deserved it.

West Wind returned to the room and placed a heavy piece of metal in Diego's hands. It was a brand new Benelli M4 autoloader shotgun. The monotone weapon had metal the color of smoke—a far cry from the bright silver of Diego's old one—but everything else was identical.

"Just like the one you lost," said the Apache. "We ordered it the very next day. By the time we got it, you were gone, but I held on to it. I knew you'd come asking one day. Guys like us can't lay brick for a living."

"The last one was towing cars, actually."

"Whatever," chuckled West. "I figured you earned it."

The MC president grumbled at the kind gesture but West ignored him.

Diego shook the man's hand in thanks. Gaston just shook his head.

"See, Diego? Everyone likes you. Even I like you. And that's your problem."

The biker hefted the shotgun, testing the familiar weight. "How's that a problem?"

"Because you're too eager to help people, man. You put yourself out there too much. It's gonna catch up to you one day."

Diego winked at his friend. "Yeah, well, not today. And I owe you guys one."

"There you go again," said Gaston. "And you're damn right."

The biker hurried to the door. All he needed now was a pair of new riding gloves and plenty of buckshot, and he'd be good to go.

 

 

 

 

Maxim leaned his back against the Spanish-style door, arms crossed. It was a relaxed posture with an intimidating function. The man approaching on the walkway recognized his path was blocked pending another conversation.

"Hello again, Detective," said Bertrand Collins.

Maxim remained against the door. "You didn't mention your sessions were held in the Hayes residence."

The psychologist stopped on the porch with a blank look on his face. "I didn't think it was germane to—"

"You let me make that call."

"Certainly, Detective. What is it you wish to know?"

Maxim moved into Bertrand's personal space. "I need to know what's really wrong with Annabelle!" he barked.

The man widened his eyes and frowned, startled but ultimately unimpressed with the theatrics. "We've had this discussion before. Her mental state is off limits. Your badge doesn't give you the right to break confidentiality."

"Yeah, well, while you were sitting on your high horse up in Flagstaff, Annabelle had another one of her episodes. Kind of calls your therapy skills into question. Don't you think?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Annabelle's zoning out. Not acting all there. What kind of meds have you prescribed her?"

He shook his head firmly. "I'm not a physician. I don't prescribe medicine to any of my patients. Cognitive Behavior Therapy is problem focused. I attempt to correct unhelpful thoughts and stimuli, not dull an active mind. Is Annabelle all right?"

Maxim was annoyed at his mistake. He should have realized Bertrand wasn't that kind of doctor. "She's fine. But she was standing in the bathroom as the tub and sink overflowed, oblivious to what was happening. She made a real mess."

Worry faded from the psychologist's face. "Yes. This is post traumatic stress symptomatology. It's unclear if she's oriented to time and place."

"What does that mean?"

The doctor sighed impatiently. "It means she's dissociative, Detective. She does not respond to the present as you or I would, which is why questioning her is counter-productive."

The door behind Maxim opened. It was Olivia.

"Maxim! What are you still doing here?"

He shifted his gaze between Olivia and Bertrand. "The good doctor here was just gonna sit in while I speak with your daughter."

Bertrand pinched his glasses to his nose. "Olivia, I didn't—"

She flew off the handle. "I said no, Bertrand! I won't have her subjected to it anymore."

The doctor tried again. "Olivia, I agreed to no such thing. The detective is simply pushing his weight around without concern for Annabelle. I'm sorry, Detective, but Annabelle eschews social interaction, especially with strangers. I can't allow it."

Maxim put a heavy hand on Bertrand's chest. "Oh, so what are you? Her father?"

Olivia let out a panicked exclamation and the doctor grew nervous at the implication. "I... I don't step on Gulliver's toes, but to some extent he's removed himself from the situation. Of course, it's not my place to act as more than counselor."

Maxim narrowed his eyes and pressed the man into the wall. "Too late for that, don't you think?"

Olivia regained her composure. "Detective, Dr. Collins is here to see my daughter. I don't want you interfering."

"You're not gonna let him see her like this, are you?" he asked indignantly.

"That's ridiculous," countered Bertrand. "Annabelle needs me now more than any other time. If she's close to an episode—"

"Close?" interrupted Maxim. "Cancel the appointment, Olivia."

She stared at him, angry at his insistence. The doctor stood tall and pushed his weight against Maxim's hand.

"I did nothing unethical, Detective. My relationship with Olivia is long over. Perhaps these residual feelings of anger are due to your interest in her."

Maxim growled and shoved the man back into the wall. "Give us a second, Olivia," he said gruffly.

She didn't move for a long moment. "But—"

"Just one more second," he repeated without looking her way. "Then you can have him." He could practically hear Olivia's pout, but she closed the door and left them alone.

Bertrand swallowed nervously. "What do you want, Detective?"

Maxim wished he knew. "Are you still seeing Olivia?"

A satisfied smile played on Bertrand's lips. "Are you asking as a detective?"

He gritted his teeth. "Of course."

"I am not, professionally or otherwise," he answered. "I'm here for Annabelle. The divorce was hard on her. Even beforehand, the troubled marriage had taken its toll. Annabelle feels emotionally abandoned. She acts out and will continue to do so for attention. Until she feels properly secure."

"What if she's not acting out? What if she really wants to run away?"

"That's ridiculous."

"If it was just a stunt, a cry for help, then why'd she bother covering for herself the entire weekend? It kind of defeats the point of attention if neither parent misses her, doesn't it?"

Dr. Collins face was turning red. Maxim wasn't holding him that tightly, so he knew the man was angry. "Will you allow me to attend to my patient or not?"

Maxim sneered. He didn't know what it was about the doctor that set him off. Or about Olivia. He understood being overprotective of Annabelle, especially after what she'd been through, but nobody seemed concerned with finding out what she knew.

The detective released Bertrand and backed off. The man exhaled slowly, relieved. "Thank you, Detective." He squeezed by Maxim's shoulder and opened the front door.

"Have you ever asked her?" posited Maxim.

Bertrand turned around, eyeing the detective carefully, afraid of another confrontation. "Asked her?"

"Have you ever just asked her?" he repeated. "What it is
she
wants?"

The psychologist frowned at the ensuing awkward silence, then shut the door. Maxim chewed his lip and stared at the solid wood, wondering why no one else was asking the same thing.

 

 

 

 

Diego tightened his grip on the handle of his Benelli M4. It made him feel alive, invigorated, like he was seeing an old friend again. One who didn't judge him or hate him. More than that. The shotgun was a part of him. A missing piece, reunited. It had slipped into the holster on his bike as though it was there yesterday, and it fit his hand as if he'd never lost it.

It suited him. Finally, Diego felt like an outlaw again.

Red and Kayda believed the weapon wouldn't be enough. They preferred pikes and glyphs, perhaps. For Diego's part, he figured nothing short of werewolves were a good match for a pocketful of 12-gauge buckshot. But even if it didn't kill them, it could put them down.

The biker strode confidently through the forest. While grit had always been in his arsenal, now he packed that alongside the knowledge that he might be seeking something supernatural. And again, that was a good fit for the man. Once he'd been a hunter of wolves, sanctioned by the US government. Diego was good at it, but he hated being an assassin.

Law. Crime. Those were distinctions that Maxim needed to concern himself with. To Diego, what mattered was the pursuit. The purpose. Were his actions right or wrong? Hunting was fine with the man. As long as the prey deserved it.

In this case, a little girl, an
innocent
girl, was the victim. God help anyone who stood in Diego's way. And whether his foe was superstition or not, he needed to give Hazel that chance.

The biker wasn't sure what the Celtic cross glyphs meant, but they were linked to Red. Hazel, too, was linked to him somehow. Diego had been on to something before when he discovered the symbols. When he woke up next to one scrawled in the dirt. The wild forest south of Williams was only lightly explored thus far, and that gave him all the hope he needed to still believe he could rescue the girl.

After two hours, Diego was confident he still had his bearings. Although it was midday, the dense canopy of the forest bathed him in near-constant shadow. The sun was weak today, trapped behind a dense fog, but still useful. Beams of light stretched through the foliage and served as his compass, but now they straightened into vertical pillars.

Diego stopped for a breath. It was unusually humid now and he was sweating like crazy. His small water bottle was just about empty, but he knew hydration wasn't something best rationed. Get the fluid into the body early and often, so it would be ready to perform without any hang-ups. When he gulped the last of it, he crushed the plastic container into a ball and put the cap back on, then slipped the trash into his pocket.

The sun was directly overhead. Diego considered sitting until the sunbeams leaned westward so he wouldn't get lost, but the memory of waking up in the dirt discouraged him. That wouldn't happen now. He was calm, well-hydrated, and had a decent night of sleep. But still, he couldn't bring himself to risk sitting down.

Before he made a decision, he saw it again: a flash of light swaying in the distance. It lolled up, down, and around. It seemed to disappear when it moved behind tree trunks, leaving little ambient light, only to suddenly burst on again in a different place, a bit farther than where it should have been. The glow had an unnatural, disjointed motion. There was no doubt it was the same thing he'd seen the night before.

"Don't follow the lights," muttered Diego under his breath. He wondered if Kayda knew the reasons behind her advice. Was it just obfuscation? A trick to make her seem more knowledgeable? More powerful? He licked his lips into a slow snarl, agonizing over every moment he stood still. "Easier said than done."

The light danced in what Diego was sure was a taunt. He flexed his jaw.

The distance between him and the bulb was what—a hundred yards? With his heavy boots and leathers, and while avoiding obstacles, he could do that in twenty-five seconds. That meant, if he went all out, he'd be able to answer one nagging question in half a minute.

On top of that, he was sure he could play this smart. If he were to chase the light, he swore not to get involved in a protracted hunt. He'd simply change his position from here to there, without any danger of getting turned around. Just to test whoever was out there.

It sure was tempting.

Diego noticed his cheek twitch under the strain. He was often accused of being spontaneous. Of acting before his brain analyzed the situation. Sometimes, the label "reckless idiot" was floated around. On the other hand, no one had ever called Diego de la Torre a pussy.

With a deflated sigh, he grabbed his Benelli by the barrel and took a single step towards the forest glow.

A loud caw jolted the serenity. Two. Four. Diego turned, and a mad chorus of chirps assaulted his ears. A murder of crows hopped and chattered and flapped wildly in the dirt, a single beam of light shining on them from above. The chaotic grouping meshed into a flat circle on the ground, then a sphere as they jumped and nipped at each other, always moving, blending as one. It reminded Diego of a painting he'd seen once. Had it represented hell?

The biker had never been good with imagery.

Diego glanced at the spinning light again. Still lackadaisical. Still within reach. Then he considered the crows. They were from Kayda's flock, were they not?

The cawing reached a fevered pitch and two of the crows flew into the air. Diego became consumed with the feeling that he would miss something and rushed forward. Against the cacophony, he didn't even make a sound, yet before he reached them, the tangle of birds launched skyward. The biker covered his face as several wings whisked around him, and he looked up.

In a break of the canopy, Diego saw the scattering forms of the flock set against the blinding sun. A single feather brushed his face, and he covered his eyes and turned away.

His pupils burned. The whole forest was darker now. When he searched the trees, he couldn't see the dancing glow anymore.

"I thought the light of the moon was supposed to guide me," he said offhandedly.

But the biker couldn't ignore what had just happened. He shut his eyes and wondered if it was truly possible to sense the moon without seeing it. Diego concentrated. Whatever was supposed to happen, he didn't feel anything. Whatever it took, Diego didn't have it in him. Then he heard an awful chirp at his feet.

On the ground next to him, where the band of birds had jostled, was a wounded crow lying on its side. It blinked at him twice, then died.

Diego slowly drew a breath in and out.

Somewhere in the bushes, a child giggled.

The biker spun and fell backwards.

"Who's there?"

He rolled in the dirt and pulled his 12-gauge close. Green eyes shimmered in the brush, then vanished. A rustling sound sped behind him. Diego rotated, trying to locate the source.

"Wait," he shouted. "I can help you!"

"Buh buh bah," came a voice to the other side of him. It sounded like a baby's. Unformed.

He caught a blur of movement behind a tree. Diego backed away, on his knees. A twig snapped to his left, and someone sobbed to his right. Trying to ascertain the threat was dizzying.

And then his eyes locked with those of another, peeking from behind a sycamore. A little boy with bright green eyes stared back at him. Bright locks of gold fell over his ears. He did nothing but watch. Diego followed the child's lead.

Neither moved for what seemed an eternity.

Slowly but abruptly, the area brightened. At first, Diego didn't take his eyes off the face peeking from behind the tree. He figured it was just the fog finally giving way. But then his back began to burn, and something told Diego he was going to die.

The biker rolled onto his back and thrust the shotgun up. A piercing white light, stronger even than the sun, loomed over him. The intensity threatened to drive him senseless. To shut him down. But Diego squeezed the trigger of the semi-auto three times until the swimming stopped.

Besides the ringing in his ears, the woods were quiet.

Diego's eyelids were clamped shut as if frozen. He strained to open them but his body resisted, unwilling to risk exposure. Diego chanced taking his left hand off his weapon to rub his eyes and shield them as they opened.

It wasn't dark, but he lay only in the veiled light of the sun. Everything was still. Leaves didn't rustle, branches didn't sway—even the feathers lay motionless on the dirt. It was as if the breeze had abandoned the world completely. As Diego scanned his surroundings while on his back, he came face to face with the dead crow. He jumped to his knees.

He didn't know why, but he was exhausted. As before, his body needed to rest, even though he hadn't done anything intensive. Diego stuck the barrel of the shotgun into the ground and propped himself up with it.

The light was gone. The children were gone. Somehow, it had already been a long day, and it was only noon.

"Why don't you come out and talk to me?" yelled Diego, deciding it best to remain crouched.

In the distance, Diego heard someone whistling a song. He couldn't make it out, but it reminded him of the melody Julia whistled to her daughter.

Diego drew in a deep breath and whistled back. It was a short tune, repetitive, and catchy. Within moments, the whistler replied with the same song.

Diego turned to face the sound and whistled again. The mimicked tune came back to him, this time to his side, but closer. The biker faced the new position. He was getting somewhere. He took in another breath and whistled softly, beckoning the other person forward.

"How did you do that with the bird?" asked a child beside him.

Instead of moving frenetically, Diego remained crouched and slowly pivoted on the grip of his M4. Before him, not more than ten feet away, was the same small child, maybe eight, maybe ten. He was still pale with blond hair, but his eyes were now a light blue. Faded almost. The boy wore neither shirt nor shoes, but around his waist was the same red kilt the biker had seen in Red's RV.

"Where'd you get that?" asked Diego. The child's brows wrinkled as if he didn't understand. The biker ignored the tension in his muscles. The last thing he wanted was to come off too intimidating to the child. "The, uh, birds..." stuttered Diego, glancing down at the dead crow.

The boy giggled. "Yeah. That was funny."

Diego scanned the trees for others but didn't find anything. "Who are you? Where are your parents?"

The boy's expression soured. "They're very far away, but it's not bad here. Call the birds back."

"Do you know a little girl named Hazel Cunningham? Have you seen her out here?"

"You're old. Old people ask too many questions."

"It's important," stressed Diego.

The boy beheld him, pondering. His face eased into a passive mask. He wasn't upset or scared or sad—he was simply bored. He turned his back to the biker and stepped deeper into the brush.

"You can't come with us," he said with detachment, "if that's what you're thinking."

"Don't leave!" ordered Diego, taking to his feet.

The child, as if on a spring, launched away from him.

Diego barreled ahead in pursuit. The boy was faster than him, more adept at sidestepping the trunks of errant trees, but the biker would be damned if he'd let anything take the boy from him at this point. He charged forward and used his size to ignore the smaller obstacles, barging through the brush and smaller branches. His long stride was an advantage as he leaped over patches of foliage. Even though he was big city through and through, he liked to think he did an admirable job of keeping up.

But his fatigue still lingered. The little boy drew ahead. Diego lost sight of the child here and there. He scrambled to keep him in view, and did for a time, but ultimately the boy triumphed. Diego surged over a small hill and, although the trees didn't provide much cover ahead, his quarry was nowhere to be found.

The biker continued sprinting, stubbornness seeking the impossible, but eventually logic prevailed. As he reached a huge overturned tree, Diego slowed and coughed, suddenly acutely aware of his smoking habit. He slung the Benelli over his shoulder and rotated in a circle, taking in a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the terrain. Beside him, a large pine had uprooted and collapsed fairly recently. Clusters of fresh dirt had been ripped from the ground and hugged a heavy tangle of roots that stretched into the air.

No place to hide here, though, nor anywhere in the distance. Had he overshot the boy?

Diego whistled the tune as loudly as he could muster, but only silence answered. "Hazel!" he screamed. Again, no lights, no sounds. No children. Diego continued spinning around, absorbing the environment, searching for something, anything, that would allow him to continue his pursuit.

His boot rapped against something solid. An ivory object protruded from a section of upturned earth. Diego crouched to examine it and immediately went white. It was a bone. He dropped his Benelli and dug at the loose soil with his fingers. More bones. Piles of them, neatly stacked, of all sizes. Fingers. Legs. There was probably a complete skeleton here, and they were unmistakably human. Diego fought back his emotions as he clawed the ground frantically. He thought he could uncover something to reveal this all as a joke. A fabrication of someone's sick devising. When Diego uncovered the skull, his worst fears were realized. This was a child's skeleton.

The biker fell backwards and rested on the ground. Dirty hands supported his head. He fought to stay in control, to rationalize his discovery away.

And then it came to him. Because the shallow grave had been unearthed by the upturned tree, it was difficult to gauge how long the child had been buried. But there was no flesh here. Not a sliver of meat or fat clung to the bones. Not even a trace of cartilage. Decay couldn't act so quickly, and wild animals didn't scavenge so completely. These bones were perfect in their purity, polished bare, set in a stack, and not a drop of blood in sight.