The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3) (19 page)

 

 

 

 

Diego hiked through the brush, lost in his head. The same images kept repeating in his mind. The same moments. Julia's smile. Hazel's class picture. The discovery of the RV. Had Hazel been alive then? The biker should've broken the door down when he first found it.

Second-guessing was a harrying game. It was impossible to know if he could've made a difference. He didn't even know for certain whose bones he left behind in the forest.

Diego desperately wanted to hope. He didn't know if it was more for Hazel's sake or for his. But his grit was an act. He was moving, but he was slowing down, and he had no goal in mind. He started with the long walk back to his bike.

Although Diego made progress through the forest, he felt like he was on a treadmill: sprinting forward, but getting nowhere. The day had started promisingly. Now the sun was nearly set and everything seemed a waste.

As he trekked back, he passed through familiar ground and was startled to see a woman kneeling on the forest floor. Diego reached for the knife at his wrist before recognizing her.

"Kayda?"

The young woman quickly rose, eyes red, distressed but calm. "You're alive."

She said it matter-of-factly. There was relief in her face, at least, but Diego realized her tears were for another.

"The crow that died. It was yours."

Kayda's eyes fell to the spot in the dirt where she had buried it. It was the same spot where Diego had fallen and been nearly overwhelmed by the light.

"The crow court," explained Kayda. "It's a ritual performed by tight-knit communities. Crows are smarter than many realize. And they have severe penalties for those among them who cross the line."

Diego stepped closer. "What line?"

The Yavapai woman shrugged. "Not belonging to the group. I used to be like that." Kayda studied the mound of fresh dirt with horror. "It must have been brutal."

Diego was still stuck on belonging. His fears about Hazel weighed his mind down. "How does a crow not belong with crows?"

"They were under the control of someone—or something—else."

"What kind of control?"

"There is muddiness here, Diego. It stains the water and makes it black. Sycamore is alive with spirits."

There she went again. This time, however, Diego entertained the possibility. "The lights. The children."

"They are not children. Not anymore."

After his encounter, Diego could no longer deny that. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. "They're dangerous. I almost died right beside that crow."

Kayda Garnett circled the loose dirt at her feet. "They know not what they do. They don't consider the consequences. Their minds are not like yours or mine. They survive by staying in the shadows and dazzling intruders with lights and misdirection."

"But they showed me..." said Diego. "One of them led me to the bones."

"The bones of the girl?"

"We don't know that. The bones could be from any child. Until the DNA links them to Hazel, she's still missing." The biker wondered if his words sounded as hollow as they were. Kayda's assumption was normal. Expected. Deep down, Diego feared the same thing. But giving voice to the possibility made it more real.

Her face softened. "Those aren't the only bones in the forest, Diego. That isn't Red's only victim."

She was right. She had to be. If the old man was careful, if he was good, then there was a simple explanation for the girl not being in the RV anymore. If those weren't her bones, they would be in another grave nearby.

The witch continued. "Fay bear fay—the green children must have a father."

The biker furrowed his brow and stepped closer to the woman. "No more oblique references, Kayda. No more riddles. You know something about them. Tell me what you're talking about."

She sighed. "The old man. I understand the glyphs in the trees now. They were warnings. But it wasn't the old man who marked the trees. It was the children. They were warning each other about him."

"Red..." Diego's face darkened. "He's not an ordinary man. He wears a leg brace but runs like lightning. He overpowered a bear of a man. He's limber, strong, and I think he took a few bullets."

"He's not a man at all." Kayda circled the ground once more and, like a cat, sensed something unseen that compelled her to sit. She stared longingly at the dirt.

"But he's not a spirit," said the biker. "He bled all right."

She shrugged. "Not one of them then, but not human. The green children have an aversion to original metals. This man wears them. That rules him out but only widens the mystery."

Diego's skin burned as he thought about Red. Whatever he was, he was a pestilence on this land.

Kayda traced a line in the dirt as she spoke. "He's not from around here, so we may never know what he truly is, but my family tells an old story of a man unhurt by the metal of the invaders, a man not living or dead, but feeding on both worlds. His strength waxed and waned like the moon, only it was powered by blood and death."

Diego crouched beside the Yavapai woman. "He gained strength by killing others? By eating them?"

The moonwitch ignored the question and continued her folktale. "None of the able hunters who challenged this man returned to their homes. Their souls were condemned to forever wander the in-between, never to see a harvest again. It's a terrible dishonor among my people to not be put to rest. That was the end of many great families."

Diego couldn't get the image of the monstrous child-killer from his head. Of Red's large teeth. "And what about the story? The man unhurt by metal. How does that end?"

Kayda Garnett met his gaze. "With a flood, Diego. When the land drowned, only First Woman remained. All others disappeared, good and evil alike."

Diego returned to his feet, wary of old legends. "So all we need is an act of God." He reached for his pack of cigarettes. "Well, Kayda, I hate to point this out, but the rain already stopped. This is high country. We won't see more than a few puddles."

She shrugged again, still worried about her stupid bird. With a scowl, Diego de la Torre lit his smoke and trudged towards his Scrambler. Whatever sadness the woman was feeling, he had a greater death on his conscience.

 

 

 

 

The front porch light was on, standing out on the dark street. It was a small house, an old house, but it was a house. A home. Somewhere to raise family. A place once full of life and laughter.

Now it was quiet. Lonely. The single mother who lived there had nothing but good memories and grief. Hope and sorrow. It was funny how those conflicting emotions could reside beside each other.

The biker took a drag on the cigarette through his open helmet. He hadn't bothered taking it off. He'd been sitting outside Julia's house for two hours, and he hadn't even bothered getting off his bike.

How could he confront her now? What could he possibly say to her?

She was expecting him to say something. The outside light was on because she was waiting for him. Waiting for Hazel. The girl would never come.

Diego didn't know if it was his fault, but he couldn't be the messenger. He wasn't the type to come up empty-handed.

Some things, though, could never be set right.

The futility turned to anger again. Then rage. The outlaw thought about going after Red with everything he had. If Diego's hands were meant to be bloody, he might as well spill the old man's too. He would put him down whether it was legal or not, no matter what the cops could prove. If guns didn't work, Diego would find another way.

Red needed to pay for what he did to Hazel.

And that was the silver lining. His only possible offering to a grieving mother. The head of the man who took away her little girl.

But the man had disappeared. The police were chasing their tails and Diego wasn't gonna find Red all by himself.

Futility. Anger. Hopelessness. Rage. The biker kept going in circles. Kept running in place. Kept dropping the ball.

The front door opened and Julia Cunningham stepped out. She looked right at him. She must have seen him through the window. Diego threw his smoke to the ground and twisted his boot on it. He didn't know what he had to offer the woman. Not now. Not yet.

With a flick of his hand, his dark visor slammed over his face. Diego's Scrambler came to life. The disappointment was plain on Julia's face as he pulled away. She tried to wave him down but he clenched his jaw and sped past along the road.

He only made it to the end of the block before he turned around.

Diego was embarrassed about the display but he swallowed his pride. As he pulled into Julia's driveway, he realized he would've been more ashamed to cut and run on the woman. She deserved better than him, that was sure, but that didn't excuse not offering his best.

"Have you talked to the police?" she asked with urgency. She flung her arms around him before he could even get his helmet off.

That was good. Diego wasn't ready to wear his mask yet. He didn't even know if he should. Julia wanted to hear that Hazel was okay. Diego had offered false promises before. Now he wondered if he was only leading her on, setting her up for a greater fall.

He should confess his failure. He should brace her for the news that Hazel was probably dead.

"No," was all he said.

"Oh my God," said Julia, strangely hyper. She helped him take off the helmet. "You didn't talk to Maxim?"

He eyed her curiously. Julia was energized. Excited almost. "What's going on?"

"He told me he tried to call you but you didn't pick up. He said the bones would be on the news and he didn't want me to worry."

"Julia—"

"It's not Hazel, Diego! The bones are from a little boy. Maxim said the Flagstaff office made the determination and he wanted us to be the first to know."

The biker gasped. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He didn't know what to say. Julia laughed and hugged him again.

It was strange to feel relief at the news, to prefer one child's death over another, but Diego didn't have the headspace to confront those emotions now. The moment was what mattered.

The biker clasped Julia tightly and buried his face in her shoulder. All the grating unease of the day evaporated and tears welled in his eyes. A dead boy wasn't good news but it stayed the bad news. It wasn't cause for celebration, perhaps, but maybe it was cause for hope.

 

 

 

 

"Goodnight, Marshal," said Maxim.

"What'd you call me?"

Maxim unglued his attention from the bright computer monitor. He had to squint to make out the uniformed police officer. "Gutierrez?"

The patrol officer chuckled. "Who else?"

The detective rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back. "I thought you were Boyd leaving for the day. What time is it?"

"The end of B Shift. I'm headed out."

Maxim surveyed the empty office in surprise. The marshal was gone by six most days. If something special came up, he sometimes pushed his dinner late, but Boyd was certainly never around by the end of B Shift. Not only had Maxim not noticed him leave, the detective had skipped the formality of dinner altogether.

He checked the computer to make sure the officer wasn't playing a trick on him. Nope. The internet agreed. It was 2 a.m. and he was still without a play for the next day.

Not a great start as the new lead detective.

"You have anything tying Munro to those bones?" asked Gutierrez.

Maxim cleared his throat. "Not really, but his motor home is littered with DNA."

"The dogs didn't find more graves?"

The detective shook his head. "I don't think Sycamore lets us find anything it doesn't want us to."

Gutierrez raised an eyebrow. It was odd for Maxim to talk like that, even if they both knew more about the area than most. Maybe the long night was getting to him. He brushed it off and returned to the facts.

"Brody confirmed the remains are recent. Not more than six months old."

The officer leaned against the exit doorway he'd been about to walk through. "So you think this grave is a previous victim, and grandpa could have abducted Hazel next?"

"He had the opportunity," afforded Maxim. "But the blood we found on the shackles didn't match her blood type. We're testing it against the other trace DNA we recovered. I have no doubt we'll get some matches when the lab results come back, but right now there's no tangible link between her and Munro."

"All this can't be a coincidence, though."

Maxim wished it was that easy. "Remember, Annabelle had no knowledge of Lachlan Munro either."

Gutierrez snorted. "Seems like a spoiled brat, if you ask me. I told you not to trust her."

"It's not that..." said Maxim, trailing off. As a witness, Annabelle Hayes was unreliable. But there was a good reason for that: trauma. Back at Echo Canyon, her face had been desperate. The girl had developed an urge to run. To escape. All Maxim needed to figure out was the trigger. "We're looking at the details and missing the bigger picture," he insisted. "Children missing in the forest. Accounts of strange sightings that don't match the victims. A likely child murderer living off the land. This is wider than we realize."

The young officer pushed away from his perch. "Well, it's nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. It must feel good to have a Coconino task force mobilized at your command. I'm sure you've got big plans for them in the morning. No point staying here until then."

Maxim scowled as Gutierrez headed out. It was good advice. Only he needed said plan first.

The detective brushed the stack of papers aside and minimized the report he'd been typing up. He'd taken on his new responsibility to the case eagerly. Overtime. A skipped meal. He was determined to see Lachlan Munro's crooked smile again and was willing to make whatever sacrifices it required. But assessing the entire investigation was an exercise in the banalities of police work.

The detective rubbed his tired eyes and stood. He hooked his jacket over his shoulder with one hand and retrieved his Glock with his other. He nodded to the officer manning the overnight desk on the way out and headed for his Audi.

It would have been easy to drive home. That didn't mean he had to call it a night. The laptop that rested on the passenger seat beside him attested to that. But something about the monotonous rhythm of the reflectors on Interstate 40 cleared Maxim's mind.

The past few days had seen the detective focused almost exclusively on Annabelle. Not only had the rest of the case been the responsibility of the Sheriff's Office, but the little girl they had in safety was the best chance to recover the little girl that was still missing. Now, with his assuming Detective Harper's role, Maxim had spent the entire day on Hazel Cunningham. And Red. But those were dead ends too.

Coconino had spun its wheels on Hazel already. And Red was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost. If Maxim was going to make any headway in the investigation, he needed to go at it from a fresh angle. Sycamore was enigmatic, and he'd be forever lost in the wilderness if he couldn't see the forest for the trees.

It wasn't long before Maxim realized he was driving right to Echo Canyon.

He took the bumpy road slowly in his roadster. His headlights were the only source of illumination at this hour; their beams cast strange shadows on the tree line. Turning them off when he parked didn't help ease the quiet tension, though. Echo Canyon would forever be a tainted place after what they had discovered.

Maxim clicked on his Maglite and hiked to the clearing. He illuminated the dead trees as he carefully stepped over them, intent on avoiding another midnight fall or wasted pair of shoes. It hadn't rained since they'd lost Red but the air was still heavy, the ground moist.

Maxim replayed the scene in his head again and again. Tumbling away from the iron pike. Rolling in the mud. The detective realized he still needed to clean his weapon after submerging it in rain.

The clearing felt odd without the RV. The smashed planks of wood and abandoned furniture were just trash without their centerpiece. The overturned barrel that had been kicked into Maxim was no longer here, either. At Maxim's request, the techs had taken it downtown to examine its contents.

He remembered seeing the smoke rise from the fire pit when they'd first approached Red in the rain. Maxim knew Munro had a fire going before it was drenched. He knew the old man liked to cook up squirrels. He also knew evidence could be burned.

Maxim ran the beam of the flashlight over the area where he'd fallen on the ground. He had pushed the barrel away from him and expected Red to strike. Instead, they chased his RV across the tracks.

What they never did was probe Echo Canyon with a fine-tooth comb. Aside from the horrible weather conditions, in the minds of the police the crime scene had moved. It was with the shackles and the blood and the human meat in the freezer. It was inside the motor home, not outside.

Besides wood and coal and animal bones, the techs at Flagstaff hadn't been able to identify the ash in the fire pit. Science might find an answer in another day or two, but as Maxim's Maglite passed over a darkened spot of red glued to the dirt, he knew he wouldn't need to wait.

The strip of red protruded from a flat section of ground. The dirt was so smooth that Maxim knew it was a dried puddle of mud. He grabbed the red ribbon and yanked it loose, tearing a clump of dirt from the ground. The strip of cloth was no longer than two inches.

The dried top layer of soil crumbled away as Maxim rolled the ribbon in his hand. The red was still stained but became brighter, and Maxim noticed two things. First, the tiny piece of cloth was not a flat color but, in fact, plaid. Next, its edges were blackened, not by dirt, but by fire.

The significance of the find immediately dawned on him. This was the plaid kilt Diego had seen in Munro's motor home a day ago. This was evidence the old man had tried to burn. The heavy rain was the only reason this sliver survived the flames.

But more was at work here.

The kilt Diego had found with the boy's bones was complete. It wasn't torn or burnt. That meant there were two separate kilts. Which could mean...

"There have to be other victims," he whispered to himself.

And it made sense. Red had lived off the grid for a long time with a custom-built prison. If he had indeed killed the young boy and eaten his flesh, then it was unlikely to have been the first time. Not when all the incidental details were considered. The prison was old. The bones were too clean. Red was no amateur.

Maxim stomped back to his car. He slammed the door and turned on the AC to fight off the humid air, but he didn't drive away. He opened his laptop and immediately went to work, tethering it to his cell phone and going online.

He forgot about Annabelle Hayes and Hazel Cunningham. He broadened his search parameters for any missing children that didn't lead to arrests, whether the victims were recovered or not. Knowing Lachlan Munro had been mobile, he widened his search area to multiple states. It was a completely new crime profile. The victims that would break the case weren't the two girls, they were the countless dead that a twisted killer had left in his wake. The ones he had already gotten away with. And, after an hour, Maxim narrowed the pool down to some interesting hits, if nothing definitive.

A Flagstaff boy had gone missing two years before. The case was never categorized as a missing person because his body was found the next day in Little Colorado River. There'd been no foul play to suggest the incident was anything less than a tragic accident, but when Maxim dug up the time of death, he was surprised to find the child had been on his own for twelve hours.

A situation a little more similar to Annabelle Hayes was a six-year-old case of a girl who'd disappeared while camping further south near Phoenix. She was located later the same night, lost and disoriented. Unfortunately, Maxim discovered that she had died in a car accident some years later, so that also left him with nothing. Except...

Hadn't someone mentioned another child that had been recovered? A reporter at the mistake of a press conference he'd held. Maxim searched for the
Post
article online and found a transcript. He saw it now. The eleven-year-old autistic girl who'd wandered away during a parade in Williams. That couldn't be a coincidence. She'd found her way back the next day. And by all accounts, she was still alive and living with her family.

It wasn't much of a plan, but at least it was a start.

Maxim's phone chimed. A call at this hour usually meant bad news for someone else. The screen reported the number as Olivia's. Worry set in, and he answered the phone immediately.

"What's going on?"

A long breath occupied the line. Then a giggle. "You don't sound sleepy."

It took Maxim a second to place the voice because it was deeper than usual. "Olivia?"

She sighed. "I know. You didn't expect to hear from me after what happened earlier."

"Sort of," he admitted. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure. Annabelle's doing better, if that's what you mean. Bertrand works wonders with her. You really should stop giving him a hard time. They had a long talk and agreed she was acting silly. But let's not talk about my daughter for once." Olivia paused and Maxim heard a swallowing sound. "It's been a rough day and I don't want to argue."

Maxim massaged his forehead and realized how tired he was. He briefly considered asking about access to Annabelle, but decided the time wasn't right. After a short silence, he accepted the peace offering. "Sure thing, Olivia. We can talk about something else. What, uh, what are you up to?"

She giggled again. "Oh, you know, just watching late-night TV in the den. Alone." The last word came out almost as a moan.

Immediately, Maxim knew the score. "Enjoying some more wine?"

"Why not?" she asked. "You know, I have a bottle of red waiting for you, if you want it."

"Oh yeah?" He didn't know what to say but had to keep the conversation moving. "What kind is it?"

"A Washington State Syrah. But that's not important, Maxim. Why don't you stop by and try it?"

"Uh..." he stalled. It wasn't an expert maneuver.

"You remember when you first came to my door?" she asked, oblivious to his hesitance. "Well, I just took a shower and have the same bathrobe on. It's so soft against my skin." She sipped more wine and hummed with pleasure. "What about you, Maxim?"

"Me?"

"What are you doing? What are you wearing?"

Maxim closed his laptop and set it on the seat beside him. He noticed something on the floor in front of the passenger seat. "Uh, Olivia. I'm wearing my suit. I'm in the driver's seat of my car."

She snorted. "Are you alone?"

"What? Yes." Maxim leaned forward and grabbed the shiny metal. He retrieved Annabelle's hulking key chain from under the seat.

"What are you doing? Are you still working?"

"Yes, Olivia."

He stared at the key chain, wondering. Annabelle must have accidentally left it behind when she was in his car yesterday.

The sound of a wine glass clanged down on a table. "How long were you going to let me go on like that?"

"Look, Olivia. Relax. It's been a rough day, like you said. A deputy's dead. A detective's injured. Our suspect is on the run. And now I'm in charge of the investigation."

The woman's tone continued to sharpen. "You're on the other girl's case?"

"Yes. Isn't that what you want?" he asked, confused. "To leave Annabelle alone? To let her decompress?"

"Of course." She said it as if she meant the opposite. He didn't know what to do or say. Salvaging the phone call felt impossible at this point.

"Olivia, I still care about how Annabelle's doing, if that's what—"

"Here we go again," she said. "I thought we'd be able to have a single talk without bringing her up." Maxim heard a cork pop and the pouring of more wine.

"Come on," pleaded Maxim. "I can't win." He rubbed his temples and set the girl's key chain on top of his computer. "Olivia, you're absolutely gorgeous, but I'm sorry. I can't sit here flirting on the phone with you when I'm working. And I don't know if it's appropriate to spend... time with you now."