The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3) (9 page)

 

 

 

 

Diego put his last cigarette to his lips. He hadn't chain-smoked like this in years. It was a minor comfort, at least, that he didn't kill the pack in a single day.

It was now Wednesday morning. Two days after Hazel Cunningham disappeared. The first forty-eight.

Diego thought of the TV show and wondered if that was really a thing. Was there actually a forty-eight hour threshold that drastically reduced the chances of a murder or abduction being solved? For the girl's sake, he hoped the police wouldn't move on so quickly. He knew they'd get answers eventually—they were methodical like that—but his main concern was the behemoth of bureaucracy moving at a snail's pace.

Diego? He had his own way of doing things. A way that got results. Right now that meant sitting on his Scrambler outside a post office and lighting a smoke at ten in the morning.

He didn't know why he hadn't mentioned the lead to Maxim. Or mentioned Red. The thing with Jason Bower had turned into a clusterfuck, but it worked itself out. Diego was okay. They had at least a tiny bit more understanding of the situation. Well, maybe knowledge was a better term, because Diego de la Torre had no understanding of what a crying kid in the forest meant.

A Williams, Arizona PO Box. That was all Diego had to go on now. An old man who'd been turned away from Quiet Pines the night before anything happened.

Except that wasn't entirely true anymore. Jason's encounter occurred that night. Something strange
had
happened the night before Hazel went missing. It just hadn't involved the girl or Julia. That was the one promising sign that silenced Diego's doubts. Why he told himself he could easily waste another day doing this, when he feared deep down the smart play was to make an appearance at the tow yard and apologize to Harry Pendle.

No, Diego pushed the cowardly thought from his head. There was a link here. Finding Red would get him a step closer. And he wouldn't get the police involved until he could prove that.

So it was nice when Diego finally had a turn of luck.

Well, it wasn't entirely luck. The outlaw's skill set consisted of brawling, tracking, and shooting people. He always had a puncher's chance when his task involved one of those three. So when he saw a red-haired old man limping down the sidewalk, wearing an old iron brace on his right leg and holding some sort of cane as tall as he was, Diego smiled confidently.

So much for another pack of smokes.

Red was an old man, impressive in both his frailty and his hardiness. Diego couldn't tell his age from this distance, but the man was skinny and pale, hunched over his staff of a cane, with a head of bright red hair and bushy eyebrows to boot. He was dressed plainly, just a white undershirt and overalls, but it was his frame that made an impression: he was tall and had oversized arms, thin but lengthy, except for hands that were the size of bear paws. Despite the leg brace, he walked with an even gait and long stride, and had he stood up straight and been in the prime of his life, Diego knew he would be witnessing an intimidating figure.

Diego smoked his cigarette and waited as the man disappeared inside the post office. He would need to play this one differently than Jason Bower. Be more discreet. Less direct. He wasn't sure if Maxim would extend him another favor if he got into trouble again so soon. At any rate, Williams PD and the sheriff's office were different beasts.

Ten minutes and a stick of gum later, Red emerged from the building empty-handed. He shielded his eyes from the harsh sun and made his way back the way he came. It was likely he just checked his mail. Diego considered following on foot, but there was no telling how far the old man was going. Besides, the Triumph was illegally parked.

The biker waited until Red was nearly out of sight before starting his Scrambler. He lowered the black facemask on his gold helmet and idled forward a couple of blocks before parking again, making sure not to get too close. Strangely enough, Red didn't turn down any of the residential back streets. Instead, he headed into an industrial section.

That made Diego's job more difficult. Fewer pedestrians meant he stood out, but he managed to block the old man's line of sight by hiding behind a parked truck here or there. Eventually, Red turned onto a set of train tracks, moving along them, out of Williams.

The biker considered what little he knew of the man. Red lived in the Sycamore wild. Away from the bustling towns, even those as small as Williams. He was a loner who liked his privacy and freedom. That made him strange to the conformist crowd. Suspicious, even.

The man began to hobble on his bad leg. Some combination of rough terrain and failing endurance caused him to lean into his crutch more. He appeared older.

Diego gave him ten minutes. Red was a speck in the distance before he needed to move. The tracks leaving the city didn't have a real access road, just a worn dirt path. The passage cut through the wild, with thickening trees on either side. There was no way for Diego not to stick out, so he settled again on distance.

Thus far, Red hadn't glanced back a single time. This was a man who was used to being marginalized. Ignored. It worked in Diego's favor now.

The biker rode the black Scrambler along the tracks, moving as slowly as he could. It wasn't a good plan—it wasn't even a plan at all—it was just action. Implementation. That's what he did best. He would save the elaborate deceptions for Maxim.

Unsurprisingly, like all poorly conceived strategies, it was destined to come with a hitch. This happened when Red, perhaps hearing the low rumble of Diego's motorcycle, searched behind him.

There was no way to hide and no point in trying. Instead, Diego continued forward at a solid pace, faster than before, so as not to appear peculiar. The old man trudged ahead some more, then stopped and leaned on his crutch, watching Diego advance.

The biker—helmet on, facemask down, head forward—drove right by Red. His appearance was a curiosity, maybe, but it wasn't overly suspicious. They were just two men who crossed each other's paths. Furthermore, it was impossible for Red to get a good look at him.

To keep up the ruse, Diego continued ahead. He forced himself not to look back. Besides, Red was clear in his rearview mirrors. The old man struggled ahead on uncertain footing, but Diego left him in the dust soon enough.

When Diego de la Torre was far enough ahead that Red was out of sight, he slowed down again and lifted his facemask. He cursed. Maybe he should have followed Red on foot. But his plan hadn't been a complete failure. He had made progress. Even if Red's destination was uncertain, the old man was a compass, pointing him closer to his goal.

The biker idled ahead, scanning both sides of the tracks, hoping for any signs of activity. Any sign of Hazel. This slow pace continued for a mile until he noticed a clearing to the north.

He'd almost passed it because it wasn't especially visible from the railroad tracks. Surrounded by trees, the clearing was shaped like a flag lot, with a thin path heading into it before it widened. But it was the trees that ultimately caught Diego's attention.

Dead logs, with no apparent cause for their condition, lay haphazardly in the open area. The space was barren of actual growth, leading him to believe it had been caused by a fire or other event.

Without another thought, Diego pulled his Triumph past the clearing and parked within the tree line. The old man had to be at least a twenty-minute mile behind him. Maybe twice that. Leaving his helmet and riding gear on, Diego crept through the brush and to the dry land. Brown grass, black logs: the spot was a bubble of death cutting into the predatory life of Sycamore.

In the center of the clearing, obvious to any curious enough to look, was a faded yellow and brown RV.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diego was alone in the clearing, but he instinctively ducked. Something about the surroundings creeped him out. It wasn't the type of thing that was easy to explain—it happened at a subconscious level—but the combination of isolation, dead foliage, and the worn vehicle made his skin crawl.

This was it: Red's RV. The man preferred to live in the wild, just off the tracks, alone but within easy walking distance to town for supplies.

Train tracks weren't like streets. They cut through the wild without civilizing it. No cars pulled over here. No passengers or pedestrians busied themselves in these woods. The iron horse would announce its presence from a mile away and cause the earth to rumble, but it would roar past and allow the land to settle. Until the trees were cleared and man paved over the dirt, this forest would be wild. But, like a lot of Sycamore, it was a national forest. Protected. Conserved. Ruled by a natural order.

Fallen trees were the only natural features of the clearing. The grass was barely there, dry, dead. For whatever reason, the healthy trees yielded a few hundred feet of space before their dense walls resumed.

Diego glanced back toward the tracks, barely visible through the brush. Maybe Red thought this was a good place to park. The clearing allowed the RV easy access to the dirt road. The wheels of the heavy vehicle wouldn't get caught in thick brush. It was possible the clearing even kept scavenging animals at bay.

Taking maximum advantage of the cushion, the old motor home was parked in the very center of the area. It was a large vehicle, once white but now yellowed by age. A brown stripe ran the length of its boxy frame over the wheels. The front windshield and grill was flat like a bus, but slanted at a slight angle. The whole thing looked like a slightly aerodynamic shipping container with windows, all tinted black except for the front cab area.

Spray painted on the visible left side were the words "Keep Out."

Diego didn't know anything about RVs, but he knew this one was old. Its style screamed the seventies, at least. Small sections of paint were chipped away, a tail light cover was missing, and one of the windows had a flat piece of particle board drilled over it. As decrepit as it appeared, however, it was obvious the vehicle was road ready. The tires were fairly new and it had updated Texas plates.

Some of the surrounding items didn't appear as well kept. An old sofa sat against the back of the RV, half of the faded fabric ripped away revealing the wooden frame underneath. There were no cushions except what was built in, and much of that padding was torn open and exposed. Various bottles and gallon water jugs, some filled, some not, littered the area. A stack of wooden pallets formed a makeshift table. A broken-down gas generator sat beside it. A plastic blue rain barrel waited to collect water. Another barrel, this one metal, served as a fire pit. It contained ash enough to evidence a year's worth of heat.

Red was a survivalist, then. An old man who'd had his fill of society. He'd made the choice to break away and live by his own rules. That made the man an outcast, but Diego could understand the outlook. He'd run away from the Commissioned Corps when he couldn't take it anymore. He'd joined the motorcycle club and quit when he didn't belong. Tightly regimented service had a way of squeezing away the excess. Red's sentiment wasn't so far off. As long as he still respected the rules of society.

As long as there wasn't a little girl inside that RV.

"Hello?" Diego called out.

Immediately, he regretted making the noise. His instinct was that, if someone was watching him, saying "hi" would ease suspicion. Now that he thought about it, though, he figured if someone had kidnapped a little girl, a stranger poking around would always be viewed as a threat.

Still, no one answered, and Diego heard no sounds. The biker wasted no time and peeked in the windows.

A black film lined the inside glass. As bright as it was outside, the tinted windows might as well have been opaque. Even cupping his hands to his face against the glass, Diego couldn't see a thing.

He circled the vehicle looking for a weak point. Only the front windows of the long RV were clear, and peeking in them didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary. The passenger seat was used as a shelf, holding a small stack of
Field & Stream
magazines, a box of Kleenex tissues, a package of cheese-sandwich crackers, and three empty Aqua Vitae water bottles. A twine necklace hung from the rearview mirror, a metal cross pendant facing the driver.

The biker peered deeper into the motor home, but a makeshift curtain was draped across the back of the seats, attached to the ceiling with hooks.

Diego backed off the doorstep and frowned. He didn't want to do anything illegal—not again—but he didn't have many options. He was alone and never carried his cell phone with him. If there was a chance Hazel was inside this truck, he was the only one that could help. There was no way he could walk away.

"Is anyone there?" Diego called out. He gave it a minute and then approached the thin door on the far side of the vehicle. It, too, had a blacked-out window. The biker gritted his teeth and knocked.

As he waited, Diego considered whether it was finally time to replace that shotty he'd lost. Something about this primitive home made him feel defenseless. Guns set people on edge, instigated conflict, and made him look guilty. He wanted to avoid that, ideally, but it would have been comforting in his grip.

At least he still had his riding jacket on. Under the left sleeve, strapped to his forearm, was his knife. It wasn't much, but he could defend himself with it.

When no one answered, Diego tried the door. It was locked, of course, as were the cab doors. The biker slid his knife from its sheath and went to jimmy the side door open. It was an old lock, and the metal bent away and snapped open without too much damage. A musty smell wafted from within. Diego covered his nose and climbed aboard.

The tints did a great job keeping the light out. They were too effective. It was nearly pitch-black inside, the only light coming from the open door and a few scratches in the windows. The door closed itself, though, and he had nothing to prop it open with. The biker could see glimpses outside through the torn areas of tint, but it was difficult to make out details within the RV.

That was okay. Diego didn't need details.

"Hazel?"

The emptiness didn't answer. Diego's eyesight adjusted and revealed a space that was very lived in. Garbage and half-used supplies were strewn on every countertop and seat. The carpet on the floor was worn thin. To his right was the curtain to the cab, but Diego didn't touch it for fear it would fall off its haphazard supports. Instead, he had an idea and opened the fridge.

A white light illuminated the room. It lit the living space and brought the squalor to full color. Considering the mess, Diego was surprised to see the kitchen sink and adjoining counter completely wiped down. He opened a few of the cabinets. Glasses, dishes, beef jerky, Lucky Charms. The cereal stood out.

The room darkened as Diego finished with the cabinets—the refrigerator had closed. He opened it again and its bright, white light filled the motor home. There was no milk or juice, just a few jugs of water, some jars of grease, and a plate covered with tinfoil.

Diego opened the small freezer above. It didn't have a working light but there was enough from below. Inside he saw an ice tray and a brown paper wrapper. Diego glanced out the window behind him and made sure he was still alone in the clearing. He was, but that didn't ease the sinking feeling in his stomach. He shut the freezer door and scanned the back of the RV.

A heavy door leading to what Diego presumed was the bedroom was shut. That was the back of the living space, where one of the windows was covered over with wood. The biker quickly moved to the door and noticed it was latched with metal braces looped by a chain. A master lock prevented access.

Diego winced as he tugged at it. It was a combination lock. The whole contraption was an add-on, an additional layer of security bolted over the frame. For that matter, the door itself didn't belong. It was heavy and solid under his hands. As he examined it, the refrigerator door closed and his light went away.

"Is anyone in there?" He pounded on the door. "Are you in there, Hazel? You can talk to me if you are. I'm a friend of Julia. I know your mother."

Still no answer. The biker put his ear against the panel to listen for breathing, shuffling—anything. As with the rest of the clearing, it was dead quiet.

Diego strained to see in the darkness and clawed at the door. It was loose, but locked. It made a lot of noise as it jiggled. Diego didn't attempt to muffle it. He imagined Hazel sleeping on the other side, scared but needing to wake up.

But nobody did wake up. Nobody announced themselves or called for help. He stopped shaking the door when he realized it was futile, but the silence and darkness threatened to drive him crazy. That was it. He needed to get in there somehow.

The biker moved back to the fridge and opened the door all the way. With the room lit, he moved back to the lock and examined it. He didn't know the combination and the chain was too heavy to break, but the metal loop was attached to the frame with normal screws. The biker drew his knife once more and set the tip of the blade to work as a screwdriver.

"If anyone's in there, I'm coming in. I don't mean you any harm."

The knife kept slipping out of the screw, but eventually Diego had twisted it out enough that his fingers could grip it and twist the rest of the way. He put the screw aside and went to work on the next one, but had to open the fridge again to get it started. The third time the door closed on him, he opened it and looked around for anything that could hold it open.

On the seat next to him, under some newspapers and a thick jacket, was a neatly folded child's plaid skirt.

Diego froze. The feeling hit him deep, between his stomach and chest. It was a sickening nausea, but his stomach was empty. Just panic, he knew.

Julia didn't remember the exact clothes Hazel had been wearing when she disappeared. But this meant she could be here. The reason for her failure to answer was obvious. But if the girl was no longer alive, why the need for the lock?

The light disappeared again and Diego took a few heavy breaths. At this point, he considered just breaking the door down. But he was warned to do things by the book. To allow Maxim and the police to do their jobs. To not get into trouble.

Already, Diego knew, it was too late for that.

"Goddamnit!" he heard from outside.

Diego's eyes shot to the window. Red was in the clearing. How'd he get here so fast? Diego peered between a strip of peeling tint.

The old man's metal crutch was speared into the ground, standing on its own beside him. Red was leaning over, working at his bad foot.

"Son of a bitch," he exclaimed. Red turned towards the RV.

Diego recoiled from the window. His back slammed into a storage cabinet, making a muffled sound. He froze.

Calm down, he told himself. Red couldn't see through the windows. Diego took a breath and peeked again.

Red's leg had gotten stuck in a soft patch of ground. The unwieldy leg brace had jutting hinges that must have made for some awkwardness. The old man tugged at his leg a few times and finally drew it free. He stood again to only a slight hunch and resumed his way to the vehicle, leaving the pole in the dirt.

"Shit," whispered Diego.

He glanced at the locked door. He wanted to say something but knew it was no use. If anyone was inside, they wouldn't answer. Speaking only made it likely that Red would overhear.

The outlaw knew he was done here. He could easily overpower the old man, but what would be next? His brawl with Jason Bower had left local law enforcement with little patience. Whether that was the Coconino County Sheriff's Office or the Williams Police Department, neither were his friends. The only thing to do was get Maxim. It was better than spooking Red and forcing his hand.

The biker hopped outside the door and shut it as softly as he could, but the RV rocked under his weight. He was on the far side of the vehicle, blocked by its massive size, and all he needed to do was make a beeline for the trees.

"Who's there?" Red called out.

Diego bolted, his boots skipping over dried grass and landing silently in patches of dirt.

"Damn it, children," cried the old man. "Leave me alone!"

The biker didn't have time to give the statement much thought, but it confused him. It confused the situation. What children was Red talking about?

As Diego ducked into the foliage, he saw the old man round the corner of his motor home and wave an arm in the air.

"You want me?" he challenged. "Come at me! I'm right here!"

Diego waited in his hunched position, hoping the man wouldn't give his mysterious visitor chase. Red didn't. He grumbled and paced a bit, but he quickly gave up and entered his RV, seeming not to notice the damage where Diego had jimmied it.

That's when Diego realized he left more obvious evidence of his intrusion behind. He'd been careful to close cabinets and put things back where he'd found them, even the skirt, but a single screw rested on the shelf next to the locked door. If Red really was keeping someone hidden in there, he would be sure to notice the tampering. Perhaps not immediately, but it would come to his attention and tip him off.

There was no more time to waste. Diego sprinted around the clearing and back to his bike. The whole time the outlaw in him wondered: was he being a responsible citizen, or was he merely playing it safe because he no longer had a gun?