The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (11 page)

Maxim just leaned back into his chair in forced apathy. "Oh yeah? And what has that gotten you?"

Diego considered the question. It hadn't gotten him anything. The truckers always drove in, ate some food and used the restrooms, and then drove back to the Interstate. Following the gang members and truckers had been his only actionable idea, and while everything generally seemed suspicious, nothing had been cause for alarm yet.

Diego pushed away from the table in disgust and stood up. "Well, I'm going, with or without you."

"As long as you're going," said Maxim, still in a bitter mood.

Diego looked sadly at the detective. It was a pathetic thing to lose your drive, or rather, lose what was driving you. The biker wondered how he would respond if their situations were reversed, if he had found out that Angelica was beyond his help.

Diego tossed the wedding band back onto the table. It rolled sideways, but Maxim's hand caught it and immediately starting turning it in his fingers in a familiar motion.

"It means I'm coming back."

 

The Transwestern was the only road out of Sanctuary. It was a lonely strip of cracked asphalt that wound its way down to the civilized world nearby. It was just enough out of the way to be forgotten, swallowed by the march of time and obviated by the modern highway below.

This was what was so curious about the idea of the small town as a truck stop. Interstate 40 was the contemporary route, but it wasn't adjacent to Sycamore Lodge. The roadhouse was close enough for the truckers to find, but they would likely need a good reason for going out of their way.

Diego's interest was immediately piqued when one trucker turned west on the old 66. The other two semis continued on the only paved street and bore southeast towards the Interstate, as the other trailers he'd followed previously had done, but this one truck, this anomaly, opted to bear right, away from any sensible destination.

The laid asphalt immediately gave way to gritty red dirt. Diego stopped his Scrambler at the intersection and swiveled his gold helmet as he watched both paths. The biker was killing time, making sure to lag behind enough so as not to draw suspicion. The road was expected to be empty, so he would make it look that way.

It was easy to follow the heavy truck at a large distance because of its size and the dirt it kicked up. However, the condition of the road proved slow going. Diego caught himself getting too close a few times and had to pull back. He needed to find a way to cool his nerves and appreciate the trek.

It was a nice ride west. The bright day and cool breeze were the perfect backdrop for a relaxing road trip. An open expanse of sand gave way to the forest, and except for the occasional trailer stationed roadside, the neglected path provided a quiet solitude that Diego yearned for. He could have gotten used to this.

After some time, the old road merged with another street, became paved, and fell in line with the Interstate to the south. They passed a small town sandwiched between the parallel highways and then the cross streets and activity disappeared again. Once more, they were among the trees, and Diego's thoughts started to wander.

The biker remembered his days in the Commissioned Corps spent as a ranger on the road. He didn't ride a motorcycle then, but he did have occasion to trail people. In fact, there was a time when he felt like most of his job consisted of tracking: finding problems, rooting them out, and helping people continue with their complicated lives.

Diego grimaced. He wasn't sure when all that had changed. More and more, instead of policing, he had been sent out to eliminate threats. He was good at it, that was for sure. He'd even done it with a clear conscience when it had been a last resort, but somehow, it had become business as usual. And being a paid killer didn't suit his soul.

Still, the biker identified with the job. He was proud of it—and it ate at him from the inside like a worm. It had happened so slowly that Diego didn't even notice until Angelica left. That's when he had realized that he was lost. Without his family, his job, did he still have a place in this world?

Kill or be killed. No. Diego needed to find something else.

The biker may have again been on a dangerous road, just as he had been many times in his previous life, but he was decided that there wouldn't be death at the end of this one.

 

Up ahead, as the vegetation once more gave way to an open span of desert, the semi slowed down and turned right. There was another small town hugging the highway ahead, but this road was an offshoot well before that. It was an ashy dirt path, nowhere near the rich reds of the lands behind. It led north into the last vestiges of the forest.

Diego's bike was muffled well, but he had second thoughts as he turned up the private road. He saw a large farmhouse ahead through the trees. He couldn't just pull up to the driveway. He quickly decided to park his bike behind a wide oak some distance away. The biker pulled off his gold helmet and hiked closer to get a view of the proceedings.

The large tractor trailer came to a halt next to the old home, its light blue paint peeling in the unforgiving sun. There was an old man with overalls out front who covered his face as the dust whisked by him. He had a white head of hair and matching beard but had the look of a hard worker. He acted as if he expected this meeting.

Was this a safe house for the motorcycle gang? Was Angelica imprisoned inside? Diego inched forward.

The trucker dismounted and greeted the old man. They talked for a moment, but Diego was too far to pick out any meaning. Then the two walked to the back of the trailer and opened the doors. The old, stout man did a cursory look around to make sure they were alone but Diego was well-hidden.

The spry trucker jumped up and disappeared into the trailer. Diego could only make out several boxes inside before the old man helped the other pull out a green plastic storage barrel. They both carried the large, fifty-five gallon drum and put it in the back of a rusty white pickup.

Maxim had confirmed that the Seventh Sons were in the drug business. Maybe the police officer had to defer to the feds, but Diego was under no such obligation. As he watched the old man secure the barrel to his truck with straps, he wondered what it was exactly that they were shipping.

The two men disappeared behind the trailer after closing it up. Diego couldn't see what was happening, but before he knew it, the big vehicle was starting up and turning around. Diego ducked down into a rosebush as the semi roared by him, likely finally headed to the Interstate.

That wasn't where Diego was going. He watched as the man with the white beard hopped into his pickup. The biker sat and waited for him to pass and stared at the green drum in the truck bed the entire time.

That was it. Diego knew this was a breakthrough and allowed a slight grin to cross his face. When it was safe, he returned his gold helmet to his head and patiently walked back to his Scrambler.

After merging onto the highway, the old man veered onto another dirt road heading north into the forest. The back roads were remote to begin with, but this path gave way to hills and ditches and other obstacles that were not meant for his street bike. The forest grew thick with untouched growth and the dirt became loose and rocky. Eventually the trees started to thin, and then they completely disappeared as they drove into a vast expanse of dry sand.

The pickup truck wasn't as large or loud as the tractor trailer, so Diego made sure to give the old man a lot of cushion. There was nowhere to run out here anyway.

The more Diego thought about it, the more he figured that the farmhouse was just where the man lived. Besides him being an apparent hermit, there wasn't anything especially strange about the grounds. Where they were headed now was the bigger question; it was more key to the mystery at hand, Diego was sure. If there were a hidden cabin out in the desert somewhere, a place that criminal activity occurred, then it wouldn't be a leap of reason to suspect that Angelica might be there. The biker shook his head. What had she gotten herself into this time?

Eventually, the beat up truck turned off what was barely a road anymore. Diego stopped the bike and flipped up his visor. There was no civilization at all out here. No buildings, pipes, or power lines, and now, no more roads. Even if he carried his cell phone with him, it likely would've lacked a signal. They were in unmapped territory from here on out.

And he knew he was close.

 

After some time of plodding over rough terrain, Diego held back as he saw a body of water ahead. It appeared to be a small lake, and the old man was definitely headed towards it. Down there, in the lower land, there were numerous trees that marked an unknown oasis in the middle of nowhere.

As the truck stopped next to the water, Diego looked for a place to hide his Scrambler. He couldn't get close enough to the foliage, especially with the man disembarking. Diego killed his engine and pulled his bike into a small ditch. Unless it was directly stumbled upon, it was out of sight. He ripped off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and sprinted for the tree line.

The distance was further than it had initially looked, and the biker was nearly out of breath just from the approach. As he reached the shade he passed a decrepit sign with the words "Paradise Tank" engraved in the wood. This must have been a known watering hole for something, at some point, but the years have mitigated the usefulness of this location and society had happily marched past it.

Diego took a heavy breath and moved closer. The stout man was standing in the pickup bed, and he kicked the drum out of the back. It rolled and dropped to the sand with a thud. Then he closed his tailgate and walked to his driver's side door, doing something behind the cab.

The biker looked around. There were no cabins out here. No other vehicles either, at least not yet. The only thing he could hear on the wind were the footsteps of the man as he emerged from behind his truck.

He was wearing a fishing wader. It was a tan-colored, chest high overall held around his neck with suspenders. They connected to his waterproof boots. Then he rolled the barrel into the water.

Something wasn't right here. It looked like he was dumping the drum. He wouldn't do that if drugs were inside it. Unless...

It occurred to Diego that the man with the white beard wasn't smuggling anything at all—he was disposing of evidence.

As the stranger walked forward into the shallow water, the green barrel began to float on its side. It became easier for him to push it as he stepped deeper.

There could be some kind of chemical in the drum, something that they were disposing of illegally, but that didn't make a lot of sense. Nicola had mentioned abductions. He was looking for Angelica. She said she had still been alive at the time.

There had to be a body in the barrel.

It had to be Angelica in the barrel.

"No."

Maxim had told him he wouldn't like what he found.

There were two white caps on the top of the green drum. The old man twisted them both off and the dusky water began to spill inside. The barrel slowly started to sink as air bubbles popped along the surface. The man gave it a shove and it floated to the middle of the water tank.

Diego thought about Angelica, as a kid, hitting her head on the asphalt.

The biker abandoned the safety of the tree trunk and swiftly headed towards Paradise Tank. The grizzled man turned and began slogging through the water towards his truck. His work was done here.

No, thought Diego. Don't be Angelica. Don't be in the barrel.

As the man exited the tank, he noticed Diego de la Torre out in the open. The biker saw the barrel sinking lower and broke into a wild sprint towards it. There was nothing else to lose. The old man rushed to his truck and jumped in without taking off his wader. Diego barely noticed as he frantically started his truck and sped away.

The water almost tripped Diego as it stuck to his feet. The biker jumped forward and dove ahead, rabidly paddling his arms. The barrel was at an angle, halfway submerged, but he was almost there.

"Angelica!" he yelled, reaching ahead. He was swimming now, his feet having lost purchase with solid ground. His fingers grabbed the plastic edge of the drum as he pulled himself to it. The biker placed his head next to it to see if he could hear anything within. "Angelica!" There was no answer except for the water rushing in his ears.

He meant to paddle the drum to shore but it was sinking too quickly. He didn't have anything to pull it against. He tried to keep it above the water but it was too heavy, and as he tugged, the barrel pulled him under.

He wasn't going to be able to remove it from the water in time. His fingers scrambled around the top of the drum and yanked but it wouldn't give. Diego pulled his head above the water and saw only the tip of the barrel breaching the surface. There was a steel ring circling the plastic top. He traced around the rim with his thumb until he found a bolt holding it closed. The biker twisted at the nut with wet hands. It was tight, too tight, but he rubbed his fingers raw, and it finally turned. Diego inhaled a deep breath as he once again was pulled into the tank.

The nut spun on the bolt as he sank with it. When it fell away, Diego ripped off the top of the barrel. The water was murky, but the sun was strong, and they weren't deep enough to be engulfed in the dark. He saw an arm, and some cloth that he pulled away, then the dead face. Inside the barrel was a corpse, but it was a man. It wasn't Angelica.

Diego didn't have time to sigh in relief. Still holding his breath, he wanted to drag the barrel to shore. This was damning evidence. As his boots met the sand at the bottom, he tugged hard at the drum.

Behind it, underwater, a serene view of the secrets of Paradise Tank materialized. Through the dirty fluid, Diego could make out at least a dozen identical green barrels slumbering peacefully at the bottom.