The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (25 page)

 

 

 

 

"I'm a failure," asserted Kayda, unable to look into the kind eyes of her grandfather. She leaned against his kitchen counter and stared at the floor until she heard his heavy sigh, then he turned back to his rabbit.

It was a fresh kill, skinned hours earlier. Her
pahmi
was preparing it for a stew. Greens, carrots, and roots simmered in a large pot. The blood of the animal was already included in the broth along with the bulk of the meat; the preparation was only waiting on the scraps and the bones. They were important but only as the finishing touch—according to her grandfather, the blood was the most important ingredient.

Kayda watched with gruesome curiosity as her grandfather handled the rabbit on the counter, just a husk of what it once was, now in a state that wasn't quite animal or food. It was a sobering sight, but also comforting. This was something she had missed in New York. Wicasa's gnarled fingers broke the small joints apart deftly.

It was disgusting. It wasn't civilized. Yet her nose could already detect the enticing scent of the blood stew. Like all things, she knew the result was more pleasant than the process.

"Failure is a strong word," said Wicasa, minding his preparation. "The rabbit is a terrified beast. Its entire life it hops from bush to bush, always fearful of the sky and the ground, always running to the safety of its warren at the slightest turn of breeze."

Pop
.

Kayda almost rolled her eyes. She loved her
pahmi
but this wasn't the best time for one of his parables. She readjusted her stance and rubbed her sore side. Her rib hadn't improved over the course of the day.

"I don't want to hear about the hard life of the rabbit,
Pahmi
. I could've died out there."

Her grandfather nodded matter-of-factly. He understood her, took it in stride as if he expected it.

Kayda considered telling him her suspicions, that Kelan had put Chuck Winston up to it, but she couldn't bear to impose any more on her family. She was sure it would break them apart for good, like so many bones of a rabbit.

"Unlike the rabbit, Wiha, you found your strength. It carried you, with help from the crow, did it not?"

"So I'm alive and the rabbit's dead. Is that your moral?"

The old man turned to her and smiled. "Of course there is a lesson in that. But this," he said, holding up the twisted leg of a rabbit, bone and meat ripped asunder, "this is not a failure. Even in death, the rabbit provides."

Kayda cocked her head as her
pahmi
casually tossed the leg into the pot. "Death serves a purpose." She frowned as she said the words. They were too vague to be meaningful, useless as a guide and easily misinterpreted. Her frustration became evident. "What purpose killed Carlos?"

Wicasa shot her a sideways glare, but instead of chiding her, the man remained silent.

"You're wrong,
Pahmi
. Death is meaningless. Crime, greed, ambition—they're everywhere. In New York, people die in accidents all the time. Or just from being in the wrong place. A girl in my class drowned in a diving pool. Death comes without reason. It's random."

Pop
.

Her grandfather worked a little more in silence. Kayda soon regretted trampling his point. It felt as though she had bullied the old man. As if she was an imposition. A part of her screamed that she didn't belong, but she knew that was wrong. Everything was wrong. And she didn't know how to fix it.

"I saw his blood,
Pahmi
. I saw it across Keekee's neck. A neat slice flooding with blood. Then nothing."

Wicasa stopped fidgeting with the carcass. He dropped the remaining scraps into the stew and covered the lid. Then he moved gently to the dinette table. As he readied himself to sit, the old man's strength gave out and he collapsed into the chair. Kayda lurched ahead to catch him, but he was already safely in his seat.

"
Pahmi!
You must be careful."

The old man held her hand on his shoulder and smiled at her. Kayda allowed her worry to ease under her grandfather's beaming eyes. They were wet with emotion, but they were proud.

Of her.

"My Wiha," he said gently.

"Am I crazy?"

"You see what no one else can, but you do it without understanding."

Kayda sat down next to her
pahmi
. Something was wrong.

"What is it you most want?" he asked her.

The answer seemed obvious. "The truth."

The old man smiled patiently and shook his head. "No. That is not all. You want justice. You want a better way. Like the moon, you want to be a guide."

The girl knew her scrunched up face revealed her hesitance. "What could I do?" she asked, not expecting an answer. Not wanting one. "How could I help?"

For a minute, the only sound in the cozy kitchen was the simmering of the stew. That was just fine with Wihakayda. It reminded her of being a girl again. Sitting in the kitchen, playing with her hair, waiting for dinner. Except in those memories, her brothers were around, if not playing
with
her, then at least playing
around
her.

"The moon dies every month," said her grandfather. "Her role in the night sky waxes and wanes until she is no more. But she also comes back to life every month. You can't see her immediately. You think she is lost. But she is stronger than ever. Stronger than she thinks."

Kayda studied her
pahmi
. She felt both stirred and foolish at the same time. How was it that this old man could instill such emotion in her?

"Tonight is a new moon," he continued. "A night for new beginnings. Changes. Not just for you, but for the whole tribe."

She looked into her elder's eyes, begging for answers. Pleading for comfort. "How can I help?" she asked. This time, she wanted to hear. To see. To understand.

"You can be more than you've ever dreamed, Wiha. You can mean more to the tribe than you've ever imagined." The old man's face took on a bold aspect, blood rushing to his cheeks. "In the desert, you discovered your strength. Now, you must find your will."

 

 

 

 

Maxim sped up Interstate 17 towards Flagstaff. He was making good time but it would still be an hour before he reached the marshal's office. He was so busy worrying about what to say to Garcia and the marshal that he'd forgotten how late it was. It wasn't until the sun dipped behind the mountains that he realized his rant might need to wait until the next day.

Suddenly his car chimed as a call came through the Bluetooth connection. Maxim pressed the button on his steering wheel.

"What's up?"

"Maxim, it's Damian again. You asked me to look at that new boot print."

Maxim flicked his headlights on. "Is it a match?"

"Yes and no. The boot you made an impression of is by a company called US Patriot Tactical. They're a full service military retailer. It's an army boot."

"I know that, Damian," he answered gruffly. "I had the boot in my hands." Maxim knew his impatience was unfair. He hadn't bothered to look up the company. The army boot lined up. As he had told the marshal: the Yavapai see themselves as a military outfit.

"Of course," answered the tech meekly. "But that was important news to me, since the boot print in the blood wasn't complete enough to ID the make."

Maxim decided to ease off his aggravation. He took a moment and asked as nicely as he could. "So is it the same boot or not?"

"No, but it's the same exact
type
of boot. The imprint in the blood had an identifying scuff where one of the treads had been sheared in half. Your boot print did not indicate this damage. Additionally, your boot was a size eight. The print in the blood was much larger. Comparing the two, I think we're looking for an eleven."

Maxim slammed his hand on the edge of the steering wheel. "Perfect!" he said.

"I didn't think you'd be so excited about narrowing down the size and make of the boot."

"It's more than that, Damian. These suspects all run together. They all wear the same uniforms. It's just a matter of checking his known associates' boots. We'll tie one of them to the crime scene."

"But maybe not the murder."

Maxim shook his head. "One step at a time. Standing above the body is good enough, anyway. Look, I gotta call this in. Is that all?"

"For now. Anything else is just a matter of sitting in the queue. Unless you got something else for me?"

"Nope. Call it a day. Thanks for the extra effort."

"No problem."

He disconnected the call and immediately scrolled through his contacts to make another one. The operation was a little clunky through the Audi interface, but he much preferred that over the voice commands. Half the time they did the wrong thing.

Hitchens picked up after two rings. "If this is about Garcia, the marshal already gave me a heads-up."

"Oh, good. That'll save some time."

"How'd you dig that up, anyway?"

Maxim swerved into another lane. "I went down to Phoenix, but keep that to yourself." The sergeant laughed and Maxim realized that Hitchens wasn't with Garcia, otherwise he wouldn't be speaking so freely about him. "Where's Agent Garcia now?"

"He's FBI, Dwyer. He punches out before the sun sets. He's on his way back home."

"Really? How long ago?"

Hitchens calculated. "Fifteen minutes, tops. He left me here to follow up another lead."

"He has a hotel room in Flagstaff, right? Maybe I could beat him there."

"What in the hell do you want to do that for?"

Maxim smiled. The sergeant's cantankerous attitude always hid the best intentions. "Never mind. How did you guys do at the reservation?"

"I'm still down here. After we talked to Kelan and his sister and his grandfather, we've mostly been looking for some of the other troublemakers. We coordinated with Tribal PD, but if you ask me, they were dicking us around. The best way for them to help is to get out of the way. Know what I mean?"

"That's a given. Listen, Hitchens. I got a hit on the boot print in the clubhouse. It's a US Patriot Tactical boot. Same as the one Kelan wears, but not his. What we need to do is round up the mercenaries and find out who wears a size eleven."

"Shit," said the sergeant, suddenly realizing that his busy work on the reservation wasn't a waste of time. "Well that's easier said than done. It looks like three of Kelan's men have gone off the grid. Three. That number sound familiar?"

"The wolf masks. Two shooters and one driver."

"Exactly. I've been knocking on doors for the last two hours but haven't gotten eyes on them. Still have a few bars to check before I'm outta here, although from what you're saying, these guys aren't going to turn up."

"Yeah," agreed the detective.

"You got a warrant out on anybody?"

"I can advise but we don't have enough for a warrant. I'm not even positive that the others wear the same army boots. I'm just pretty sure."

"It sounds like the best lead we have to me."

"Yeah. What are the names of the associates?"

Hitchens took a second to gather his notes. "Okay, we've got a Hotah Shaw. He's Kelan's best friend."

"I know him."

"Okay. The other two are a younger generation. Small-time. Yas Harjo and Jim Bullard. All missing. You know, there's a new moon tonight. That means the MC and the Yavapai are gonna be MIA."

"I know. I don't ever lose track of the moon phases anymore."

Hitchens laughed. "I bet not. That also means I need to get outta here and go underground with Cole."

Maxim nodded to the speakers. The two officers usually aligned their days off with the moon phases, but many of the shifts were workable anyway. Even if Hitchens stayed on a little late tonight, he had several hours before he turned.

"Okay, Sergeant. I'll let you go. Watch your back and notify me if you get any word on them."

"Will do."

The call disconnected and the music came back on. It was a radio station that was losing its signal. Maxim sighed and reminded himself once again to download some music onto his phone. He listened to Johnny Cash between bouts of static until the dissonance grated on him and he shut it off altogether.

The silence wasn't any better. All Maxim could think about were the three Yavapai men on the run. Two of them he hadn't heard of before. New kids joining an old group with legacy baggage. It wasn't right for the sins of the fathers to be passed on like that.

For some reason, Maxim's thoughts turned to Diego. Here was a guy who was sensible, a little rash, but smart. He had been in government service. Like the Yavapai kids, he had also fallen in with the criminal element. Just two nights ago he'd been detained by NMPD. He'd trailed after the Pistolas when they cleared out of Sanctuary. Just like all the others, he was getting sucked under the wheels of brotherhood, an old steam engine, chugging along headstrong until the tracks ran out.

Maxim wondered if the same could be said of the marshal's office.

A foreboding sense of unease crept over Maxim. Diego had gone after the Pistolas. He was mad about Omar's death but new evidence pointed to the Yavapai. Maxim had to stop the man before he did something... rash.

He didn't know why, but he tried Diego's cell phone first. The biker never had it on him and Maxim was accustomed to leaving messages. Diego didn't much like computer technology or the thought of being tied down. The bike was a way to escape that. So was leaving his cell phone in his apartment. For somebody on the run from an old life, the sentiment made sense, but Maxim couldn't understand why he wouldn't keep a cheap phone in his pocket. Screw the data. Screw Facebook or the app of the day. But stay connected.

It was evident that Maxim and Diego had very different senses of responsibility.

Right as Maxim was about to end the call and try a different number, he was startled by Diego answering.

"What are you doing with your phone?" asked Maxim.

Diego chuckled. "The MC's closing ranks. We're safer together so everybody's staying at the clubhouse. Figured I should at least keep my phone where I sleep."

"Oh good," said the detective, relief washing over him. "I thought you were going after the Pistolas. Listen. Sitting tight would be the best thing for you guys. I just got word from Hitchens down on the reservation. Three of Kelan's associates are missing."

"Hotah?"

"Yeah, and two others. They're the ones who shot up Clint. I have evidence that ties one of their boots to Omar. Get what I'm saying?"

"The Yavapai killed Omar?"

"Everything has been them. It always has been."

Diego didn't reply immediately, but the stunned silence didn't last very long. "That doesn't make sense. I
did
tail the Pistolas. I talked to their president. He as much as admitted they killed Omar."

"What?" Maxim thought about the scene, the small arms fire, about what he had already known. The Yavapai would have used their ACRs.

"The Pistolas were in the clubhouse looking for something."

"Looking for what?"

"It's not important," said Diego.

"The fuck it isn't."

"It's not, Maxim. It's just some leverage they need to displace the MC in the pipeline. Something they can hold over an Albuquerque city councilman. What's important is that they're the ones who were at the clubhouse. They shot up Omar."

Neither of the men said anything while they thought the puzzle over. Maxim had figured that Garcia had used the FBI to get NMPD to arrest the Sons. Now he realized it was the Pistolas. El Paso. Maxim's car hummed over the barren highway, speeding through the night. He knew he could beat Garcia to Flagstaff, but he needed to have the crimes sorted out before he knew how to approach the agent.

"Wait," said the detective. "This can still make sense. The boot print that the Yavapai mercenary left was after the blood had begun to dry. Our timeline works. Kayda saw the Pistolas riding south back to Cali that morning. That means four men were up there. They broke into the clubhouse and were surprised by Omar. They shot it out, got what they came for, and left Omar for dead."

"Except they don't know about wolves," finished Diego. "They've heard the rumors, but they don't believe. It's the only reason they would have entered the clubhouse so unprepared."

"Two of them got hurt as it was." Maxim still hadn't gotten hits on any hospitals. He'd only recently expanded the search to southern California. Somehow, he doubted they would find anything.

"So the Yavapai came later," concluded Diego, "looking for payback. The morning after they found Doka's skin on the reservation. Maybe they're working with the Pistolas or maybe it's coincidence. Either way, they were at the clubhouse and they know what silver bullets do to werewolves."

"It was a knife," said Maxim. "Someone stepped next to Omar's body after he'd been on the floor for a while. They stepped right in the pool of blood and stabbed him in the chest with silver. I'm sure of it. In fact, it has similarities to Doka's wound."

"You think it was my knife?"

Maxim thought about the year before. The biker had been attacked by a vicious wolf. It pounced on him, thinking he was unarmed, and had gotten stabbed in the lung for it. Doka scampered away and had been a ghost ever since, until two days ago when he'd been discovered hanging outside Sanctuary High.

"The Yavapai's fingerprints are all over Doka's homicide as well. They distracted Clint at Sycamore Lodge that night. Had the best chance to steal his skinning knife. I'm pretty sure Clint had an illegal firearm in his bag as well that was used to kill Doka. That's the revolver that was planted on Omar. It was all to make it look like the Seventh Sons were involved. But the silver knife works against them. Only people who had access to Doka would have had the knife. Only they would have been able to finish off Omar."

"You think the tribe killed their own man?" asked Diego. His voice was torn, as if the possibility of such a despicable act would never have occurred to him. "That's impossible. Kelan was his younger brother."

The detective remembered the fire in the young man's eyes the night at the casino. Kelan burned with helpless rage.

"Maybe Kelan doesn't know about it," offered Diego. "You didn't charge him for Clint, right? He's not on the run right now—the other three are. Maybe it's a coup."

Maxim paused as he took in Diego's words. "You're saying the Yavapai killed Carlos Doka without Kelan's knowledge?"

"Think about it. With Doka dead, Kelan becomes the de facto head of the mercenaries. What if they're gunning for him next? What if he was supposed to get shot up alongside Clint?"

Maxim did remember that Kelan had ducked away from the gunmen when the shooting started. "It sounds plausible," he finally admitted. "But there's something we're missing. Why now? After nine months, why is Doka killed now? Why tie it to the Seventh Sons?"

It didn't take Diego long to come up with the answer. "They're working with the Pistolas."

All things being equal, Maxim wouldn't have considered an agreement between the Pistolas and the Yavapai. The mercenary outfit was too small to rely on. More likely the Pistolas would just steamroll them along with the Sons. But the Yavapai did give them leverage. Perhaps the Pistolas didn't want to move into Arizona and needed small players to support them. Perhaps the Mexicans didn't care about Chino Valley and Prescott—nobody else did. Or maybe the Pistolas needed some deniability. The Yavapai and the Seventh Sons had a very public feud. Perhaps all this was a way to keep the cartel out of the news.

"That might explain the coincidence of the Yavapai showing up at the clubhouse after Omar was left for dead," said Maxim. "Once the Pistolas told them what happened, Hotah and his guys had to clean up the mess."

"It also explains the safe house."