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Authors: Domino Finn

The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1) (7 page)

BOOK: The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1)
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Maxim turned to see Hitchens watching him, again covering his mouth and muffling a stifled laugh. This felt like junior high all over again. The detective shrugged and got to his feet.
As he walked into the office and closed the door, the first thing Maxim noticed was that the air conditioner in here was working. It was a cramped space that was made even more claustrophobic by the hazy windows and filing cabinets encroaching on the middle of the room. The marshal sat behind his heavy desk and motioned to the two empty seats opposite him.
In the corner of the room, squeezed between a cabinet and a fake plant, was a lounge chair. Reclining comfortably was the whitest Indian woman Maxim had ever seen. She wasn't American Indian, as Maxim had assumed; that would have been normal for the area. Instead she carried an exotic charm that could only have originated overseas.
The woman had long features: her build, arms, legs, nose, everything about her was thin and stretched. Her elbows and waist created sharp edges in her casual business suit, and she wore a frilly light blue blouse under her beige jacket.
It was her face, though, that was so striking. She wore her hair back in a ponytail to show off her ears and cheeks. Her skin had a light brown tone and was softened and smooth where the light hit it. Her features stood out in the dim lighting, and her dark brown eyes and eyebrows accentuated the contrast.
Maxim nodded at the woman, but she just looked at him with an amused expression. Maybe he had been admiring her for too long.
"You know," the marshal chided, "there are reasons we do things the way we do."
The detective took a breath and sat down.
Marshal Boyd looked absurd in his leather chair. He was a short man, and the large desk seemed built for a grander presence. Maxim couldn't imagine a better caricature of a boy feigning the responsibility of a man.
"I am responsible for protecting the integrity and reputation of this entire office," he said plainly. "As a department, we need to display a judicious balance when it comes to interacting with organizations with a footprint larger than Sanctuary. That is why dealing with Federal and State agencies is my purview."
Maxim nodded, as he knew where this was going. He'd heard the same speech before and just had to patiently wait it out. A glance at the woman showed her looking intently at him. Something stirred within him, and he felt his face redden. Again this reminded him of junior high, and the detective angrily pushed the thoughts from his head and refocused on the marshal.
"The motorcycle club is a sensitive subject," said Boyd. "My policies may appear to have no rhyme or reason, but they are in place to protect us. And you. And Officer Kent."
"Sir, a man was killed within town limits." Boyd's point was only valid so far. Besides, it was dirty of the marshal to mention Kent like that.
Marshal Boyd looked perturbed by Maxim's objection but continued speaking with the reserve of a politician. "Detective, if you had properly requested to interview the club president, then I would have approved it. The key is for these determinations to flow through me so that I can keep our greater interests in mind."
There was, begrudgingly, some sense to that logic.
The marshal had only been appointed two years ago, when Maxim was just starting to make a name for himself as a detective. Between his good track record and his wife going missing, Boyd had afforded him a lot of leeway and independence. But with Maxim's increasing frustration becoming more evident through his actions, it was clear that the dynamic between the two men was changing.
"Yes, sir," was all the detective mustered. He didn't know if it was true that he would have been allowed to interview Deborah, but there was no point in making things worse. "Next time I'll come to you."
Maxim looked down at the floor, unsure of what this was all about. Boyd certainly could have made his point without this strange woman being in the room. It was obvious there was something more to this meeting and that they were just going through the motions in order to get there. Maxim was generally a patient person, but this trip was unbearable.
The marshal nodded his head in thought. He leaned back and put his hands together like he was settling in for a long discussion. "The Seventh Sons are no doubt involved in criminal activity."
He immediately had the detective's attention.
"Sanctuary is just off the Interstate, but it's still hidden in a deep pocket of the woods and mountains. It is a convenient place for truckers to diverge from their routes and accept supplemental cargo."
Maxim nodded in acquiescence. It was common for outlaw clubs to be involved in drug muling and other gang-related offenses.
"But," continued Boyd, "most of the illegal activity happens outside of our jurisdiction. Federal authorities are monitoring the situation, and we've been advised to stand down."
"So we're just supposed to shut up and stay away?" asked Maxim incredulously. It wasn't about minor collars but professional courtesy.
The marshal's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "It might sound derelict of us initially," he said, "but transporting contraband across state lines has broader implications. We've been asked to stay idle. However, you should feel free to follow policy and use me as a conduit to request any information you need."
Maxim hissed. "Well damn if that doesn't sound like trying to get an echo out of a black hole."
Boyd raised a single shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as he typed a text message on his phone. "Now you sound like Hitchens." Maxim waited a moment but they both remained silent.
At this point, Maxim was more frustrated than nervous about the meeting. The detective turned his gaze from one to the other before locking it onto the woman. "So which one of you is going to tell me what you're doing here?"
iii.
 
A full smile crossed the strange woman's lips, but it was the marshal who spoke. "Detective Dwyer, let me introduce you to the reason behind our rhyme."
The woman rose and Maxim stood up to meet her. She was taller than him and moved her lithe frame smoothly. She held her hand out in the air and the detective complied with a light shake.
"Nithya Rao," she said, withdrawing her soft fingers from his grasp.
He couldn't tell her age. She had to be a bit older than him, but she could have passed for ten years younger. And she was even more beautiful from up close.
"Ms. Rao is with the CDC," said Boyd, putting his phone aside for a moment, "and is one of the aforementioned federal authorities with whom we are coordinating."
The detective's expression must have revealed his bewilderment because the woman smiled again and said, "You must have a lot of questions." Maxim now noticed her British accent, and it seemed to make her even more attractive. She returned to her seat and motioned for him to do the same.
"I am in charge of the Flagstaff area," she started as he sat, "and assigned to the Seventh Sons, among others. By now you are aware of the reason for such secrecy in the matter?"
Maxim couldn't believe he was about to bring the subject up in front of the marshal—but there was only one reason the Centers for Disease Control would be involved. "The wolves."
Nithya nodded. "You must know that everything I am about to confide to you must be held in the utmost of confidences. I am only requesting your assistance since it seems you are already familiar with the situation and, well, given recent events, I could use a capable officer in Sanctuary."
"What, that's it?" asked Maxim. "I find out about the wolves and interview a couple of people, and now you want to let me in?"
"Is that not enough?"
Maxim thought for a moment. It sounded like he was getting rewarded for his bad behavior. "Does this mean I get a free pass to take down the Seventh Sons?"
Marshal Boyd scoffed as if Maxim was missing the point. The detective glared at him, but the smug man just shook his head, so Maxim turned to Nithya for answers.
She looked apologetic. "Unfortunately, my agency's role with the motorcycle club does not extend to their criminal enterprise."
"So you can't help me either?"
"On the contrary," she said. "The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are responsible for managing werewolf outbreaks. Aside from the national interest in keeping their existence as discreet and unofficial as possible, we are also tasked with eliminating any and all threats to the populace."
Unreal. There actually was a government initiative to keep werewolves under control. It felt like something out of a movie. As Maxim watched Nithya's nonchalant behavior and business casual appearance, however, it was clear that there was an infrastructure in place to deal with the animals.
"What are you saying?" he asked. "You don't care about the contraband, so you let the DEA and ATF deal with that while you kill or capture the werewolves?"
The marshal chuckled. Nithya looked to him for a second before turning to Maxim. "We have too many liberties in this country to imprison those infected without it becoming public knowledge, or worse, creating an epidemic in the dangerous prison population. No, there is no procedure in place for a werewolf's capture."
Her emphasis on the last word was all too clear.
Maxim nodded to show he understood but too much remained unexplained. "So if none are taken alive, why aren't the monsters all dead?"
Nithya cleared her throat and fired a look of admonishment back at him. "They may be werewolves, Detective, but they are Americans and we are government employees. We do not simply target citizens with impunity."
Maxim snickered but she ignored the contempt.
"These men and women are the victims of a disease without a cure, and we afford them every opportunity to live full and productive lives. If they choose to live peacefully within society, then there is no need to hunt them. The HIDE program is the manifestation of this implicit agreement."
"Implicit or Illicit?"
She glared at him. "Hunt If Dangerous or Exposed. Safety and secrecy are the two primary public interests. If a werewolf is attacking others or irresponsibly flaunting its abilities in public, then the CDC issues an Order To Kill for it."
"Sounds like 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell.'"
"Only with much more permanent consequences for all parties involved."
Maxim pondered the ramifications of what he was hearing. "Fair enough," he conceded. "Some discretion sounds reasonable if we're talking about sick people. So these werewolves, do they need to check in with you?"
"Sometimes," answered Nithya. "In practice, my focus is much more about keeping tabs on lycanthropic populations. I let them know that they are being watched and that they are expected to behave. HIDE is just the enforcement arm of the initiative, and it gets executed whether the wolves are aware of the program or not."
"And the Seventh Sons?"
"They know me well. They are the most organized pack in the Flagstaff area and have a lot of influence, so I remain in frequent contact with them. I expect them to set the example for the others—even the ones we don't know about. These men and women are sick but have no hope for treatment; many believe it is in their best interests to keep their condition, and their identities, a secret."
Maxim still had a hard time thinking of them as victims. "How do they get infected in the first place?"
"Lycanthropy is a communicable disease," she answered. "Rabies is a Lyssavirus that, if not promptly treated with vaccine, is believed to have a fatality rate of one hundred percent. However," said Nithya, pausing to dramatic effect, "the truth is that there are outside factors, currently unknown, that propagate the condition of lycanthropy instead."
It seemed simple enough without the science. "So if you get bitten by a werewolf and don't get treatment, odds are you'll die, but there's a very small chance that you'd become a werewolf yourself."
"Exactly." The woman crossed one leg over the other and made herself comfortable. "This is a fact that works in our favor. Rabies is easy enough to stave off with contemporary techniques, while lycanthropy remains difficult to spread."
"But what of modern medicine?" interjected Maxim. "Can't we cure lycanthropy?"
"Unfortunately not. As with rabies, once the virus reaches the central nervous system and outward symptoms appear, the condition is permanent."
"The condition." Maxim said the words aloud as he pondered the meaning. "What exactly does being a werewolf entail?"
"Very much of what the urban legends speak of," replied Nithya. "Enhanced strength and constitution, physical transformation into a wolf when the sun and moon align, even the outward appearance of returning from death."
Maxim sat there and watched the marshal paying attention to his cell phone, casually disinterested in what Maxim thought was a fascinating conversation. "So they're pretty much strong and invincible—got it." The detective supposed there were worse diseases to contract. But then... "What about silver bullets?"
Nithya Rao smiled and softly stood up. She moved and sat in the stiff chair beside him. "May I see your left hand?"
Maxim breathed in her sweet perfume and met her open hand with his. When she looked down, he was taken in by her long eyelashes. "Silver," she said as her eyes snapped up to meet his, "as opposed to modern medicine, is an ancient remedy that has some effectiveness."
Maxim's gaze wavered under hers. He looked down and saw that Nithya was gripping the ring on his finger, his constant reminder of Lola. Maxim pulled his hand away.
The CDC agent had an impish look on her face and raised an eyebrow slightly, but then she sat up straight, retreating to a more professional posture. "Silver is bioactive. It kills bacteria and was used heavily for this purpose before the introduction of antibiotics."
BOOK: The Seventh Sons (Sycamore Moon Series Book 1)
5.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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