Chapter 26
Diego watched Red from behind tree cover. He was interested in what the old man would do after the visit from police. Now that he thought he was alone, maybe he would tip his hand.
Unfortunately, his vigil was more tedious than when he'd been outside the post office, or Jason's house. Somehow, having the target in sight but being unable to act made it unbearable. Perhaps the biker's cramped pose, crouched in the brush and constantly in danger of being seen, contributed to the torture.
Diego thought he was on to something when Red stoked the fire in the barrel. This was the time to burn evidence. Instead, the tedium continued as Red fixed up a meal. What was worse: the preparations, while mundane, were disgusting. The old man beheaded and skinned a squirrel with a large chef's knife, stuck it to a spit, and set it to char. Diego didn't consider himself a picky eater, but he was from the city. Rodents did not constitute meals. The biker's stomach turned when the grilled aroma wafted to his position.
Eventually, thankfully, the meal ended. Red sat in his wheelchair a while longer, unrattled, before retiring to the hidden confines of the motor home. Diego waited to see if any other action would be taken, but the clearing remained quiet.
After he was confident the show was over, Diego snuck along the tree line, circling the RV. As he quietly moved through the brush, his heavy boot struck something solid. He dropped to his knee to examine a small copper cylinder. The metal was smooth and hollow, with an enclosed loop at one end. He hefted the weight in his hands and wondered what it was.
The biker shrugged and continued along the tree line, keeping his eyes on the ground. Soon enough, he smiled as he found another item. This time, it was a non-descript clay saucer. Its red surface wasn't polished but it didn't appear to be old, like something from a gift shop somewhere. He left it on the ground and continued searching, intrigued by the mystery.
Diego wasn't a clumsy person, but he realized he was focusing too much on the forest floor when his head banged into something. A crisp bell sound rang out. The biker backed up and saw another copper cylinder, this time hanging from a small branch above.
Immediately, the biker blanketed a gloved hand around the metal to silence it. He lifted the loose copper tube and held it alongside the other. The new one was almost twice as large, and seeing them side-by-side, Diego immediately figured out what they were: individual pieces of a wind chime. That was why the sound had been so crystalline.
Diego frowned and checked the RV. He was pretty sure the noise hadn't been loud enough to alert the old man, but that really just depended on how much he was listening. At any rate, no one stirred from within. After a few minutes, Diego figured he was safe.
His gloved fingers ran through his hair as he studied the wind chimes. They could have constituted a poor man's decor, except they weren't visible from the clearing. Just like Diego, the trinkets were hidden within the tree line. Likewise, the chimes were useless individually; without the ability to clack into each other, they couldn't make noise.
If they served a purpose, it was beyond Diego.
Now he made sure to scan the branches as well as the brush. On the north side of the clearing, he saw another piece of the wind chime. But there was something even more interesting.
In the thick trunk of a ponderosa pine, someone had etched a symbol into the bark. A circle, eight or nine inches in diameter, was emblazoned with a horizontal and vertical line right through the middle. It resembled crude crosshairs.
Now Diego was perplexed. The wind chimes were oddities since they were ultimately useless, but in a strange way he could chalk them up to an old man's eccentricities. The clay saucer was probably garbage, some lost piece of crap from the dollar store that was easily forgotten. But this symbol wasn't a random quirk. It meant something.
The biker considered what he'd learned so far. Assuming everybody was telling at least a portion of the truth, teenagers were harassing solitary hikers and hermits. Red had complained about kids stealing his stuff. These trinkets, then, could be a way of staking his territory. Of warning them off. Or they could be objects stolen by the kids and left behind when deemed useless.
The biker turned back to the motor home. The door was shut. The old man was inside. Apparently, he was staying there.
Scanning his surroundings, nothing enlightened Diego. He was getting distracted by junk.
The biker took a breath. Even though he couldn't see through the blackened windows of the RV, he decided to chance it. Since the rear right window was covered in plywood, Diego approached from that angle. It was the vehicle's blind spot. He closed the distance quickly so Red wouldn't see him, then leaned against the tire where he was hidden from anyone inside.
He could already hear Maxim chiding him later. What was he doing? What was his plan?
Diego bared his teeth. He didn't exactly have one. But that never stopped him before.
He slid along the RV until he reached the door and pressed his ear to it. There it was. The sound of Red, snoring. The old bastard was already asleep.
Diego's shoulders sagged. The thought of Red inside, helpless, made him realize what he was doing. He couldn't exactly attack the man. Confront him, maybe. But even then, to what purpose? As far as Red was concerned, the police had left him alone. Perhaps it was better for him to believe that everyone had moved on.
Before he could convince himself to break the door down, Diego rushed back to the trees. He ran deeper into cover and found a wide trunk to put his back against.
This wasn't copping out, he told himself. He just needed to be sure.
Diego slid to his haunches and let the adrenaline work through his system. A combination of indecision and helplessness took root in his thoughts. He began to feel outgunned. The world was against him. How shitty was that when all he wanted to do was find a little girl?
Something darted into his vision in the distance and Diego jerked up. He froze when he saw the source of noise and movement: a large elk stood not twenty feet from him. It was majestic at this distance, beautiful in its natural habitat, but it was also enormous. The bull must have been over eight-hundred pounds. Thick antlers exploded from its head and almost doubled the animal's height. The Arizona elk towered over the outlaw, even at a distance.
The two studied each other, motionless, for a long minute. Then, for no apparent reason, the elk bolted away. The thick brush engulfed it in seconds. Remnants of a small herd followed.
Diego couldn't look away from the empty space. The spot seemed special, somehow. Not just pristine, but hallowed. It was as if, all at once, Diego understood why Annabelle yearned for the forest, why Red chose to live out here. There was a heartwarming pull to Sycamore. A draw to disconnect from society. To rediscover his primal urges.
And then he saw it. Another etching in the bark where the elk had been.
Diego slithered to it. It was the same symbol: a circle with a cross. This one was a bit smaller. It was below eye level, only a few feet off the ground, but it was unmistakably human.
For a reason he couldn't explain, Diego de la Torre ventured deeper into the woods.
He started north, close to ground already covered by the search parties. They were on the south side of the Interstate, and this area between the tracks and the highway was a crossing ground between Quiet Pines and Williams. If Hazel Cunningham had attempted to get home, she would have come this way.
Red's clearing was nestled above train tracks, but it wasn't long until Diego hit a set of double tracks. These, Diego knew, didn't head into Williams. They wound northwest into the desert to whatever existed in the openness of Coconino County. The biker avoided the tracks and tried to stay in wild ground, but he continued creeping to civilization. Route 66, Interstate 40, trailers, and access roads.
This wasn't right. If Hazel had been here, she would've been found.
Of course, the rescue effort had followed the same logic. Most of the search parties covered the wild ground north of the Interstate, closer to Sanctuary, nearer to where Annabelle had been. But this was a state park. There was plenty of nature to go around. With that in mind, Diego made an about-face and headed south. Past the RV. Past the latitude line of Williams. Finally, the woods took over.
Kaibab National Forest was one of several that dominated Arizona. The public parks converged in Sycamore, an area romanticized by the locals. West of Flagstaff, Sycamore was mostly forest but, like the national parks, included stretches of desert, mesa, and alpine tundra. The varied landscapes and wildlife were the attraction, the reason for the concentration of campgrounds in the area.
But there was a more sinister tinge to the woods than could be read about in any encyclopedia. Sycamore meant something to the locals. If not uncharted, it was unquantified, and its denizens knew to look over their shoulders.
Hazel Cunningham was only eight and never learned that sense.
As Diego pressed deeper into the growth, the darkness drew over him like a shade. The canopy was thick and only allowed stray fingers of sunlight to touch the earth. The environment quickly felt foreign, and Diego patted his left forearm. Beneath the black leather jacket was the solid comfort of his silver knife.
He wandered this way for some time, carried only by determination. Eventually that grit paid off. In the dim confines, he saw a flashlight wave. It wasn't a strong light, more of a point than a beam, but it was definitely unnatural. As with the etching, this was powered by human hands, even if he couldn't see more than the bulb.
The bloom paused for a moment before rolling in a wide circle. It bounced up and down strangely. The biker ducked behind a tree as he watched, but for the life of him he couldn't make out what was going on. He decided to sneak closer.
The source of the light moved away from him and he followed. As Diego spied on the elusive dance, he realized Red was right. Someone was in this forest. And although Annabelle Hayes was found further north—past the Interstate and adjacent to Sanctuary—this was close enough to where Hazel had disappeared to be suspicious. Halfway between Williams and Quiet Pines, the police had searched this area as well, but nothing had come up.
Until now.
Diego was careful not to be seen. It was what he did best, at least until his efforts crumbled around him. But now he knew: if someone was sneaking around out here, they might be headed to Hazel's location.
For a brief moment, Diego considered the possibility that Red was innocent. But he remembered the locked room in the back of the motor home. He didn't believe the convenient story about his dead son's kilt. The skirt was too new to be a memory, even if it never belonged to Hazel.
Diego followed the glow for another hour. He was tired. Hungry. He realized he hadn't eaten all day. Watching Red cook the squirrel had suppressed his appetite, but it was now raging back with urgency. Diego pressed his stomach to appease the growl and blinked a little longer than he should have.
He walked into a branch and tripped. His foot was too heavy to catch himself. He landed in the dirt with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.
The outlaw coughed and covered his mouth, doing his best to quiet his racket. Picking himself up to all fours, he forced heavy breaths into his lungs and searched for the light. It was there but moving farther. He was losing it.
As he pressed on, Diego wondered if they were heading north or south. He tried to place the sun, which was past its peak, but that was now impossible. The darkness consumed the world. Diego found it strange that he could see anything at all. And maybe he couldn't. Not that well. All except for a single fiery beacon frolicking away from him.
Something was wrong, thought Diego. He was disoriented. Maybe he'd hit his head. He paused and blinked, running his hands over his face and hair. Feeling too constrained, he slipped off his riding gloves and dropped them to the ground. His bare fingers massaged his closed eyelids. It barely helped.
Diego trudged forward again, wondering why his boots felt so heavy. They slowed him down. He should take them off.
That was stupid, wasn't it? He couldn't wander out here without his boots. But they were heavy, and he was tired.
Up ahead, the light hopped further away.
Diego bent to a knee. He unzipped his leather jacket the rest of the way and noticed a bulge in the pocket. Inside, he felt something cold and solid. When he checked his hand, it was the copper wind chime.
He grunted. Why had he kept this?
Diego chucked the wind chime to the floor and reached for his boot. The metal crashed into a stone and let out a sharp chirp before the ground silenced it. Diego panicked and hugged the ground, cursing himself for making more noise.
He made himself lie still. He needed to make sure he wasn't seen. Hazel depended on him. After some time, he meant to check on the flashlight in the distance, but the ground was too comfortable. He was already prone. Hidden. It couldn't hurt to wait just a little longer.
Chapter 27
Maxim was glad to be alone again. It wasn't just the awkward conversation with Olivia, it was the baggage. He wasn't accustomed to considering the social ramifications of his work. Even back when he was married, he was like this. Now that he thought about it, that may have contributed to why his wife left. But Maxim had never set false expectations. As a detective, he needed to be solitary so he could be agile.
For him, the price wasn't too high.
As he hit traffic on the Interstate, he cursed and watched more time slip away. He had a lot to get done today and it was already the afternoon.
Sycamore was an intersection of districts: cities, national parks, counties. It took some juggling to get a handle on it all. On the plus side, everything was pretty close.
Maxim finally exited back at Williams and pulled into the Williams Ranger District. It was the local office of the US Forest Service. Diego's lead hadn't produced anything solid, and it was possible Maxim was wasting his time here, but something urged the detective to give things another look.
After announcing his arrival at the reception desk, a well-muscled man in his late twenties shook his hand.
"I'm Ranger Dan Briggs."
The man was solid, with a strong jaw and a crew cut of short blond hair. More surprising than his appearance was his gear. Besides the expected green pants and tan ranger shirt, he wore a brown vest stuffed with equipment: a radio, GPS, handcuffs, and a badge. With that also came the pistol strapped to his belt.
"Detective Maxim Dwyer. They outfit forest rangers with all this nowadays?"
"I'm law enforcement, Detective. Follow me." Briggs led him to his office, his broad shoulders barely squeezing through the doorway.
Maxim knew the national parks had law enforcement, but he hadn't dealt with them much. He was only going on five years as a detective, but even with his nine years of uniformed experience, Sanctuary investigations usually stayed within Sanctuary. The pros and cons of incorporation, he figured. Most of his outside contact had been with the Coconino County Sheriff's Office, who likely dealt with the Forest Service on a daily basis. Detective Harper had no doubt spearheaded the forest searches with the rangers.
"Is this about the missing kid?" asked Briggs, taking a seat behind his desk. "You didn't say over the phone." Maxim was impressed the man had his own office. He nodded and sat opposite.
"Hazel Cunningham. It's only tangentially related. Maybe."
"Okay. What do you got?"
"Well, I've been doing exploratory work for Detective Harper."
"He's an asshole."
Maxim was taken aback by the forward comment, but he couldn't exactly disagree. "I don't know him a whole lot." Briggs nodded and let Maxim continue. "Anyway, in the course of my investigation, several names have come up. Locals going camping or living in the woods."
The ranger smiled. "Squatters, you mean?" Maxim wasn't sure but he nodded. Briggs leaned back. "There're all types of places to live out here. Lots of water tanks spread out from the frontier days. Lots of little huts and personal properties. Most sites are completely abandoned. But that hasn't stopped the squatters. They're becoming a real problem out here. Sometimes they hide in one location for months, damaging the woods and harming the wildlife. They create sanitation problems and are wildfire risks."
Maxim thought about Red's fire pit and the clearing away of trees.
"What's worse, every summer brings a new influx. The weather's too damn nice out here in the high country."
Maxim knew the term referred to the foot of the mountains. The Flagstaff area and Sycamore was rife with high country. "What about the ones with their own motor homes?"
Ranger Briggs chuckled. "The vast majority of squatters live in RVs or trailers these days. They usually live a few miles from town so they can resupply and take advantage of public services. Maybe even find work. They're not really roughing it like in old times, but it's still pretty hardcore. These days, most people panic when their Wi-Fi connection drops."
Maxim smiled. The ranger seemed fairly open and knowledgeable. He decided to put it all out there.
"There's a spot a few miles east of town, along the train tracks. There's a small clearing where the trees are all cut down and burnt."
"You're talking about Red. Is that old fool back?"
The detective was taken off guard. "You know him?"
"Oh yeah. He's one of the regulars. He likes that spot. It's called Echo Canyon."
"Really? It's not much of a canyon."
"No, it's not. I don't know where the name came from. Has Red broken the law? He's usually very careful."
"Well, isn't squatting illegal?"
"Squatting is. Camping isn't. Citizens are allowed to camp in national parks for up to fourteen days at a time before they need to pick up and move. Some of these guys find a remote spot and hide out as long as they can, but the smart ones constantly hop around like clockwork."
"That makes it legal?"
Briggs nodded. "Not only that, you have three national forests in this area: Kaibab, Coconino, and Prescott. And that's not counting Tonto and Apache-Sit closer to Phoenix."
"So you're saying Lachlan Munro has a lot of options, including infrequent stays at paid campgrounds."
"Yeah. He's a bit batty. You know, he has a thing for trains, but that's nothing considering how truly wacky some of these hermits are. They're the wild homeless, with the full array of mental problems that go along with the label. Red's usually pretty civil around us. You think he's tied up with the missing girl?"
"I don't know," said Maxim, which was the truth. "I'm just vetting him. Getting a feel for his routine, if that's okay. I noticed he has Texas plates."
"Nah, he lives here for the most part. These guys just need a permanent address, you know, for Uncle Sam."
Maxim thought it interesting that Lachlan had used the same expression. "So no matter what's on paper, his practical neighborhood is Sycamore?"
The ranger smirked. "I don't like that name. It's completely unfounded. All the land tracts out here have proper names."
"What else would you call the area?"
"Well, if you're speaking about a municipality or county, you already have a name. Or you can refer to the name of the national park. Or," said the ranger, putting his hand up to interrupt Maxim's protest, "since I know what you're going to say, you can refer to the local area as the Sycamore Canyon Wilderness."
"Okay, Briggs. I'll bite. What's that?"
"It's a federally protected wildlife area governed by the US Forest Service. Most maps don't bother listing them because people care more about the names of parks and counties. The Sycamore Canyon Wilderness overlaps three national parks. It also runs over Coconino and Yavapai counties, as well as a number of smaller municipalities."
"Huh," said Maxim. "And here I thought Sycamore was a purely colloquial term. So you have a problem with what then? People shortening the official name?"
"It's not just that, Detective. If someone talks to me about the Sycamore Canyon Wilderness, then I know they're referring to an area of land—trees, animals, you get the picture. But when the locals start hooting and hollering about Sycamore, they're really talking about something else. They're talking about vampires and werewolves and ghosts. They think these woods are haunted."
Maxim chuckled. "You'd be surprised."
"Don't tell me you believe that stuff?"
For the first time, Maxim lied. "Not really, but you find yourself alone in the woods a lot, don't you? You're telling me you've never seen or heard anything strange?"
Briggs leaned forward and considered the question with a strange expression. He probably wondered if Maxim was pulling his chain. "There's lots of strange activity in the wilderness every day. As a detective, I'm sure you've seen your fair share." The ranger studied Maxim for a second before laughing and leaning back. "Just last week I arrested a man covered in a gallon of his own urine who tried to assert dominance over a black bear. He's lucky he wasn't mauled."
Fair enough, thought Maxim. The secrets of Sycamore were not openly taken seriously, even to longtime residents. Maxim himself used to be one of those residents, before he knew better. But then he remembered Jason Bower's words. "What about stories of kids living out there? Singing songs, crying, stealing stuff."
That made the ranger laugh. "I don't know about kids, but Red's complained about harassment before. He said they were chasing away his food."
"He's a hunter?"
Briggs shook his head emphatically. "Not of protected game. Not that I'm aware of. The coot eats squirrels and other varmints."
Maxim forced away a grimace. "Anything come out of his complaints?"
"Nothing was there in the first place and that's how it stayed. Red disconnected from society. He's not a taxpayer. We don't spend a lot of time investigating his whims. Don't get me wrong. If he's in trouble, we'll help, but he's where he is because he wants to be left alone. He expects it."
It was a good enough answer. The old man didn't have concrete evidence. He rambled about a lot of things. Even Maxim didn't take him too seriously. This right here was just due diligence.
The detective rubbed the growth on his neck and sighed. Briggs had given him a lot of background, but he wasn't sure how much it advanced his investigation. "Do you have any theories, Ranger?"
"Come again?"
"Any theories on where Hazel might be, lost or hiding."
Dan Briggs flexed his jaw twice as he mulled it over. "These woods get extremely dense at night. Several train tracks intersect with various roads and highways. The lights and shadows can get dazzling. The girl might be hiding in one place this whole time and it wouldn't be surprising that we haven't found her yet. That's how much space we're talking about here. I'm about to coordinate with some Coconino deputies to kick off another search. They say it might be the last one. You want to come?"
Maxim winced. He didn't like the ranger's words but, as the days wore on, they were more than likely correct. At some point this operation would transition from rescue to recovery.