Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (12 page)

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Manny? How’s he doing with the separation?”

Her touch sent shivers down his spine and into his loins. His thoughts shifted into being with Iona. He studied her profile, surprised he found her attractive. And not by a little bit. She radiated the beauty of a Hollywood actress. He had to rip his eyes away from her low cut active-wear thin-strapped shirt.
How did I miss that earlier?

“It’s tough on all of us. It’s … nice to have a friend like you.” Rye patted her hand. “Ever since Dee joined that church, she’s been on my
case about my drinking.” He took a sip of the coffee, all too aware about all the empty beer cans inside. He shrugged. “Perhaps she’s right.”

Iona withdrew her hand from Rye’s shoulder. “I suppose that’s a wife’s prerogative.”

Rye closed his eyes, flinching at his stupid comment about Dee.
Dawlsen, sometimes you’re dumber than a mentally-challenged mule.

Rye’s phone began playing. He dashed inside and grabbed his cell.

“What ’cha got, Gabby.”

“You know how you told Zach to go to the museum this morning? He called in and said he stayed there for a while, and no one showed up. Which is really odd because Helen loves that place and—”

“Gabby, I’ve talked to Zach. Just tell me why you called.”

“Well, if you don’t want all the details. You know it’s important I supply all the intel I can. The former police chief …” she stopped.

“Can we have this discussion later?” Rye snapped. “Just give me the facts.”

“Humph.” Her irritation clearly vocalized. “Zach’s over at the Arches’ place. He rang the doorbell. But neither Helen nor Terrance answered the door. He hears their dog yapping inside. He wants to know what he should do.” She paused, and Rye started to say something when she added. “Something’s wrong. I just know it. Helen’s in my square dancing group. This is so unlike her. I’m worried about her.”

Why Zach went through Gabby to contact him when he had just talked to the officer, Rye couldn’t figure out. “Tell Zach to check the outside of the house and look into the windows. If he has visual evidence of a person in danger, then he has my permission to enter the house. I’ll be over at the Arches’ in about twenty.”

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Twenty-three minutes later, Rye came to a gravel-spitting halt in the Arches’ driveway where two Whiskey police vehicles already waited. The driveway headed through a cactus garden of various agaves, desert spoons, marigolds, and Arizona ash. The Arches’
casa
, a tan adobe box with stone decor, squatted behind the garden. Several Indian pots planted with fish-hook barrel cacti lined the narrow portico covering two sides of the house. A fig vine had wrapped itself around wooden posts that held up the awning.

Whiskey usually saw one or two murders a year, and those generally a result of drunken arguments. Theft was equally as rare. His major troubles had been drugs and gun-running. And most of that had stayed in the desert. Without warning, trouble had strolled into Whiskey and plopped in the middle of the town. Now this with the Arches. He hoped they were okay. Something told him they were not.

He studied the rugged terrain spread out behind the Arches’ lot. Sand, rocks, and spiky desert vegetation led to some rocky escarpments. About a mile away, the only Baptist church in Whiskey perched atop a lone hill. Its spire shone pallor white against the further distant mountains.

Leaving the engine idling, he stepped out of his Tahoe, adjusting his hat and sunglasses. Hitching up his Sam Browne belt, Rye started kicking gravel on his way past the other two cars.

Iona pulled up behind his police vehicle in her Firenze red Land Rover LR2. No mistaking that vehicle. She hopped out, giving the car door a push with her hip to close it. She waved a manila folder. He waited for her, and together they headed for the back of the house.

“What’cha got?” Rye asked.

“Photos from the museum. I swung by my office. Any word on the Arches?” A hint of concern graced her voice.

“Zach phoned to say he got no response. This might not be pretty.”

Iona shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “Get out of here.” She studied his face for a second. “You’re serious. Okay. If I’m right, you take me on a romantic dinner to Yuma.”

“Deal.” He paused. “And if I’m right, and you lose it, what’s in it for me?” Rye stared into her eyes.

“I’ll think of something … rewarding.”

From inside the house, the Arches’ dog barked incessantly. Zach leaned against the back door, face pressed against the window and one hand blocking the sunlight. In the back yard, Noah ambled head down in a back and forth pattern.

“What’s the situation?” Rye said to his two officers.

“Can’t see into the windows,” Zach said. “Someone spray painted them from the inside. Why would anyone do that?”

Noah joined them at the house. “I searched the area, boss. Got nothing.”

Rye went to the back door and pounded on it. “Helen! Terrance! This is Rye Dawlsen. Open the door!” He held up one hand for silence as Zach started to speak and listened with his head slightly cocked. The dog’s yapping drowned out the house’s silence. Concentrating, he rubbed his chin.

The Arches took their dog everywhere. He remembered seeing it in the pen behind the museum. How many times had he seen them
driving through town with the Jack Terrier sticking its head out the window. Now the animal was protecting its domain and Helen and Ter were nowhere to be found. What was the dog’s name?

“Puddles?” Rye cooed through the door. “It’s okay. You know me. We won’t hurt you.” He went on for several minutes muttering this nonsense before the dog calmed down.

“Hey!” Iona yelled, standing in front of the detached garage. “The Arches’ car is still in here. I don’t like the way this looks.”

“Stay there, Iona. This isn’t one of your mystery stories. I’d say we got ourselves an emergency.” Rye said after a few more seconds, “Noah, you got that door buster?”

The Apache hightailed around the corner of the house. Moments later, he hurried back, the black metal ramming device over his shoulder. “Stand back,” he said.

Whitewolf stood on the top step while Rye held open the outside door with one hand and drew his handgun with the other. Noah started swinging the battering ram with two-handed swings. “One … two … THREE.”

When the metal head connected with the wooden door, a shower of splinters and ruined timber exploded inward.

“Police,” Rye yelled.

Rye stepped through the ruined door and moved to his left. The stench of death—rotting meat and piss—rushed into his nostrils, making him gag. He cupped a hand over his nose and mouth.

“We got two bodies in the kitchen,” Rye managed to say over his shoulder.

Two torn and headless bodies lay in a lake of blood. The sliced remains of Helen and Ter resembled meat in a butcher shop. Ter
looked to have fallen from a kitchenette chair. Helen appeared to have met her fate lying on the floor.

Similar MO to Juan on Batts’ property. Decapitation meant the killer was escalating. The thing that shook Rye was the pile of dry dog food and several bowls of water that had been left for the animal.

“Oh, that’s just …” said Zach, pushing past Rye. The young cop covered his mouth.

“Don’t puke and ruin the crime scene, Reese,” Rye snapped. “Go outside.”

Whitewolf came in behind and growled something in Apache. “Who’d kill and mutilate yet take time to feed the dog?”

“Someone with a demented mind,” Rye said, trying not to be overwhelmed by the amount of spilt blood. “We got a crime scene to process, but we also need to secure the house.” His gaze traveled across the carnage, fighting off the shiver of death’s cold hand down his spine.

“We can sweep the house,” Whitewolf said. “Then exit out the front. That’ll help maintain the integrity of the scene.”

“Let’s do it then.” Using hand signals, Rye directed his officers how to proceed. “Be careful. The killer may still be here.”

They passed through the house with handguns pointed toward the floor, fingers poised alongside trigger guards. They exited the kitchen into the living area and saw no one
.
Rye pointed to the lone hallway. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes as he paused before the hallway’s dark maw.

This is it, then. If anyone’s here, they’re down there.
Taking a deep breath, Rye stepped into the corridor.

At the first bedroom door, Rye peered in and figured it to be
Helen and Ter’s bedroom. He pointed at Whitewolf, who followed on his heels, and then at the bedroom. Noah nodded and entered the bedroom.

Rye moved on, and he sensed Zach’s presence closing in behind him. At the next bedroom door, which appeared to be a home office, Rye indicated for Reese to examine it. Zach nodded and proceeded into the office.

Rye continued down the hall, suddenly feeling alone and stranded. He swiped a sheen of sweat off his upper lip. At the third doorway, he paused and stared at the closed door. His hand reached out to take the doorknob.
I’ll be an easy mark
. He flung open the door. The room was bare as if the Arches never used it. Not even carpet or a throw rug. Rye lowered his gun and examined the closets. Empty.

He breathed out a tension-releasing sigh.

One more room. The bathroom.

Back in the hallway, Rye moved to the restroom. The half-opened door revealed a white tub with a Navajo inspired shower curtain. Entering the bathroom, nothing appeared suspicious. The sink supported two toothbrushes and toothpaste. A rack over the toilet contained towels, shaving supplies and whatnot. Last thing to check, the tub.

“Clear,” Noah yelled, a distant voice in Rye’s ear.

“Clear,” Zach yelled a heartbeat later.

Rye focused on the shower curtain. He pointed his gun, touching the curtain with the barrel. That’s when he heard the droning flies. The stench of death flooded his nose, burning into his lungs. He drew the curtain open. In the bottom on the tub, the heads of Helen and Terrance stared up at him with blank eyes.

The smell of death lingered in Rye’s nostrils.

Sitting in his Tahoe typing a report on his in-car laptop, Rye glanced out the windshield to observe the coordinated swarm of Yuma’s forensics. The coroner stood beside a white van directing his two assistants as they loaded the two bodies.

Despite the AC, heat leaked into the vehicle, and Rye swiped a bead of sweat running down his cheek. The sun hovered, white-hot, in a colorless sky.

Standing in the meager pool of shade offered by the garage, Iona snapped photos of the investigation. When she noticed him watching her, she raised a hand to wave, a smile spreading across her face.

She’s one fine looking woman … Now write your report.

A Yuma County Sheriff pickup parked alongside him, crunching gravel and stirring up a dust cloud. Heat waves shimmered off the white truck. Sheriff Anne Oakmann stepped out, adjusting her black uniform. Dark hair cut short, mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes, a curt attitude that took no BS. Deadly shot. Yet despite her granite demeanor, Anne tended to exhibit a softness toward kids and animals.

She slipped on her western-style hat, adjusted her Sam Browne gun-belt, and sauntered over to Rye’s vehicle.

Before she could tap on his window, Rye pushed the button to lower it, heat smacking him like a bomb blast.

“Hey, Dawlsen,” Anne said, standing gun side away from him. “What’s up? Anything good?”

Rye looked at the flock of law enforcement encircling the house. “Well, Oakmann, yeah, if you consider a double homicide under … um … inexplicable circumstances good. Pretty gruesome stuff.”

“Don’t tell me. Wanna form my own opinion.”

Rye nodded. He knew that about her … very hands on.

“Mind if I have a look around?” She twisted around, taking in the activity.

“Go ahead, just sign the log book. I’m in no mood for territorial spats. This one creeps the snot outta me.” She continued to observe the scene. Rye added, “Go, have a look-see. Then let me know your thoughts. I want to finish this report.”

“Something making your Navajo blood nervous?”

Rye forced down the flash of anger. Anne didn’t mean anything racist by her Navajo comment. That’s just the way she operated—didn’t pull any punches. “Go inspect the scene, and tell me if it doesn’t make your European blood nervous.”

“Will do.” She pressed her lips together into a firm line, failing to hide the smile. As she walked away, Rye raised his window. He turned back to his laptop, grateful for the cool air.

The passenger door opened, and Whitewolf climbed into the front seat. “Good and cool in here,” he said, closing the door. “I must’ve lost ten pounds from dehydration. Got anything to drink?”

“Yep.” Rye reached into the cooler on the back floor and fetched a bottle of water submerged in the half melted ice. “Here. Get anything?”

“Not a whole lot.” Whitewolf held the plastic against his face, ice water dripping off his chin. “Apparently, the Arches didn’t spend much effort getting to know their neighbors.” After taking a long draw on the water bottle, he fished his notebook out of his shirt pocket and perused his notes. “You know Joel Pinner? He’s a contractor at the Army Proving Grounds in Yuma.”