Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (15 page)

She fetched her cell phone off her belt and dialed 911.

“What’s your emergency?”

“This is Deputy Cruze … on State Route 23 … officer down. I repeat …” Sudden nausea swept over her. “Officer down … I’m shot.”

“Please stay on the line, Deputy Cruze. I have units responding to your location. Where have you been shot?”

“Outside my car.”

“Where on your body have you been shot?”

In the swirl, she recognized her mistake. April laughed and then coughed.
Man, that hurt.
Breathing became increasingly difficult.

“Left … upper chest. I’m going … to inves … tigate the truck.” Her body screaming, April pushed herself off the ground.

“Deputy, please remain calm and don’t move. You’ll only aggravate your wound and increase your loss of blood.”

“The truck is upside down in the ditch.” She began what seemed an endless trek to the box truck. Her vision spun like a DVD. Her left arm hung useless at the shoulder. She felt the blood flow down her arm and drip off the ends of her fingers. The cell phone suddenly felt too heavy, so she lowered her arm. Though she tried to drop it, her hand refused to let go of the phone. The dispatcher’s voice continued to plead with her. She stumbled towards the crashed vehicle.

The back door to the truck had opened during the crash, spilling several boxes. One had broken open. Dozens of handguns lay scattered in the ditch.

April mumbled nonsensical sentences, her mind refusing to string together meaningful words. She fought to focus on the situation in front of her. The entire left side of her shirt felt sticky now.

She reached the ditch and stared at the truck. In the driver’s mirror, she saw the reflection of a badly injured man.
I hope the SOB dies.

She heard the dispatcher’s plea. April glanced down, surprised to see she still carried the phone. Straining against its weight, she lifted the phone to her mouth.

“Tell the units …” she breathed, “we have … multiple wounded.”

“It’s April, right?” said the dispatcher. “Your name is April. Stay with me, April. Tell me what you see.”

“I’m looking … into the cargo …” She took a breath. Now, she heard the sirens of approaching rescue. “Cargo area … Boxes … Stenciled …” She didn’t want to die, and sadness sapped at her dwindling strength. “Guns … military issue. And C4. Repeat. Cargo … Guns and C4. Lots of …”

Sirens sounded close and far away at the same time. She heard car doors open and slam close. Voices. Thirsty, she wanted a bucket of ice-cold water. Blackness took her as she fell and slid into the ditch.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Rye’s cell phone rang while he surveyed the damage at the plaza.
Now what?
He unclipped his phone and saw Iona’s name and number.

“Hey, what’s up?” Perhaps she had experienced one of those mystery writer moments when a clue jumps out and leads to the killer.

All the commotion around him swallowed Iona’s shallow whisper.

Reese had moved into the crowds pouring out of the local businesses, taking notes from witnesses, his notebook out and Sharpie scribbling at a furious pace. Riding hard into the town, lights flashing, DePute and Heilo squealed to a stop at the intersection. They parked their cars to cordon off the area and opened their doors in unison. Whitewolf halted his horse next to the cars.

“I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to speak louder.”

“Can’t. Just get back here …” The phone went dead. He stared at it for a microsecond.

“Protect the scene,” Rye hollered. “Keep towners away from the burning wrecks. Something’s going on back at HQ.”

Rye sprinted towards the station, passing more rubberneckers coming out of the buildings. Something had frightened Iona, but what? The more he thought about the sound of her voice, the faster he ran.

The faux old-west street lamps came on sending pools of light to the ground. Rye dodged people in the street mumbling hasty “excuse me”s.

I can’t barge into the place. Have to trust the darkness to keep me invisible.
How to approach? No real cover. He focused on what Uncle Chee taught him when they hunted. Think like the prey, Chee often told him.
But I have to know what I’m hunting.
Assume a male. The worst-case scenario?
He’s got Iona.

He slowed as he approached the police station. Reaching back to the quiver, he realized he only had the explosive arrowheads, and that wouldn’t work in this situation. He took a couple of deep breaths and raced to the corner of the building.

Stowing his bow and the quiver along the foundation of the station, he drew his Glock. A set of sirens out on I-8 headed away from town. A car honked down the street. His pounding heart sounded too loud in his ears. He stood outside his office but could not see through the blinds.

Go for the back door. Three. Two. One.

Ducking under the windows, he hurried to the rear entrance.
Leaning against the door, he took a few deep breaths and stepped inside.

Dark. The only light came from the emergencies. Quiet, no sound save for the undertone of the AC. Typical smells: stale coffee, sweat, disinfectant. And something else?

His eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness with aching slowness. He moved one quiet step at a time, looking for anything out of order. He paused at the Locker Room door and listened. Nil. He eased open the door on silent hinges and removed the flashlight from his belt. Shielding its light, he swept through the rooms, the locker area, the bathrooms, and the showers. Good places to hide, but no one was there.

Rye turned off the flashlight and stepped outside the locker room. A few steps brought him to the main hallway. The holding cells were to his right where Mr. Valdez awaited legal proceedings. Rye turned left, inching around the corner, and proceeded toward his office.

The peculiar scent was stronger.
A wild animal? In the station?

Off to his right, a hallway led to the bathrooms. No one. Next came the break room. He peered through the window. Light from the vending machine lit the room. Empty.

Rye tiptoed to his office, paused, and listened. Quiet. His office door stood partially open. Watching in all directions, he pushed the door until it bumped the rubber stop. At least no one waited for him behind the door.

“Iona,” he whispered.

Nothing.

“Iona,” he said a tad louder.

Was that whimpering? He hurried to the backside of the desk. In the open area between the drawers, Iona scrunched down in a fetal
position.

“Iona? You okay?” He holstered his gun.

“Rye?”

She rushed out of hiding and hugged him, tears soaking into his shirt.

“I saw it,” she said, drawing back, staring into his eyes.

“What?”

“A Skinwalker … headed for the cells.”

Rye eased open the bottom desk drawer and took out his moccasins, slipping them on in exchange for his boots. Motioning for Iona to stay put, he hurried to the door, making all the noise of a prowling mountain lion.

Gloom enshrouded the hallway. With his Glock pointed in front of him and slightly downward, Rye tiptoed down the corridor. Finger tapping the trigger guard, he shivered from the cold air
whishing
through the AC ducts. Sweat slickened his palms, so he gripped the gun so tight he thought he could crush the magazine. He sniffed and caught the lingering musky scent of a wild animal.

Halfway down the hall, he noticed someone had left the door open a crack to Pre-Booking
.
None of his officers would be so foolish to break that protocol. So who …?

Rye touched the toe of his shoe against the bottom of the door and pushed. Silence permeated the darkness. The room reeked of wet fur, blood, feces, urine, and fear. Bile rose in his throat. The stench of death. But whose?

He played the beam from his flashlight across the room. Detainee benches lay on their sides. A laptop and a printer had been smashed on the floor. Paper carpeted the floor. The door leading to the cells yawned open.

“Oh no,” Rye muttered.

He inched forward, gun ready to fire, and shone his light down Lockup. The door to the prisoner’s cell leaned open. Shining his flashlight, he peeked.

With arms folded across his chest, the prisoner, Valdez, lay on the bottom bunk. He appeared to be in peaceful slumber … except that his throat had been torn out. Blood splattered the cell and pooled on the floor. Bloody canine footprints marred the cell floor, yet there were none outside the cell.

Rye tried to imagine how the scene unfolded. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the destruction of Pre-Booking. The thing had searched for something … what … the keys to Lockup and the individual cells. Then the creature savaged his prisoner and … then … vanished?

Rye swept through the remainder of the building, searching each room. The lingering scent of wild animal had dissipated. No bloody footprints, human or animal, appeared anywhere outside the murder scene. His Navajo half wanted to engage a native shaman. His white half urged a logical police procedure. Was this what his uncle was trying to warn him about?

Locating no further clue to the whereabouts of the killer, he returned to his office to find Iona perched on the edge of his desk. He plopped down into his chair, and she scooted close to him. She looked pale and nibbled at one fingernail, staring blankly at the wall behind him. He took her other hand and in a rush she collapsed into
his arms. Minutes passed in silence wrapped in each other’s hold; she, sitting on his lap and he, caressing her back.

“Oh, Rye, what is going on?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

“Nobody will believe what happened here.” She loosened her grip and pulled back. She studied his face, and Rye drank in her evocative stare.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed her. Sudden heat flooded him at the touch of her tongue, stopping time itself.

Until Iona pulled back. “I can’t do this. Not while you’re still married. Some women would say, ‘Forget that.’ I’m not like those women. I won’t be a home wrecker, even if it’s on the verge of collapse.”

Rye rubbed his forehead, stammering, trying to find a response.

Iona stood up abruptly. “I want some coffee. I’ll brew us a pot.”

With one hand playing with her hair, she departed.

His chair scraped across the floor as Rye rose. “Iona.”

“I’m fine,” she said in a tone that told Rye she wasn’t.

He glanced down at his desk pad as if it held the answers to his problems. They had always been nothing but friends, and the kiss had rattled her. When she had pulled away from him, it lay bare on her face, coloring her movements. And sealing her lips. He couldn’t blame her. On top of that, she’d witnessed real evil stride by her.

Rye called Yuma’s Medical Examiner. Someone answered the phone after the seventh ring. He explained the situation, and the contact on the other end said the ME would get back with him.
This is one the coroner will want to see.

Iona came back with coffees for both of them. She set one in front
of Rye and returned to her spot on the desk. She blew on her coffee but didn’t drink it. Rye glanced at her, but she didn’t say anything.

“The ME is going to call shortly.” Rye tried to steer the situation away from the precipice they stood on. “So let’s cover tonight’s events. What exactly happened here?”

He wasn’t sure if he meant the Skinwalker or the kiss.

Rye leaned back in the chair. It objected with a long creak. He stretched out his arms and, interlacing his fingers, rested his hands on the back of his head.

Iona stared at the ground between her feet, arms folded across her chest.

“Let me postulate for a minute,” he continued, emphasizing me. “I’m trying to think outside the box. Trying to make sense of this. Why would a group of Mexicans come into an American town and shoot the snot out of it? If they were trying to kill people, they did a piss poor job. Cartels have no qualms about killing innocents and do so often. So why this stunt?”

Iona shrugged, still not looking up.

“And why this acting like a Skinwalker and sneaking into a police department to murder a prisoner. The killer had to know the risk was high.”

Iona shot Rye a look. “It was all a distraction.”

Rye nodded, considering her comment. “But a distraction from … or … for what?”

Rye’s cell interrupted the quiet with a jangling harshness. He and Iona shared stares as he reached for the phone.

Rye looked at the caller ID. “List.” He pushed the answer button. “Police. Dawlsen speaking.”

“Dawlsen, what the blazes is going on in my town?” Rye imagined the rank smell of the caller’s cigar smoke oozing through the phone. He touched his dog tags.

“Mayor Dick, nice to talk to you too.”

“Name’s Richard, you half-breed.”

“Did you call to discuss something, or did you just want to diss my heritage?”

“Dawlsen, you know what? You’re a real piece of—”