Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (16 page)

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Why’d you call?”

“My associate tells me a bunch of Mexicans shot up my town tonight. And I want to know what you’re doing about it.”

“Your associate is correct. We did have an incident in town. A few trucks blocked the plaza at Whiskey and Yuma. Shots were fired. We are now assessing the damage.”

“Did you arrest those ignorant wetbacks?”

Rye closed one eye and frowned. List’s racial slur had a tone of what? Not bigotry, though List excelled in that department. What then? Disingenuousness? He wasn’t concerned about the damage done to the town. So why was he calling?

“No, sir,” he answered in the clinical tone of reciting a report. “They fled town before pursuit could be engaged.”

“Don’t screw with me, Dawlsen. You’re not telling me something.”

“With all due respect, Dick, this is an ongoing investigation. I do not feel it appropriate at this time to release any information which would lead to useless speculation.”

“Dawlsen, if you don’t—”

“If I don’t what?” Rye rubbed the solitary vein dividing his forehead like a mountain range. “Run this town like it’s your private
kingdom? Take your money under the table and look the other way? Kiss your fat pahtouy like your flunky former Chief of Police Bare-butt Jilt?”

“That’s Barend Jilt, you miserable—”

“Mayor, you got exactly three seconds to make this discussion meaningful, or I’m going to hang up.”

“Don’t you threaten me, you bas—”

Rye slammed the phone back into its cradle. He snatched his Styrofoam cup off the desk and gulped down what remained as if he could extinguish the burning in his gut.

“I hate cold coffee.” He grabbed the can and finished it. “I hate warm beer.” He held out a hand to Iona. “I need some fresh air. Let’s check out our crime scene.”

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

The gunfire had ended about an hour ago, yet, the rain of explosions still echoed in Missy’s mind. With hands over her head, she cowered in the dark between her bed and the wall. The very thought of turning on the lights made her want to vomit. Though she had to pee, she refused to move. She swiped at the latest trickle of tears.

Sometimes, during periods of raw emotion, Missy sensed what her twin experienced. And it worked the other way as well. Maybe Mel sensed her fear right now. Maybe Mel had left off dancing and even now rushed home. Maybe …

Mel, I need you. Come home. Por favor.

Her life had recently gone downhill … when? A shudder racked her body.
The mal Mexican tio dressed in black!
Ever since he visited the
museum last week. Missy pressed her hands tighter against her skull, hopelessly trying to force away the images that flooded her mind.

He had stalked past the museum’s ticket booth without so much as a hello, or a ticket, and stormed down the hall. Like he owned the freaking place. His boot heels clicked on the polished floor like gunfire. His smell reminded her of a wild animal. Snorting, she had chased him down the hall to get the admission price from him.

By the time she caught up to him and blocked his progress, he had paused outside the Skinwalker exhibit. With his nose twitching like a dog’s, he removed his mirrored sunglasses and turned a gaze upon her. His ghastly yellow eyes glued her on the spot. He had shoved her aside and snarled, so she figured it best to leave this one alone. He left shortly thereafter, after visiting only the Skinwalker exhibit.

Afterwards, she had been followed everywhere she went. Sometimes it was the guy in black. Other times it was the Mexican guy with the junky pickup truck, kinda cute if not so creepy. The worst was the mayor’s flunky dude. Stalking her out in the open like it was okay or something. And now …

A car backfired, and she jumped, banging her head against the nightstand behind her. She laughed at herself, foolishly allowing her imagination to get the best of her. She heard the puttering of the backfiring car. A car door opened. Then the puttering stopped.

Thinking that odd, she scooted to the bedroom window and parted the blinds a quarter inch to peer out. The same beat-up pickup sat halfway out of a parking spot, mostly blocking the lane. The driver’s door yawned open, but she spotted no movement. The faint strains of a country-western song cried out to her.

Then, like a feral beast, the man in black rose from the far side
of the truck. He stared at something at his feet. Suddenly, he looked up at the window. She gasped and ducked. Her breath caught in her throat like a swallowed chicken bone.

She waited several moments before risking another peek. The pickup hadn’t moved. But she saw nothing of … him.

She sensed his presence outside, biding his time. She didn’t know him, didn’t want to know him, and just wanted him to leave her alone.
Call Mel.

Huddling on the floor, Missy took a deep breath and jumped atop the bed. Snatching her purse, she rolled off the side.

She dug into her purse, found her phone, and punched in Mel’s number. The phone beeped for her to leave a message.

“Mel, be careful. Some creep followed me home from the club. He may have seen us together. Call me.” She pushed the “end call” button and peeked out the window again. Her motorcycle waited at the far end of the lot to whisk her away.

If she didn’t go now, her trepidation would destroy any stirrings of resolve. Steeling herself, Missy swept up her purse and headed for the front door. She passed Mel’s room and staggered. A bloody image of Mel’s face passed before her vision
.
Ice shivered down her spine.

Then she heard scratching at the door. Like fingernails against dry wood. She whiplashed vertically and held a hand over her mouth to blockade the scream forming deep in her throat. She took two steps back from the door.

Her cell phone rang, playing
Cowgirls Don’t Cry
by Brooks and Dunn.

She jumped. A stifled shriek leaked from her mouth.

Looking at the screen, Missy sighed in relief. “Mel, I am so glad you—”

A strange scratching noise came over the phone. She pulled the phone back, staring at it as if she held a rattlesnake. The scratching over the phone matched the noise at the door. The cell dinged, indicating she had an email. With trembling hands, she checked.

From Mel?

The email contained no message, but did have a jpeg attachment. The photo displayed the bottom of their front door with its ceramic Gila monster covered in gore … and Mel’s bloody face, the blank stare of dead eyes.

She dropped the phone and screamed. And screamed until her voice disappeared.

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

Johnny Batts startled out of sleep, jerking his head upright.
I fell asleep on watch!
Sitting on the steps to his porch, his neck ached from the awkward sleeping position he had slumped into. He reached behind him for his rifle and grasped empty air.

He stared at the spot where his rifle should have been propped against the stairs. But it wasn’t there. By the pale blue moonlight, Batts scanned the area for the weapon, thinking he may have misplaced it. However, it was nowhere to be found. He rubbed his chin, fretting over the weapon, when something else hooked his attention.

A stench in the desert night congealed like the thickening air before a storm. Batts sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the putrid air.

That smell ain’t right.

With a sick wrench in his gut, he turned his head and listened, recognizing the silence.

No.

He began to walk over to the sheep pen. In three steps, his pace quickened.

No. No.

The rotting stench of death rolled into his nostrils.

Noooooo.

Dark shapes lay on the ground in the pen as if all the sheep decided to fall asleep simultaneously. Except their heads lay at odd angles to the bodies. Black pools surrounding the animals reflected the moonlight.

“Nooo!” The scream tore from his throat.

Batts pounded a fist against the top rail of the fence. Every last one of his sheep had been slaughtered. And he’d been less than a hundred yards away … sleeping.

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

Rye and Iona stood side-by-side at the intersection. Not as close as Rye wanted, but closer than mere friends
. Did he want to be more than friends with Iona?
Though he still had feelings for his wife, he and Dee had to decide upon a direction. However, that discussion would have to wait until after his son’s karate demonstration.

Power to the shot-up streetlight had been disconnected, and it no longer sparked. Fires had been extinguished from the blackened hulks of metal. The air reeked of the violence done.

Lights from the Whiskey Plaza on the other side of the intersection
lit the statue of the Chiricahua Apache warrior protecting his family. It was at this spot one such warrior had mooned the approaching cavalry and gotten away on his desert pony. Rye cracked a wry smile. The story behind the statue never ceased to amuse him.

Halogen work lamps lit up the intersection with midday brilliance. Insects buzzed in the pools of light. Firemen examined their fire hoses and started to roll them up. Sheriff’s deputies had blocked off and yellow taped the intersection. FBI agents wandered through the crime scene, handkerchiefs covering their noses and mouths. Outside the taped section, crowds watched the proceedings.

Rye spotted Whitewolf standing beside a WPD crown vic on the driver’s side. Whitewolf closed his eyes a moment, lowered the phone, and dragged himself over to join them.

“Bad news?” Rye could tell from his officer’s normally stoic face, something bothered him.

Whitewolf stared at the ground for several seconds before looking up. “I just received word about the deputy that had been shot.”

“One of Oakmann’s people?” Rye asked.

Iona covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers.

Whitewolf nodded. “She didn’t make it … DOA.” He paused and spotted Heilo working the scene. “It gets worse. It appears that the deputy was friends with one of our own.” He nodded in the direction of Heilo.

Rye turned to look. “Oh, no.”

“You want me to tell her?” Iona offered.

Rye took a long breath. “No. I’ll tell her.”

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

“No, sir,” Heilo interrupted Rye’s attempt at offering her time off for the next several days. “April wouldn’t want that, and I want to stay busy and keep my mind off her …” Heilo’s voice faltered.

“Do what you need to do.” Rye touched a finger under her chin and eased her head upward. “We’re all friends here. If you need anything …”

“Thank you, Chief. I think I’ll continue processing the crime scene.” She looked down and returned to her investigative duties.

Iona slipped her hand under Rye’s arm and drew close to him. He breathed in the scent of her hair. Rye said, “Poor girl. Lost a friend and a fellow officer.”

“Yeah. It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“There’s a lot in life that sucks.”

Iona pulled away and stared over his shoulder.

“Rye, look.” Iona pointed towards an aged pickup, alone in the gravel lot next to the Plaza. By all appearances, the truck looked abandoned.

“Stay here while I check it out.” Rye unlatched the leather strap on his holster and rested a hand on the grip of his gun. He dashed across the street and approached the vehicle from the blind spot of the driver. Nothing moved inside the cab. Rye inched forward.

“You in the truck,” he called out. “Put your hands on the steering and do not move.” He repeated the instructions in Spanish. Silence greeted his demand. Drawing his weapon he stepped towards the driver’s door. No movement. After peering through the cracked window, he loosed a sigh of relief. The truck had been vacated.

Rye motioned for Iona to join him and gave the inside of the cab a once-over. Nothing of any real interest. Keys were still in the ignition. Probably could get prints off of those.

Rye moved to the bed of the truck and peered into it. No bodies. No blood. Among the spent casings, garbage, and empty beer cans, several paper-ream boxes lay neatly wrapped in brown shipping paper.

That’s odd.

After testing the strength of the mud-stained back bumper, he stepped up on it and into the truck bed. He took out his cell phone and snapped several photos of the boxes.

“Time to see what’s in these boxes.” He slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

He fetched a box off the truck and set it on the street. Kneeling next to the box, he stared at it, his curiosity building with each passing second.

“What do ya got?”

He looked up at Iona and suppressed a budding smile, not wanting her to know how pleased he felt about her presence.

“This box. It’s wrapped in brown paper as if it’s going to be shipped. But this wasn’t some rush job. Someone took their time with it. There’s more in the truck.”

Heilo and DePute hurried across the street and flanked Iona.

“Find something?” Heilo asked.

Rye produced his switchblade and released the blade with a click. “Let’s find out.”