Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (2 page)

An owl sounded far up the canyon. He shivered. In the Navajo tradition, an owl represented a newly departed soul.

Just then, about a hundred feet up the canyon floor, car lights blazed on, blinding him. High beams. Juan turned his head sideways to avoid the glare. Car doors opened and shut.

“Here comes da man,” Bandana said behind him.

Squinting, Juan watched several people approach—shapes distorted by the illumination of the car lights. Boots crunched on the ground. He recognized the tall shadow in front.

Santo polvo. Demonio.

“Amigo,” said the Demonio shadow. “I hate to do what I’m about to do, but even more, I hate when an … asset … steals from me. In my line of business, the mere appearance of weakness is a … drawback. I can’t have people thinking I’m weak.
¿Comprende?
”

“But … but … I didn’t take anything … I promise. Not a thing. Nada.”

“I see with my very eyes what you take. The Indian trinket is nothing. A pretty bauble,
si
?” Demonio held up a silver wristband,
gleaming in the headlights. “For that you’d lose the tip of your pinky finger. But taking my packets of merchandise?” He shook his head with a downward glance. “Not good. And for this, you must pay. A bullet to the knee. Maybe you never walk again … but you’re alive.”

A person in the group behind Demonio handed him something and said, “
Caro petridas es
.”

Latin? There’s only one person I know who speaks Latin.

“Then my security hands me photos. Like this one of you watching my wife swim in the natural.” He flicked the picture, and it hit Juan in the chest. “Or one with you talking to her while she’s in the pool.” He flicked another photo at Juan. “You like to watch other men’s wives? What are you? A pervert?”

“Wait. I can explain.”

“No. No explanations. They are only lies. But there is more, no? I assume you recognize this.” Demonio shoved a cell phone under Juan’s nose.

Juan blinked, suppressing a wave of nausea.

“I search your room. When guests stay at my home,” Demonio shrugged, “I take precautions. A business thing, you understand. I can’t be too safe. And I find this cell phone. But it’s not the cell phone I provide my associates. So I wonder … why does he need another cell phone? I supply him the best. So I check. Can you guess what my technician found on your phone?”

“The latest Lady Gaga ringtone?”

Demonio laughed, smashed the phone against Juan’s forehead, and dropped it. “You are a funny man. No, I find many calls to a number in America. So I think, ‘Who is he calling in the States?’ I find this very special phone number. To the police chief in Whiskey,
Arizona.” Demonio drove his boot heel into the phone, shattering it. “You’re an undercover pig. You have betrayed me. Sold me out to the people who stole our homeland. Sold out my plans for the new Mexico. You steal so much from me. From my associates. From my employees. From our countrymen. So I will take back from you … slowly.”

“Plans for the new Mexico?” Juan licked his dry lips. “Your business is nothing but a bunch of self-serving drug smugglers.”

Demonio responded by drawing a knife from its sheath. Juan tried to pull back, but Bandana grabbed him by the forearms. Demonio approached, waving a black-bladed combat knife.

“You delude no one,” Juan said, calm masking his fear. “Our … countrymen know what you are.”

Juan glimpsed the arc of the blade, followed by a searing sting across his chest. A downward glance showed him a sliced shirt and a crimson line from nipple to nipple.

Bloody minutes passed like eons before Juan could take no more. He opened his mouth and screamed. He didn’t stop for a long time.

I hope the desert’s in a good mood today.

Rye Dawlsen strolled to his police Tahoe. Fingering the dog tags under his uniform shirt, he hummed an Enemyway chant—
“Anaa’ji”
in the old tongue—meant to excise evil from the land. Something his Navajo mother had taught him as a child. W
hy do I even practice this stuff? Except that the wicked have crept into this land like a plague of locusts.

His white father taught him real men drink.
Now that’s a habit I can glide along with.

In the quiet dawn, his western boots crunched upon the gravel driveway. Steam rose from the coffee travel mug he carried. Goose bumps formed on his arms from the morning chill, but the cool wouldn’t last long. Not this time of the year.

He rested his forearms against the top of the SUV doorframe, peered over the roof, and sipped coffee, his attention drawn to the horizon. As the desert morphed from grays into rich colors, he opened the passenger car door, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a pair of military issue binoculars.

Sunlight exploded into blood reds on the underside of the plum-topped clouds brooding along the eastern mountains. The weather report warned of a rogue hurricane barreling down on the Baja coast.
Hopefully, we’ll get some rain from it.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused the field glasses. The distant landscape of thorny vegetation, rocks, and sand jumped in close as he performed a slow pirouette. A realm of precarious life and easy death. Days of boiling temps and frigid nights. Now, with all the recent activity of the drug cartels—the shooting of a Phoenix school official and the kidnapping of a state senator’s daughter—Rye spent several minutes each morning searching for any signs of cartel or immigration activity.

Seeing nothing besides arid desolation, he returned the binoculars to their place in the glove box. Once behind the steering wheel, he laid his white Stetson on the passenger seat, crown side down. He keyed the ignition and kicked up the air conditioning. Giving his postage-sized piece of desert a final once over, Rye made sure no one lingered around his doublewide, southwest-styled mobile home. He checked to ensure he had closed the gate to his chicken coop. Didn’t want his birds running loose in the desert. He slipped the Tahoe’s gear into reverse and backed onto the gravel road SR01, a small lane with several lots feeding from it.

The dusty haze he created hung like cheesecloth in the air. He drove past several trailer homesteads resembling his: a mobile home, a shed and a small sandy yard. Tiny rectangles of humanity hacking inroads into a sparse land.

His vision blurred.

An image of a knife dripping blood filled his mind’s eye. He
shuddered, chills flowing down his spine. A moment later, the vision vanished. The desert ebbed back into sight. Grunting, he yanked the steering wheel to get back on his side of the road.

“Crud,” he blurted, slapping the steering wheel. These visions had been gifted to—or cursed upon—him from his mother. A gift he never wanted.

He drove past Johnny Batts’ land, the last driveway before meeting the main road. The recluse owned several dozen acres of rock and sand. Rye realized he hadn’t seen Batts for a couple of weeks. Later today he’d check up on the man.

At the end of SR01, Rye slowed when he reached the line of mailboxes. He stopped and waited until the dust cloud generated by his vehicle dissipated. He got out and checked his mailbox, a black number nine clearly stenciled on its side. Empty. He pulled the
Arizona Republic
out of the newspaper bin underneath. Sliding back into the Tahoe, he tossed the paper in the passenger seat next to his hat.

The urge for a shot of bourbon rolled over him. He licked his lips.
Just a sip.
He closed his eyes, drowning in the desire for a drink. Trembling hands gripped the steering wheel as if he grasped a lifesaver.

You’re the police chief of Whiskey, Arizona … focus.

Yet the desire intensified. He could taste the burn. His eyes drew open, and he studied the door to the glove box. Reaching over, he opened the compartment. Behind the binoculars, the empty flask awaited him, a bitter reminder of how easy it would be to find a place to fill it. His hand went for the flask, but his fingers brushed the photo of his wife and son, a photo he had tossed in there when they separated.
When she left,
he corrected himself.
I never wanted her to.

Instead of the flask, he grabbed the photo. An unsmiling Dee stared at him. He could almost hear her reproving tone—imploring him leave the booze alone. Rye returned the photo and slammed the glove box shut. Anger welled inside him, uncontrolled. He punched the dashboard. Jerking the gearshift into drive, Rye stomped the gas pedal. Gravel spit from his tires; the back end squirmed, and the Tahoe shot forward.

His cell phone sounded with Darryl Worley’s
Have You Forgotten
. That meant dispatch. He unclipped the phone from his belt holder.

“Yeah, Gabby, whadda ya got?” He took a deep breath. “Anything good?”

“Morning, Chief. Ready to start the day? Zach called. He’s having some problem—”

“Just the facts, Gabby.”

“Right-o, Chief. Anyway, Zach’s at the Drivin’ Diner. I love that name Drivin’. Drive in. Get it? Oh, never mind.” She sighed. “So we got a call about this disturbance there, and Zach took the call. Zach gets there, and this Mexican fellow is disturbing the breakfast club.”

“Disturbing, how?”

“He’s waving a gun around. I think Zach said it’s a big saucer, although I’ve never heard of a gun by—”

“He probably said a SIG Sauer.” Rye rolled his eyes.
Women.

“Yeah, that’s it. And this Mex fellow is yelling all kinds of Spanish. And, you know, Spanish is like my second language. So Zach holds his phone up for me to hear. And, who woulda thunk, the Mex is like nuts! Spouting stuff about guns, and revolution and … and walking skins. Or something like that. So I tell Zach to keep an eye on him while I phone you.”

“You did good, Gabby, so tell—”

“Zach then phones again. Seems this Mexican gunman tried to escape. Zach’s got him cornered in the parking lot. It’s got to be hot on that blacktop. I mean, with the sun coming up, that parking lot is going to fry his—”

“Gabby,” he interrupted, “call Zach and tell him I’m there in five. Less if I don’t hit the ten-car rush minute in town.” He ended the call before she could reply. He switched on the Tahoe’s police lights. He started to re-clip his cell when Worley’s ringtone interrupted.

“Yes, Gabby?”

“There’s a personal message for you, Chief. But I kinda hesitated to give it to you before you took that disturbance call. Knowing how this might upset you …”

“I’m a big boy.”

“Well, if you’re so sure and all … I guess I can tell you. But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. I mean—”

“Gabby?”

“Okay, okay. Dee called. Gotta go.” The phone went dead from her end. Rye snorted once and shook his head.

He pushed Dee’s number. After a couple of rings, her voice began a sultry introduction. “Leave a message at the sound of the …”
Beeeeeep
.

How did she make such a mundane message sound sexy?

“Dee, I got your message. From Gabby. Looks like we’re doing the phone tag thing. I’m on a police call now. Later.” He returned the phone to its clip.

Minutes later, Rye pulled up to the Drivin’ Diner. The 50s-styled greasy spoon resembled a silver tube the size of a train car. A dozen
dust-covered vehicles baked in the lot next to the restaurant. Mostly cowboy-wannabe pickups.

Officer Zach Reese stood like a Frederic Remington statue about ten feet away from a pickup painted in beat-up and rust. A Hispanic male sat on the ground by the tires. His long, stringy hair hung down to black, ferret eyes. Rye had seen his kind before … a coyote or a mule.

Rye parked his Tahoe, but kept it running for the air conditioning. He went around to the back and lifted the hatch door. After slipping into his vest, he picked up his Browning Illusion hunting bow and a Grim Reaper broadhead arrow. After shutting the hatch, he nocked an arrow and walked over to Zach. A trickle of sweat rolled down Rye’s spine.

“Glad to see you’re wearing your protective vest, Reese. What’cha got?” Rye smiled when the Mexican’s eyes grew large at the sight of the bow. It had that effect.

Zach knuckled the Kevlar vest. “The suspect thought he could come into our town and start some trouble.” Zach took off his Stetson and swiped sweaty grit from his forehead with a sleeve. “Waving a gun all over the place. Botched robbery. I got him handcuffed, but he put up a fight. He escaped the diner, headed to this piece of junk pickup, when he tripped. He scooted over to the tire and sat there. He won’t come willingly, and when I approach, he starts to kick and spit. Didn’t want to taser him just yet.”

Rye pulled the bowstring a couple of times, enjoying the stretching creak, an ominous sound of pending death. The Mexican stared at the bow with narrowed eyes.

“I see,” the prisoner said. “The Lone Ranger arrives to help his little Tonto …
sí
?”

“Why you little …” Zach bunched his hands into fists and started toward their captive.

Rye grabbed the officer’s arm. “I’ll handle this.” Rye sauntered over to the prisoner and knelt down to invade the suspect’s space.

“What’s your name, amigo?” Rye asked.

“Go stuff yourself, pig.”