Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (23 page)

The last thing Iona saw were the headlights aiming straight for her.

She screamed into the phone, “HE’S GOING TO HIT ME.”

A constant plinking like hundreds of tiny snare drums filled Rye’s hearing. Strange, the noise harmonized with the splashing of water. His legs felt wet. His knee ached. It hurt to breathe. A cool breeze caressed his face. He opened his uninjured eye to see dirt, gravel, and his hat. Why would he leave his Stetson in the dirt? His mind squatted in a morass of confusion. Nothing made sense.

He sat up, a groan escaping from his lips, and grabbed his hat. He scooted into the back of the Tahoe and leaned against the back seat. It was then that he noticed his Tahoe lay on its side.

Like a slow sunrise, he began to remember. Phoenix and the trip back home—with Dee.
C’mon, man, think.

He stared down at his jeans soaked from the knees down. Why was he lying out here in the rain?

He jerked upright.

The explosion!

He rose, still wobbly, to stare around his vehicle and through sheets of rain. His house was gone. Nothing but blackened timbers
and debris jutted from the soaked ground. Wind blew away the smoke from smoldering fires. The pungent smell of burnt wood tickled his nose. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, he lowered his head.

Gone. Every freaking thing I owned. Gone.

He glanced into the interior of the vehicle. The glass on the passenger front and middle, the side facing the explosion, had been blown out. Most of the windshield as well.

He searched in vain through his pockets, looking for his cell phone.

A car pulled into his driveway. Rye squinted against the blinding high beams, raising a hand to block the glare. The driver switched to the low beams. Rye stared into the black metal push-protector covering the grill. A Crown Vic cruiser. Rye spotted Whitewolf behind the steering wheel. The officer waved for him to get into the car.

Limping through the rain, Rye hurried to the passenger side of the cruiser. He collapsed into the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from him. Gasping for breath, he stared at the ruins of his home.

“You piss off somebody?”

“An explosion.” Rye paused, still unable to process the event. “Someone tried to kill me.” He turned to stare at Noah. “This is a crime scene. Unfortunately, the rain will destroy most of any evidence. Hopefully, when the rain subsides, there may be something left.”

“What happened to your … face?” Noah’s eyes, already wider than Rye had ever seen them, scanned him head to toe and back up again.

“Jilt and a few of his buddies jumped me. In Phoenix.” Rye recognized the look on the Apache’s face. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Noah looked away. “It’s about your Uncle Chee.”

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” A crushing anxiety lassoed his heart. “Tell me.”

“His truck was found on 8. Overturned in the median. Chee’s missing. But we did find an Indian woman. Navajo.”

“That would be Sunflower. A friend. She and Chee visited …” He felt bile churn in his stomach.
Noah said they found a woman. Not two. Not Dee. Not Manny. That could only mean …

Noah continued with his report. “She had been tossed from the truck. She’s banged up pretty bad. Docs say she might not make it. Claw marks from an unknown animal left ugly scratches all over her. They found a suspicious knife close to her.”

“Take me to her,” Rye said with urgency. “Suspicious in what way?”

“One of the investigators at the wreck also did work at Batts’. He says this knife could be the one used on Juan.”

“Sunflower wouldn’t—”

“There’s no fingerprints on the knife. Zach sent me over to get you. When we couldn’t raise you on the phone, we figured the storm knocked down some lines. But this …” Noah paused staring at the remnants of Rye’s house. He rubbed his chin. “Chief, what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but I got some ideas.” He buckled his seat belt. “We need to haul butt to the hospital. I have to talk with Sunflower. She might provide some answers.”

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

Rye peered down at Sunflower, lying in the ICU bed with plastic tubing sticking out from her in numerous places, ending at the various life support systems.

Twenty-four hours ago, that was me laying there.

He took her hand, careful not to move it because of the IV. She
looked pale, and her breath came in shallow waves. He wished she would wake. Tears pooled in his eyes, which he wiped with a quick swipe of the back of his hand.

“Sir,” a nurse came into the room, “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Rye tore his eyes away from Sunflower and stared at the nurse. He felt her eyes give his battered face the once over.

He pulled out his badge. “Nurse, just give me another moment. I’m involved in a case of multiple homicides along with a possible kidnapping of a child. Your patient may hold key evidence that would help solve these crimes.”

“If you don’t leave right now, you’ll be killing her.” She folded her arms, leveling a stern gaze at him. “You can leave on your own free will, or I’ll have security haul your backside out of here.”

A moan emanated from the bed. Rye leaned over to see Sunflower gazing at him with pain-wracked eyes.

“It’s okay,” she croaked. “I must talk to him. I’ll rest … afterwards. Promise.” Her words came weak, a mere whisper just a few decibels louder than the machines keeping her alive.

“Go ahead,” Rye said brushing her hair.

“A Mexican Skinwalker,” her words inched out syllable by syllable. “Fat white man … with limo … has … your wife … son … Chee …” Her voice drifted off.

Rye stood ramrod straight. Even though he doubted the existence of Skinwalkers, the news hit him like a mule kick in the gut.

“Sir—” The nurse began to speak, her voice like the edge of a razor.

Rye spun around. “I’m leaving. Just do your best to keep her alive.” With that, he disappeared through the ICU exit.

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

Rye spotted Whitewolf’s Crown Vic waiting under the pavilion at the emergency entrance. Rainwater streamed over the gutters like a waterfall and crashed on the cement driveway. The vehicle’s flashing red-and-blues glared off the wet walls of the hospital. Rye slid into the passenger seat and leaned forward, resting his forehead in the palms of his hands.

He sat there a few seconds, eyes closed. The inklings of a plan formulated in his mind.
Would it work? It had to. Dee, Manny, and Chee needed it to work.

Whitewolf cleared his throat and said, “Chief.” He waited a couple of seconds. “I got more bad news.” Rye raised his head and turned to meet Whitewolf’s gaze. The officer continued, his words spilling slowly. “Iona’s missing. State patrol discovered her Land Rover crashed on Pioneer and abandoned. Before the crash, Ms. Haulke called 911. I heard the replay of the call. Someone had been shooting at her. And she ID’d the shooter.”

After a few seconds of quiet, Rye prodded, “Go on.”

Noah leaned his head back against the headrest. “Once I say the name, the whole ball game changes. Just so you know.” Another pause.

“If it’s who I think it is, then it’s already changed.” He stared unblinking at his officer.

Noah took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay … Junior List.”

With that said, Rye’s plan solidified in his mind like a concrete structure. “You know the storage place on Pioneer close to 8.” When Noah nodded, Rye said, his words cold like a winter rain, “Drive there.
I’ll call Gabby to have DePute and Heilo meet us there. This ends tonight.”

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

Johnny Batts dashed from the back of his cabin, through sheets of rain, to the entrance of his mine. He stopped inside the cave, shivering and soaked to the skin. Water puddled at his feet. The place reeked of wet stone. He studied the back of his cabin, the place he’d called home for the last dozen years. Maybe for the last time.

He turned and hurried into the blackness. He counted off his steps. When he reached fifty, he stopped and faced the wall. Had it been a sunny day, he would have been able to make out the red plastic knob. But not in this blinding darkness. His hands explored the stone in tight circles at shoulder height. He stretched his hands outward, until his left hand bumped against plastic. Johnny pushed the knob.

The click and hiss of hydraulic pistons sounded loud in the passage. He sensed rather than saw the door swing inward on silent hinges. When fully open, pale-green LEDs blinked on to reveal a square room cut out of the stone.

Johnny stepped into this chamber and pushed a button on the wall behind him. The door swung shut, and another door opened on the opposite wall.

He entered this second room. A motion detector sensed his presence and switched on a row of humming fluorescent lights. On the wall before him, thirty rifles of different types hung on a gun rack. To his left, handguns from dozens of manufacturers covered the wall. Below the handguns, wood cabinets stored ammo. To his right,
several types of outfits hung from a clothes rack.

“List, you’ve done forced my hand,” he said to the gun racks. “You’ve raped your last teenager. You’ve sold your last ounce of coke. No more gunrunning for you.”

Johnny stripped off his wet clothing, leaving it in a pile. He chose a black microfiber rain shirt and pants. He slipped on the pair of black Rocky Miner Boots. Then he paused before the handgun rack. Arms folded across his chest, he raised a hand to rub his mouth. “Which ones?”

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

In his home office, with stucco walls covered in western art and wooden beams crossing the ceiling, Mayor Richard List leaned his bulk back into the burgundy leather chair and took a draw from his cigar. The end glowed orange. When he blew smoke into the air, the ceiling fan dispersed it. Awed by the storm’s splendid violence, he monitored it through the quad six-foot tall windows. Lightning exploded, followed in a heartbeat by a roll of thunder that rattled the panes.

He leaned over for the cut glass decanter on the desk and refilled his drink.

“To our mutual success.” He raised his glass—its liquid catching the faint light—to the man dressed completely in black sitting in the dark shadows. He sipped again, the two ice cubes tinkling in the glass.

“Y màs,” his guest said, likewise raising his glass. “I bring you drugs. You give me guns. We all—how you Americanos say—happy campers.”

“Yeah. We can sing Kumbaya around the campfire.” Richard downed his drink.

A shadow moved behind the man in black, and a young, dark-haired girl emerged from the gloom. Though her dress must have cost several thousand, it left little to the imagination. He liked that in a dress. His guest put a hand on her rear and squeezed. The girl started to yelp, but clenched her teeth so not to make a sound.

“Ahhh, Mayor List,” the man in black said, “I see you have an appreciative eye for my Amalia. Maybe, after our business is concluded, I will allow you an hour with her to enjoy her … exquisite charms.” He grinned, flashing his teeth—one top incisor plated in gold—but the humor never reached his eyes.

The girl flinched, but Richard couldn’t care less.
She’d be one nice …
“Demonio, I’ll take that under consideration.” He had trouble removing his eyes from Amalia, but he hid behind swills of alcohol and a cloud of cigar smoke. “Another drink?”

“Sì, I am thirsty. Amalia, fetch one for me. And one for yourself. You may be in need of its blurring comfort later.”

The girl flashed a glance at her captor, her hands darting upward to cover her chest.

Richard waved his cigar-holding hand toward the teenage girl. “Not that I mind, but, why the eye-candy? I thought you were married.”

Demonio did not respond right away. His gaze stared beyond the room. Finally he said, “My wife is a beautiful woman, no? She lives in a mansion surrounded by servants. She and her family live in safety on my estate. I give her children to dawdle over. But her heart is cold. I need hot woman to warm my bed. Sì. Like my Amalia.”

Whatever
.
Keep telling yourself that crap if it makes you sleep better at night.

As the girl brought a glass over to Demonio, Richard admired her alluring walk; the swaying hips, the long brown legs flowing from under the dress, the bounce of her adolescent breasts, the stream of her hair. Demonio’s proposition sounded better with every step she took.

Amalia handed Demonio the glass, and he held it up in toast. “To my new nation of Northern Mexico.”

“And to making lots of money,” replied Richard, and took a long swallow.
Never forget what’s important.

Just then, the door to the office opened. Jilt filled the doorframe, his large hand on the neck of the Dawlsen woman. Behind them stood her kid, the Indian uncle, and the small town reporter held by Junior. The Dawlsen woman squirmed, and Jilt shoved her. She stumbled, falling hard to the teak wood floor. Rainwater dripped from her, forming a puddle on the floor.

Pushing to a kneeling position, she glowered at Richard through strands of wet hair. He returned a fierce stare until she lowered her head.