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

by John Turney

  The Impala driver yanked a handgun from his waistband and fired point-blank into Stevens’ chest. The agent fell to the pavement. The other five Mexicans opened fire on the remaining agents. Two more border agents collapsed. Agents returned fire, dropping one of the Mexican gunmen and wounding another. Screams from surrounding cars blended with the shouts of agents. Glass shattered. Bullets plunked off cars.

  The four Mexicans moved out with military precision. They maintained a barrage of firepower.

  Someone pounded on Dan’s window, and he jumped. A short, dark-skinned woman in uniform stood at his door. “Sir, move your vehicle! Now!”

  He waved a two-fingered acknowledgement. Shifting his truck into gear, he sped through the border crossing. Agents poured out of glass doors like gas out of a can. The four remaining shooters continued to lay down withering gunfire.

  With the sounds of war diminishing behind him, Dan punched the truck into high gear.

  Out of Nogales, the road cut through low hills of scraggly brush. A mile later, he came to an exit with a carwash.

  He hurried the truck into the farthest slot, glad no one else was around. He had the place to himself. Dan fed quarters into the spray-washer and hosed down the truck.

  The water-soluble paint bled away in streaks of colored suds, and in its place, a vanilla-hued box van emerged. He turned the hose on the lingering pools of water, hastening the last of the paint down the drain. After returning the sprayer to its containment housing, he opened the cab door and reached under the driver’s seat to extract two magnetic signs. Dan held them out and inspected the blue logo of an artsy roadrunner beside the name Ablo’s Fast Delivery. He attached one to each side of the cab.

  It’s working. The plan is freaking working like a charm. I’m in the money.

  He climbed back into the driver’s seat, fired up the truck, regained the expressway, and headed north.

  After several miles, he came upon an abandoned gas station/ restaurant. A cold shiver rolled down his spine as he stopped at the rusted gas pumps.

  A man dressed in jeans, a sleeveless shirt, worn-out boots, and a white Stetson with a tooled leather hatband emerged from the dark shadows inside the building. The newcomer swaggered over to the truck and climbed into the passenger side of the cab. Dan instinctively distrusted the newcomer. Swallowing nervousness, he smiled and nodded a “hello.” The newcomer returned the gesture.

  “Ready?” Dan asked, reaching for the gearshift.

  “One more thing,” the man said, pulling out a .22 handgun.

  “Demonio will award your excellent work … in hell.”

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  He fired three shots into the driver’s head.

  The reek of blood, urine, and feces filled the cab.

  “I’ll take it from here, amigo.” He opened the driver’s door and kicked the body into the dusty lot. Gaining the driver’s seat, he shifted the van into gear and pulled out onto the highway.

  He speed-dialed a number on his cell phone. When a voice responded, he said, “Another safe crossing. The plan is coming together.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Iona Haulke stared out the window through the backwards-arching logo of her newspaper business, The Whiskey Spill.

  She returned her gaze back to her computer monitor and raised one hand off the keyboard, pivoting from the elbow that rested on the arm of her chair. She shook her hand, rattling a dozen or so bracelets of Navajo turquoise and copper. Her favorite colors. The copper matched her hair, and the turquoise complemented her eyes.

  “Ms. Haulke,” came the muffled cry through the glass door. The door clicked open, followed by the ding of a bell. “Ms. Haulke?”

  Despite the early hour, the air conditioner rattled full-time, converting dry desert heat into semi-cool office air. When the visitor entered, a wave of seething air surged past her and into the room. Iona rubbed her sweaty hands on her skinny flare-leg blue jeans. Size 4—thank you very much.

  “Yeah, Missy, what is it? You and your twin having more problems with the local cowboys?”

  “It’s the museum,” said the breathless blonde, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She smoothed the piece of cloth meant to be a skirt. Then she twisted back and forth to view her handiwork.

  Iona cleared her throat. “Missy, what about the museum? You know, that place where you work?”

  Missy’s words gushed out. “Helen sent me over. Someone broke in last night.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Missy shrugged. “Helen doesn’t want the police to muck things up. Well, that’s not exactly how she put it. So I thought of you. You, like, investigate stuff.”

  Whatever. “Okay. Let’s check it out. I do hope no one’s contaminated the crime scene.”

  “You think someone, like, stole something?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’m assuming no one broke in just to see the displays.” Iona lifted her turquoise-banded straw hat off the desk and plunked it on her head. “Ready?”

  Iona opened the door and stepped outside. Turning the corner, they headed towards the museum’s parking. Alligator junipers shaded a few dust-covered vehicles, and heat waves radiated from the metal even this early in the morning. No cars yet in the visitors area.

  They entered the museum and stood in the foyer for a moment, allowing their vision to adjust to the dimness.

  Old photos of Native Americans and paintings of desert landscapes decorated the walls. The bookstore, off to one side, was dark. A “Closed” sign hung in its window. A full-scale display of a Navajo Hogan and the life surrounding it occupied the room ahead. Hallways went off to either side.

  “Follow me,” said Missy.

  The girl turned to the left and scurried down the tiled hallway. Raised voices bickered at the far end. Helen and Terrance. Arguing as usual. Iona followed at a leisurely pace. She glanced into every room she passed to determine their status. They all appeared to be undisturbed. The thieves probably knew what they were looking for. Missy scampered into the last room on the right, the one displaying supernatural relics of Navajo past.

  “Terrance, is y’all gonna fiddle with that broken glass or is y’all gonna clean it up?”

  Iona recognized the smoker’s voice of Helen, the curator and owner of the museum. Though the woman sounded like some back hills Easterner, Helen shared her love and respect for the Navajo people. Intelligent. Compassionate. Reasonable. Kind of described both Helen and the Navajos.

  “Will you just shut up and leave me to clean this mess?” That’d be Terrance, the maintenance man and Helen’s husband. A drunk with a mean streak. Iona had seen him numerous times staggering down the streets of Whiskey, gripping a bottle-shaped paper bag. But Helen wouldn’t leave him.

  “This is just, like, so horrible. Who’d do such a thing?” The final canary voice could only be Missy’s twin sister, Mel.

  Missy paused under the arched entrance into the room, and Iona stopped alongside her. Terrance hovered, broom in hand, next to the shattered glass case in the room’s center. Despite her age, Helen sat, legs crossed, on the floor. Tears marred her heavy makeup, and her presence gave the room the acrid odor of stale cigarette smoke. Mel rambled on, saying nothing in particular, staring at the displays remaining in the case.

  “Stop,” Iona shouted, holding up her hands, palms out. “You’re destroying forensic evidence. All of you, out of the room. Now. Has anyone called the police?”

  “Awww, Iona,” Helen whined. “Can you believe someone stole the Skinwalker feather?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Now, please, come out of the room.”

  “This ain’t one of them mystery books yer always writin’ about,” said Terrance. “This here’s real life. And I got to clean this mess up before the museum opens. Someone gets their foot cut on glass, they’ll sue us fer sure.”

  “Chief Dawlsen will probably arrest you if you go messing with his crime scene. Let’s go to your office, conta
ct the WPD, and let the professionals do their job.”

  In Helen’s office—a narrow affair with everything arranged in neat order except for the ashtray mounded with ashes and squashed butts—Iona dialed 911. When Gabby answered, Iona reported the break-in, detailing what little she already knew. After Gabby shared the incident at the Drivin’ Diner, Iona hung up.

  Helen took a pack of cigarettes off her desk and lit one.

  “You really should stop smoking those things,” Iona said, blinking away tears.

  Helen started to speak but erupted in a phlegmy cough. “Yeah. Doc says the same thing. Cigarettes can’t be as bad for y’all as what some of the town’s residents smoke.” She cast an accusing look at Missy, then at Mel, who turned away from her piercing gaze.

  “Don’t tell me.” Iona held up a hand and looked away. “I don’t want to know. Gabby said Rye’s at another call and will get here when he can. In the meantime, tell me what happened.”

  Helen, Terrance, Mel, and Missy looked at each other. Silence thickened like Helen’s cigarette smoke.

  “Don’t everyone start talking at once.” Iona folded her arms.

  Helen coughed some more then said, “Me and Terrance get here at our regular time to open up. Missy pulls up seconds later in her Jeep with Mel. We don’t see nuthin’ different like strange cars in the parking lot or a busted down door. I unlock the door, and Terrance here goes to turn on the lights and do his rounds. Mel goes to our acquisitions prep room, and that’s when she discovers the theft.”

  “Mel, what did you see?” Iona turned her gaze upon the girl.

  “When I, like, come to work, I have to walk down this hallway,” she said, pointing to the corridor, “to get to my workstation. You know … I like to look at the exhibits … well, because I like Indian stuff. It’s cool. Everything’s just like when we closed up last night until I get to this room. The first thing I see is the case is broken. Glass is, like, everywhere. I … I …”

  “Go on.” Iona prodded her on with a nod.

  “I walk over to the case, and I see the Skinwalker feather is gone.” She paused. “It’s a major display, being it’s important to the Indians and all. That’s when I called Helen.”

  “Yep, she did,” Helen interjected, smoke leaking from her mouth as she spoke. “And I get here and freak. You know, seeing the place trashed. Pissed me off. Mel told me that the feather was missing, so I checked to see if anything else was gone. Sure enough, the deerskin shield’s also missing.” She took a long draw on her cigarette. “Piss-ant thieves.”

  “Anything else stolen?”

  Helen shrugged. “After we found out we got robbed, I sent Missy to find you, figuring you’d know what to do and all. Being one of them ex-cop mystery writers. Don’t want no cops in here tramping around my exhibits. The place was a mess, so I wanted to clean up the glass before anyone got hurt. We just started when you arrived.”

  Iona coughed into her hand. I hate cigarette smoke. “Good thing I stopped you from destroying the evidence.” She nodded at Terrance. “What about you, Ter?”

  He scratched his head and looked at his wife. “I reckon that’s how it went down.”

  “What about …”

  Before Iona finished her question, the front door opened, and a voice called out, “Hello? WPD.”

  Iona smiled. “Rye, we’re back in the office.” Then she stared at Helen. “Maybe now I can get some straight answers.”

  CHAPTER 3

  WEDNESDAY, 8:27 AM

  After observing the crime scene for several seconds, Rye set his evidence collection case on the floor, and then removed the lens cap from the Nikon D-80 DSLR camera hanging around his neck.

  “I need to document the scene,” he told Iona.

  “Nice camera,” she said, her eyes on him and not on the camera.

  “This?” Certain that something must be wrong with the air-conditioning, Rye longed for a nice, cold drink. “Oh, some famous author donated several to my department after her book was made into a movie.”

  “Only the best for WPD,” she said, smiling.

  Sudden heat infused his face, and Rye was grateful when Iona averted her eyes.

  “Do me a favor.” Rye nodded at the evidence case. “Fetch the logbook from the case and start a log of who entered this room and when.”

  “Sure thing. I’d do just about anything for Whiskey’s Chief of Police.”

  Rye cleared his throat, searching for a distraction. “And phone Gabby for me. Have her send someone to assist.” He gave Iona a half smile. “And check to see if I’ve received any calls from the office. I’m expecting a call from a … um … a colleague. Police business.”

  Her hand rested on his shoulder for a breath too long then flitted away. Strutting up the hallway, she looked over her shoulder and winked. “I’ll get your log going and call Gabby.”

  Rye took a deep breath to help refocus his attention on evidence-gathering. Forget the diner incident. Forget the phone call. Forget Iona’s backside. Work the scene. Flipping open the case, he pulled on booties and gloves.

  Let’s do this.

  Rye stalked the room, clicking pictures. After snapping photos of an object, he jotted the particulars of the picture in his notebook. More photos, more notes.

  He stopped, tilting his head as he stared at the wreck of the display case and lowered the camera. Something about the glass case piqued his attention. His gaze roamed the debris and his investigative instinct took over, absorbing the details, allowing his mind to free associate. It’d come, but …

  “Got everyone signed in,” Iona said, standing at the room’s entrance.

  Rye turned away from the mess. “Did Helen and Terrance identify how many items are missing?”

  “Yeah … a leather shield and a Skinwalker feather. Why?”

  At the mention of the Navajo legend, the skin on his arms turned to goose bumps. Ever since his Navajo mother had whispered tales of Skinwalkers into his young ears, he hated Skinwalkers. Hated the legends. Hated the influence it held over his people. Hated the witches who laid claim to the power.

  “Just take off your shoes and come here.”

  “Can I at least have a pair of those cute little booties?”

  Rye nodded toward his CSI case. “I got any kind of shoe cover you want as long as it’s white, and one size fits all.”

  After donning on a pair, she knelt next to him—a little too close. Not that he minded. The light scent of her perfume reminded him of lilacs in the spring. She held onto his shoulder, and it felt good. Ever since he and his wife separated, he missed a woman’s touch. Even if it was only a hand on his shoulder.

  He pointed to the lower shelf. “See the darker square spot. Now, I might not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but I’d say something that wasn’t a feather or shield was there.”

  “Appears that way.”

  “There’s nothing here that resembles that shape. Have you any idea what it might be?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Did Helen mention a third item being taken? Being in this room, it had to be something important to the Skinwalker mythos.”

  “No. She didn’t.” Iona pointed to the ceiling. “There are security cameras. Maybe Helen or Ter can pull us a copy. I’ll check.” She rose and hurried from the room.

  Rye snapped a dozen shots of the square spot on the shelf. He zoomed in on the debris pattern and the various items that had fallen during the assault on the case and took more photos. Added more notes to his book.

  Lowering his camera and covering the lens, he stood, studying the pattern of the glass shards, the damage done to the case, and the collapse of the displayed items. He imagined several approaches the thief could have used to attack on the case. Casting aside scenarios not matching the evidence, he decided on the path of the assault.

  “The thief came at the case from this angle,” he said aloud to no one, inserting a mental note with a downward chop of one extended hand. “They would hav
e taken a heavy item like a steel bar and smashed the glass right about here.” He took a few steps to his right and looked down. “What do we have here?”

  In the debris of glass particles, two faint footprints were visible as if someone with dirty shoes had stood there. Rye turned his feet to match the stance depicted in the prints.

  “Someone small.” He took a dozen pictures and wrote several lengthy descriptions. After fetching a rectangular-shaped evidence lifter, he peeled away the white backing, pressed the clear material onto the footprints, and lifted the material. He held it aloft, scrunching his nose while he stared at the debris.

  Satisfied he had taken all he could from the footprints, Rye walked around to the undamaged displays in the room. One case contained several vases—circa early 1900s according to the display plaque—with Skinwalker designs painted on them. Those had to be worth some money, why not take those? Big market for Native American artwork. Another case contained objects of a Skinwalker murder investigation from 1932. A third case showed a dozen pieces of jewelry made of silver and turquoise stones. Nothing missing from them.

  Why take a feather, a leather shield, and this third item, yet leave the more expensive stuff alone? Most thieves take items of monetary value. But not this one. Why?

  One by one, he studied the large shadowboxes mounted on the walls. Each presented a diorama of a certain Skinwalker. Sepia-toned photos depicted aged Navajo males, dressed in traditional clothing. Each display included artifacts from their lives. A plaque mounted next to the display gave a brief bio of the Skinwalker. He stopped at the fourth one and stared.

  Fingerprints smudged the front of the case as if someone put their hands on the glass and then rubbed downward. Rye leaned in close and could see no definable ridges. Nonetheless, he dusted the smudged prints and photographed them from several angles before recording them with transparent lifting tape. He dropped these into his case.

  Iona stomped back into the room and snapped, “They claim the cameras don’t work. Yeah, right! They’re lying. I can feel it.” She stared up at the camera. “You’re lying, and I know it,” she yelled at the lens.