by John Turney
“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 sid
e. 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.”
White Styrofoam peanuts fell like water droplets to reveal an old Navajo water pot, gray and clay-toned with a ropelike pattern on its rim. Iona whistled long.
“That’s ancient,” she said. “Looks like there’s dirt still on it. I’m thinking a soil test is in order.”
Rye set the pottery on the pavement next to the box. “We might have someone involved in the theft of Navajo artifacts. I have no idea how much something like this is worth.”
“Is there more?” Heilo asked.
“I think so.” Rye sunk his hand back into the peanuts and moved his hand around, discovering two more pots. Iona turned over the pottery, spilling plastic peanuts on the ground. Rye opened his mouth to comment about littering when a rectangular package fell out of the clay pot and landed at Iona’s feet. The four traded glances.
“There’s more than stolen pottery going on,” DePute said.
“You think?” Heilo replied and took several photos of the package.
Rye’s cell phone rang. “Dawlsen.”
“Nephew, it is good to hear your voice.”
“Uncle Chee?” His uncle rarely contacted him. “How’s Navajoland?”
“Filled with Navajos. What did you think?”
Rye laughed. “Okay, you got me. I’m at a crime scene now, so I have to keep this short. What’s on your mind?”
“You will be in Phoenix on Saturday?” He turned his statement into a question.
“Yeah,” Rye said, drawing out the word. “How did you know?”
“I talked to Dee.” Rye’s back stiffened when he heard her name. Chee continued, “She said you’d be watching your son at karate meet. It’s good for a father to care for his son.”
“I guess,” Rye said. He walked away from the group. “My father wasn’t the best of role models. Great community leader, lousy father.” He stopped at the truck’s cab and peered into the window. He spotted Iona staring at his back. “Why’d Dee call you?”
“Can’t go into it now. I’m using the phone at the food mart. Listen, I’ll meet you in Phoenix. We have things to talk about, you and I. Things are moving through the land that are seen only when they want to be seen.”
“Is this more of your Indian mumbo jumbo stuff?” Rye shook his head. Uncle Chee always tried to sound like some shamanistic mystic. Especially to tourists when they bought his “authentic” Navajo jewelry made in China.
“Your words wound my heart, nephew,” Chee said, sounding genuinely hurt. “When will you leave for Phoenix?”
“I was planning on leaving early Saturday morning. But if you want, I can meet you Friday night. Maybe we can do dinner and talk some. I’ll be at the Wyndham.”
“Sounds good. Eat and talk.” Chee now sounded pleased. “I will be in their lobby at seven o’clock, white man’s time. I’m bringing a friend … if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Rye dragged out the word. “Do I know this mystery guest?”
“See you then, nephew.” The phone went dead.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye lay on top of his bed, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. He wore only his boxer shorts and a muscle t-shirt. Cool night air from the window caressed him. Weariness weighed heavily on him, as if his mind were sheathed in iron. Yet sleep failed him.
Tomorrow afternoon, he would leave to go up to Phoenix. Though he disliked the idea of leaving a murder investigation, he really wanted to see his boy. Perhaps, he and Dee could move forward one way or the other. Get back together or divorce?
His phone rang.
He swiped his cell phone off the shelf of his headboard. “Dawlsen.”
“Chief? Heilo.” Her tone chased away any sleepiness Rye might have felt. “Looks like we got ourselves another murder. And it ain’t pretty.”
They never are.
CHAPTER 12
LATE THURSDAY NIGHT
“Uhmmm … where’s the body.” Rye stifled a yawn behind a cupped hand. Weariness weighed at his shoulders like anvils. If he weren’t so numb from lack of sleep, the ache alone would keep him awake.
He fixated upon the blood-spattered apartment door and the puddle at its base. Lots of blood. Directional splatter higher up. He tore his gaze away.
These apartments had b
een remodeled from an old 50s two-story hotel. The redesign maintained the décor of an old west hotel. The second floor balcony, complete with a rustic wooden railing, led to stairs at each end. The parking lot was half empty. The lightbar on Heilo’s car flashed its alternating red-blue-red-blue on surrounding objects. Rye yawned again and shook his head.
“Good question, huh, Chief?” Heilo brushed back a disobedient strand of hair. She looked as tired as he felt, though she probably pushed herself to keep her mind off the death of her friend.
“Who called it in?”
“A neighbor.”
“Interview ’em yet?”
“Just the basics.” She opened her notebook. “He’d been out drinking, so he was low on the coherent scale. Says he just moved in, so he didn’t really know who lived here. And he’s got an alibi.”
“We can follow up tomorrow when he’s sobered up. Whose apartment is this?” Rye nodded at the door.
“Don’t know.” Heilo shrugged then tugged on her vest. “I contacted the manager. He should be here any minute.” She pointed to the blood pooled at the doorstep. “I put up the tape as soon as I got here, so I don’t think the scene was contaminated. Especially that.”
For a moment, Rye’s sleep deprivation prevented his mind from registering to what Heilo pointed. He stared at the dark stain, lights glistening in its moisture. The fresh blood hadn’t coagulated yet. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked again. Then he saw the tracks of boots.
He knelt on his good knee and bent over. The right footprint had the same strange nick in the heel as the boot prints at the Arches’ death scene.
He rose with a grimace.
“Knee bothering you?”
“Right now, everything hurts.” Rye adjusted his belt. A beer sounds good. “Did you check the apartment?”
“I tapped on the window. Nobody answered. I stayed away from the door … didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. So we don’t mess up any evidence, it’s probably best we go in through the back whenever the manager gets … Ahhh, here he comes.”
A balding man approached, head down and arms pumping, his bulky beer-drinker’s paunch jouncing. In his 40s, Rye guessed.
