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

by John Turney

  “Chief,” Heilo said, “this is Geoff Anderson. He’s the manager of the apartments.”

  “Mr. Anderson,” Rye said, holding out his hand to shake, “can you tell us who rents this apartment?”

  He took Rye’s hand and gave it a bone-crushing grasp. “Yep.” Anderson fumbled with a ring of keys numbering well over a dozen.

  “Aaaaa … Mr. Anderson, who …” Heilo said.

  “That’d be them Visser twins—”

  “Missy and Mel, if I remember.”

  “That’s them. Work at the museum. Terrible thing ’bout that there break-in. Nice gals, jist not too bright. I had to kick more’n one cowboy outta their apartment. Party girls, if you catch my meaning. They in trouble?”

  Rye pointed to the blood at the doorstep. “You tell me.”

  Anderson’s face blanched. “Awwww, no. Esto es muy malo. They’s mama’s in the hospital dying of cancer and all. They don’t need this.” He held up the key ring to catch the light from streetlamps. “Aha.” Flourishing one key up like an obscene gesture, he worked it off the key ring. “It’ll open the entrance here and the back door to their apartment.”

  Rye took the offered key. “Thanks. We’ll return the key as soon as we’re done here. Now if you’ll kindly … wait a second.” Rye held up an index finger. “You’re just the manager, right?” Anderson nodded. “Let me ask you, who owns the complex?”

  “That would be Mayor List. Been owner for going on ten years now. Why’d you ask?”

  “Just curious. Never can tell when a piece of information will solve a case.” Rye pointed with an open hand toward the edge of the parking lot, indicating that the man should leave.

  Muttering about losing his sleep, the manager waddled down the balcony to the stairs.

  They walked around to the back, and Rye noticed every back entrance had a shower stall-sized square of concrete. The breeze stilled as if the darkness held its breath. Sounds of the town’s nightlife mixed with the buzz of the insect nightlife. Rye unlocked the door and pushed it open, its hinges squeaking. Heilo found a light switch and flipped it on. A single uncovered light bulb dangled from the second floor ceiling, casting the stairwell in a soft gloom.

  Rye pointed to the light. “I’m not up on my rental property laws, but I’d say that unprotected light bulb represents a violation of the building code. I’ll just have to bring that to the good mayor’s attention next time I have the displeasure of talking to him.”

  They went up the stairs and found the apartment number to the Vissers’ back door.

  “Got your vest on, Chief?” Heilo had her gun aimed and her flashlight poised.

  Rye tapped his chest, so she could hear it. With that sound, adrenaline flooded into Rye’s system, and his weariness faded. He saw the same in Heilo’s eyes.

  Rye slipped on a pair of latex gloves and tried the door handle. Locked. He inserted the key into the lock and, as quietly as he could manage, unlocked the door. The click sounded too loud in his ears. He drew his gun and turned on his flashlight, then nodded to Heilo. She returned his nod. He shoved open the door, and they swept into the apartment.

  “Police!” yelled Rye. “Don’t move.”

  “WPD! Anyone here?” hollered Heilo.

  No answer.

  “Police!” Heilo moved in one direction.

  “Whiskey Police!” Rye headed the opposite. He passed through the kitchen, noticing all the knives were in the knife block. He hurried into the living room, decorated in southwestern furnishings.

  “We have signs of a struggle,” Rye yelled out.

  Magazines lay helter-skelter beside the overturned coffee table. A lampshade hung off kilter. Several pieces of furniture pushed aside. But no bodies. And no bad guys.

  “Clear!” yelled Rye.

  Moments later, from a back room, Heilo returned his yell. “Clear.”

  Rye played his flashlight along the floor. He hoped to find evidence the girls were okay, yet it didn’t feel that way. The preliminary evidence indicated a struggle. Violent. Perhaps fatal.

  Rye glanced up from his search to see Heilo standing in the exit from the living room to a hallway. She nodded down the hallway.

  “Chief, you gotta see this.”

  The hallway had three bedrooms and a bathroom leading from it. The door to the last bedroom had been left partially open. A bloody boot print decorated the center of the door, the frame splintered at the catch.

  Rye nodded, raising his gun. Heilo pushed open the door with the toe of her shoe. She shined her flashlight around the room. It contained shelves filled with what appeared to be Navajo and Hopi pottery. It took a couple of seconds before the brunt of what he saw revealed itself.

  “Yeah,” said Heilo, “my thoughts exactly.”

  “This is … stuff … from the museum?” said Rye.

  “Without checking the records, it’s hard to say for sure. See the twirled rope, look? Resembles what we found in the back of the truck.”

  “What are they doing here? The Vissers probably don’t have that kind of money. It’s expensive to start an extensive Navajo pottery collection.”

  “Perhaps we found a black market dealer in Indian antiquities.”

  “And motive for murder. I wonder …” He shone his light on a blank spot on a shelf. Dust had gathered on the shelves, but a couple spots indicated things had been removed recently.

  Rye picked up a pot next to a blank spot, shining light into the interior.

  “Hello. What do we have here?”

  Holding the pot with one arm, he swiped a finger of the other hand along the bottom of the inside. He eased his hand out of the pot and held up his index finger. A white powder coated the tip.

  “Wanna bet that’s Cocaine?” he said. “Instead of antiquities theft, we might have part of a narcotics ring. But the Vissers? Doesn’t sound right.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Rye leaned against his Tahoe. He felt like he’d just gone through a marathon weight training session. He closed his eyes as his mind drifted off to sipping on a cold beer in a cheap honky tonk.

  “Chief,” Heilo said. “Chief, you okay?” A hand shook his shoulder.

  Rye opened one eye, yawned. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Fell asleep standing up, huh? I’ve like done that before.” DePute stood beside Rye. “In Afghanistan. I was on patrol and we took 5. I’d leaned up against whatever was handy.”

  “Not me,” said Heilo. “I have trouble falling asleep.” She stifled a yawn.

  A black SUV pulled into the parking lot. The coroner from Yuma slid out of the vehicle and called out a greeting. The man’s shoulders slumped like someone accustomed to violent death. He fetched his medical bag from the back of the vehicle and made his way over to them.

  He held out his hand. “Rye, I wish I could say it’s good to see you. But there’s always death when you call. And, recently, you’ve been calling way too often.”

  Rye took his hand and pressed firm. “Good to see you too, Doc. I hate to call you for the same reason. I think you know these officers.”

  The coroner shook hands with them then faced Rye.

  “Call said this was a weird one. Where’s the body?”

  “No body, just a big pool of blood. Need your take on it.”

  The coroner shifted his position and opened his mouth to say something when his head erupted in a shower of blood and brains. The air tasted of coppery death. The report of a rifle echoed off the surrounding buildings.

  Rye dropped to his knees. His bad knee cracked, but he didn’t feel pain with the adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins. His gun appeared in his hand. The two officers joined him at the base of the SUV.

  “Where did that come from?” DePute yelled.

  “Can’t tell,” Rye said, his weariness gone. “One shot. Efficient.” He risked a peek over the hood of his Tahoe. “But if I had to guess, from the angle of the shot, I’d say it came from that restaurant. Or close to it.”
He ducked back down.

  “I think that bullet was meant for you, Chief,” said Heilo looking at the coroner. “Is he …”

  “Dead?” Rye finished her question. “With half his skull blown away, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say yeah.” He peeked through the driver’s window. Scanning the area, he spotted movement on the roof of the restaurant.

  “Over there. On the roof,” Rye pointed. “DePute, take the front. Heilo, with me.”

  They raced toward the line of palm trees at the edge of the parking lot, guns ready. When they reached the trees, Rye spotted a white Ford F150 fishtailing out of a parking lot. A light from the back of the truck was out. Dust from the tires rose into the air. He cursed. Too far away for a shot.

  “I see him, Chief.” Heilo yelled. “You know who drives a pickup like that?” Her voice said she had the answer.

  Two names came immediately into Rye’s mind. “Depending on the model year, Batts has an older one. Barend Jilt—List’s associate, mind you—drives a newer make. But I didn’t get a good enough look.”

  There it was. A connection to both of his suspects.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  He slammed his foot down on the accelerator and sped away. He pounded a fist against the steering wheel while a stream of curses poured out of his mouth. Why did that fool doctor have to move at the last second? I had Dawlsen dead to rights.

  He got his cell phone and speed dialed the same number.

  “Negative,” he said when the ringing stopped.

  “Our friend will not be happy.” The line went dead.

  He rolled down the window. Just ahead I-8 crossed over the Mohawk Canal. Slowing down on the bridge over the canal, he reached his arm out the window and tossed the phone over the cab.

  Time for Plan B … in Phoenix.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Chee lay with eyes closed on the beat-up couch. He had said his night prayers and now wanted to sleep. Despite the night’s chill, the windows stayed open. A desert breeze blew through the torn screens, carrying the nocturnal harmony. He nodded in the spiritual satisfaction of being connected to the land of the Diné, smiling at the call of the coyote.

  “Sing to me, little brother.”

  His stomach sated with fry bread, Chee dropped into sleep. In his dream, he saw a young woman standing outside his trailer. She waited for his permission to enter. He owned very little and kept his home clean. No need to make preparations for his guest.

  In his dream, he went to the door of his trailer and held it open for the woman.

  “Ya’at’eeh.” Hello. “Come.”

  “No,” she said. “You are asleep, and I want to speak with you. I will wait.”

  Chee’s eyes blinked open. He pushed up off the couch and crossed the floor of worn boards. Peeking out the door’s window, he spotted the real version of the dream woman. The moon bathed her in silvery light. In a white gown, she looked like a spirit. Her black hair hung to her waist, and she stared at her bare feet so Chee could not see her face. He sensed a great spirit power within her.

  He opened the door, its hinges squeaking loud in the night.

  “Come.” Chee motioned to the woman.

  “Yes. Now that you are awake, I can speak to you.”

  She crossed the sandy land between her and his trailer without looking up. At his door, she raised her head and leveled dark eyes at him. Chee recognized her. The witch he was to take to Rye. Chee shivered, feeling her shaman powers wash over him. He swallowed the growing lump of fear.

  “Your nephew,” she said with a tone of dread, “is hunted by a great evil. We need to go to him sooner. He needs our help, or he won’t be alive this time tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 13

  FRIDAY MORNING

  Rye struggled into wakefulness. A glimpse through one bleary eye confirmed his location as his bedroom. Rolling his head back and forth, he cast a glance at the clock. 9:12. Morning? Yeah, from the light coming in through the window.

  With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed into a sitting position. Head hanging low, he stared down at his hairy legs sticking out of dark boxers. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and headed into the master bathroom. Relieving himself, he stared at his image in the mirror over the toilet.

  “You need some coffee,” he told the reflection.

  After splashing cold water on his face, Rye stumbled back through his bedroom, into the hall. He prepared the coffee pot and headed to the living room to wait for it to brew. He stopped.

  Lying on the couch under a sheet, Heilo slept, hair spilling across a pillow. One arm protruded from the sheet, hand resting next to her handgun on the table. Beside the gun sat her neatly folded uniform. Under the table, she had lined up her shoes heel-to-heel and toe-to-toe. A slight snore escaped from her lips.

  Did we …?

  With a snort, she woke and sat up on the couch. The sheet tumbled from her shoulders to reveal a black sports bra.

  “Buenos dias, Chief.” She yawned and stretched.

  “Morning, Heilo.” He hesitated. Then, pointing a finger back and forth between them, he asked, “Did we … you know …”

  “Have sex?” She laughed then coughed. “No. You were so tired, I drove you home and dragged your butt to bed. I straightened up your casa a bit. When I went out to my car, I found all four tires slashed. I figured I’d stay the night.”

  He held out his hands as if to stop someone. “Someone slashed your tires?”

  “Yeah. Pissed me off royally, but I was too tired to do anything.”

  “We could have been killed in our sleep.” Rye paced, rubbing the top of his head.

  She shrugged. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  Rye pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Take a shower. I’ll round us up some breakfast. After we eat, I’ll get someone from the garage to come out and fix your tires.”

  She stood, unabashed in her bra and panties.

  Rye turned his head. “Towels are in the cabinet.”

  After finishing a breakfast of scrambled eggs, coffee, and conversation, Rye stood in the shower enjoying the lukewarm water.

  In the bedroom, toweling off, he heard the crunch of tires. Peering through the venetian blinds, he observed Iona exiting her Land Rover.

  Great. Just what I need.

  Before he could do a thing, he heard Heilo fling open the front door.

  “Welcome to Rye Dawlsen’s trailer,” Heilo said in a sing-songy voice. “The sleeping quarters for exhausted cops.”

  Iona froze at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide. “Cora?”

  Rye shoved on a pair of pants and a gray WPD t-shirt. He rushed to stand behind Heilo. “Who?”

  “Corazón Heilo.” Hand on a hip, Heilo tilted her head at him. “You don’t know my first name, Chief?”

  Iona turned a gaze on him, and he felt the heat rise on his face. “It’s not—”

  “I don’t want to know,” Iona said, raising a hand to silence him. Pounding up the wooden steps to the front door she shouldered her way past them, a sneer crinkling her lips. She stopped as her gaze slipped to the sheets on the couch.

  “Nothing happened, I swear,” Rye said.

  “Are you done with your sleepover?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, tapping a foot.

  Heilo pointed at her car and snapped, “Look at my vehicle …” But when her mouth formed a “b,” Rye shook his head no. Heilo huffed then added, “Someone slashed my tires after I got the Chief into his house.” She leveled an icy stare at Iona. “How am I supposed to go home with four freaking flats?”

  The two women stared daggers at one another. Rye wanted to crawl back to the bathroom and hide.

  “Whatever.” Iona broke the silence flinging her hands in a frustrated gesture. “Don’t just stand there like a pair of goons. Finish getting dressed.” She turned her narrowed gaze upon Rye. “I’ll take you both into Whiskey.”

  Minutes later, they got into Iona’s Land R
over. Silence hung like an ice cloud inside the car. Even the desert heat failed to provide warmth.

  Near the end of SR01, Rye asked Iona to stop her vehicle. She stared straight ahead and didn’t slow down. Several sarcastic remarks came to his mind, but he thought it best not to say any of them.

  “I want to get my newspaper.” He pointed to the mailboxes with the newspaper tube underneath.

  Iona sighed and pulled over to the row of dust covered plastic boxes, refusing to look at him. She pressed her lips together to signal her unwillingness to talk. He closed the car door a little too hard and went over to his box. Looking skyward at the darkness gathering in the southwest, he reached for the newspaper tube when a sudden pounding on the glass halted him.

  “Chief, don’t move!” Heilo screamed, both fists striking the window.

  That’s when he heard it, the sinister rattle icing his blood. He caught the scent of cucumbers and glanced down at the tube. Instead of the day’s paper, a rattlesnake lay inside, coiled and ready to strike, its tongue flicking like lightning strikes. It pulled its head back. Taking a deep breath then holding it, Rye eased his hand out of range in slo-mo and stepped backwards.

  “Nice snake,” he whispered to the animal. “Nice stupid snake hanging out in my newspaper tube.” He hoped the soothing tone took away the snake’s combativeness. “I’d wanna bite someone too if some moron stuck me in a tube.”

  He slid back into the passenger’s seat and grabbed its edge to steady his shaking hands.

  “Thanks, Heilo. I owe you one.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Looking at the window, she rattled off a string of profanity in Spanish at the snake.

  “I hate to state the obvious,” Iona said. “But snakes don’t hang out in newspaper tubes.” Turning to Rye, she added, “Looks like someone wants you dead.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Iona hit the brakes and squealed to a halt outside Heilo’s tiny homestead.

  “Get out,” Iona said. She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled firmness and stared out her side window.

  Rye clenched his teeth so as not to say something to aggravate the tension. He and Heilo exchanged glances. Rye nodded once. Without a word, she slipped out the car and slammed the door shut. Rye turned at the tapping at his window, and Heilo stood there, motioning for him to open his window. He lowered it.