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

by John Turney

  “Later. How do you feel, nephew?” Chee asked.

  “Did someone get the serial number,” Rye paused, the words leaking out of his mouth like a weak faucet drip, “of the Abrams M1 tank?”

  Chee laughed.

  Rye closed his eye. “Don’t … laugh.”

  “Stop telling jokes.”

  “How?”

  “How to stop telling jokes?” Chee said.

  “Find … me.”

  “A mutual friend knew you were in trouble. She led me to the Wyndham parking lot. I found three men beating up on you. One had just lifted you halfway off the ground and hit you in the face.” Chee laughed silently. “I scare them good. White men fear drunken crazy Indian.”

  “Then … you saw them?”

  “Yeah. I gave their descriptions to the police.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Chee cleared his throat and shot a look to a distant part of the room. “There’s somebody else waiting here for you?”

  A beautiful Native woman with long black hair came into view. Despite being much older than the last time he saw her, Rye knew her in a second.

  “Sunflower?”

  “It is. How are you feeling, Rye Dawlsen?” Her toothy smile failed to mask her concern.

  “Seeing you always makes me feel better.”

  Her smile faded. “I contacted Chee. An evil trouble surrounds you. I see it in my dreams.”

  Rye did not have time to reply as a nurse, wearing Looney Toons scrubs, walked in to check his condition. She forced him to use her thermometer. Checked his pulse. Checked his fluids. Looked at his IV and turned to leave. “That’s all, folks,” she said.

  “Nurse … wait,” he called out. I can’t miss Manny’s tourney.

  “Yes?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s a little after midnight. You’re here for observation. You got a nasty knock on the head. Your ribs are bruised. You have a tiny fracture at your eye socket, probably from a punch. I’d hate to be on the giving end of that. The owner’s hand probably suffered significant bruising. You received numerous hits or kicks, which will be sore and bruised. Other than that, I think you’ll live.”

  “I need to get out of here by eight.”

  “If the doctor—” She cocked her head and frowned.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Rye paused, grunting at the sharp sting in his ribs. “I have to get back to …” The injured ribs forced him to silence. I have to get back to my family. That’s what I have to get back to.

  “I’ll check with the doctor.” She stared down at him and sighed. “If there are no complications, I see no problem getting you out of here by then. Except, you’ll be hurting with every move.”

  He grinned and then winced. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  The nurse smiled and left. Chee leaned over the bed.

  “Nephew, I know one of the men who hurt you.”

  Rye raised one eyebrow. “Go on.”

  Chee paused and looked around as if to make sure no one could hear him. “He works for Mayor List … that former Chief of Police … Barend Jilt.”

  CHAPTER 16

  SATURDAY MORNING AND AFTERNOON

  Rye eased out of the cab, every move accompanied by a groan. Though he stood with most of his weight on his good leg, his damaged knee protested any load.

  “This hurts worse than sticking a cactus up your nose.” Leaning against the cab, Rye looked up at the steel canopies of the convention center jutting out over the street. Sunlight reflected off their beams. His first visit to the convention center, he brought Dee on a date for some event. His memory failed at recalling the event, but he’d never forget their kiss-fest stroll across the glassed-in walkway.

  Chee paid the cabbie while Sunflower helped Rye step up out of the street. Their cab pulled away and another pulled to the curb.

  Rye hobbled a few steps by himself. Sweat covered his face. His uncle came alongside. “Lean on me, Nephew.”

  “Thanks,” Rye said, putting his arm around Chee’s shoulders. He marveled at the strength he felt in his uncle. He took several steps before his injured knee buckled.

  Rye glanced at Chee and grunted, “I hate that. I hate when that happens.”

  “How did those men attack you?”

  Rye pursed his lips in consideration. “They set me up. Staged a fight. I tried to stop it. That’s when they jumped me.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Rye studied his uncle’s weathered face for a few seconds. “They’re List’s men. It appears the mayor wants me out of the way for some reason.”

  “He is one bad round-eye,” Chee said.

  Sunflower interrupted, “If we want to make the meet on time, we’ll have to drag this helpless white man to the auditorium.”

  Rye said, “Squaw makes joke.”

  Sunflower punched him on the shoulder.

  “Great!” Rye exaggerated a wince. “You’ve injured the one place I don’t hurt.”

  With Chee assisting Rye, they managed their way toward the doors with Sunflower close behind them. Children dressed in karate outfits and their parents flowed past them like a stream around rocks.

  Rye limped his way past the ticket areas. Approaching the glass doors, he saw himself in the reflection: a man barely able to walk with a patch over his eye, a split lip, and a face ripening into a bruise. That’s enough to scare the fur off a mountain lion.

  He pushed through the doors and took a flyer from a teenage girl who stared at his face.

  “You should see the other guy,” Rye told her.

  A few minutes later, they approached the North Room where the meets were to take place. Rye leaned on Chee again. At this point, all he wanted to do was to locate Dee and find a seat.

  Out of the swirl of crowd, a man carrying a tray of beers bumped into him, splashing Rye’s shirt.

  “Hey,” Rye yelled, “watch it.”

  “Hey yourself,” Beer Man started to say something else, but when he saw Rye’s face, he mumbled an apology and disappeared into the crowd.

  At least my ugly mug is good for something.

  Sunflower vanished into the swirl of people. Returning seconds later with a handful of napkins, she commenced on daubing the wet spots.

  When she finished, Sunflower carted the wet wad to a trash container. Rye glanced down at the wet blot on his shirt. The napkins had done little to soak up the hand-sized spot.

  “Rye Dawlsen,” spat Dee’s voice from behind. “I’m surprised you came. But for God’s sake, it’s only nine in the morning and already you smell like a brewery. Did you have to do this to your son?”

  Rye stiffened at the tone of her voice, that blackboard-scratching sound of reproach.

  He lowered his arm from Chee’s shoulder. With a limp that must have resembled a drunken stagger to one predisposed toward that opinion, he turned to face her.

  With a sharp intake of air, hands going to her mouth, and dark eyes opening wide, she said, “Rye … what happened?”

  “I was on the wrong end of a beating. Got jumped in the parking lot where I’m staying. Sorry about the beer smell, some … umm fellow attendee … just spilled it all over me.” He indicated the wet spot on his shirt.

  Just then, Sunflower walked up, “I was trying to wipe it away.”

  “And you are …?” Dee stared at the woman and left the question dangling.

  “Dee,” Rye indicated his estranged wife then indicated the Navajo woman, “this is Sunflower. The older sister of a high school buddy and an acquaintance of Chee’s.”

  Sunflower held out her hand. With reluctance splashed across her face, Dee shook her hand.

  Sunflower held her head high, “I read your newspaper articles. You always write good things about the Dine. Thank you.”

  “Rye taught me to appreciate the Native way,” Dee said.

  With that, Dee rushed into Rye’s arms and squeezed him to her. He gasped. Agony sliced him like
a knife blade jabbed between ribs.

  “What? Did I …?” She started to pull back, but Rye held her tight.

  “No.” He twisted her hair with his forefinger and thumb, reliving when they dwelt in each other’s arms for stretched-out minutes. “My ribs are bruised a little.” She tried pulling away again, but he held on. “No. Don’t. I’m okay. Having you in my arms is worth it all.”

  She laughed and slapped him lightly on his shoulder. “Such a romantic.”

  “You remember Chee.”

  She held out her hand to him. “Yeah, he deposited you on the front porch many a night.” Rye opened his mouth; she cut him off. “Your uncle only offered sympathy and support for us.” She turned to the Navajo. “How are you, Chee?”

  “It’s good to see my nephew’s flower smiling again,” he replied taking her hand.

  Dee looked at her watch. “Manny will be up shortly. Care to join us?”

  Before they could take a step, Chee put an arm out to block Rye. “Don’t look. But Jilt is here. I recognize his white hat with the Confederate flag pin and feathered hatband.”

  Dee shot worried glances between Rye and Chee. “Rye, what’s going on?”

  “Remember Jilt?”

  She nodded.

  “It was he and two of his buddies who attacked me. Security’s tight, so they won’t do anything here. Let’s find Manny.”

  Sunflower leaned forward to speak into Rye’s ear. “The one who desires your death is here.”

  That’s when the milling crowd parted to reveal the man in black standing a few yards behind Jilt. The man stared at the ground.

  “Found him.”

  As the words left Rye’s mouth, the man in black glanced up and locked eyes with him, shooting a sudden chill through him, so much so, that his breath came in short gasps.

  The man in black smiled without any friendliness, touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat, and, turning, disappeared into the crowd.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Rye blinked his eyes open. His head pressed against the passenger window of his Tahoe while one hand held his Stetson on his lap. He remembered Dee driving his Tahoe as she jabbered nervously. She had said something about Chee following them in his uncle’s truck and that Sunflower rode with his uncle. South Mountain had loomed off to the right. Then nothing. He must have drifted off.

  Now, he watched the heat-shimmering flat lands of I-8 flying past his window. Faint mountains formed the background. For a second, he had no clue as to his exact whereabouts.

  Then he heard Dee humming to the tune on the radio, and it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and smiled, concentrating on her voice. It felt good to have her in the car with him.

  The Tahoe hit a bump, and Rye groaned and caught his breath.

  “Dad,” said Manny from the back seat. “You awake?”

  “Yeah, bud, I’m awake. The way your mom drives makes it difficult to sleep.”

  “Get outta here,” Dee said, laughing. “I had to turn the radio on because your snoring reminded me of a badly oiled chainsaw. I couldn’t hear the music, so I pushed you to get you to face the window.”

  “You could have turned the radio up.”

  “I didn’t want to blow your speakers.”

  “Dad,” Manny said, “you sounded like a jet taking off.” He performed a mock snore imitating his father.

  “I was that loud?” Rye feigned shock.

  They came to the exit for Whiskey, and Dee took it, heading south. With the sun hanging low over the mountains to the west, the storm clouds to the south lit up in a display of reds and purples. Distant flashes of lightning flickered in the roiling storm clouds.

  “Looks like the hurricane approaches,” Rye said, brushing imaginary dust motes from his Stetson’s brim.

  “The radio said it built in intensity before slamming into the Baja coast,” Dee replied. She risked a glance out the side window. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been here. The land never changes, does it?”

  “Nope. Hey,” Rye said pointing to the storm clouds. “Check out that lightning.”

  “My geography teacher said it’s global warming causing all the bad storms,” Manny said from the back.

  “Just ’cause you put your boots in the oven,” Rye said, “don’t make ’em biscuits. Same with global warming. The climate and weather constantly change. In fact, it’s said to be getting colder.”

  “If some of my colleagues at the Sun heard that,” Dee said, glancing at Rye, “they’d hand your head to you on a platter.”

  “Well, your colleagues are just plain weak north of their ears.”

  They drove for a while in silence.

  “Rye.”

  “Dee.”

  They had started to speak at the same moment. They laughed, and Manny added, “Sheesh.”

  “Go ahead,” Dee said.

  “No, ladies first.”

  “Okay, then. I want to apologize for behaving badly at the convention center. I just … it’s that … well, when I saw you leaning on Chee, it brought back bad memories. Then I smelled the beer on you … I didn’t realize it was literally on you. Sorry, can you … can you … forgive my stupidity?”

  Rye stammered, “I … I wouldn’t expect you to react any differently. Not after what I put this family through.”

  “I won’t hide it. It’s been tough.”

  “I won’t hide it either.” Rye reached over and touched her hair. “I … I try to stop drinking, but I’m not successful. Yet I’m sober more than I’m drunk.”

  “Glad to hear it.” A smile flashed across her face.

  With rising hope, he decided to give it a full court press. No sense holding back. “Does that mean we can consider reconciliation?”

  Dee shook her head, and Rye could see she struggled not to cry. “Oh Rye. I don’t know. I want to, but …” Her voice trailed off. “I can’t. Not now. We’ve had one really, really good day. Let’s just have that for now.” She looked at him. “We can try to have another one tomorrow and build on it.”

  He risked a glance at Manny, who was staring out the window, earphones in place leading to an iPod in one relaxed hand. “I need to tell you something, Dee. Something that happened the night you left.”

  She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “OK … go on.”

  “I’d had a rough and bloody day, so I ended up in some dive reeking of sweat and spilled beer.” Rye stared at the road ahead, finding it difficult to stare at her profile. “A juke box played beer-drinking country songs. A couple of girls squatted on barstools close by. Guys played pool in the back room, the clack of balls striking one another. The bartender was talking with a guy at the end of the bar. And me, I sipped rum and coke. Then, the door opens. The bartender shouts, ‘Hey, kids, get outta here!’

  “Two kids. The older one, a girl, maybe thirteen or so, wearing a ragged dress draped over a bone-thin frame, she says, ‘We’re looking for our pa.’

  “The bartender opens his mouth to say something, but the guy with him turns and looks at the two kids, saying, ‘Whadda you want?’

  “The girl says, ‘Pa, there ain’t no food in the house. Me and Jason’s hungry.’

  “He says, ‘Whadda you want me to do? I ain’t got no money. It’s your mother’s fault.’

  “The bartender yells, ‘You heard the man. Now get out before I call the cops.’

  “The boy, Jason, his eyes tear up. A snarl flashes on his sister’s face, and she turns him around. She takes his tiny hand and says, ‘We’ll find something to eat. We don’t need his stinking money.’ The door shuts and cuts off anything else she might have said.

  “The father downs the glass he was drinking, reaches into his wallet, and pulls out a twenty. ‘Give me another,’ he says to the bartender.

  “I was so angry, Dee. I marched over to the father, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, ‘You’re really something, you know that.’

  “He turns to me and says, ‘Yeah, well it ain’t none of you
r business, buddy.’

  “I say, ‘Maybe I should make it my business.’

  “The man gets up from his stool, fists clenched tight, and says, ‘Try it.’

  “The bartender says to me, ‘We don’ want no trouble here. Scram before I call the police.’

  “I open my jacket and flash my badge. I say, ‘I am the police. And child neglect is a crime.’ I grab a fistful of the man’s shirt and say, ‘If I ever hear of you doing this again …’ I let the threat trail off and let go of the man’s shirt with a shove. The drunk father stumbles backwards, slamming into the bar. Then I head to the door.

  “And the father yells, ‘Screw you, pig. If you’re so righteous, what’re you doing here?’”

  Rye paused and swallowed.

  “Oh, Rye …” Dee said, swiping at a tear sliding down her cheek.

  He turned to look through the side window. Too late to stop now. “So out in the parking lot, I spot the two kids as they passed under a street lamp a half a block away. I dashed after them, yelling to get their attention. They turn around, and I catch up to them. I pull two twenties out of my wallet. I say, ‘Get you something to eat, then buy some groceries.’

  “The girl looks at me, suspicious, but the brother says, ‘Take it, sis.’

  “She reaches out, takes the money, saying, ‘Thanks, mister.’”

  Rye closed his eyes. “I looked at their faces, seen that same haunted look in adult women abused by their men.”

  “That’s so awful, Rye.” Dee’s knuckles gleamed white, hands gripping the wheel.

  “I told them, ‘I’m a cop,’ and I showed them my badge. I handed the girl my card. Told them if they needed anything, anything at all, to call. The girl turns to her brother and says, ‘Let’s go get us McDonalds.’”

  Rye shook his head. “Seeing those kids hurry up the street made me think of Manny. That I needed to start being there for my family. But when I got home, the house was dark, cold, and empty. You and Manny were gone. Your note said you couldn’t handle my drinking anymore. I was too late.” Rye’s voice cracked. He whispered, “And ever since, the drunk’s words never left me: ‘If you’re so righteous, what are you here for?’”

  The car came to a halt, and Rye recognized his gravel driveway. Dee pulled him into an embrace, sending agony down his stiff body, but he didn’t care.