Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (13 page)

Rye nodded, noting Whitewolf’s meticulous script in thin-tipped permanent marker upon the page. He forced the sudden image of dead Juan’s ink-stained fingers from his mind and concentrated on Noah’s words.

“Says he saw Mr. Arche at the bowling lanes last night. Claims to have witnessed an argument last night between Mr. Arche and a Mexican fella. Said the guy walked in like he owned the place and found Mr. Arche at the bar. They had a hush-hush discussion, which escalated into words.” He flipped the notebook closed and took another drink of water. “Sounds like we got ourselves a person of interest.”

“Good. When Reese gets back, go down to the bowling alley and talk to the owner.” He glanced at the dashboard’s clock. “They should be open.” His hand strayed to his dog tags. “Did Mr. Pinner describe this Mexican fella?”

Whitewolf scrunched his mouth. “He did, as a matter of fact. Said the man wore all black. Cowboy hat. Shirt. Jeans. Boots. And mirrored sunglasses.” Noah looked over at Rye. “Who wears sunglasses near midnight?” He re-opened his notebook. “Mr. Pinner mentioned the fella had tats on his forearm.” He turned to the correct page. “Like these.”

Rye studied the crude renderings. “Gang tats, no doubt about that. This guy’s showing up in interesting places.”

Whitewolf nodded. “You know the letters that Helen spelled out? S-K-I. I think she was trying to ID her killer. That means she knew him.” Whitewolf turned his head to study Rye. “She knows your uncle. Chee Skinner. There’s been problems on the Navajo res.” Whitewolf raised a hand to stall Rye’s protest. “I’m not accusing your uncle of anything. Just kicking a blanket to see what crawls out. If nothing else, clear his name.”

Rye pushed an index finger against his lips. “Let me handle it.”

Zach slipped into the back seat behind Noah. “Whew, it’s frigging hot enough to make the Devil sweat,” he said, reaching for the cooler. “You mind?”

“Help yourself, that’s what they’re there for. Get anything?”

“A few things. First, several witnesses said they saw a suspicious pickup truck in the neighborhood last night. Older model. Like the one that Johnny Batts drives. And they’re pretty sure it was Batts driving. That puts him in the vicinity of two murders.”

“Yeah. It’s not looking real good for Johnny …” Rye shook his head. “I just don’t see him doing this. Batts and the Arches weren’t enemies. What else?”

“One witness claims he saw a stretch limo following Batts. Didn’t get the license number, but said it was definitely an Arizona plate.”

Rye rubbed his forehead. “A limo? There’s only one person in these parts I know owns a limo. Richard List. What would he be doing in this neck of the desert? I’ll have to mull that one over and take it around the block a few times. Anything else?”

“Welllll. Mrs. Julia Martin, Arches’ next door neighbor, made an interesting observation. After midnight she claims to have seen … how’d she put it … a big old wolf that looked like it was drunk. Or sick.
Or sumpthin’. Snooping around the Arches’ house.” Zach pushed his hat back off his forehead. “Weird, huh?”

Despite the heat, Rye shivered. They had another Skinwalker sighting.

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

Amalia huddled in the back of a shallow cave, willing herself to sit still while she baked in the afternoon heat. She closed her eyes.
Conserve your energy
, she repeated to herself. With nightfall, she might have enough strength to climb down this gray granite spine jutting from the desert floor.

She whispered a Hail Mary—cracked lips barely moving—for protection of her and the dozen girls with her.
Blessed Virgin, help us. Go to your Son and plead our case.
Amalia knew she would not survive another day. Not without divine intervention. Or water. She hummed
Ave Maria
, recalling the comfort it brought her as a child.

Three nights ago, a coyote—a Mexican man with a whisper of a mustache and cold dark eyes—had smuggled them across Mexico’s Northern border. The way he eyed her had made Amalia nervous. But something went wrong. The sounds of helicopters and the pounding hooves of horses from that night still filled her heart with terror. Somehow, they’d evaded the US Border Patrol. The young man refused to explain what went wrong. Instead, he led them to these mountains.

They had reached the cave at daybreak.

The coyote left after assuring them the patrolmen did not know of this place. He promised to bring water and food the next night. He
never returned. Now, the sun lowered in the afternoon sky, baking the grotto.

Amalia wished for water and a bit of food. Her stomach grumbled. This wasn’t the first time she had gone hungry. Her uncle—offering her shelter after drug gangs murdered her parents—often withheld food when she refused his advances. One night, he came home drunk with some streetwalker and told Amalia he found her a job in America. His promise brought her to this cave of death.

With her forehead propped on her knees, she listened to the whispers of the girls sitting close to her. They spoke of leaving tonight. Or staying. From the panic in their voices, they had no plans beyond getting down the mountain. No idea of where they were. No idea of how to avoid the border patrol.

If they left and the coyote came back, he’d hunt them down. All of them. She figured if he returned and found them gone, his ego would force him to hunt them down like dogs.

Or the
bajaderos
would get them. Predators that would rape and kill them.

That’s all we are. Esclavos. Slaves.

One of the girls rocketed to her feet and pointed a finger at another girl’s nose.

“I say we go tonight. All of us. No one stays.”

“No,” said the other. “Each must make her own decision.”

“If any stay,” said the first, “then they can reveal our escape.”

“And you don’t think,” said the second girl, waving her hands with darting gestures, “an empty cave won’t?”

The argument grew more heated, and other girls joined in the argument. The two girls started shoving each other.

Amalia sprang to her feet. “Càllate!”
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
The echoes from her shout died as all eyes turned in her direction. “We are in a bad situation, no? We stay, we die of thirst. We go, evil men kill us. If we argue among ourselves? They win.”

The first girl who started the fight wheeled upon her. “How dare you! You sit back there sobbing like my little sister. Now you yell at us. How—”

A man’s voice cut through the crowd. “Perhaps you should listen to your hermanita.”
Little sister.

A hot breeze ruffled their clothing. Silence choked the cave. This was not the voice of their coyote, nor of one of the Americanos. Amalia turned to see the speaker.

A man dressed in black blocked the exit of the cave. Dust coated his clothes. He removed his black Stetson, lightly brushing it with his fingers to remove the offending dirt. The yellowing sky framed his black silhouette and hid his face. He stank of evil. The newcomer donned his hat, precise in its placement.

“Okay, ladies, your plans have changed. Your miserable little guide won’t be returning. He—shall we say—dug himself into a hole.” The man laughed at his own joke, but Amalia clenched her jaw. She cared little for the coyote, but he was not born evil.

The man pointed out the cave. “Take the trail down to the base of the mountain. I have some
compañernos
waiting for you. They have water and food for you.” A grin, cold like winter snow, snaked across his face. “Afterwards, we will talk about what you can do for me.”

The first girl who started the argument wheeled to face the man. “Who are you,” she said, “to tell us what to do?”

Like a striking rattlesnake, he drew a handgun from a shoulder
holster. He aimed it at the girl, and Amalia realized she stood in the line of fire. Her skin goose-fleshed. The man in black shrugged.

“Who am I?” he returned the question. “I am your executioner.”

The gunshot roared in the confined space. The girl’s head jerked back. Amalia screamed as the body dropped, twitched once, and went still. The smell of gore and gun-smoke filled the cave.

“Any other questions?” He pointed his gun at the crowd of girls. Amalia closed her eyes, hoping he would go away. Next to her, a girl sobbed. Amalia smelled the ammonia of someone wetting herself.

“No?” said the man with a self-congratulatory tone. “
Bueno
. Now get to your feet and follow my instructions. Except for you.”

Amalia opened her eyes, fearing the worst. The enormous crater of the gun’s barrel pointed her way, commanding her attention.

“I have special plans for you.”

He lowered the gun, and Amalia felt her skin go cold despite the heat. What had her uncle gotten her into?

Rye leaned back in his office chair, feet propped on the desk. He stared out into the darkened hallway, relishing the quiet. Gabby, gone for the day. Noah and Zach, reports done and on his desk. DePute, on patrol now. Later, Heilo would take the graveyard shift. That left him alone at the station.

He took a swig of beer and set the can atop the same water ring forming on the chair’s arm. Five more beers, cold and wet, waited for him in the break room fridge. He would need them tonight. Weariness set in like drying concrete, and his eyelids drooped. His mind drifted in darkness until a white spot rolled his way. No. Not one, but two, and growing larger as they approached. When the dots bumped into his feet, he recognized the Arches’ heads, sightless eyes staring accusations at him. Helen’s blue lips moved when she said, “Never a cop around when you need ’em.”

Rye bolted upright. “Holy puke,” he gasped.

He raised the beer can to his lips and downed half of it. He shook his head to clear his mind of Helen’s talking dead head.

Rye snatched up the top report—Whitewolf’s—and began to read.

The buzzer to the front door went off, indicating someone entered the building. Rye set the beer on the floor then reached for his gun resting in its holster on the desk.

“Rye?” The voice echoed in the empty halls.

His shoulders relaxed. “Iona,” he yelled. “I’m back in my office.”

Rye holstered his weapon.

The delicious scent of diner burgers blitzed his nostrils. Seconds later, Iona strolled into his office carrying two takeout bags. She lifted them for Rye to see.

“Din-ner,” she said in a sing-songy voice. She plopped in a chair across the desk from him. “Garcon drove past when I parked out front.”

Rye arched a brow at her.

“DePute. He let me in.”

“You’re a long distance mind reader.” Rye eyed the bags spotted with grease smears.

Iona dropped the two sacks of food on the desk. “I saw your light, so I thought I’d grab us a bite. She checked the bags and slid one to Rye. “A double-decker taco burger for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, lifting his meal out of the bag. “Let me get you a beer.”

He returned moments later with two cans.

Iona nodded at the reports. “Learn anything new?”

He grinned. “I like this. Discussing cases with a famous mystery writer is kinda like us being Castle.”

Iona waved a hand. “Hey, having a Masters in Criminology, a
Bachelors in Forensics, and half a dozen years on the force in Phoenix doesn’t hurt.” A flash of pained memory crossed her face.

Rye understood. “Did they ever find the lowlife that shot you in the hip?”

She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“And all those months of physical therapy …”

“Just to walk again. Hoping I’d return to the force.”

“Yeah, I know. Just like my knee. I wanted to re-up for another tour, but the Army wouldn’t let me.”

“Phoenix PD offered me a desk job or early retirement.” She stuffed several fries into her mouth. Rye took that to mean she was done talking about her early retirement.

Halfway finished with his burger and working through a mound of cheesy salsa and fries, Rye asked, “Hip bothering you?”

“No more ’n your knee.”

“That’s the reason I like the desert. Hot dry air doesn’t bother it. Not as much as cold rainy weather, anyway.” He left unsaid it also started him on heavy drinking. He had discovered booze numbed the pain that enflamed the joint. He tapped the reports with his index finger. “Read these while you eat.” He rotated the two reports and pushed them across the desk towards her.

She reached out and drew them closer. After taking a sip of her beer, Iona held up the can. “Go easy on this stuff. Remember last night.”

The three remaining cans of beer loomed strong in his mind. They waited for him on the right side of the fridge on the second shelf down. The colden golden. Cut the desert dust from his throat. He
pursed his lips as guilt tinged his conscious. Perhaps two beers would be enough for tonight.

When Iona finished the reports, she slid them back across to Rye. “Interesting.”

“What do you think?” Rye tapped on the reports and took a sip of beer.

“Looks like you got a couple of leads. That’s a start. Forensics uncover anything at the Arches’?”