Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  “Tracy, those are some messed up sheep you have.” I say.

  She sits quietly.

  “Tracy, the sheep, from the Nelsons. They are a strange bunch, aren’t they? Karen and Gladys had to put one down this morning. It was eating another sheep. Since when are sheep carnivores and cannibals?”

  “There were others. We killed them.” Tracy folds her arms.

  “Other sheep were like that?” I inquire.

  “Yes, they acted like lions or something, trying to growl but just grunting and showing their teeth.” Tracy grimaces, showing her teeth. “Like that.”

  “I see, anything else you want to tell me?” I ask.

  “No,” she says.

  “Besides that, how have you been? It’s been a long time.” I smile and put my pen down.

  She glares at me. “How dare you, you fucking bastard. You come in here and call me a whore?”

  “Am I wrong?” I ask. She sits fidgeting, saying nothing.

  “I hear the feds are holding your dad here, too. How is Daryl?”

  She sits quietly as the moments pass.

  “OK, fine.” I get up to leave.

  “Shyboy, I’m dying for a cheeseburger, can you get me one? Please?”

  I smile, nod, and walk out of the Winslow police interviewing room.

  “Shyboy! With a cola, please!”

  I confirm with local staff that I can get her some food. FBI reluctantly agrees. I rush to the local fast food outlet for a large cheeseburger meal. I return hastily.

  “Oh God.” She eats with the enthusiasm of a gleeful child on Christmas morning.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, I hate the oatmeal shit they keep giving us.” She devours the burger in minutes, slurps the soda with it. “So, why are you here? To get information from me about all the shit going down on the Rez?”

  “Not exactly,” I say as a familiar vibration from my pocket gets my attention. Jess is calling me. “Damn.” I press the volume button ignoring the call. Our last conversation was a destructive one. I can predict how the next conversation will go. It can wait.

  “Why then?” Tracy licks her fingers. “You have something else in mind?”

  “I saw your name come up.” I shrug putting away my phone. “I thought to myself, hey, I know this woman, I know this Tracy Monroe. I had to come say hi.”

  “This whore you mean,” she says and wipes her hands with a paper towel.

  “I know this Tracy Monroe.”

  “This whore, Tracy Monroe, you mean.”

  “No, I remember this gorgeously curvy woman with flowing blond hair who scared the crap of out me. She made me want to become a man faster than I ever should. I remember her soft lips and her long smooth legs. I remember that, I always will.” I smile.

  “Is that so?” she says.

  “Yeah, you’re half Navajo right?” I ask.

  “Yup, Mom wore velvet, silver, and shit.”

  “Yet, you look like you just walked off of a plane from a Scandinavian country. Wade looked like a local.”

  She laughs. “Thanks, Shyboy. Meet me, I’m Tracy Monroe, I’m Edgewater Clan born for a white guy of German descent, you racist fucker!”

  “Tracy.”

  “What? Are you going to call me a Nazi now?” she says.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” I reply.

  “Why did you come here? You just want to make fun of me? Gloat?”

  “I wanted to see you. That’s all. There are others that want information from this conversation, or even a confession, an admission of guilt of sorts.” I wave at the mirror. “I just wanted to see you again. But I won’t lie to you. You are in a lot of trouble. I’m sure you know that. You can’t hide behind the arts anymore. The state police are involved, FBI are all over the place raising hell, the medicine men are freaking out, things are changing…there’s too much killing going on.”

  She sits quietly.

  “Simon got hauled in the other day,” I tell her.

  She looks up.

  “He had a lot to say about a lot of things. Things that really should not be talked about.”

  She looks down at the table.

  I continue, “Old Man Taylor also had a lot to say.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “For now, nothing. I just wanted to see you,” I say as I get up and walk to her chair. I brush the dirty, matted, blond bangs from her face. “Tracy, there are a lot of dangerous men out there. Please be careful, OK?” She looks up as I cup her cheek. “For me, be careful. OK? I have to go.”

  She smiles. I kiss her forehead and walk out of the interviewing room.

  “What the hell was that, Keller?” Agent Ellington seems irate.

  “Tom, be cool,” I say.

  “Keller?” Ellington says.

  I lead the FBI down a corridor to the front lobby. “Agent Tom, be cool, and quit acting like an idiot, just be cool.”

  “Are you infatuated with her?” Ellington asks.

  “Tom, I’m earning her trust,” I say. “We have history.”

  “By being affectionate?”

  “If she wants to talk to me, call me at Dilcon station. And watch what you say behind the glass, she’s not as naïve as she lets on. It…It is entirely possible she’s only here because she allowed you to bring her here. Watch yourself.”

  I race to my truck to compose myself. I am internally flustered. “Geez, what the hell is wrong with me?” I wipe the sweat from my brow as I drive out of Winslow. A lustful ambience is now following me.

  I awake to someone kicking my door.

  “Steve!”

  I stumble out of my bedroom half asleep, armed with my pistol. “What the hell!” I stumble to the front door, fumbling with the dead bolt. “Karen, it’s still dark out. What is it, like 5:00 am?” I open the door as Karen sheaths her leg.

  “Around 4:30 am. Listen, Pastor called twenty minutes ago. Get dressed. We need to head to the church right now,” Karen says and walks into my home.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I dress quickly. “Instead of kicking on my door like that?”

  “If you answered your cell phone then I wouldn’t need to kick your stupid door!”

  I look at my phone, six missed calls, and two voicemails. “Oh.” The ringer is on silent mode. “Damn. Still, don’t kick my door.”

  We leave for the church.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Pastor says someone is attacking the church. He and Rebecca are camping out in the church dining hall.” Karen returns.

  “Someone?”

  “Yeah.”

  We arrive at the church, where it is dark and silent. The half-moon gazes behind darkening clouds to the west. The parking lot is empty as we pull up to the gate, hopelessness abounds thickening the air. There are others here. It is tangible. I gaze backward behind me for moving shadows as I open the gate. We pull up to the church, Karen cycles her pistol and hands me her shotgun. She pulls an AR15 from her armament. There is a dim light from the dining room as we approach the church. There are no sounds, no dogs barking, no distant traffic moving, not even the sounds of crickets chirping. It is unnaturally quiet. We approach the church door slowly.

  “Night vision would be so cool right now,” I whisper.

  “Quiet.” Karen snaps at me. “Come on.” She nears the church door, then yelps loudly and drops to one knee.

  I cycle the shotgun in a loud metallic clang and turn, looking for any movement in the dim moonlight. I aim blindly into the shadows ready to pull the trigger. I aim from one shadow to another. “Karen?”

  “Shhh, come on,” she says as she knocks on the door, still hunched over slightly. I follow behind her, moving backward, pointing the shotgun into the darkness. The door opens, and we enter. “Pastor?” Karen calls into the darkness.

  Pastor appears, weary and clearly exhausted. “They came for the child, knocked out our power, and silenced the dogs. They were walking on the roof e
arlier,” he says.

  “On the roof?” I eject the live round from Karen’s shotgun and engage the safety.

  “Yes, we heard them.” Pastor confirms.

  “Where is she?” Karen lowers her weapon.

  “Over there,” Pastor says.

  Rebecca Taylor sleeps on a sleeping bag next to a Franklin stove, candles on the stove dimly light up the room.

  “Pastor,” Karen extends her rifle to Pastor, “Please.”

  “Be blessed, child. And your tools.” He touches the gun and her forehead.

  “Steve, get over here,” Karen calls.

  “Naw, I’m good,” I say.

  “Get your ass over here!” Karen hisses.

  Pastor winces at Karen.

  I walk over to where Pastor is standing. “Pastor, please bless Karen’s shotgun, for it is a dark valley in the shadow of death and I need it to be a badass on high-octane jungle juice,” I say.

  “Be blessed, my child, and your tools.” He touches my forehead and Karen’s shotgun. I glare at Karen.

  A loud thump comes from the roof.

  “Steve, you take the front door.” Karen chambers the first round on her rifle and stands at the ready in front of the dining hall side door. She yelps again and drops to one knee.

  “Karen, what’s going on with you? Karen?” I eye the front door. There are at least three different sounds from the roof, two loud ones, and a muted one. “Karen?”

  “I’m OK, watch that door,” she says.

  The roof thumps continue.

  “Pastor, what about the chapel?” I turn to Pastor. He points at the front door. “Pastor, do you have a flashlight?” Beyond the door window is blackness. “Pastor?” He places a flashlight into my hand as I continue to eye the door. I approach the front door slowly.

  “Steve, don’t get stupid,” Karen says and quickly glances in my direction.

  I get within a foot of the door with my finger on the trigger and turn on the flashlight. Continued thuds come from the roof. A shadow moves at a distance. “What the hell?” I shine the light at the shadow.

  In the dim moonlight, the outline appears as an upright tiger or a giant jungle cat, standing perfectly on its rear legs with claws in the air pointing downward. Under its claws lay a dog whimpering. The dog throws itself on its back with its limbs in the air and tail wagging as it whimpers. The massive cat seems to toy with the dog.

  On the patrol truck stands a dark blurred figure, a void in my view, with faint amber glows from where its eyes are supposed to be. I reach for the door handle.

  “Steve, don’t you open that door, Steve!” Karen’s voice begins to shake as the roof noises continue.

  I turn off the flashlight and back away from the door. I retreat to where Pastor stands. “You see that?”

  “Yes, yes I did.” Pastor grabs my shoulder and starts pulling me back. We back away to the stove where the child sleeps. “Courage, Son. Courage.”

  “Courage,” Karen returns. “Something is moving over here.” She starts backing away from the side door when she drops to one knee again. She points her rifle into the darkness beyond the side door.

  “Karen, what’s going on with you?” I start toward Karen when Pastor stops me. “Karen?”

  “I’m OK. I’m just going to sit.” She sits with her knees together. “I’m OK, promise.”

  “Courage. It looks like we’re going to be here for a while.” I also sit, listening to the thuds coming from the roof and the whimpering dog outside the front door

  “Courage.” Karen returns.

  The whimpering dog soon does not sound like a dog, but more like a sinister, human giggle. There are small claw scrapings from the front door, and unnatural sounds come from beyond the walls as we sit.

  We sit as statues though the night listening to sounds difficult to describe. Human voices appear, then decay into metallic growls. A sinister giggle struggles with the doorknob, wanting desperately to enter the chapel. Wanting desperately to be acknowledged and admired. The desperation then lingers away with coming light. Morning has come.

  CHAPTER 9

  Over the next few months, events become a blur and then some. Minutes go by and tick into long lonely hours, which then decay into similar nights with retched nightmares and twisted dreams.

  The last dying moments of a frightful soul was on full display as one elder ran for his life into the wooded hills seeking cover from angry mountains.

  Rage filled tyrants become far more honest than any of them ever should be. Pale sunrises reveal their misdeeds as they weep, bathing in bloodied heaps mumbling of a coming death. Misguided historians become feared killers of the night, singing songs of great fortunes and riches while their tired arms slash and slander the weak. Armed with words of inhuman thwart, they then walk in pure daylight, mocking the righteous and forsaking compassion as if it were a sin.

  One frightful evening Tracy enters the church to flirt with Pastor. She corners her conquest before being subdued, herself. Bending in hideous fashion, she escapes and darts into the night as a wicked spider flees a fire.

  Distress calls continue by the day from locals regarding strange events and animal killings. Dogs and cats are brutally killed, dismembered and strung up with their innards missing. It has become apparent no dark corner is safe, no pleasant dream counted upon.

  Church attendance soars as a result of Pastor’s exploits. Exorcisms are now a mainstay at the church with the converts then telling horrific tales of ugly initiation rituals and brutal savagery. Tales of an invisible lion roaring in the mountains. The lion now walks about devouring souls and destroying families.

  In late October, our work as Peace Officers takes its toll when one of our own dies of stomach cancer. He was to live another four months but didn’t make two weeks. Jeremy and another officer, Leon, suspect covert assassination. The FBI is strangely intrigued with their assertions, but tolerant to their theories rather than intently listening.

  Jess seems more distant than before. Our hour-long conversations have shrunk to increments of fridgeful pseudo talk and forced conversations. I tell her I love her, but her tone and chosen words hide a growing hostility. She blames me for our relational breakdown, or our slowly disintegrating union. Perhaps the Chief was right, my focus is clearly divided now.

  Pastor has now fitted the church with its own internal generator and motion detection system complete with infrared IP cameras that are enabled with night vision capability.

  “Pastor, this is a bit far, don’t you think?” I ask.

  “Quiet, Son. The FBI are doing this on their own, and compensating the church very well, so shush,” Pastor says.

  “No, I meant you need a signal repeater for your data lines—these communication lines. They only go so far, and then you need a signal repeater like a hub. A network switch.”

  “Oh,” Pastor laughs as I sit calibrating the rear door sensor. “The child Rebecca is she still safe? I hear she likes Phoenix.”

  “She’s a bit of a brat,” I say. “She loves math, but doesn’t care for anything else. She gets along with the white kids pretty good, though. And she’s made some friends.”

  “That’s good. A child needs to be a child,” Pastor says. “She shouldn’t be bothered with matters beyond her years.”

  “You preach that shit, Pastor,” I say.

  “Son, could you at least try to watch your language please?” Pastor requests of me.

  “Yes, Sir, I will give it an effort.” I save the sensitivity settings on the rear camera within five percent of specs and unplug my laptop. “I think you’re good here. Anything that moves out there will activate the IP camera.”

  “Thanks for all you do here, Steve, we are all thankful,” Pastor says gratefully.

  “Pastor, I think you do more. No arguing please.” I say as I double-check the cabling to the door sensors. “This rug covers the cable along the wall but goes up the door jam here and there. So don’t put anything up against it, yeah?”<
br />
  “You got it, Son,” Pastor agrees. “Is your friend from medical coming by? He likes our frybread.”

  “He should be here soon,” I say.

  “Have you heard from Karen at all?” Pastor asks.

  “No, she’s still in Phoenix,” I tell him.

  Pastor sits on a chair while I fidget on the floor, gathering my cabling. “Karen doesn’t seem to be handling things very well, I know she’s your commanding officer and all that, but she’s scared.”

  “I know,” I say. “I feel it, too.”

  “She has history here, she grew up with a lot of these same grunts that are now out there doing evil deeds. She wasn’t always a police officer you know.”

  “I guessed that,” I reply.

  “I first met her when she was going to Holbrook High School. She was very beautiful and very smart. She spent time with the brainy kids. Her parents used to bring her in, and she used to sit right there,” Pastor says, pointing to a corner table. “There was a time when a maniac was brought in, possessed with a devil. We dealt with that but it scared her, she rolled into a ball and stayed there for hours. Her father had to carry her out.”

  “She seems very tough, seems outwardly tough. Granted, it’s sort of believable, but she’s a big softy inside.” I stuff my laptop and tools into my backpack. “She tries so hard to be hard but really isn’t.”

  “She’s special, she is,” Pastor says.

  I stop and gaze at Pastor. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, Keller. It’s not like that.”

  “I hope not. That’s my boss you’re talking about,” I say sternly.

  “It isn’t. I knew her parents, and I’ve known her since she was a teenager.”

  “Yeah?” I continue my gawk at Pastor.

  “She’s special. That’s all,” Pastor says again.

  We share an awkward silence.

  “Pastor, you can always be counted upon for awkward dialogue in desperate times. Have you learned to use your pistol yet?” I ask him.

  “No, I don’t think I need it, I have God with me,” Pastor replies.

  “From what I’ve seen, Pastor, God is always around but works through you. That gun should complement that process,” I tell him.