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

by John Turney

  After feeding his chickens and gathering a few eggs, Rye stumbled up the front steps, dragging one aching foot after the other. He unsnapped the holster from his belt, set the weapon on the dining room table, and headed to the kitchen. He traded out the eggs for a beer in the fridge and threw a pizza in the oven.

  Taking the beer with him back into the living room, he reached over the couch and cranked down the window AC unit. He plopped onto the couch, remote in hand, relishing the brace of chilled air. Taking a long draw of the beer—promising himself just one more with dinner—Rye turned on the TV.

  “And in today’s local news,” said the dark-haired news babe, “this morning, a badly mutilated body was discovered outside Whiskey.”

  Rye sat up, listening intently. The story led with some footage from the top of the first hill showing Johnny’s cabin before cutting to a shot of Batts.

  “Weren’t nuthin’ you folks need to see out there,” Johnny drawled. His close-up was worse than most mug shots Rye had taken over the years. “Let the poor fella rest in peace.” Batts finished with the sign of the cross.

  Then Rye’s own image peered back at him. “At this time,” he had said because the newswoman had shoved the microphone into his face, “the Whiskey Police Department is not releasing any information.”

  The screen showed a picture of the front of the Whiskey PD.

  Then the newscaster mentioned the myth about Skinwalkers. Crap. Where’d they hear that? Just what I need. He took another swig of beer. He relished the liquid softening his parched throat. With a final guzzle, he emptied the can.

  The timer dinged, and he fetched the pizza using a towel. Rye put his hand on the door of the fridge and thought twice about a second beer. His Dee-consciousness told him to have water.

  Naw, I’m okay. I can handle another.

  Between thirsty gulps of beer, Rye wolfed down his meal, licking the grease off his fingers.

  After dinner, he surfed through the news channels before turning the TV off. To his relief, he had found nothing about Juan, giving him more time to conduct a detailed investigation. With night now fully descended, darkness dominated the room. He fumbled at the lamp, turning it on.

  Licking his lips, he returned to the kitchen for another beer. Sitting on the kitchen counter, Iona’s book peeked out from under the towel. Rye picked up the book and thumbed the pages. Did she really write about me? She wouldn’t. He didn’t care all that much for reading … but Iona wrote it, and she helped with some investigations. It wouldn’t hurt to look at the first chapter.

  Returning to the couch with his beer, he kicked off his western boots and scooted them under the coffee table. After taking another drink, he settled back and started to read.

  “The killer waited alongside the desert road, facing the east. His knife dripped blood onto the dry dusty soil. Though his appearance rendered him into the image of an American cowboy—hat, jeans, pointy-toed boots—he just killed his first American GI in his personal jihad. More would die soon, he swore to Allah.”

  Rye startled awake. Confusion washed over him until he saw the beer cans on the table and the paperback opened facedown on his belly. He must have fallen asleep while reading Iona’s book.

  So what woke him?

  His mobile home shook, creaking, and he noticed the winds for the first time. Gusts buffeted the windows, whistling through the cracks. Did a storm front come in? They tended to ride through like a bronco shot in the butt. He started to push off the couch when something struck the outside of his house.

  “What the …”

  He hurried over to the table, retrieved his handgun, and tiptoed to the kitchen window. Pulling the slats apart, Rye peered outside, into a world turned coffee-hued with blowing dust.

  Two luminous eyes stared at him.

  For a moment, they held him prisoner, drained his strength, and froze his mind, as if he had dropped into the nether-existence of limbo. Lost. Drifting. Petrified. The eyes blinked, and their power over him vanished.

  He stumbled backwards a few steps and dragged a hand over his lips. It had to be an animal. It just had to be. But there was no creature in the desert tall enough to be the owner of those eyes. Except for one … man. People’s eyes don’t glow unless they’re a …

  No sane white man believed in Navajo myths: however, his Diné mother believed and had warned him. Maybe he should go search for the thing, but before he could decide his next move, the power went out, plunging the interior into darkness. Rye stood still until his night vision allowed him to see shapes. The AC had stopped, no longer masking the screams of the raging desert hurricane.

  He parted the slats again, only to discover the twin luminance had disappeared. Blowing dust limited vision to a few yards. His Tahoe, the chicken coop, and the fence had vanished in the whirling sands. Rye cocked his head to one side. Was there another sound hidden in the winds? Faint, but it sounded like … the haunting howl of a wolf. He fished a police flashlight and safety goggles from the junk drawer in the kitchen.

  Thump! Something else smashed against the outside of his house.

  He slipped on the eye protection, chambered a round in his gun and hurried to his front door. The wind blew so hard, he had to lean a shoulder against the door to force it open. He stepped out onto the porch, legs wide apart to withstand the buffeting. Grit pelted him like stinging bees, clogging his nose and ears and creeping down his shirt.

  Another thump against his house provoked him to shine the flashlight in the direction of the sound. A chicken had splattered against the outside wall, and he watched it slide to the ground.

  Shielding his face in the crook of his arm, he battled through the sandblasting winds towards the chicken coop. He played his flashlight over the pile of torn planks that had been his coop. The hut’s tin roof rattled, and a loose board beat against a structural support. A few chickens scrambled about squawking in terror while others lay dead in the dirt. The wind grabbed one of the chicken bodies and pitched it away into the gloom.

  A ghostly wail howled above the winds. Rye wheeled, shining his flashlight into the wall of churning dust. At first, all he saw was the circle of light reflecting back off the dust. Squinting, he spotted a shadowy form, staring at him. It looked to be a large canine. A wolf? Except this one wasn’t like the one at the diner. Its eyes did not glow when struck by light. Frozen, Rye faced a Skinwalker in its animal form.

  A resounding crash from behind made him jump. Wheeling around, he saw several boards from the coop fly against his house.

  Scowling, he turned to face the wolf. It sat unfazed.

  “You!” Rye shouted at the beast. “I know what you are!” He raised his handgun and pointed it at the animal. The wolf opened its mouth in a soundless howl.

  Before Rye could pull the trigger, a strong gust bowled him over. He landed hard on the ground, and the wind rolled him several feet. Managing to hold onto the gun, he scrambled to his knees and pointed in the direction where the wolf had been.

  Instead of a wolf, a beautiful Native American girl stood in its place. Naked with only a wolf skin wrapped around her to offer a modicum of modesty, she stared at him, head tilted to one side. Her black hair, unaffected by the wind, flowed straight over her shoulders to her waist. When he centered her in the circle of brightness from the flashlight, her eyes glowed with animal luminance. He recognized her.

  “Sunflower?” How—what—huh? The woman standing before him, calm despite the winds, resembled a grownup version of a girl he knew in high school.

  Take care, Rye Dawlsen. Her voice spoke in his head. Not with audible words, but like thoughts she placed in his brain. You walk a dangerous trail. Evil stalks your land. A Nakai. I cannot warn you again.

  A sudden blast of wind forced him to look away. When the twisting air settled, she had vanished.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Helen woke, emerging from a dreamless sleep into a dull awareness. Night lay thick in her bedroom. Outside, gusting winds rattled t
he bedroom windows and whistled through cracks. She reached over to her husband’s side of the bed finding the covers undisturbed. He hadn’t come home from his bowling night. She squinted at the clock to read the neon blue numbers.

  1:32.

  The lanes closed hours ago. But the bars hadn’t, she realized with a spark of anger.

  She reached for her cell phone lying on the nightstand. The screen remained dark. Outta juice. Stupid battery. She slammed it back on the stand.

  With a snort of disgust, she threw back her covers and creaked her way into a seating position. The AC chilled her through her oversized t-shirt and gym shorts. She coughed to clear her throat and noticed that their Jack Russell wasn’t on the bed.

  She heard the pondering clicks of a dog’s nails on the floor.

  “Puddles?” she called.

  The clicks stopped.

  She reached for the pack of menthol slims on the chest of drawers and withdrew a cigarette. She tucked it into the corner of her mouth, her fingers fumbling along the top of the dresser, searching for her lighter.

  The tick of dog’s nails on the floor resumed, approaching her bedroom. She paused before her fingers found the lighter. It didn’t sound like her Puddles’ frantic pace. The noise stopped outside her door. Helen bit her lip, alarmed. Then it dawned on her. How did Puddles close the bedroom door?

  “Puddles?” Her voice sounded like that of a panicked little girl.

  Chill bumps raised on her arms. She yanked her pink bathrobe off a chair and slipped into it. She grabbed the aluminum bat standing in the corner by the door. With a deep breath, she flung open the door.

  Nothing.

  Helen peered down the hallway. Releasing her breath, she laughed at her skittishness. You paranoid old woman. She lowered the bat.

  “Puddles. Come to mommy.”

  She expected to hear the dog running to her. Except for the wind, the house stayed quiet, as if it held its breath.

  “Puddles?”

  Helen walked toward the kitchen. The familiar hallway now felt like a claustrophobic tunnel caving in on her. Nothing. A soft padding sound came from behind. She spun to face the noise. For the briefest second, she glimpsed a dark shape before it smashed into her, cracking her ribs. The bat flew from her hands as she thudded on the floor, her head bouncing on the surface. Darkness swept over her among the eruptions of starry color. The scent of a wild animal filled her nostrils.

  A hand gripped the front of her terrycloth robe and lifted her bodily from the floor. Struggling on the edge of consciousness, Helen felt herself half-carried/half-dragged down the hallway. Her side felt as if a razor slashed at her lungs.

  Whatever held her tossed her through the kitchen doorway. Her shoulder slammed into the corner of the cooking island, shooting torment down her arm. She landed on the tile floor face down, grateful for its coolness. With a moan, she turned her head. Blood soaked her robe from the gash on her shoulder.

  A large animal walked behind her, its nails clicking on the tile. The stench of wet fur overwhelmed her. She gagged, and then gasped at the torture in her side. She gritted her teeth against the throbbing anguish.

  A new scent tickled her nostrils, and she turned her head to find the source of this smell.

  A scream gushed from her throat, raw and inconsolable.

  Her husband sat at their breakfast nook, hands and feet bound to a chair. His head leaned back, exposing his opened throat. Or what was left of his throat. Blood soaked his bowling shirt. Claw marks sliced his arms and face. Blood had pooled on the floor around his chair and had spattered the window and wall.

  Shrieking, she rolled on her back. She stared at the ceiling without seeing it, tears sliding down the sides of her head.

  “Noooo,” she moaned. “Not my Ter.”

  She wanted to go to her husband. Her poor, dead husband. The only man she loved, murdered by someone, her kitchen saturated in his blood. She tried to sit up, gasping, unable to succeed from sheer agony. She looked away from Terrance.

  Puddles lay on the floor, chewing on a meat-covered bone. The dog paid her no attention. Several bowls of water sat on the floor. A bag of dog food had been sliced open, spilling its contents.

  A wolf with fur the color of a starless night shuffled from the other side of the kitchen island. Looming over her, it sniffed her for several long seconds before disappearing from view. Helen thought its gait odd, like it had an injured hip or … or … no, it couldn’t be.

  Her whole body trembled uncontrollably, and her heart pounded, her skin clammy. Panic throttled her. She had to tell someone. How? If she could only leave a message. She spotted the pen jar by the wall phone. Too far away. Her side pulsating, her shoulder burning, she writhed toward Terrance. Then her hand touched a rivulet of Terrance’s blood, and she recoiled.

  Wait a minute. Terrance’s blood …

  Forcing down a gag, she dipped her finger into the sticky liquid and began to write on the floor. A low growl emanated from the hallway, and Helen flopped onto her back, unable to do anything more.

  A man, Mexican by Helen’s estimation, stepped into the kitchen, naked except for animal skins draped over his shoulder and around his loins. His eyes glowed with a honey color, like a wolf. He wielded a black-bladed knife.

  “Where is it?” he snarled, pushing the point of the knife under her chin. “I want the amulet from the Skinwalker display in your museum.”

  “You stole …” her moan of a question went unfinished.

  “Wrong. The break-in occurred before I got there.” He stood over her and pressed the point of the knife into her forehead. “It’s the amulet I want. Where is it?”

  “Stolen,” she sobbed. The point of the knife cut into her skin. “Pleeease, I don’t know.”

  “That’s too bad, chica.” He pulled the knife back so she could see it stained with her blood. “Last chance.”

  He paused as her gaze fixated upon the blade, and sobs racked her.

  “Where’s the amulet?” he yelled.

  She shook her head and choked out, “Really, I don’t know.”

  He spat a curse and slashed downward. The searing raked across her throat was the last thing she felt.

  CHAPTER 8

  THURSDAY MORNING TO EARLY AFTERNOON

  Rye moaned. From a far away canyon, a woman’s voice droned. He wished her voice would disappear into the fog. Several heartbeats passed. A man’s voice mumbled. The two voices sounded like a conversation, but they weren’t talking to each other. Rye pried open one eye. He lay on his couch in the living room, and the morning news played on the TV.

  Rye forced himself into a sitting position, wishing he didn’t have to. With his butt on the edge of the couch, he bent over, resting his head in his hands. His tongue, swollen like wet wool, and the nasty morning-after beer breath turned his already-sour stomach into a flash-flooded gulch. A wave of nausea crashed upon him. With another moan, he leaned against the back of the couch, head resting on the top. He draped one arm over his eyes.

  How much did I drink last night?

  His cell phone began singing.

  He swiveled and winced at the pinpoint explosions that raced across his forehead. Muttering, Rye pushed off the couch and stumbled toward the ringing cell.

  “Dawlsen, here.”

  Zach rushed past a good morning and began a rapid fire sermon about the museum break-in. Rye winced at the officer’s loud voice, managing to catch every third or fourth word. Holding the phone away from his ear, Rye rubbed his forehead at the maelstrom accelerating between his ears.

  “Ho, slow down, cowboy.” Rye took a deep breath and continued. “Is the museum even open by now? Have either of the two Visser girls arrived?”

  Rye listened for several moments, and then said, “Remain there for a half hour. If no one arrives, go over to Helen and Terrance’s ranch. I’ll have Gabby send Whitewolf over to the twins’ home. They like to go danc—”

  Zach cut him short, and Rye returned the favor. �
�No, Reese, I will not send you over to talk to the girls. Stay at the museum, and keep me in the loop.” He ended the call.

  “What’s that about?” Iona stood peering through the screen door. When Rye raised an eyebrow, she added, “Covering last night’s storm damage. Seems like this area got hit the worst. Strange it concentrated here.” She frowned. “Are you okay?”

  Rye rubbed his mouth. “Had too much to drink last night.” He motioned her to come in.

  “So what’s up?” she asked, setting herself into the single recliner.

  “Zach’s at the museum this morning. He arrived, but neither Helen nor Terrance made an appearance. That’s odd ’cause they’re always there early.”

  “That is odd.” Iona pointed toward the back of the house. “Take a shower. I’ll brew some coffee.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Rye said and headed towards his bedroom. “Thanks,” he called over his shoulder.

  After the shower, Rye stepped out onto the deck, wearing only a pair of jeans. Leaning on the wood railing, he closed his eyes, enjoying the morning’s warmth.

  “Feeling better?” Iona said, joining him. She handed Rye a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Dunno,” he said, glancing at her. “Ever get the feeling you were being watched?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’m getting that feeling now.” Rye gave the surrounding area another look-over. “Act normal.”

  “I’m standing next to a man with bulging muscles who’s practically naked. What’s normal about that?”

  Sipping his coffee, Rye plied a cautious gaze over the landscape. “Keep talking like nothing’s up. Anyway, I promised a special kid I’d be in Phoenix for him this weekend.”