Angel

By Jon Truman

Devastated by the brutal murder of his young Cherokee bride and frustrated by the lack of progress in his wife's case, novelist, Jesse Striker takes matters in his own hands. Aided by his former college roommate, best friend and brother-in-law, Billy Whitecloud, he attempts to find his wife's murderer. In the process, he is miraculously brought to faith when, in a way he could have never imagined—he discovers that his wife is very much alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483500362

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jesse Striker’s wedding day had been the very best day of his life, so—how could it also be the worst?

He knew the answer. He relived it every night as he drifted off to sleep. This night was no different, but this time, he awoke to the sound of a scream, only to discover it was his.

He bolted upright and took several deep breaths. A drop of sweat trickled into his eye and burned. He brushed his beaded brow with the back of his hand, lay back down and, turning his head to the side, glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 3:00 a.m.

Jesse rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling, willing himself to stay awake, but—it was no use. Soon, he slipped back into a fitful sleep, and once again, like an unwanted apparition forming at the foot of his bed, the nightmare that had haunted him returned.

It was always the same. The evening wedding is over, and Jesse is in the basement of the Cherokee Lutheran Church enjoying the reception. All the wedding party is present except Jenny Whitecloud, his new bride. Clad in her wedding gown, she has left her guests to get a gift for her father that is locked in Jesse’s car.

Jesse is talking with a guest when, in mid-sentence, he hears the guttural, rumbling of many motorcycles. Only—this is different. The sound is slow, deep and sinister. When finally it fades, it is replaced by a more frightening sound.

A scream.

It’s Jenny.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming from deep within the bowels of an ancient stone well.

Jesse reacts instantly. He bounds up the basement steps two at a time, slams through the front doors of the church onto the porch. Only…only…he is floating in slow motion, like—a man running on the moon.

Jenny screams again, JEEEESSSSSEEEEEE!

Her voice is thick, like molasses flowing from a bottle. At the sound of it, Jesse’s head gradually rotates ninety degrees in Jenny’s direction. His eyes slowly widen and his heart stops when he sees her.

Two men on either side of her hold her arms while a biker in a black leather vest grasps her face in a vice-grip and attempts to kiss her.

Like a man running in waist-deep water, Jesse glides off the porch. JENNNNEEEEE, he yells.

In perfect synchronization, the eyes of a dozen or more bikers turn in his direction as he bursts through them in slow-motion, knocking two of them to the ground.

He fights his way to the man in the black leather vest, but—two men grab him from behind. The man in the vest steps up to him and punches him again and again.

Another sound pierces the air.

Sirens.

Many of them, sounding like CD’s playing in reverse.

The men drop Jesse and he slumps to the ground. Though groggy, he hears a voice. It’s the man in the black vest. Like the sound of one possessed by demons, he yells: LEEETSSSSMOOOVEEEIIITT.

It echoes as the bikers float toward their Harleys and, one by one, drift down the driveway.

Then—Jesse hears yet another voice.

JEEESSSSSEEEE.

It’s Jenny. Once again, she screams as she glides toward Jesse and kneels by his side.

Jesse turns and sees the man in the black vest. He just reaches the road when suddenly he spins his bike around and twists the throttle wide open. Smoke plumes from around the back tire as it spins and burns. The cycle lurches forward, its front tire rises in the air, and then—falls.

The man in the black vest now stands, straddling his Harley. In slow-motion, he reaches in his boot and pulls out something black and points it in Jesse’s direction.

Jesse hears a muffled explosion and an exaggerated thudding sound as a bullet slams into the waist of Jenny’s wedding dress. A flower of red blooms on white satin, and Jesse screams—NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Suddenly, Jesse jerked awake. Once again, he sprang into a sitting position, gasped, then—laid his head back on the damp pillow and shivered. Emotionally drained, his thoughts drifted back to how it had all begun.

CHAPTER 2

It was Saturday evening.

6:30 p.m.

Jenny had wanted an afternoon wedding, but to accommodate Cherokee relatives from Oklahoma, an evening wedding seemed best. That led to other changes. The traditional Cherokee wedding feast, which ordinarily would follow the wedding, capping it off with joyful celebrating and dancing, was held at 5:30 p.m., minus the dancing.

A traditional Cherokee dinner of squash, dried corn soup, Kanuchi (made with hickory nuts), and bean bread was served. For the palates of non-Cherokee guests Jenny had added ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

Another change. According to Cherokee custom, instead of rings, the bride and groom would exchange food. Jenny opted for rings.

With the dinner concluded, clusters of conversations were buzzing in the basement, the Nave of the church and outside as Jesse cracked open the door to one of the basement classrooms and peeked in at Jenny. He was instantly greeted with the faint scent of her lilac perfume. In less than a half-hour, he would promise to love, honor, and cherish her, and stay with her in sickness and in health, as both he and she stood before the pastor of the Cherokee Lutheran Church.

It was a small, traditional, white clapboard structure. The worship area was on the first floor; the fellowship hall, kitchen and Sunday school rooms were all on the basement level.

This was Jenny’s church. She, her father Jim Whitecloud, and her brother Billy had met Christ here, thanks to the ministry of Johnny Three-Eagles, a half-German, half-Cherokee pastor. Cherokee Lutheran Church was located on route 19 north in Cherokee, North Carolina—a stone’s throw from the Cherokee Village Motel which is owned and operated by Jim Whitecloud and about a mile from Harrah’s Casino.

The church was but one of many Christian churches on what some call the Cherokee Indian Reservation. In reality, it wasn’t a reservation at all, if by that one means land bequeathed to Native Americans to salve the conscience of those who took it from them. The 56,000 acres on which Jenny and all the Eastern Band of the Cherokees lived, was land purchased by them and held in trust by the federal government. They preferred to call it the Qualla Boundary.

You’re beautiful, Jesse said.

To many, that would have been an understatement. Jenny, all five-foot-four inches of her, was standing before a full-length mirror that reflected her coal black hair, perpetual tan, and deep, dark eyes, common among Cherokee women.

Rather than wear the traditional tear dress and ribbon skirt, Jenny had opted for a more modern, though quite simple, white satin wedding gown. She had just turned 90 degrees to see her profile when Jesse had opened the door. Startled, Jenny snapped her head in Jesse’s direction. Jesse, you’re not supposed to see me.

I’m not?

No! Not until I walk down the aisle.

Well, I thought maybe that was just a white man’s custom. Jesse smiled. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t back out.

Highly unlikely.

Promise?

Promise.

How about one kiss to seal it.

Jesse! Jenny drew her eyebrows together in a simulated glare. She coupled it with a tight-lipped smile and said, Move it, white man.

Okay…okay. I can take a hint. Jesse held his hands in the air as if in surrender, and said a-ya-tsi-ni-hi.

CHAPTER 3

A-ya-tsi-ni-hi was Cherokee for I love you." Jesse had asked Jenny how to say that on the night he had proposed to her seven months earlier. And now he was about to marry the one person who was, to him, the most beautiful girl in the world.

He had met her through her brother, Billy Whitecloud, who had been his college roommate at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, and for Jesse, it had been love at first sight.

Admittedly, it was her looks that had first attracted him to her, but as he got to know her better, he discovered there was so much more about her to love, like—the way she laughed. Whenever he’d say something funny, she would giggle. It would erupt from within. There was nothing fake about it, for Jenny was Jenny through and through. What you saw is what you got.

Maybe that’s one reason everyone liked Jenny. Or maybe it was because Jenny never knew a stranger. Unconditional love were two words that best described her. And there was an innocence about her, which besides her genes, was probably due to her being overly protected by her father. Whatever the source, Jesse loved her for it.

You really want me to go? Jesse said, his hand still on the doorknob.

What is it about ‘move it, white man’ you don’t understand?

Jesse laughed. He started to close the door, but stopped abruptly and looked back at Jenny. This is really happening, isn’t it?

Jenny smiled. It sure is.

Were Jesse a betting man, he would have laid odds that Jim Whitecloud would have never approved of him marrying his daughter. For one thing, there were the cultural differences; Jesse was white, Jenny was Cherokee. The greatest stumbling block, however, was Jesse’s faith, or more accurately, his lack of it. Jim, Billy and Jenny were committed Christians; with the exception of weddings and funerals, Jesse couldn’t remember when he had last stepped foot in a church.

I will pray and seek the Father’s will, Jim Whitecloud had said to Jesse. In the meantime, I don’t want you to see my daughter for six months. Agreed?

Jesse had, and six months later, Jim Whitecloud gave his decision. A stern look on his face, he had said, I have been led to believe that you will, in time, come to faith in Jesus. He broke into a smile and threw his arms around his future son-in-law, and gave him a hug.

That was seven months ago.

Jenny blew Jesse a kiss. He returned it and, closing the door, headed back to the classroom where Billy and his father waited.

CHAPTER 4

Periodic gusts of wind whipped at the few leaves that remained on nearby oaks as Beau Haggart and his thirteen biker buddies approached the doors of Harrah’s Casino in Cherokee, North Carolina.

Already, they had had too much to drink, a fact not lost on those inside the foyer whose attention they seized as they barged through the front doors. Beau, better known by his biker name, Ironman, led the way. The others followed as he sauntered up to and glared past the casino guard who stood at ease in the center of the foyer.

Welcome to Harrah’s, the guard said as he flashed a well-practiced smile in their direction. But neither the bikers nor Ironman responded, though for different reasons. The bikers’ eyes were busily sizing up the women who stood nearby. As for Ironman, he was awed by the size of the casino. Before him, nearly 3,000 video-based gaming machines were crammed into a 175,000 square foot space. There was something for everyone: Double Diamond, Red White & Blue, Wild Cherry plus video poker, video blackjack, video craps, and the highly popular lock and roll variation of the old slot machine that offers players two spins to win.

Above the drone of nearly 1500-plus patrons, and the occasional pinging of coins cascading into the metal drawers before the lucky few, Ironman glanced back at the others and said, Let’s go make us some money.

He then slowly turned back and leered at the guard, as if noticing him for the first time. The phony smile the guard had displayed earlier began to wither. It totally disappeared as Ironman stretched his 185 pound, 6-foot frame, tilted his head back, and with a Jack Nicholson glare, stared at the guard as if to say, without saying anything, Get out of my way.

Ironman loved the sense of power it gave him to intimidate others, and he could tell, he hadn’t lost his touch. Clearly, the guard was having difficulty making eye contact with Ironman.

No doubt Ironman’s attire added to the intimidation. He was clothed head to toe in black, from the do-wrap that covered his ash blond hair, to his black leather vest, down to his chaps and boots. Both arms were predominantly black from numerous tattoos, the most ominous being the horned head of the devil on his right shoulder.

A pocked face and a scar that cut from his right temple, sliced over his cheekbone, and zigzagged downward across his lips to his chin, added to the unease the guard was feeling.

He averted his eyes from Ironman’s and focused on the mostly bearded and scruffy, black-leathered bikers standing behind him. That didn’t help.

They were all members of the Macon branch of the Georgia Ex-Cons. Like the Hell’s Angels, whose members’ primary mode of transportation was their cycle, and who on average, rode 20,000-plus miles a year, the Georgia Ex-Cons had their own set of requirements. You had to be male, ride a Harley, and most importantly, be an Ex-Con.

By those standards, Ironman was well qualified. He had spent his last two years of high school at a juvenile detention center where, to his credit, he had earned his GED. Five years later, he served two years at Macon State Prison for bank robbery. Now twenty-six, Ironman was a part time construction worker and an Ex-Con - an Ex-Con who spent as much time as he could on his fuel injected Harley Fatboy, riding preferably with, though often without, the Georgia Ex-Cons.

Have a good time, the guard said as he stepped to one side. It seemed to Ironman that his voice was softer and had a little quiver to it.

Yeah, Ironman said. He unlocked his gaze and began sauntering toward the digital, no longer one-armed machines that were eagerly gobbling up