Devil's Canyon

By Steven Durette

Arizona Highway Patroll Officer Anna Purcell makes a traffic stop, and is thrust into a supernatural battle against the royalty of Hell itself.
Her only assistance comes from a U.S. Marshall that has been dead since 1881, and a mysterious monk.
Can Anna triumph, or is mankind doomed?
This action packed thriller will leeave you breathless!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Durette
• Release date: Aug 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466176225

Steven Durette

Born in Hawaii, and raised in Arizona, Steven had spent his early years listening to the vivid stories of his uncle, and reading voraciously. Ever since his earliest days, he loved story telling. After a brief stint of college, Steven left Arizona in 1989 to see the world, and start life anew with the United States Navy. He traveled across the globe, as a Seabee, experiencing more than thirty different countries in a career that spanned twenty two years. However, he could not escape the allure of storytelling and quickly began studying to become a screenwriter, eventually getting optioned by a major studio. Once he began typing, he never stopped, and novels were his next choice to give his talents a venue. Steven eventually completed his degree, and after completing his Naval Career, he settled back in the American Southwest with his wife, three children, two cantankerous old Corvettes, and an English Mastiff named Rambo.

Book preview

Devil’s Canyon

by

Steven Durette

Acclaim for Steven Durette:

An incredible thrill ride!

—Karen Kevorkian, Producer- Favor Films

Stunning, gritty and refreshingly original!

—Brett Stortroen, bestselling author of Mecca and Muhammad

OTHER BOOKS BY STEVEN DURETTE

(coming soon)

Shadow Games

Code name: Mozart

Symbol of Hatred

Devil’s Canyon by Steven Durette

Published by Steven Durette

Copyright 2011 by Steven Durette

ISBN 978-1-4661-7622-5

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my beautiful wife Emily, thank you for showing me that dreams do come true, and to Karen, my friend and fellow scribe, thanks for the inspiration.

Chapter One

Officer Anna Purcell was bored. I must be insane, she muttered as she stared into the distance attempting to focus on the pavement past the shimmering mirage. The noise of an approaching vehicle caught her attention. Let’s see how dumb you are, she said, aiming the Doppler gun and pulling the trigger. Forty-five in a fifty-five, she sighed, and stretched her neck as the ancient pickup rattled past.

She tucked the radar gun back into its cradle, toying with the idea of chasing the pickup down and telling the driver to speed up and do the damned limit.

She glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. That left two, maybe two and a half more hours of sitting by the side of a highway, slow-roasting her life away in the Arizona sun before shift change.

A roadrunner darted across the pavement, then disappeared into the weeds behind her.

Screw this. I need a breeze, she lifted the bike off the kickstand, and reached for the key.

The sound of an oncoming vehicle caught her attention. You better slow down, she smiled as she started the bike, and eased the Doppler gun out.

The van blew past her, as if the sight of a motorcycle cop sitting alongside the road meant nothing. She pulled the trigger. Ninety in a fifty-five. Now, that’s more like it. Time to hear the excuse of the day.

She holstered the Doppler, and gunned the bike, reveling in the feel of the wind against her overheated body. Toggling the lights and the siren, she accelerated after the van.

The driver glanced at the side view mirror, jaw dropping at the sight of the police bike rapidly gaining on them. His eyes darted to the clock in the dash. There was no time for this. Brother Thomas would have him whipped for being late. If he didn’t pull over, more police would give chase, and then they would search the van. An involuntary shudder rattled through his thin frame as he pictured the horrendous punishments he would endure should he lose the precious cargo. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal, braking easily.

Let the jerk sweat for a moment, Anna thought, as she stopped the bike about ten feet from the rear of the van. It was unmarked and plain white with no windows. It looked like what her fellow officers would call a rapist van, she chuckled to her herself as she called in the plate.

She filled out her ticket book, glancing up occasionally at the wide eyes of the man watching her intently in his mirror. He’s nervous, she thought. Maybe the driver has a warrant. Shit. It’s Friday. I don’t need to get shot or killed fifteen miles outside of Superior, Arizona, which happens to be adjacent to the middle of nowhere.

She swung her leg off the bike, and stretched her back a bit. Put him at ease, she told herself. Adjusting her sunglasses, she took a deep breath, put on her serious face, and stalked to the driver’s door. As she neared the van, her nose wrinkled. Something foul, a dead animal maybe?

Good afternoon sir, do you know why I stopped you today? she asked him. Her eyes scanned his for signs of substance abuse. Pupils fine, no alcohol on his breath, though it smelled like a mixture of ripe sewage mixed with fresh garbage.

He smiled through rotten teeth. No, I do not, he leaned out of the van a bit and stared intently at her crotch.

She fought back a wave of revulsion and stepped to the side to catch a view of the passenger, a scraggly blond teenager who appeared to be asleep. Do you know what the speed limit is on this highway sir?

Yes, of course I do. I was—

I clocked you going ninety in a fifty-five. License, registration and proof of insurance, please.

The driver eyed her, appreciating her figure in the tight khaki uniform. Of course miss, I will slow down. Is there any chance of letting this go, as I am in a hurry?

Anna was stunned. This jackass had balls. Ninety in a double-nickel and he wanted a warning. She decided to give him a field sobriety test if he said anything else that stupid.

I’ve already called it in. License, registration and proof of insurance, please.

As the man reached for it, she let her hand drift to the butt of her pistol.

As she reached forward to take the documents, a scrabbling, and thudding suddenly erupted from the rear compartment of the van.

Something was scratching around violently, trying to get out, rocking the van on its suspension.

Her eyes narrowed, hair rising on the back of her neck. What’s in the back? her hand grasped the pistol tighter, ready to draw the weapon.

The man smiled nervously. Oh, that is just my dog. Yes, my dog. She is sick and I am on my way to the vet. That is why I was speeding. She means the world to me, he grinned again, trying too hard to be pleasant.

You’re getting a sobriety test as soon as I find out what the hell made that noise, she thought, frowning. Step out of the vehicle, slowly. Open it up.

Fear clouded the man’s eyes. But there is no need for that, he bit his lip composing himself. Also, wouldn’t you need a search warrant?

Ahh. There it is, the self-educated lawyer who learned police procedure from TV dramas, she thought. Take the keys out of the ignition, keep your hands in view, and step out of the vehicle.

He sighed as he opened the door and stepped out, if anything went wrong, the priest would surely be angry. He locked eyes with her, frowning. Women in this country did not know their place, he thought, noticing her hand resting on the butt of her pistol. It made him chuckle, as if that pathetic weapon would keep her safe. Turning, he shuffled to the rear of the van.

Anna stifled a gag in the face of the wave of body odor that washed over her, carried by the hot desert wind. He was dressed shabbily in sandals and sweat-dampened white coveralls. He had a limp; one of his legs had the deep red-purple of a massive burn. She followed him cautiously, giving him a wide berth as she edged past him, and took a position that would allow her to defend herself him, or what ever was banging around in the van.

The man smiled again. There is no need for this. It is just my dog, he isn’t feeling well and I need to get him to the vet, he said, gesturing to her with open hands.

The van rocked again, and something thudded against the thin sheet metal, putting a visible dent in the side.

Your dog was a she a minute ago. Open the door, sir, she snapped.

Yes, of course, she is ill. He reached for the door handle and paused. I must tell you the truth, there is someone trying to kill us, the man said.

Sir, open the door, now, she said, dropping her ticket book and drawing the pistol with surprising speed.

If he catches us… he grasped the door handle. A new fit of banging, thudding and scratching rocked the van again.

A massive black four-wheel-drive pickup skidded to a halt about fifty feet from them. She sidestepped to have a better view of the driver, and to keep the newly arrived vehicle in her peripheral vision.

The man smiled. You are making a horrible mistake, he shrugged. But then again, you will make a wonderful meal for the duchess. Perhaps she will save some of your parts for me. I’ll bet you taste lovely, he flung the door of the van open.

Something was in there. It howled, thrashing wildly against the restraints. Something was chained up in the back of the van. Then she saw pinpricks of green light. It wasn’t a dog. It was shaped like a human. But humans don’t look like they have been skinned, or have the snout of a wolf… She brought the pistol up. What the hell is that thing? she screamed, panic welling up in her.

The driver of the van howled in rage, and leapt at her.

She fired three shots with rapid succession into his chest. The sound of the .40 Sig Sauer echoed off into the desert. She glanced at the driver, expecting to see him on the ground, blood pumping out of him.

He was still standing. He stretched his neck, as if drawing up phlegm, and coughed. He locked eyes with her, and coughed again. He smiled; one of her bullets now trapped between his rotten teeth, then spat it at her.

The thing in the van roared, and began flailing wildly, straining at the chains, rocking the van so hard it creaked on its suspension.

Her eyes shifted back and forth from the chained-up creature to the driver of the van, who was now changing, its legs snapping backwards at the knee…talons sprouting out of elongated fingers. A black tongue flicked out, testing the air. And the eyes…

The driver snarled and hissed, then leapt at her again. She emptied the pistol, putting ten shots into his head. The driver stopped, but did not go down. He shook his head. Then extended a finger, pointing past her.

I’ll handle this, A gravelly voice with a western twang drawled. He thundered off one shot, like a cowboy at high noon. The bullet hit its mark dead on; its impact forcibly lifted the driver and then slammed him to the pavement, writhing in agony. His unearthly screams tore at her as he was engulfed in flames.

The teenage passenger convulsed on his feet, and sprouted jagged fangs and claws. You will pay, hunter, it snarled in an unholy voice and then bolted into the desert with incredible speed.

She reloaded her pistol with the fluid motions that speak of years of practice, never taking her eyes or the barrel of the gun off the strange gunman.

He was impossible. A sheriff right out of a Western, dressed completely in black, stood, feet apart like a gunfighter, leather duster waving gently in the hot desert breeze. In his hand, a massive, polished revolver gleamed in the sun. An aged Stetson cast a shadow on his face; even when he nodded at her, she could not get a glimpse of the features.

Drop the gun, she said, leveling her pistol.

Yes. It drew the s out like a snakes hiss. Drop your gun, hunter. It is lost—you cannot kill me, you will fail as you always do. The hideous thing in the van spoke in a voice that sounded like death itself. It roared, then snapped the chains, letting loose a maniacal laugh.

As the sheriff looked at her, she caught a glimpse of a chiseled jaw. Step aside…I’ll handle this, he said with finality.

The thing roared again, and leapt out into the sunlight, it writhed in agony as its skin began to smoke. It stood erect on massive legs that bent backwards, like an animal’s hind legs. It turned and ripped the door off the van with a swipe of its hand.

Anna unloaded the pistol into the thing. Thirteen shots of .40 caliber bullets into the chest, and it did not even stagger. It roared in anger and threw the door, barely missing her head. She dove to the ground, staring at the unbelievable scene unfolding before her.

The sheriff raised his pistol and fired five times, each one catching the thing in the head. It was engulfed in flames before it hit the ground. He holstered the pistol and stalked forward, pulling a canteen from under the folds of the duster.

He poured the contents on the bodies, making them convulse and writhe; twisted shadows behind a curtain of flame and steam. He tossed the canteen aside and drawing a massive knife, knelt down and plunged it over and over again into the carcass of the creature. It released an unearthly howl, then was still.

What the hell did you pour on them? she asked.

Holy water.

The body of the driver, still aflame, was crawling, and scratching at the ground in a pathetic attempt at escape. The sheriff stomped on his back with a well-worn black boot. Time to go home, hell-spawn, he plunged the knife into his skull.

I don’t know what’s going on here, but drop the knife. Now! she said, back on her feet in a classic Weaver stance, her pistol leveled.

Ma’am, he spoke slowly. You might just wanna get back on that little bike of yours and ride on.

I said drop the knife.

He moved slowly and pitched the knife. It twirled in the air, flashing in the sun, then stuck tip-first into the ground.

Who are you?

Lew Manvell, U.S. Marshal, he pulled the duster aside, showing her a round silver badge on his black shirt.

You’re a fed, and I’m Brittney Spears.

Okay, Ms. Spears. You’d best be on your way. Move along, Lew said, flipping the duster back, revealing two pistols riding in cowboy-style hip holsters, and what looked to be a sawed off shotgun strapped under one arm, in some kind of custom rig.

My name isn’t Ms. Spears, jackass, she snapped, I’ll move along after I call for backup. Get on your knees.

What you need backup for? Lew asked. And if your name ain’t Spears, why’d you say it was?

Don’t worry about my name. You killed two people, and I ain’t playing your cowboy dress-up game. The phony badge isn’t fooling me, now get on your knees.

I done saved your life, he said, raising his head enough that the shadows were removed from his face, displaying rough-hewn handsome features and piercing blue eyes. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it already. He paused, gesturing back to the van. And, I didn’t kill no people—you see any bodies, ma’am?"

She glanced over. The bodies were…gone? A chill ran up her spine as she realized her mistake, even before she heard the rasp of steel against leather, or the metallic click-click-click of a revolver being cocked.

Holster that popgun, ma’am. I don’t wanna have to shoot you.

She frowned. The barrel of the massive revolver gaped like the entrance of a tunnel to eternity. Slowly, she holstered her pistol. She eyed him. Who were they?

Lew walked up to her, pistol never wavering. Not who, what, he spat on the ground. They were dead as soon as the demons took over. He stopped and gestured to the van again.

He was close enough now that she contemplated making a grab for the hand cannon he was brandishing. The thought of what it would do if he were to fire it at her kept her from taking the chance.

I sent ’em back where they came from. The bodies disintegrate as soon as the demon leaves this plane, and returns to Hell.

My God, you really expect me to believe that crap? Demons? Really?

I’d think that after what you just saw, you’d be a might more careful ’bout taking the Lord’s name in vain.

She laughed as her mind raced. Trapped here in the desert in the middle of nowhere, with a cannon-toting religious nutcase, and weird creature things that light on fire when he shoots them. Why me? she thought, biting her lip. Humor him. Humor him, and soon enough a witness will roll by. Humor him and he won’t shoot you and leave you for dead along the side of the highway, Anna.

Okay Marshal, let’s see some I.D.

Lew moved the duster aside, letting her view the badge again.

I said I.D., not the fake badge.

This here’s all the I.D. I need.

It’s a piece of crap from a toy store, she said. How about your photo identification? I mean, come on. I’m supposed to believe a guy who looks like he stepped out of a spaghetti western and does a lousy imitation of the cowboy talk? Is that what I’m supposed to put in my report?

Well, it don’t really matter what you believe, and I don’t care what you’re gonna put in your report, Lew said. All I know is, I got work to do. You seem like a smart girl; you’ll figure it out when you wake up, but I wouldn’t tell ’em ’bout demons, or any o’ that. They’ll think you’re crazy, or worse.

When I wake up?

Sorry, ma’am, he said as the punch landed, then her world went black as she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Chapter Two

Lew’s mind wandered as he drove down the highway, toward Superior. He eyed the countryside, remembering the first time he had seen the craggy hills and low scrub of the desert. He had a different life, but that was so very long ago, before pavement crisscrossed the desert. Before the cars replaced the horse. Back when he was young.

"Silver King, Arizona Territory, 1881."

He rode past a sign proclaiming ‘Home of the World’s Richest Silver Mine’. It was an unremarkable town, one of the myriads of mining towns that sprouted up out of the desert every time someone with a shovel spotted anything shiny and potentially valuable.

The towns brought desperate men, ready to sacrifice life, limb, and what little they owned just to swing hammers and picks, tunneling down to the heart of the earth on a quest for riches that normally broke their bodies and shattered their dreams.

Lew stopped at the livery, and dismounted. He stretched, and patted some of the trail dust off his shirt. Handing the reigns to the waiting stable boy, he said, I need him ready to go in a couple of hours. He pulled the Sharps carbine out of its sling, and rested it on his shoulder.

The stable boy stared at his badge and nodded, then led the horse off.

Lew walked down the main street, mindful of the nervous glances of the townspeople.

Miners were a tight-nit group. Slaving together in the cramped confines of misery for pennies or less caused a man to extend the branch of brotherhood further than most, but not to a stranger. A stranger could be someone trying to step in on a claim, or hustle them out of something. Simply put, if they didn’t know you, they didn’t like you. He was used to it, usually, when a marshal showed up, trouble could easily follow.

He pushed open the door to the saloon and paused and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. A few patrons were scattered about the room, dirty miners that were too exhausted to even glance up at him as he entered. Someone coughed, and he noted the distinct hack of tuberculosis.

There was only one who looked up to notice him; a well-dressed man who peered over his newspaper and followed Lew with his eyes as he strode to the bar.

The bartender set down the glass he was polishing. Can I get you something?

Whatcha got? Lew asked, as he set the rifle down and against the bar.

Anything you want, so long as it’s mescal or whiskey.

How ’bout water?

Comin’ up, the bartender said, disappearing through a doorway behind the bar.

Now that, is an oddity. A man comes into a saloon on a hot day, yet is a teetotaler, a voice tinged with a Bostonian accent rang out.

Lew glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. Who said I was a teetotaler? I just don’t drink when I work.

The man grinned. I mean no affront, my friend, he said raising a porcelain cup in greeting. Doctor Jeffrey Liston, M.D., at your service. I was merely making an observation. One does not very often see a man walk into a saloon out here and not order rotgut.

He stood and walked to the bar, gesturing to his cup. Coffee, he said. You never know when one of them will get hurt and if I’m three sheets to the wind, how could I help them?

Lew nodded, You got a point.

So what sort of work requires that you maintain a respectful distance from the bottle yourself, kind sir?

Lew shifted his position and pointed to the badge. That kind.

The doctor stared at the badge, eyes wide with surprise as he took a sip of his coffee. A U.S. Marshal; that is most impressive. What brings you to such an out-of-the-way place? Are you on your way to Tombstone?

Lew pulled the wanted poster from his shirt and unfolded it. He handed it to the doctor. Not what. Who.

The bartender returned, carrying a pitcher of water. He grabbed a metal cup from under the bar, filled it, and slid it to Lew. Water.

Much obliged. Lew gulped the water. It was lukewarm, but felt like paradise sliding down his throat. He closed his eyes to enjoy it.

Didn’t realize you were a lawman. I would’ve been a might more civil, the bartender said.

George, have a look at this. Murder, robbery, and horse thievery, positively astounding! the doctor exclaimed, shoving the wanted sheet at the bartender. Jim Cutler, five hundred dollars reward, dead or alive. The doctor frowned. I could have hired a nurse, and built a larger office.

Lew pushed his