Devil's Canyon: Chapter Eight: The Eagle's Roost
Copyright ©️ Anshin B. Kelly, KaleidoShin, All Rights Reserved.
Chapter Eight: The Eagle’s Roost
Riley glanced up from her table in the library. She saw Eli, leaning against a beat-up Ford in the lot, all casual swagger and that damn grin. She smiled to herself, shoving her notes and the Winslow Chronicles into her bag. Lila’s photo and sharp eyes, burned in her mind, but she’d save that bombshell for the road. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she pushed through the double doors into the dry heat, the desert breeze tugging at her hair.
Eli straightened as she approached, his gaze lingering a beat too long. She was striking—olive skin glowing in the sunlight, black hair spilling loose over her shoulders, dark eyelashes framing eyes that cut right through him. She reminded him of the Mexican women he’d met South of the border, years back when he’d drifted into Juárez on a job—tough, vibrant, with a spark that could light a fire or start a fight. He wondered, not for the first time, about her life. Family? Roots? She didn’t wear them on her sleeve, but that edge of hers had to come from somewhere.
“Nice ride, Carter,” Riley quipped, circling the Ford with a mock-critical eye. “What’d you do, trade your soul to the junkyard devil for this beauty?”
He laughed, patting the hood. “Close. Called in a favor from an old pal. She’s not pretty, but she’ll roll. Figured I'd need something for the haul to Winslow.” He nodded at her bag. “You found something in there, didn’t you? I can see it in that smug pretty face.” Riley’s ears turned red.
“Maybe,” she teased, feeling caught off guard, then relented. “Got a lead—Lila Martin, tied to Eagle’s Roost in ‘43. Robbery, murder, the works. That ledger’s hers, not Jed’s. We need to poke around, see if anything shakes loose.”
Eli whistled low. “Lila, huh? Jed had a girl? Keeps getting twistier. Alright, let’s hit the road. Long ride—maybe Winslow’s got more ghosts waiting.”
“Yeah we’re headed to The Eagle’s Roost, I looked it up, it’s still there.”
They climbed in, Riley tossing her bag in the back as Eli fired up the engine. It sputtered, then growled to life, and they peeled out, the library shrinking in the rearview.
“What about your Jeep?”
“Oh, it’s ok. Mrs. Oak the librarian and I get along good. She’s fine with me picking it up later.”
The highway stretched ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the desert, and Eli stole glances at her—hair whipping in the open window, profile sharp against the glare. Who was she, really? A knack for puzzles, a bat-swinging streak. He wanted to ask, to peel back the layers, but kept it locked down for now.
Riley caught him looking, smirking. “Eyes on the road, pretty boy. I’m not dying in this rust bucket ‘cause you’re daydreaming.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he shot back, grinning. But as they rolled toward Winslow, dust trailing behind, he couldn’t shake the feeling—Riley Voss was a mystery all her own, and he was in deeper than he’d planned.
The Ford hummed along the highway, the desert blurring past in shades of rust and gold as Riley leaned back in the passenger seat, her voice cutting through the engine’s drone. Eli kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window, listening as she laid out her library haul.
“So, here’s the deal,” Riley started, flipping open her notebook. “Lila Martin—photo in a ‘43 chronicle, tied to Eagle’s Roost Lounge. She ran the place, or at least fronted it, she was the Night Singer. September that year, a robbery goes down nearby—guy killed, cash gone, no arrests. Sound familiar?” She tapped the page, glancing at him. “That ledger we found, marked ‘J.C. 1943’? I’m betting it’s a pointer to that job. My hunch—call it fact, ‘cause I feel it in my bones—is Lila was Jed Carlton’s accomplice. Not just ‘43, but ‘50 too.”
Eli raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Bones, huh? That’s some gut. So you think she’s the brains behind the jobs?”
“Or the blade,” Riley said, smirking. “Jed’s name’s nowhere in Winslow’s records, but Lila’s is. She vanishes in ‘44, right after things get messy. I’d say she’s the one who kept them in the game."
He nodded, the pieces clicking. “Makes sense. Guy with a conscience, perhaps. She’s the steel, he’s the spark."
The drive stretched on, the sun dipping lower, and their talk flowed easy—easier than either expected. Riley tossed theories about Lila’s edge, Eli countered with tales of old cons he’d seen, both laughing at the absurdity of chasing ghosts. Privately, Eli marveled at how her sharp wit settled him, like a rhythm he hadn’t known he’d missed. Riley, too, caught herself relaxing—his grin, his quick jabs, the way he listened. It was comfortable, dangerously so, and neither dared say it aloud.
By late afternoon, Winslow’s main drag came into view, a sleepy strip of neon and faded storefronts. Eli slowed the Ford, and there it was—The Eagle’s Roost Lounge, still standing, its weathered eagle sign creaking in the breeze. The place had aged—paint chipped, windows smoky—but it pulsed with life, jazz spilling out as a handful of locals milled around the door.
“Well, damn,” Eli said, parking across the street. “Didn’t expect it to still be kicking.”
Riley grinned, unbuckling. “Ghosts don’t die easy. Let’s see if Lila left anything behind.”
They stepped out, the air cool and tinged with beer and history. Eli shot her a look—half tease, half dare. “Ready to stir up the past, Voss?”
“Born ready, Carter,” she fired back, leading the way.
“I think our best bet is to sit down and have something to eat,” Riley said, her voice low as she scanned the Eagle’s Roost Lounge. The place thrummed with life—jazz curling from the band on the small stage, couples swaying on the worn dance floor, the clink of glasses weaving through the chatter. She nodded toward a corner table, tucked near the bar but with a clear view of the room.
Eli followed her lead, sliding into the chair across from her. “Smart. Nothing says ‘snooping’ like starving while you stare.” He grinned, but his eyes were already roving—taking in the aged wallpaper, the framed photos of long-gone bands, the eagle sign’s shadow flickering through the window. The place felt like a time capsule.
A waitress—bleached hair, tired smile—clicked over in her heels, and they ordered beers and burgers. As she clicked off, Riley leaned back, letting the scene sink in. The band swung into a slow number, saxophone weaving a mournful thread, and the dancers moved closer, lost in it. She caught Eli’s gaze drifting too, both of them hunting for clues in the rhythm of the room.
The beers arrived, cold and sweating, and Riley took a sip, her eyes snagging on something—a glint of gold at Eli’s collar. A small cross necklace, tucked under his jacket, catching the dim light. She tilted her head, curious. Eli Carter—street kid, petty crook, charmer—wearing a cross? It didn’t fit, or maybe it did, and that’s what threw her. People were complex, layered like the canyon itself, and he was proving it more every day.
Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to that quiet prayer she’d let slip the other night—“Lord, give me a nudge if I’m screwing this up.” She’d half-expected a lightning bolt, half-expected nothing, but here she was, sipping beer with a guy who’d broken into her house, chasing a decades-old heist. The Catholic girl in her squirmed; the woman she’d become just smirked. Maybe the nudge was this—Eli, the cross, the ease she couldn’t shake.
“You’re staring, Voss,” Eli said, breaking her reverie. He took a pull of his beer, smirking. “What’s up? See a ghost?”
She snorted, covering her lapse. “Just wondering if that cross means you’re secretly a choir boy. Doesn’t match the rap sheet.”
He touched it absently, grin softening. “Mom’s. Kept it after she passed. Guess it’s more habit than holy.” His tone was light, but something flickered in his eyes—grief, maybe, or a story he wasn’t telling.
Riley nodded, letting it drop. “Fair enough.” The burgers landed then, greasy and piled high, and they dug in, the jazz swelling around them. She stole another glance at him—complex, yeah, but solid in a way she hadn’t expected.
Riley’s laugh rang out over the table, sharp and bright, as Eli finished a story about a botched car theft that’d left him stuck in a ditch with a stray dog for company. The Eagle’s Roost Lounge buzzed around them, the band swinging into a lively riff, and for once, they’d let the shop talk fade. Burgers half-eaten, beers drunk, they traded jabs and grins like old friends, the weight of Jed and Lila easing off their shoulders. Riley swiped a fry, smirking. “You’re a walking disaster, Carter. How’d you survive this long?”
“Dumb luck and good looks,” he shot back, winking, and she rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed.
Then Eli’s gaze flicked to the door. A man slipped in—hood up, hands jammed in his pockets, moving too quick for the lazy sway of the room. Eli’s street instincts flared, a warning light blinking red. Years on the hustle had tuned him to trouble, and this guy screamed it. He reached across the table, fingers brushing Riley’s hand. She flinched, pulling back, but he caught her wrist, holding tight. His eyes locked on hers—intense, urgent, no trace of the playful spark from a second ago.
“Eli, what—” she started, bristling, but his look silenced her. She didn’t protest, just froze, reading the shift in him.
Before she could ask, the man yanked a pistol from his jacket, leveling it at the bartender. “Hands up, now, all your cash, make it quick!” he barked, voice cutting through the jazz. The room jolted—couples stumbling off the dance floor, glasses clattering. He fired two shots into the ceiling, plaster dusting down, and the lounge went dead quiet except for a few gasps. The bartender fumbled, shoving a bag of cash across the counter, and the guy snatched it, bolting for the door.
Eli was already moving, pulling Riley with him. “Come on!” he hissed, and she didn’t argue, adrenaline overriding her shock. They burst out into the cool night, the Ford parked just across the street. Eli dove for the driver’s side, Riley scrambling into the passenger seat as he jammed the key in. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out, tires screeching, just as the robber’s figure darted down the main drag, followed by a beat-up sedan peeling away.
“There!” Riley pointed, spotting the tail lights weaving through Winslow’s sparse traffic. Eli floored it, the Ford rattling but holding steady. “You sure about this?” she yelled over the engine, gripping the dash.
“Nope,” he said, eyes narrowed on the sedan. “But he’s not getting away with that—not here, not tonight.” His jaw was set, as streetlights flashed by.
Riley’s pulse hammered, her mind racing from burgers to bullets in a heartbeat. The Eagle’s Roost shrank behind them, and the chase was on.
The sedan veered off Winslow’s main drag, tires kicking up dust as it swung onto a remote side road, flanked by scrub and shadows. Eli’s grip tightened on the wheel, the Ford’s headlights slicing through the dusk. Without a word, he reached into the driver’s side door pocket and pulled out a handgun—Riley’s jaw dropped.
“Holy shit, you have an illegal weapon?!” she yelped, her voice pitching high over the engine’s growl.
“Yep,” Eli said, flashing a half-crazy grin he said “Thank me later, honey bunny.” He shoved the gun into his lap, then barked, “Grab the wheel!”
“What?!” Riley blinked, but obliged. She lunged across the seat, hands clamping onto the steering wheel as Eli kept one of his own on it, steadying the Ford’s wild sway. With his free hand, he cranked the window down, the desert air rushing in sharp and cold. The sedan bobbed ahead, taillights winking through the dust, and Eli shifted, half-leaning out the window, gun now in hand.
Riley’s heart slammed against her ribs as she wrestled the wheel, the Ford fishtailing on the uneven road. Eli braced himself, took aim—calm, like he’d done this a hundred times—and squeezed off two shots. The cracks split the night, and the sedan’s back tires blew out, rubber shredding in a spray of sparks. The car swerved, fishtailed, then skidded to a stop, smoke curling from the ruined wheels.
“Goddamn, you’re a good shot!” Riley shouted, stunned, her hands still white-knuckling the wheel as she eased them straight. The Ford lurched but held the road, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.
“Thanks, honey bunch,” Eli said matter of factly, sliding back into the seat with a smirk, the gun resting casually on his thigh. He took the wheel again, guiding them to a stop a safe distance from the sedan. Dust settled, and they watched as the robber flung open his door, stumbling out in a panic. He threw a wild glance back, then tore off down the road on foot, the stolen cash bag swinging in his grip.
Riley stared, breathless, then whirled on Eli. “Honey bunny? Seriously? And where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Streets teach you a lot,” he said, tucking the gun back into the door pocket like it was no big deal. “Come on, we’re not done yet.” His grin was pure adrenaline, and despite herself, Riley felt it catch—she was mad, rattled, and not a little impressed.
They went to climb out, the Ford ticking as it cooled, the robber’s figure shrinking into the dark. The chase wasn’t over, but the night had just gotten a whole lot wilder.