Chapter One:
The Gathering Storm
Sedona
Present Day
Many call it Paradise.
But in the high desert summer, when the clouds abandon us and the thermometer seems stuck at 100+ degrees day after day after day, and the heat seems determined to kill us all, there can be only one word to describe Sedona, Arizona:
Hell.
Shocking, isn’t it, that such a beautiful place, home of stunning red rock formations and pure air and mysterious energies and fall colors in October and snow on the ground in December, could host such a flesh-roasting summer climate.
It’s now late June, and the temperature has soared over 100 for several straight days. Every year now, it seems, is the hottest year on record. Scoffers? Doubters? Global warming is a vast left wing conspiracy, you say? Come to Sedona in June. Step out of the air conditioning for 10 minutes. Or better yet, linger in Phoenix for the full complement of punishment.
And so it is that I hunker down in my air-conditioned Sedona home, waiting until hell freezes over, frightened—yes, frightened—to venture outside to the mailbox. For one thing, the temperature is now at 108, a new record for this date. Such temperatures have been known to destroy brain cells by the millions, and I can't afford to lose any.
Or maybe I’m just a wimp and can’t handle what native Arizonans blithely call "dry heat." I’m not from around here.
Another reason I am hunkered down: I am afraid of what I will find in my mailbox. See Item 1, below. Furthermore, I have not even checked my e-mail for three days. See Items 1 and 3.
Me? I’m Marty Powers. I’m a forty-something writer and proprietor of a website called SedonaConfidential.com. I am married to a psychic named Leela.
I admit that I’ve got some serious problems right now. Here they are, not in order of importance or degree of peril:
1. My popular but controversial website has been causing a shitstorm in this little town. I’ve been stepping on some pretty big toes with my exposés of local corruption and scandals. A few days ago I found a dead rattlesnake in my mailbox. Hate messages flood my e-mail.
2. My wife probably knows that I’ve been shagging one of her best friends. It’s hard to fool a psychic, much less your average, intuition-infused female.
3. My best male friend hacked the main (secure) website of Homeland Security last week, and posted fake nude photos of a controversial female columnist on the home page. As a prank. Now the FBI is looking for the perpetrator—and anyone known to hang out with said perpetrator.
So for me the heat is on. Indeed.
In Sedona, as in most of Arizona, the only thing that saves us from the grinding, soul-ripping heat is the Monsoon. This means the summer rainy season, and it nearly always arrives on the same day: July 7.
Actually, our Monsoon is pretty skimpy by Asian standards. In places like India it can rain for days on end and cause terrible flooding and wipe out whole villages. I have spent time in India. I know serious rain; I have had relationships with mildew. Still, our humble Arizona Monsoon is the safety valve that keeps many of us sane in the brutal Sedona summer.
We are beggars here. We wait for it, half mad, dry as a cactus. We beg, we pray, we make deals with God, we sacrifice our children for rain. We wait for that sign from above, the awesome first thunderclap, the signal that late afternoon showers are on the way. Our salvation. Rain o’er me, o gods of moisture!
By the end of June, I keep hearing that mumble of thunder many miles away. The gathering storm. Or maybe it’s just something stirring deep in my root chakra.
So this is my situation in the here and now: Dark clouds hovering on the horizon. A damp gloom surrounding the red rocks. A nameless dread. Lurking rednecks, federal agents, cuckolded wives, dangerous friends. The storm approaches.