by Mark Reps
Zeb’s mind was spinning. He glanced through the glass partition in the door leading to the cells. Where should he begin? He knew the old man loved the rodeo. Talking about all the action at the rodeo might ease Felipe’s mind and get him talking. The look on the old man’s face, as he knelt beside his bed praying the rosary, told the sheriff something very heavy was weighing on his mind. Felipe Madrigal carried a look of life and death in his eyes. Sheriff Hanks wondered whose life it was that Felipe was worried about.
Zeb removed his weapon from his holster, took off his hat, tugged at his pants and took a deep breath as he walked into the jail cell. Sheriff Hanks momentarily kept a respectful distance as Felipe continued to pray. When he finished, he made the sign of the cross, turned and began to speak.
“Señor Sheriff, I have done some bad things. Because of these bad things my grandson may die. I was only trying to protect him. But I have done something very terrible.”
“Felipe, please slow down. Tell me how you got into this mess to begin with?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“This diablo gringo, he comes to my house. I don’t know him. I never even see him before. But he says he is a friend of my grandson, Ángel. So I invite him into my house. I give him a cup of coffee, and he tells me he knows my grandson from in the Florence Junction prison.”
“Why was your grandson in prison?”
“My grandson, Ángel, he ges the diablo inside when he drinks,” said Felipe. “He ges drunk and steals cars. I’m ashamed because I teach him to drive…and I give him his first drink. I thought one little beer wouldn’t hurt him. But he no can handle liquor. He’s no bad boy. See, this is his picture.”
Felipe handed the picture of the girlish looking young man to Sheriff Hanks.
“So I look at this diablo blanco grande who knows my grandson in the Florence Junction prison, and I know there is trouble. I don’t know what happens in prison. But I hear bad stories. I think Ángel is in big trouble because this man look very mean. He look crazy in the eyes.”
“Why did he come to your house? Did he have a message from your grandson?”
“Sí, sí! That is what he said. The big man said…”
“Did this friend of your grandson have a name, Felipe?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“His name was James. Señor James Walker.”
“What message did he bring?”
“He told me Ángel wants to come and visit me. But first Ángel has job to do. Señor Walker says when you get out of prison they make you have a job to go to. He said when Ángel ges a day off from his job he will come and visit me right away. But when I ask where he is working, the big man does not know. So I ask him if he knows my Ángel like such good friends, how come he don’t know where he works.”
“Did he give you an answer?
“No, no, he just ges very mad at me. He don’t explain nothing. He ges real mad and says I don’t do what he wants I would never see Ángel again. He said he would kill him, shoot him in the head with big gun. Then he pulled out big gun and point it at me. Then he ask me for piece of paper. I give it to him. He write down that note about bombing. He make me read it to him to make sure I get it right.”
“Señor James Walker wrote the note?” asked Delbert.
“Sí, it is true. He tells me to call sheriff’s office at 8:30 exactly and tell them I plant a bomb at high school and it will explode at 9:00 a.m.. Then at 12:30, I call sheriff again and tell him bomb will explode at grade school. He said do it or Ángel is dead meat.”
“Why didn’t you call the police and tell them the truth?” asked Sheriff Hanks. “We believe people like you.”
“The bad man said if I breathe one word to anyone he kill Ángel and rip his heart out of his chest. Then he would come back here to cut my throat and burn my house down. I believe him,” said the old man.
“Was Señor James Walker missing fingers on his left hand?”
“Sí, sí, sí. That is right. Do you know him?”
Sheriff Hanks took a second look at the picture of Felipe’s grandson. He could be the young Mexican kid in the yellow Vega that people had been describing.
“Then bad man said he wanted one more thing from me and he would leave me alone.”
“What was that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
The old man began to tremble. He kissed the rosary he held tightly in his hand and made the sign of the cross.
“I think I do something very terrible. I have made much trouble for many people, even my Ángel. I pray with good priest to Blessed Virgin for answer. Mother María tells me good sheriff can fix it.”
“I’m not Catholic,” replied Sheriff Hanks.
“The Blessed Virgin, she no care about that,” said Felipe.
“Did she tell you what I should do?”
“I don’t know. I just pray. The answer come to me…tell Señor Sheriff,” said Felipe.
Everything Felipe Madrigal had told him was important.
“Tell me what? When you prayed, what did the Blessed Virgin Mary tell you to tell me.”
“She tell me to tell you bad man hold a gun to my head and make me draw up everything I know about credit union building in Morenci where I worked as security guard. I tell him way to get in through roof. I tell him safe door is broken.”
Felipe held his weary head in his hands.
“I tell everything I know about the credit union. I want only to save my grandson. I am so scared. I don’t know what to do when devil is at my house.
Sheriff Hanks was stunned at the seeming connection between everything that had been going on. “You did what?”
“I was afraid. I knew he would kill Ángel. Then I have no family. I was so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”
Zeb’s gut rumbled. His heart raced with anticipation. Ángel’s life was certainly in danger now that Jimmie Joe Walker had the money.
“Can you save Ángel? Is he still alive?”
“I hope so, Felipe. Say a little prayer.”
Zeb bolted from the jail holding block, through the heavy door and into his office.
“Deputy Steele. The robbery in Morenci. It was Felipe.”
“What are you talking about, Sheriff? Felipe was here in jail last night. He didn’t have anything to do with it.” said Deputy Steele.
“No, no! Listen to me...”
Deputy Steele listened as Sheriff Hanks relayed the story he has just heard from the old man--the bomb threats--the big man who held the gun and threatened to kill Ángel--the drawings of the floor plans at the credit union in Morenci--and finally the knowledge that Felipe’s grandson, Ángel, was a partner in the crime.
“...and I think I know where they might be,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Where?”
“Felipe showed me a picture of his grandson, Ángel. If my hunch is right, I believe I know where Ángel is. Yesterday a man told me that halfway between Morenci and County Road 6 he thought he saw a yellow car at an abandoned trailer house. He told me right where it was.”
“Deputy Steele, grab a rifle.” said Sheriff Hanks. “It’s forty minutes, forty-five tops, to get to that trailer. You follow me. I’ll lead the way. We’ll stop a quarter mile or so short of the trailer. If they are still there, don’t let them get the drop on you. I am one hundred percent certain they are heavily armed and very dangerous.”
Deputy Steele grabbed a rifle from the gun cabinet. The race was on and her heart was pounding.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Come on, Ángel. It’s time to get the hell out of here.”
Ángel opened his eyes with a great deal of difficulty. His head felt like it was going to explode. He couldn’t think straight. His mouth tasted like moldy socks. He put his fingers on his tongue to see if something had found its way in there while he slept.
“I think you celebrated a little too much last night,” Jimmie Joe chuckled.
Two empty tequila bottles lay at Ángel’s feet. Then he remembered the robbery. Sneaking up to the roof, breaking into
the credit union, sliding through the small vent into the vault and all that money. Two big sacks full of cash. He opened his eyes a little further and saw Jimmie Joe towering over him. One big sack of money tucked under each of his arms.
“Let’s go. Drain your lizard and let’s blow this pop stand.”
“Where are we going, Jimmie Joe?” said Ángel rising to his feet. “I thought we were going to split the money up and each go our own way?”
“Come on, move it. That’s exactly what we are going to do. But first we got to move away from this place in case somebody saw us come back.”
Ángel gathered his things and scampered outside.
“Put your things in the Vega. I’ll take the truck. Follow me,” commanded Jimmie Joe.
“Where are we going?” asked Ángel.
“I told you from the very beginning…don’t ask questions. But if you really need to know, we’re going to a safe place to split up the money, a real safe place. I’ve got a beautiful candy-apple-red Corvette stashed away for you over in Tucson as a little going away bonus.”
“How did you get that?”
“Remember our friend Noah Hanks? The car thief from prison? He got you the car.”
Ángel thought he remembered something else he had heard about Noah as hopped behind the wheel of the Vega, that his brother was a sheriff somewhere in southern Arizona. In the back seat were five gallon jugs of water in case the radiator hose started leaking again. Jimmie Joe peeled out of the driveway and headed east at full speed; Ángel tailed close behind. Near the Gila River just past the Riparian Preserve and into a valley, a sickening feeling overcame Ángel as Jimmie Joe turned the truck north on County Road 6. Jimmie Joe was headed directly to Grandfather Felipe’s house.
As Ángel pulled into his grandfather’s driveway Jimmie Joe was already standing outside his truck smoking a cigarette. A cool northern wind sneaking under the prevailing westerly wind created a downdraft. The old windmill squawked loudly as it fought against the opposing winds. Trembling, Ángel thought of something his grandfather told him as a child…northern winds carry bad luck. He looked over at his grandfather’s truck. The propped open hood could mean only one thing…his grandfather must be in the house. What would he think when he saw Ángel with Jimmie Joe? What could Ángel say to his grandfather?
“Let’s go somewhere else and split things up,” said Ángel. “I don’t think we’re safe here.”
“Why?” asked Jimmie Joe. “All you ever talked about in prison was seeing your precious Juanita and your loving grandfather.”
“Jimmie--”
“He’s not here anyway, so don’t sweat it,” said Jimmie Joe. “You are still his precious little Ángel.”
“His truck is here. He never goes anywhere without his truck. How do you know he’s not here?”
Ángel dashed past the Diablo Blanco and ran into the small house.
“Abuelo! Abuelo Felipe? Grandfather??”
Ángel turned around to see his partner in crime standing in the doorway.
“I told you, he’s not here. You should listen to me. You don’t trust me do you?”
“Where is he? Where is my Abuelo? Where is my grandfather? Tell me where is Felipe Madrigal?” Ángel roared in a voice that even he had never heard come out of his own mouth.
“You’re a regular little firecracker when you get your undies in a bunch, aren’t you?”
“Where is my grandfather?” demanded Ángel threateningly. “Tell me now or else!”
“Or else what? Don’t tell me you’re going to pull out that little peashooter of yours and put a bullet in me?” chided Jimmie Joe. “I don’t think your man enough to try that. Go ahead if you think you are.”
Ángel knew he would end up on the short end of the stick if he tried anything, but in a moment of madness he put his head down and charged ahead, full speed, at Jimmie Joe’s big belly.
In his agitated state Ángel did not see the much bigger man pull the .38 from his holster. He only felt the steel handle as it cracked against his skull sending him into a cartoonish swirl of dancing stars. Crashing to the ground, Ángel became strangely lucid. Would he ever see Juanita again? Was his grandfather alive? Would Jimmie Joe’s next move be to place the gun behind his ear, slowly pull back on the trigger and put a bullet into his brain? This final thought, as consciousness drifted away, brought a smile to his face. The pain of getting hit over the head would certainly give him a headache. If he wasn’t dead, when he woke up he could deal with the pain.
Jimmie held a loose finger on the trigger of the .38 as he caressed Ángel’s ear with the barrel of the gun. A demonic smile covered his face as he bent down and spoke to the unconscious Ángel. “I ought to blow your fucking stupid ass brains to Kingdom come, my little muchacha. But I know you will suffer so much more knowing that you killed your lovely gata, Juanita, and put your grandfather in jail. And I don’t think the sheriff is going to be happy when he knows that little red Corvette that got his brother killed has your things in the trunk. It would just be too nice of a final gesture to kill your sorry ass. Goodbye, little one. See you in hell.”
Ángel did not hear Jimmie Joe’s pickup back out of the driveway. But when he came, to the truck’s tire tracks gave the Diablo Blanco away. The big man was heading north, up County Road 6, toward the San Carlos Reservation. Ángel knew the road. He knew Jimmie Joe had only two escape routes from there, Indian Route 11 to the northwest or the old mining road that led to the long abandoned Indian Flats Mine. Ángel stumbled over to his grandfather’s truck. If he could get it running, it would be a much better option than the Vega. One quick look at the engine and his decision was made. Without a distributor cap it wasn’t going anywhere.
Ángel tasted the blood pouring from his head as he stumbled along the outside of the house and made his way to the door. Inside, respectful of his grandfather’s house, he wrapped his head in a towel before falling into his grandfather’s chair as visions of his dead mother and dead grandmother surrounded him.
“Maybe I am to die for my bad deeds,” he muttered aloud.
Ángel fell off a deep abyss into unconsciousness. He had visited many a nightmarish place in his alcohol induced stupors, but nothing scared him like the dreadful feeling of falling into a bottomless hole as he passed out in his grandfather’s chair.
Demons nipping at his heels howled with the same terrible cackling he had heard come from Jimmie Joe. In his hallucinogenic dream state Ángel found himself covered in blood. Off in the hazy distance his mother and grandmother cried out to God to forgive Ángel and save the soul of their poor boy. He called out to them. His words fell on deaf ears as the images of his loved ones drifted further and further away. In despair he fell to his knees, ready to die, when he felt the presence of his grandfather.
“Grandfather…save me. Please help me. I will never drink again. Please. Please.”
A powerful gust of wind blew open the door to the small house, then slammed it shut again. Ángel stirred. A second gust of wind buffeted the door and his eyes fluttered. A third and he awoke.
“Grandfather? Is that you?”
Ángel tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He slumped deeper down in his grandfather’s chair. Blood, some dried and caked, some flowing, covered his aching head. He swooned with each attempted motion. He knew he was alive because only living men know they are bleeding. Stumbling to the sink he washed his face and wiped away the blood with his grandfather’s towel. Lifting his head to the mirror he saw only shame in what he had become.
“What have I done to my family?”
The wind slapping against the screened door startled Ángel. He instinctively reached for his knife. What had he become? Now, understanding the hopelessness of his situation, Ángel began to sob. He begged for an answer. Struggling to his car Ángel stuck his hand under the seat and grabbed a paper bag, money he had taken when Jimmie Joe wasn’t looking. It was maybe ten thousand dollars. He stuffed it behind the seat of his grandfather
’s truck.
Returning to the rusted out Vega he turned on the radio to the Spanish speaking station. A newswoman reporting on the Morenci robbery said the bandits had gotten away with almost two million dollars. The police had no suspects and were asking people to call in for a big reward if they knew anything. Ángel glanced up and down County Road 6. Better to escape and be with his beloved than to have dirty money.
The newscaster flashed a sudden update on the story. Police were looking for a large White male, thirty-five to forty years old, for a murder in Tucson. Ángel felt a chill enshroud him. The White male suspect had a deformed left hand and was missing two or three fingers. He reached for the silver cross necklace around his neck. The victim was a twenty-year-old Mexican woman. She was found with a broken neck, in a burned out blue Chevrolet LUV pickup truck. She had no known connection to her believed assailant, the large White male with short hair and a deformed hand. If anyone knew anything about the incident, they were to call Detective Max Muñoz at the police department in Tucson.
“The woman worked as a waitress at the El Charo restaurant in Tucson…”
Ángel felt his heart being squeezed, then crushed by an unseen force.
“…she has been identified as Juanita Melindez.”
Ángel screamed and bolted from the car. He ran until his knees buckled beneath him. Choking on bloody vomit and stricken with grief Ángel was unable to lift his heavy head. He felt nothing but hatred in his broken heart; he cursed eternal revenge upon the Diablo Blanco.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele stood less than fifty feet away from the abandoned trailer, weapons drawn.
“I don’t see anyone,” whispered Sheriff Hanks. “I’ll sneak around back. Cover me. Keep an eye on the front door.”
Crouching low and trotting quietly alongside the trailer, Zeb stopped suddenly, shot upward like an alert chipmunk and poked his head up to the lower edge of a window. Looking back at Deputy Steele he shook his head and moved to the next window. Each of the four windows of the trailer brought the same response. Zeb signaled Kate to remain at the west side of the trailer and edge near the door. His hand signaled her that he was going in and to draw close, just in case. With that he smashed through the back door using his shoulder. The trailer was abandoned.