Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  “Sheriff Hanks,” said Jensen. “Look at this.”

  The private detective stood near the open drawer of a storage cabinet that was jammed with wallets, wristwatches, rings and stacks of pornographic magazines.

  “The driver’s licenses and IDs are all Native American,” he said. “All of them from the San Carlos Reservation.”

  “Sheriff,” shouted Deputy Steele. “I’ve got something over here you’re going to want to have a look at.”

  The deputy held a leather doctor’s bag in her hands. The sheriff shined a flashlight inside the bag. A pair of latex gloves covered a sewing kit, a pair of surgical scissors and a razor knife, all of it covered in dried blood.

  “Oh, dear God. Jesus,” cried Private Investigator Jensen. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele turned in the direction of the Mustang. The open passenger door hid the kneeling detective. A moment later the private investigator bolted from behind the car door. He fell to the ground, puking violently.

  Sheriff Hanks raced to the car. On the floor of the front seat, the lid of the cooler was upright. Inside the cooler were two chunks of packaged dry ice. Three plastic freezer bags were sitting on top of the ice, labeled in neat printing. Each of them contained an object about the size of a fist. The contents of the first two were dark brown, almost black. The object in the third package looked much fresher. Zeb had seen enough animal organs to recognize the size and shape of a heart. Silently he read the labels. Amanda Song Bird, 10/18/99. Angel Dablo Bright 10/18/92. The date on the package with Sara Winchester’s heart was yesterday.

  “Come on,” said Sheriff Hanks. “We’d better have a look inside the Roadhouse. God knows what else we’re going to find.”

  Walking past the open bathroom window of the bar, they heard a muffled voice. The sheriff sneaked a peak to see a man bound by both his hands and feet. A piece of duct tape was over his mouth.

  “We got a live one,” said Zeb. “Deputy Steele, check your weapon. Jensen, stay in the shed.”

  “I’m licensed to carry and conceal,” said the private detective. “And I am.”

  “Back us up then, but keep your weapon out of sight. I don’t want you drawing down on anyone unless it’s a matter of life and death.”

  The lock on the cellar door of the Roadhouse was rusted. Sheriff Hanks broke it open by smashing a rock against it. Once inside, the trio sneaked up the back stairwell. The only sound inside the bar was the muffled cry of the gagged man in the bathroom. Once certain there was no one else present, they untied the man and helped him into the bar area.

  “It’s about fucking time you got here. I could’ve died,” shouted the man.

  “Who are you?” asked the sheriff.

  “Billy Belton, Billy Ray Belton” the man replied.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the fucking bartender, you jackass. I work here.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got smacked in the back of the head. Look it. I’ve got a goose egg the size of a, hell, the size of a goose egg. I need a fucking shot of whiskey.”

  The man poured himself three fingers of booze and downed it with the flick of a wrist and tip of the head.

  “Christ almighty, my head hurts.”

  “Who did this to you?” asked Zeb. “Were you robbed?”

  “I don’t think so, but there was a kidnapping.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the sheriff.

  “Red Doerry, the owner. They tied him up and took him.”

  “Who tied him up? Who took him?”

  “Two old guys. One loco Indian and one crazy cowboy. I don’t know who the hell they were, but Red sure as shit did. I never seen people with murder in their eyes like that before. I’m damn lucky I’m not dead. I can tell you this. Those two are fixin' to kill Red, no doubt about it.”

  “Fuck! God damnit!” Zeb pounded his fist on the bar and pointed a finger at the bartender. “Did they say anything that might tell you where they took him?”

  “They didn’t say shit that made any sense,’” he replied. “But I’m gonna sue the bastards and the county and the goddamn Indian tribe to boot. Screw all of ‘em. And I wanna swear out an assault complaint against those two old bastards that banged me over the head. They tried to kill me.”

  “What did they say? Repeat it for me, even if it doesn’t make sense to you.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ a word until I talk to an attorney.”

  Zeb reached across the counter and grabbed the man by the open neck of his shirt and lifted him off the floor.

  “Don’t piss me off. I’m in no mood. What did they say?”

  The man’s face turned red then blue as Zeb tightened his grip.

  “Let me the fuck down and I’ll tell ya’.”

  Zeb lowered him to the floor but maintained a tight grip around the man’s neck.

  “Take it easy, would ya’, copper? They were talkin’ trash, but it didn’t amount to shit as far as I could tell.”

  “It might make sense to me. Right now I’m getting a little short on time. My temper isn’t getting any longer either. Tell me what they said?”

  “That old white guy, the one Red called Jake the Snake, said Red wasn’t no better than his old man. He said Red’s old man was burnin’ in hell. And the Indian says burning in hell is too good for Junior’s old man. Then Junior says to him, “I seen what you two done. I know what happened to my old man. You ain’t foolin’ me.” That set both the old timers off something fierce.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The old Indian says to Red, “You’re a lying sack of shit. You didn’t see nothin. You don’t know crap.” Then Jake the Snake pulls out a gun he’s got tucked in his belt, holds it up to Junior’s ear and whispers something to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I couldn’t make it out on account he was talking so quiet like, and I was scared shitless. I did catch one word. Iit sounded like boneyard. Then the cowboy, he smacks Red with the butt end of the pistol and tells the Indian to tie him up with his hands behind his back. When they got Red all tied up, he yells at me to turn around and lay on the floor. I’m figurin’ that I’m a dead man. I’m thinkin’ my fuckin’ brains are gonna’ get blown out the back of my head. So I start to run, but as quick as I lit out, I saw stars and everything went black. Next thing I know I wake up with a knot on the back of my head the size of a baseball. Fuck it. I’m gonna sue everybody in sight. I ain’t gonna go through this kind of shit without ending up a rich man. I know my rights. I’m even gonna make sure I get on the TV news. I know just the lawyer to call.”

  “Shut up, you fucking moron,” shouted Zeb.

  “You think by boneyard he meant the graveyard up in Morenci?” asked the detective.

  Zeb knew exactly what Jake meant, and it wasn’t the graveyard. But this was the perfect way to get the private detective out of his hair. If this thing was going down the way Zeb thought it might, he sure as hell didn’t need any witnesses. He found lying to the detective easy.

  “It’s either there, or if Jake is really twisted, maybe he’s taking him to his granddaughter’s grave. You head up to Morenci. If you see anything, call me. Don’t try and be a hero. Deputy Steele, secure everything in the shed. Also, see what else you can find in the bar.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “I’m going back into town to see if anybody saw them. I got a pretty good idea where they were when they hatched this little plan.”

  “What about me?” asked the bartender.

  “Call your frickin’ attorney,” said the sheriff. “He’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Good idea,” said the bartender.

  The sheriff and Deputy Steele watched Detective Jensen’s car speed north toward Morenci.

  “You know they didn’t go to Morenci,” said Deputy Steele, “don’t you?”

  Zeb nodded solemnly. He stepped into the cab of th
e Dodge Dakota and headed onto the main highway. Outside of Safford, as the scenery opened to cotton fields and broad expanses of desertscape, the sheriff’s heart began to race. The speedometer was pushing one hundred and ten when he eyed the County Road 6 turnoff ahead in the distance. He slowed and signaled a left turn to Hell Hole Canyon. The boneyard, as Jake called it, the Apache burial grounds, was a legendary spot Zeb had never set foot in and for good reason. Not only was it sacred territory to the Apaches, the rattlesnake dens were incredibly dangerous.

  Years earlier, in an offhanded conversation, Jake had told Zeb that Hell Hole Canyon was the one spot in Graham County where hidden secrets would remain buried for time and all eternity. The sheriff knew this was where he would find Jake, Song Bird and Red Junior.

  The western portion of County 6 was rough, deeply rutted and hard going, making it impossible to move along faster than twenty miles an hour. The highway department treated it as a seasonal road, grading it twice a year. From the looks of it, this wasn’t the season. Freshly disturbed dirt and a clean set of tire tracks told him someone had passed by here very recently. Ahead of him the road twisted in a series of switchbacks and lost elevation rapidly as it descended toward the canyon. If Jake and Song Bird were even just a half mile ahead of him, they couldn’t be seen. If they had ditched their vehicle and were moving on foot, he might never see them.

  As the high desert gave way to canyon land, Zeb found himself in the rare low desert forest. High cottonwoods and mesquite trees covered a layer of agave and golden barrel cacti and a sweeping sea of red grass. Within another mile, the density of the trees formed a canopy over the road. Red deer scooted across the dirt path. A family of ring-tailed possums stopped playing to eye his passing. After crossing a couple of creek beds, Zeb found himself in a dead-end canyon. He turned off the truck and listened. It was quiet except for the shrill squawking of a pair of high-flying turkey buzzards. When they disappeared over a high canyon wall, it was just Zeb and stillness until he heard a faint, distant shout. He stepped out of the cab and walked the base of the canyon wall. Hidden behind a series of large boulders was Jake’s car. Following along the soft stone, he spied a small break in the rocks. He pulled back some brush and spotted what looked like a small cave. He ran back to the truck and grabbed a flashlight and an extra bullet clip.

  Tugging his hat down firmly on his head, Zeb crept into the cave on his hands and knees. The sandy floor had been recently disturbed. Three sets of hand and boot prints were everywhere. Staying very low he crawled for a hundred feet until the cave opened up, and he had plenty of room to stand. In the near distance a small stream of sunlight appeared. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He could see that the walls of the cavern were covered with petroglyphs.

  Outside in the sunlight, he could hear the voices of men talking angrily. He edged along the wall of the cave. Near the entrance, he peered around the corner, gun drawn. It was Jake, Song Bird and Red Junior. Song Bird’s back faced Zeb, but he could see Jake’s face plainly as he held Red Junior close to the ground, pistol pressed tightly against the back of his neck.

  “Look, you little bastard. My trigger finger has got one hell of an itch going.”

  “Noooo!” cried Red. “You can’t do this. It’s murder.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Song Bird. “It’s the way things must be. We are putting things back into balance.”

  “Is this where you killed my father?” growled Red. “Is this where you took him that night?”

  Jake loosened his grip. Red’s face carried the expression of a death row inmate who had just been granted a reprieve.

  “What do you know about that?” asked Jake.

  “I was hiding in the back of the bar when you two took my old man away that night. I ducked down when I saw you had your guns drawn. If I had been packing heat, it would be the two of you, and not my old man, that’s dead.”

  “You saw us take him?” asked Song Bird.

  “Damn right I did, Chief. I saw everything you rat bastards did.”

  “Your father was a killer and a rapist,” said Jake. “The way he died was too good, even for the likes of him.”

  “He raped our daughters and killed a dozen people from my reservation,” said Song Bird.

  “Your daughters were whores,” shouted Red. “And those Injuns we killed were all a bunch of losers who deserved to die.”

  Jake pushed the bound man back to the desert floor and ground the heel of his boot against his neck. Song Bird kicked the downed man in the ribs, hard, twice.

  “You never answered my question, you bastards. Is this where you killed my father?”

  Jake slipped the gun back into his pants, grabbed the scruff of Junior Parrish’s neck and dragged him to the edge of a shallow, abandoned well that had long ago become a rattlesnake den.

  “Take a look for yourself. That’s what’s left of him, right there.”

  Red Junior retched and began to spit venom.

  “You bastards. I’m going to kill the both of you, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You’re runnin’ out of time for that,” said Jake. “Cause you’re just about to join your old man.”

  Sheriff Hanks chambered a bullet and flipped the safety to off. Stepping out of the cave into the light, he shouted.

  “Hold it right there, Jake, Song Bird, Junior. Nobody moves.”

  Song Bird and Jake froze. A mockingbird, hissing like a snake, zipped over their heads in a low flying trajectory. Red Junior cackled.

  “Jake, mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?”

  The retired sheriff took a single stride toward the current one.

  “You can tell it from there. I can hear you fine. Stay where you are and keep your hands in front of you. I know you’re carrying a gun in the back of your belt.”

  “Zeb,” said Jake. “I always knew there would come a day when you were going to have to grow up and see the world as it really is. I just didn’t think it would be under circumstances like this.”

  “Like you always said, Jake. Things happen the way they do for a reason.”

  “That they do, Zeb. And when I’m through talkin’, I betcha a plate of donuts you’re gonna understand my point of view. If the chips fall where I think they will, you might even see it my way.”

  “I doubt it,” said Zeb. “But keep talking anyway. This story just keeps getting better and better.”

  “It’s still one you can walk away from,” said Song Bird, calling Zeb by the Athabascan nickname he had given him in childhood.

  “Not a chance. Not while I’m still the law in this neck of the woods. Go on, Jake. Let’s hear your explanation.”

  Jake pointed into the rattlesnake pit.

  “Those bones in there belong to Red Parrish Senior. He died from a few too many snakebites.”

  “I don’t suppose you expect me to believe he just stumbled in there, do you?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  “If it would make things easier on you, you can believe anything you want. But the truth is I threw him in there. Song Bird helped me.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a killer and a rapist. He killed a dozen or more Apaches.”

  “How?”

  “You know that bus stop out in front of the Roadhouse?”

  “I know it.”

  “Do you? Think about it. Put yourself at the bus stop, sitting on the bench, facing the road. Now think about what’s behind you.”

  Zeb could picture it in his mind as if he were there. He had been there only hours earlier, but nothing had changed at Red’s Roadhouse since he went there as a kid. The front of the roadhouse was windowless. A small road from the parking lot led to Red’s shed. The shed had an office at the front with a small window that looked directly over the bus stop. Inside that office, Red kept a collection of rifles and shotguns.

  “You’re telling me that Red was using Indians for target practice?”

  “That’s right,” said Jake. “Any opportunity Red ha
d to sight in his hunting rifle on some poor bastard, he’d do just that. I’m kind of disappointed you and your detective buddy didn’t put it together when he told you about the relationship between the missing persons cases and the bus stop at Red’s.”

  “But he said the bodies were all found in Phoenix and Tucson.”

  “Shoot ‘em, mutilate ‘em and throw ‘em in the trunk. Drive to the big city and dump ‘em in bad neighborhoods, maybe even plant some drugs on ‘em. Old Red was a planner.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “He hated Indians. He hated our ceremonies and our religion,” said Song Bird. “Not much more to it than that and an evil streak that ran real deep.”

  “We killed those dirty Injuns cause they’re nothin’ but a bunch of thievin’ bastards,” shouted Junior. “Every one of them dead assholes we caught stealin’ from our place. Hell, I was only twelve when daddy paid me my first bounty on one of ‘em. I wanted to scalp them, but the old man said no. He said that’s what Injuns did.”

  Song Bird turned and kicked Junior in the face.

  “Hold it, Song Bird,” said Zeb. “Take it easy.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, you good for nothin’ Redskin,” shouted Red Junior. “I will scalp you.”

  “Zeb, you want a piece of him?” asked Song Bird. “I’ll hold him down for you.”

  “I don’t want a piece of anything,” replied Zeb.

  “You will,” said Jake.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You remember when you, Jenny and Amanda used to go out to Red’s back in high school. The three of you would get all liquored up? I knew all about it even then. I should have stopped it, but I didn’t.”

  It had never been spoken about between the men, and both of the girls promised never to tell their fathers that they had gone there with Zeb.

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Well because of those little escapades, Red Senior got to know Jenny and Maya a little better than he should have. Over the years, he’d slip them drugs when they were drinking and rape them when they passed out,” said Jake.