Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  A horrible thought went through Zeb’s mind. Could the grandchildren of both Jake and Song Bird have been conceived in rape? The idea sent his mind reeling. Had Red Junior, in some sort of twisted revenge for his father’s death, killed his half-sisters?

  “Don’t tell me Red Senior was the father of Angel and Amanda?”

  “Just Amanda,” said Jake. “Angel…”

  Jake paused, his eyes reddening with the pain of memory.

  “What is it, Jake? Spit it out. Let’s have the whole damn truth.”

  “Angel…”

  Jake’s voice choked as he spoke.

  “Angel was your child.”

  Zeb’s flesh rippled as a thousand thoughts detonated in his mind. He saw red. Then his vision turned as black as a starless, moonless night. The rest of the world crumbled into a million fragments and disappeared. His mind was left with but a single image, a mutilated child, Angel, his mutilated child, his unknown child mutilated.

  The pain contracting in his gut forced him to bear down hard to keep from exploding. But the agony of his vision was too powerful. His knees buckled. He fell to the ground. It was useless to try and push the image from his thoughts. It took every ounce of what he had in him to remember he was the sheriff of Graham County. He was the law. The devious laughter spewing forth from Red Junior made his hatred rise. He forced himself to remember who he was and what he represented.

  “How do you know for sure?” asked Zeb.

  “Jenny told me,” said Jake. “And she wrote you a letter before she died. I’ve got it with me right now. I’ve been carrying it around for five years.”

  Jake reached toward his back pocket.

  “Don’t go for your gun, Jake. I’ll shoot you if I have to.”

  Jake slowly put his hands in the air and turned around, exposing a 9mm pistol between his belt and shirt.

  “It’s in my right rear pocket. Get it yourself.”

  Zeb eyed Song Bird who was keeping close watch on the downed Red Junior. Approaching Jake, he pulled the gun from Jake’s belt and threw it in the undergrowth. Sliding his fingers into Jake’s jeans, he pulled out an envelope and slowly retreated.

  The envelope was sweat stained. The writing on the cover was barely legible. Dad, please give this to Zeb if anything ever happens to me. Jenny

  Zeb reached in the envelope and pulled out the letter.

  Dear Zeb,

  If you are reading this, it means I am in jail or dead. I’ve made such a mess of my life that if I am dead, I’m probably better off. This is very difficult, but there is something you have to know. God, it’s killing me to write this. If the ink is smeared it’s from my tears. There is no easy way to say this. Zeb, I am so sorry I never let you know. I should have told you before. My child was your child. Angel Bright was our child. Her real name should have been Angel Hanks. I was going to tell you when she died, but I couldn’t find the strength. Oh, how I prayed to find a way to let you know. The pain was so horrible that I chose not to make you suffer. You see, Zeb, I always loved you. And I always will, no matter what.

  All my love, Jenny

  Zeb folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and slid it into his pocket. He pointed his gun toward Red Junior.

  “Let him up,” said Zeb.

  Red Junior made his way to his feet.

  “Did you kill Angel Bright and Amanda Song Bird and Sara Winchester?” asked Zeb.

  Junior hurled a gob of spit in Zeb’s direction.

  “Fuck you, you Injun loving paper cowboy.”

  Zeb raised his weapon and pointed it at Junior’s head.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “So what if I did? You’re going to kill me either way. Why should I give you the satisfaction of knowing? It’s not like you even knew the kid. Some kind of a father you were.”

  “You did kill her, didn’t you? And you killed Amanda and Sara and God knows how many Apaches.”

  “Go ahead and shoot, cowboy. You’ll find out just how good it feels to kill somebody you hate. But let me tell you something else.”

  Zeb lowered the gun and pointed it at Junior’s heart. The weapon was practically weightless in his grip. His aim had never been sturdier or more true.

  “Choose your words carefully, Junior. They’re your last ones.”

  “You’ll see my face every day for the rest of your life. It won’t matter if you’re dreaming or if you’re awake, I’ll be right there with you.”

  “You done talkin’?” asked Zeb.

  “I enjoyed killing your daughter, your granddaughters. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  “You’re not going to get the chance,” said Zeb.

  The sheriff’s finger squeezed the trigger so softly the recoil barely budged his arm. A single slug from his .357 penetrated the shirt, the flesh, the bone and then the organs of Red Parrish Junior. The second-generation murderer reeled backward in slow motion toward the rim of the rattlesnake pit. At the rim, he stumbled and reached out for Song Bird. The Medicine Man grasped the outstretched arm and used it as a lever to push Junior into the pit.

  The three men, Jake, Zeb and Song Bird, listened to Red Junior’s painful shrieks as they walked slowly to the edge of the pit. Red Junior’s body lay directly on top of Red Senior’s bones. A hundred hungry rattlers slithered over his dying body.

  “True justice,” said Jake, “has been served.”

  “Let’s pray you’re right,” said Zeb.

  Epilogue

  Zeb took his usual seat at the back counter of the Town Talk. The past week had been a whirlwind. Breakfast, with a healthy dose of Doreen’s special tenderness, would go a long way in easing the severe angst that permeated his every action.

  Once word got out of that Michael Doerry was really Red Parrish Junior, convicted child pornographer and confessed killer of Angel Bright, Amanda Song Bird, Sara Winchester and a dozen or more Apaches, not a single person in town questioned Zeb’s explanation of his death. There was universal agreement that such an easy death was too good for such a rotten human being.

  Zeb, Jake and Song Bird decided to keep the story simple. After confronting Red Junior with the information they had pinpointing him as the killer of Angel Bright, Amanda Song Bird, and all the others, Red Junior drew a gun down on them. In self-defense, Zeb returned fire, killing him with a single bullet through the heart.

  The men had hauled Red Junior’s body from the snake pit to a more conspicuous spot behind the Roadhouse. Doc Yackley, who signed the death certificate, made no mention of the snakebites. A few days later the dead man was buried next to his father in the Morenci Graveyard. His tomb marked simply ‘Junior Parrish’.

  Throughout the county and across the reservation, Sheriff Zeb Hanks, ex-sheriff Jake Dablo and Medicine Man Jimmy Song Bird had become heroes. But Zeb couldn’t shake the dishonesty and guilt he felt when one of the locals would pat him on the back and thank him for what he had done.

  Zeb pondered his reflection in the mirror knowing it was impossible to tell the good guys from the bad ones.

  Doreen brought him some fresh coffee. The black cloud hanging over the man she loved was unmistakable.

  “What’s goin’ on here, sugar dumplin’? That long look on your face tells me you ain’t quite so happy with the way this thing came out,” she said.

  “What’s done is done,” Zeb said. “Life must go on.”

  THE END

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities between the good people of Safford, AZ and tribal members of the San Carlos Indian Reservation are purely coincidental.

  The background of the story, however, is partially based in truth. Mount Graham is a real place and a sacred site of the Apache Nation. There has been a long standing and contentious battle between the US Government and the Apache Nation as to ownership and usage of Mount Graham. The Apache Nation believes the telescopes on Mount Graham infringe upon their religious freedom, a
constitutional right, and that the improper land usage imposes a threat to their cultural survival. Legal battles involving the Apache Survival Coalition and numerous environmental groups against the principals involved have been ongoing since 1988.

  HOLES IN THE SKY

  Text Copyright © 2013 Mark Reps

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN – 13: 978-1490938301

  ISBN – 10: 1490938303

  Also by Mark Reps

  ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES

  NATIVE BLOOD

  HOLES IN THE SKY

  ADIÓS ÁNGEL

  NATIVE JUSTICE

  NATIVE BONES

  NATIVE WARRIOR

  NATIVE EARTH

  NATIVE DESTINY

  NATIVE TROUBLE

  NATIVE ROOTS (PREQUEL NOVELLA)

  THE ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES 1-3

  AUDIOBOOK

  NATIVE BLOOD

  HOLES IN THE SKY

  ADIÓS ÁNGEL

  OTHER BOOKS

  BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI CHOMNAK)

  HEARTLAND HEROES

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Kathy, for her steadfast belief in all that I attempt. It is further dedicated to all my readers. I humbly thank you.

  I would especially like to thank Elsa Biel Wilkie for her tremendous work editing HOLES IN THE SKY. Her attention to detail is simply amazing.

  1

  Under the dimly lit sky an effeminate hand gripped the shoulder of a nearly flaccid body and shook with superhuman strength. The clearing of a throat echoed in the otherwise silent night.

  "You're still with me, aren't you, Padre? Padre!?"

  The man, dressed in the collar of a Catholic priest, remained slumped over in the front seat of his station wagon. His nearly lifeless, drooling lips pressed against the passenger window. His eyes stared mindlessly into a rapidly approaching oblivion. Any semblance of voluntary control was rapidly ebbing into an unholy blackness from which death could be his only escape.

  "Last rites, Padre...Extreme Unction...how does the sound of that ring in your ears?

  The religious man dug deeply into the last vestiges of his manhood. A vain attempt to curse his captor barely exuded from his dying lips.

  With a stronger, more confident air the captor spoke again. "Say that again, would you, Padre. I couldn't quite make it out."

  A wheezing grunt oozed through his lips.

  "Jesus sheds not a tear for a dying fool headed for hell."

  The dying priest's stomach spasmed. A curdled glob of black and green fluid escaped unceremoniously through his flared nostrils. The driver shook his head in revulsion.

  "Keep it together, Father. You're beginning to disgust me."

  The watering eyes of the man in the collar disappeared somewhere deep into the back of his skull.

  "What time frame does canon law prescribe as proper for the final sacrament?"

  The sorrowful echo of the priest's unintelligible, dying voice volleyed around the inside of the car. The driver, stirred by its eeriness, grabbed the holy man by the collar and jerked him upright.

  "Now listen up, Padre. About my religious-legal inquiry? Must Last Rites be administered within an hour of death? Or must the sacrament be administered prior to passing? If memory serves me correctly, I believe tradition demands the anointment of the dying must be administered before the soul departs the body. One of the great philosophical questions of all time, eh, Padre? Padre?"

  The priest, held upright by a seatbelt, slumped limply forward in his seat. The man behind the wheel reached over, snatched him roughly by the hair and growled his question sternly.

  "When precisely does the soul exit the body? Can you feel it leaving your body? More importantly, can you sense the direction it's heading? Tell me, Padre, is your soul going to heaven or is it going to meet its doom in oblivion? If I were a gambler, I would put my money on hell."

  The priest's strength had vanished. He could not even stir.

  "Certainly the wise men in Rome who govern the Church have issued an edict or two on the subject."

  The priest's corporal body collapsed into its final survival mode. He now breathed only the rasp of death.

  "What? Speak up. You haven't answered my question. Maybe you don't have the answer? Don't worry. You will soon enough."

  The driver pulled the car off the smooth pavement into a low wash. He parked behind a thicket of scraggly scrub brush and switched off the engine. Reaching over, he grabbed the priest's shoulder and shook him violently. When the holy man failed to respond, the driver reached into the glove compartment. He removed a small vial. It was labeled 'Holy Water, Saint Barnabus Church'. The driver took a swallow, tipped his head back and gargled before spitting the liquid onto the face of the dying man. The barely conscious priest managed a small gurgle through purplish-blue, foam-covered lips.

  "Stay with me now, palsy-walsy. The best, as they say, is yet to come. Where is your God now, Padre? Hiding in the bushes? Waiting to save you? Why don't you have a little look around? Maybe you can find Him for me."

  The driver grabbed the priest and twisted his neck, giving him a complete scan of the surrounding area.

  "Nope, I don't think so. Your Savior has left you on your own. God Almighty has abandoned you in your time of need. Irony? Fate? Your call, Padre."

  The driver released the priest's neck from his grip. From behind the seat he extracted a pair of neatly folded surgical gloves and a miner's hat. He methodically checked the brightness of the hat's lamp before forcing it tightly on his head. Finger by finger he tightened the gloves snugly around his smooth, uncalloused hands.

  "Now don't go away, Padre. I'll be right back. I promise."

  The man hopped out of the priest's station wagon. He lowered the back gate and grabbed the legs of a rocking chair. He grunted as he tugged hard on the wooden legs of the chair. The chair smacked clumsily onto the ground. The man's eyes and ears suddenly tuned in to the surrounding night. Assured no one was approaching, he flicked on the helmet's light. He grabbed the rocker and fought clumsily through the underbrush. When he reached a previously chosen spot in the ditch, he relieved himself of the burden. He took a moment to catch his breath as he squinted long and hard down the vanishing roadway. Confident he was alone, he ambled back to the car. He shouldered his prey using the adrenaline surge that comes with the power of death over life.

  "I hope you're easier to wrangle than that goddamned rocker of yours."

  The dying priest's stench-filled breath echoed shallowly in his captor's ear.

  "What's that?" asked the man. "You're slurring your speech. Speak clearly if you expect to be spoken to."

  Suddenly a rustling froze him like stone. It was only a night animal scurrying through the underbrush. A chuckle pursed his lips.

  "The dark of night, Padre, is the time the devil collects his due. I don't need to tell you that. That's common knowledge to a man of the cloth, is it not?"

  Carefully he laid the nearly dead weight on the lip of the highway. He took extra caution to make certain the priest's head didn't smash against the pavement.

  "Lucky you, Padre, the pavement is still warm. Let us call it my way of giving comfort to the dying. No one wants to die alone in a cold, hard bed."

  The man retightened his gloves and glanced up beyond the nearby peak of Mount Graham. The night sky was pregnant with a bounty of stars.

  "It just doesn't get any more beautiful than this," he sighed. "Life is beautiful. And death...talk to me Father...is the Grim Reaper casting his shadow over you yet?"

  Stepping down into the ditch, he grabbed the rocking chair and dragged it into the westbound lane. He triangulated with his hands to make certain the rocker was in the dead center of the lane.

  "Fill in the blank for me, Padre. Death is...come on now. Death is...you know the answer. Death is...perfection," he sneered. "And...He is your next visitor."

  Reaching under the unconscious priest's arms, he hoisted him into the chair. As the man stood back
to survey his handiwork, he realized something was missing.

  "Ah, yes. How silly of me."

  His heart pitter-pattered with glee as he sprinted back through the underbrush to the station wagon. He reached under the seat.

  "There you are. You little devil."

  Dashing back through the arroyo, he emerged precisely where he had left his conquest.

  "Here you go, Padre. You might want this where you're going."

  He slipped the priest's personal Bible into his bluish fingers.

  "I understand Saint Peter is partial to those who cough up an entrance fee."

  The rites of Extreme Unction were administered ritualistically. When the sacrament was fully dispensed, he kissed the priest on the forehead. With a smile the blesser tipped the priest's head toward the heavens and hoarsely bellowed one final benediction.

  "God, I know you are out there. I know you can hear me. Get ready. I am returning another sacrificial lamb to heaven's flock."

  Having spoken his mind, the man trotted a half mile down the road where he had hidden his vehicle behind an abandoned gas station.

  2

  “It’s a quarter to three,There’s no one in the place except you and me.”

  The sweet strains of Frank Sinatra's voice were accompanied by the less than melodic warbling of a tone-deaf sheriff. Doreen, euphoric as never before in her thirty-three years, began to giggle infectiously. Swept away by the moment, Zeb Hanks sang with more false symphonic timbre than a dozen third-rate lounge acts.

  "You'd never know it, but buddy I'm kind of a poet, and I've got a lot of things I'd like to say."

  "Doreen, can you see the face of the man in the moon?"

  "Of course."

  "Can you hear what he's whispering?"

  Doreen kissed her finger, pressed it against Zeb's lips and turned an ear toward the brightly shining orb.