Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  "How long since I took the poison?"

  "Twelve minutes."

  "Deputy, please reach into my pocket. You'll find a vial. Don't worry, it's not poison. It's Holy Oil."

  Kate withdrew the glass vial from Bede's interior breast pocket and read the label.

  BLESSED OIL

  Saint Barnabus Church,

  Blessed by Bishop O'Leary on the first Sunday of Advent

  "Ironic, isn't it. I mean that I should ask you to perform Last Rites on me with Holy Oil blessed from a church whose priest I killed."

  "How did the Barnabites ruin your life?" asked Zeb.

  Kate pulled back, awestruck as Bede's eyes became clear and color returned to his cheeks.

  "I had only one dream in my life...to become a priest. Ever since I was a child it was the one desire my mother had for me. I was groomed to be a Barnabite, to follow in the sacred steps of Denza, first director of the Vatican Observatory."

  "The Vatican Observatory," Jake whispered. "It was on Father McNamara's ring."

  "I was to be the next great astronomer. But, the path of my life was changed when the Barnabites refused to admit me to their Order. Unfit due to reasons of mental instability. They claimed I suffered from delusions of grandeur. They said I had a Messianic complex. They said I believed I was a direct emissary from God Almighty. I guess the joke was on them. Now the miracles I could have brought forth will never happen."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They are going to build the most powerful reflective light source on earth. It could have given mankind a direct source of contact with God Almighty. But only I know the secret. It is through God's ordination that I, and only I, would be able to use the power to see into His eyes. But because of their humanness, no one will be able to see into the eyes of God. The fools! They know nothing of what they have wrought."

  Bede began to shake uncontrollably. His breath became a troubled, desperate wheeze. Instinctively Kate placed her hand on his shoulder. Bede shot upright into an erect position and spewed forth projectile vomit. Green gastric fluids, blood and poison flew through the air. Just as abruptly, he collapsed back onto the ground.

  "Sheriff, it is time for Extreme Unction. Please, if you would."

  Bede's raspy voice was barely audible. He signaled with his eyes toward the Holy Oil bottle clutched tightly in Kate's hand. She handed it to the sheriff.

  "Why me?" asked Zeb. "I'm not a Catholic, I'm not a priest. I'm not..."

  "Don't worry. I will guide you through the process. It is the job for a man. From the powers invested in me by God Almighty I grant you the power to give the sacrament of Extreme Unction."

  Zeb knelt next to Bede and opened the bottle of holy oil.

  "Sheriff, put some oil on your fingers and repeat what I say."

  Zeb poured some oil onto the tips of his fingers as instructed.

  "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy."

  Zeb repeated the prayer.

  "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy."

  "May the Lord pardon whatever sins or faults thou has committed."

  "May the Lord pardon whatever sins or faults thou has committed."

  "By sight. Make the sign of the cross with the Holy Oil on my eyelids."

  Bede peacefully closed his eyes and didn't flutter a muscle as Zeb made the sign of the cross on his lids.

  "By hearing. Anoint my ears, my nose, my mouth and my feet when you hear my words sheriff."

  "By smell."

  "By taste."

  "By touch."

  "By walking."

  Zeb anointed with holy oil the nostrils, lips, hands and feet of Bede whose breathing was becoming reedy.

  "Thank you, Sheriff," whispered Bede.

  Bede's body relaxed, his breathing became easy and the dilated pupils became fixed.

  "My sins have been forgiven."

  As the life began to ebb away from Bede's body, Zeb had one final question.

  "Conspiracy, Bede. You said there was a conspiracy. Who?"

  "The Barnabites, the Catholic Church, the University of Arizona, the United States Government, the German government and others."

  Bede's voice trailed off and his breathing became nearly non-existent.

  "Why?"

  "They are going to build an astronomical observatory on sacred ground, on God's doorstep. They had to be stopped because they disobeyed God's law by disavowing me."

  Bede's eyes closed as he spoke his last words.

  "Now I can sleep in the stars."

  Zeb felt his gentle grip become limp in his hand. He looked at the others then back at Bede. The events caused him to shiver involuntarily. Long ago Jimmy Song Bird had taught him an Apache prayer to be said in the vicinity of Mount Graham. He recited the benediction to the spirit of the dead man as the true meaning of his final words came to light.

  "Protect us from enemies and do not let harm befall us while we are near you."

  28

  Doreen approached Zeb, Song Bird, Jake, Eskadi Black Robes, Delbert and Kate with two pots of coffee. One was freshly brewed. The other was brown-bottomed with what looked like sludge in it. The team had gathered at the Town Talk to discuss what exactly had happened on Mount Graham. A thousand unanswered questions remained.

  "Was Bede totally off his rocker? Or is there a lot more to the picture than meets the eye?" pondered Jake.

  "It depends on your view of the world," replied Song Bird. "But there is much more to the story than likely will ever be known."

  "I believe Bede was mentally ill," said Kate.

  "Mentally ill, but clever enough to plan the murders of Father McNamara and John Farrell," said Zeb.

  "And smart enough to understand botany like the back of his hand," added Jake.

  "He knew how to poison me and Sheriff Hanks," said Delbert. "Don't forget that."

  "Just because someone is mentally ill doesn't mean they are stupid or without well-planned motivation," added Eskadi.

  "He was angry at the world. He felt betrayed," said Song Bird. "Bede felt the world, the Order of Saint Barnabus specifically, had forced him to abandon his hopes and dreams. Anger is powerful medicine."

  Doreen filled their cups to the brim from the new pot, but not until she had poured the muck from the bottom of the nearly empty one into Song Bird's cup. They all thanked her.

  "You all talkin' about that lil' dead scientist?" asked Doreen.

  "Yup," replied Zeb.

  "Don't forget he had a nice side to him too. You can never know somethin' about someone unless y’all know everything about 'em."

  "Do you know something we don't, Doreen?" asked Zeb.

  "The little fella, well, he had a sadness in his eyes. Kinda like someone who lost what was near and dear to 'em. More donuts?"

  "Bring another round," said Song Bird.

  Delbert licked his lips.

  "I get the distinct feeling none of this would have happened had the powers that be not built the telescope up on Mount Graham," said Jake. "However, science has made some great advances because of that telescope."

  "The Apache Nation has suffered great losses because powerful institutions continue to destroy our way of life," said Eskadi. "Dzil Nchaa Si An belongs to the Apache people of the Apache Nation. The telescope should not be on it. There is no truth greater than that."

  Silence fell on the table. Everyone, even Eskadi, understood it wasn't that simple.

  "Because of John Farrell, AIMGO legally owns the land," said Zeb.

  "There are powers higher than a court of law," said Eskadi.

  "For now, we must rely on the court of law for justice," replied Song Bird.

  "We've been in court for thirty years over our rights to Dzil Nchaa Si An," said Eskadi. "What makes you think our only option is to depend on a system that has lied to us and imprisoned us for the last two centuries."

  The infinitely thoughtful Song Bird reached over and placed a calming hand on Eskadi.

/>   "Time is on the side of the righteous. We must remain moral and honorable if we are to prevail in this long-fought battle for the mountain."

  Eskadi quietly grunted with dissatisfaction while remaining respectful to his elder.

  "Eskadi, it is time you truly learned the virtue of patience," said Song Bird.

  "I don't want anyone else getting hurt or killed," said Zeb.

  "What happens on the mountain is a story far from over," said Song Bird.

  "Perhaps the ending is already written in the stars," said Jake.

  "Maybe the Apache Nation will write the end to the story," said Eskadi.

  Zeb and Song Bird exchanged a glance. Both men knew what had just happened was but a single chapter in a saga that would last much longer than either of them.

  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 southeastern Arizona and tribal members of the San Carlos Indian Reservation are purely coincidental.

  ÁDIOS ÁNGEL

  Text Copyright © 2013 Mark Reps

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1493799282

  ISBN-10: 1493799282

  Acknowledgments

  My gratitude goes out to the following people who helped bring ÁDIOS ÁNGEL to completion. Elsa Biel Wilkie edited this book with a fine tooth comb, if ever there was one. Her tireless editing found errors that in a dozen readings I would never have caught. Her dedication to helping me become a better writer is undeniable and ongoing. Thank you, Elsa.

  To my wife, Kathy, who puts up with me when things are good and bad in the writing business. Her ideas, suggestions and general look of happiness when I get it right keep me going.

  To my sister, Jill, for her input on the Spanish language in this book. She is my Spanish expert.

  Finally, I would like to thank Kim, Mary, Jill and Kathy for acting as readers of this book in its various forms.

  This book is dedicated to my grandchildren, Max and Yana. They bring light, life and love to everyone they encounter.

  1

  Ángel Gómez’s mouth tasted like cotton. His tongue clung unnaturally to the roof of his mouth. The stabbing pain in his stomach radiated straight through to his back. His bowels rumbled, begging to be emptied. Ángel held back for fear he would once again leave the toilet bowl bloody red. Pain zinged through his throbbing head. The rank breath passing through his lips rebounded off the linoleum floor where he had fallen down drunk. His boozy dream state evoked a childhood memory of his sick, dying dog crawling into bed with him and licking his face with its final breath.

  “Here, have a shot of mouthwash. It’ll wake your sorry ass up.” Jimmie Joe’s voice boomed from every corner of the small trailer, echoing off the walls into Ángel’s pain-filled ears.

  Ángel slowly raised his arm toward the tequila bottle dangling in the air just beyond his outstretched fingers.

  “A little hair of the dog will cure more than the memory of a bad hangover. Here, take a great big shot of this. Brand new bottle. Freshly opened. It’ll calm you. I promise. Here, take it.”

  Jimmie Joe was insistent, demanding. As Ángel felt the coolness of the bottle in his hand, he wished he had never met, never heard of the big White man, the one called Diablo Blanco by the Mexican brothers and tribal Apaches in the Florence State Prison. Ángel downed a swig of the cold tequila. It was cold in his hand, warm in his mouth, hot as it wormed its way down the back of his throat, burning as it splashed against the walls of his empty stomach.”

  “A little fire to crank your engine, eh, Ángel?”

  He hated the burn of tequila but could not escape its demonic talons. Tequila was the scavenging hawk. Ángel was a helpless rabbit.

  Ángel was the name his mother called him. He was her ‘Angel’. He also knew that his real name, Cadete, came from his great-great grandfather, Chief Cadete Gómez. The Chief had been a Mescalero warrior who was hostile toward Americans, Mexicans and other Native American tribes. It was said Chief Cadete Gómez paid a bounty of one thousand pesos for the scalps of any enemy that crossed his path. With that heritage Ángel should have been a strong man, not weak like a child. Ironically, the name Cadete meant volunteer, a fact that was likely lost on the young, undereducated Cadete Ángel Gómez.

  The Mescalero tribal band of native people had survived for centuries with the mescal agave as its main food staple. The White man had turned that food into booze, tequila. Tequila now ruled Ángel’s life. Not that he believed it at the time, but the Native American Alcoholics Anonymous program at the state prison had taught him about how alcohol can control every aspect of a person’s life. In his most sober moments he wished to regain the power over his own life. Sobriety was, however, always very short-lived for Ángel Gómez.

  “Have one more, little muchacha. We have a few weeks before we have to be anywhere. We just have to sit tight and wait. We might as well have a big booze party. What do you say, little one?”

  Ángel knew he had no choice. Jimmie Joe controlled him as much as the tequila did. Why not party? What the hell difference did it make?

  “Does that bother you, my little muchacha? Maybe you would rather just sit here and think real hard about what it was like for the last two years, cooped up courtesy of the State of Arizona, without the comforts a man needs.”

  Jimmie Joe swayed the bottle hypnotically back and forth in front of the young man.

  Ángel envisioned his time in prison as he downed a large swig of the toxic alcohol. The cheap tequila smelled like cat piss. It bit like a venomous snake. The damned Diablo Blanco probably cut this cheap booze with turpentine. Ángel remembered his grandfather’s words. “Don’t ever let the devil’s drink pass your lips.” He had tried to listen. But today the tequila charged his anger, twisted his mind. Ángel could hardly believe the thoughts racing through his mind once the tequila grabbed him. Screw his grandfather and his damned advice. His grandfather didn’t understand. He never needed liquor, but Ángel did.

  One deep, hard swig and the demons returned, this time as a group. They howled to him that his mother was burning in hell. Then they whispered a secret. Not even the Blessed Virgin would forgive him for breaking his mother’s heart by running with the evil man, el hombre malo, as Ángel’s fellow Mescalero Apache called Jimmie Joe.

  The prison psychiatrist with his fancy suit and shiny shoes had dared to tell Ángel he must quit drinking to be a whole person, to be his true self, and most importantly to know God. Ángel wasn’t even sure anymore if there was a God, except maybe the god he felt like when he drank enough alcohol. The doctor had said, “Drinking makes you paranoid, Ángel. It makes you lose control of your thinking. Alcohol makes you do crazy things.” Crazy, paranoid, what was the difference? Ángel knew his grandfather had been talking to the shrink behind his back. They conspired against him. The whole world conspired against him, everyone except his lovely Juanita. Juanita and a bottle of tequila were the only two things in the world he could really count on.

  His blurry eyes caught sight of the many guns Jimmie Joe had brought back to their hideout after his trip to Safford. A third, then a fourth long drink from the bottle roiled his broken, damaged spirit. Tequila made him forget about his family and the demons that roared inside his head. Newfound courage rose up inside Ángel.

  “Jimmie Joe, you never said anything about guns. What do we need all these weapons for? We ain’t going to shoot nobody. That’s not part of the deal. You said no one would get hurt.” It was false courage fueled by alcohol that propelled his words.

  “Stow it,” growled Jimmie Joe. “For the last time, learn to keep your mouth shut. When this thing is over, you are going to have to learn how to stay quiet and hidden or both of us are going back to jail. One of us might even end up dead.”

  “I’d rather be dead than back in prison.”

  “Careful what you wish for mi florita. Wishes have a way of coming true.”


  Bile raced from Ángel’s stomach to his mouth as Jimmie Joe’s laughter reminded him of how he managed to crawl under this rock to begin with. His first time behind bars had been the county jail. It was easy time, six months for public drunkenness and burglary. The second judge had not been so easy on Ángel when he was busted for forgery and car theft. The checks were easy to explain. They were written for cheap bottles of tequila and pills for him and his partying friends.

  The nice lady social worker had written in her report that Ángel was an alcoholic and very likely cross addicted to narcotic drugs. She said in her report that he needed treatment. When the judge asked him if that was true, Ángel lied. Ángel denied having had a drink in months. He swore he never did any drugs. Drugs were for stupid people. His problems were from a head injury, a concussion he suffered as a child. Ángel claimed it was the concussion that confused his thinking and made him unclear. It was even the reason other children had picked on him. Life had not been fair to him. He pleaded for the judge to give him a break. His mother swore that every word her son spoke was the God’s whole truth.

  The truth was quite something else. There never had been a head injury, and Ángel was popular with almost all of the other kids his age. The car theft came after a night of revelry and boozing. He did not remember a thing about that night. He had blacked out from the booze and drugs. Ángel did not even remember being arrested after he fell asleep behind the wheel and crashed into a gas station pump.

  Three years in the state prison at Florence Junction, with time off for good behavior, was something Ángel thought he could handle. He had heard the state prison had better beds and better food than the county jail. He had even heard the prisoners were better people in there. However, with his slight frame and soft features he was vulnerable. Quickly he became a target for the rapists. They called him la niña, the little girl. Ángel hated it even more than when Jimmie Joe called him mi florita, my little flower. But Jimmie Joe protected him and maybe even saved his life. It was true that Jimmie Joe beat him, berated him in front of many, but he never asked for sexual favors.