Adios Angel Read online

  ADIÓS ÁNGEL

  A Novel by

  Mark Reps

  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.

  ADIÓS ÁNGEL

  Text Copyright © 2013 Mark Reps

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1493799282

  ISBN-10: 1493799282

  Books by Mark Reps

  Native Blood

  Holes in the Sky

  Adiós Ángel

  DEDICATION

  My gratitude goes out to the following people who helped bring ADIÓS 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.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 sig
ht 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.

  “I ain’t never setting foot inside of no damn jail ever again,” cried Ángel.

  “That’s right, hombre. Prison is a place for suckers and losers. We did our time. Now it’s time we got some real money…big money.”

  “Tell me again how much, Jimmie Joe?”

  “A million dollars, maybe even two million. More if we’re lucky. And I’m feelin’ mighty lucky. How about you, my little Ángel? Do you feel lucky?”

  Ángel took a deep swig of tequila and grinned with happiness. Luck was running through his veins.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Sheriff Hanks!”

  Helen Nazelrod’s crisp hushed voice sounded unnaturally urgent. The wheels of Sheriff Zeb Hanks’ chair sent a piercing squeak through the air as he scooted across the worn hardwood floor. Through his half-open office door he peered over the top of his reading glasses toward his secretary’s desk.

  “What?” Sheriff Hanks silently mouthed the question. His eyebrows rose inquisitively.

  The veins on the back of Helen’s hand bulged bright blue as she squeezed the phone. Covering the mouthpiece, she kept the receiver tight against her ear. Her whispered utterance was a desperate response.

  “Bomb threat. The high school. Line one. What should I do?”

  Gesturing, the sheriff calmly issued unspoken orders that said, “Keep him talking. I’ll get on my extension.” Sheriff Hanks moved quickly to the phone, and picked it up with extreme caution.

  “I place bomb in gym--under bleachers--on other team side.”

  The accent was Hispanic with an underlying hint of Mescalero Apache, or perhaps mixed Spanish and Apache. Zeb suspected the voice to be at least part that of the Mescalero, the nomads of the Apache family. He had some contact with the few Mescalero in the area. Their voices were distinct enough, but it was hard to be certain. Maybe Helen could confirm this from her church work on the reservation. The slurred speech suggested fear or anxiety. It was apparent he had been in the gym before.

  “Could you tell us exactly where you placed the bomb?” asked Helen. “We don’t want any of the children to get hurt.”

  Helen was cool, logical under fire.

  “No one ges hurt if you ges everyone out of building.”

  “What sort of bomb is it?”

  The man on the other end of the line paused. His hesitancy sent a bullet of anxiety zinging through the sheriff’s heart. Helen kept cool.

  “The bomb. Please tell me about the bomb.”

  “It jes a bomb. Thas all I know. Nothing else I know. Now go get bomb before someone ges hurt. It’s go off at nine o’clock on button. Now jes’ go get it. That’s all I say. Apúrate! Hurry!”

  “Please tell me what the bomb looks like. That way we can find it faster,” said Helen.

  “It jes look like bomb.”

  “But I’ve never seen one.”

  “Is red,” said the caller.

  “Like dynamite?”

  “Sí, sí, like dynamite. Now, please, go get it.”

  The man’s pleading voice sounded near tears.

  “Okay. But could you…”

  The receiver on the other end rattled clumsily. A blast of static shot down the line and the phone signal died.

  “Did you recognize the voice?” asked the sheriff.

  Helen’s response was terse. “No, I did not.”

  “Call the principal’s office. Have them start evacuating immediately. Move everyone away from the school. Far away from the gym. Call Delbert on the two-way. Have him meet Kate and me at the school. Get the fire department and the EMT’s up there ASAP. Call Josh Diamond. Tell him to bring his dogs. He’ll be at his gun shop.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Pray the bomb threat is just a bad prank. Pray real hard.”

  Helen was already dialing the school’s number as the sheriff barked out the orders.

  “What’s going on? Did I hear bomb threat?” asked Deputy Kate Steele.

  “You heard right, Deputy. Let’s move it. The target is the high school. The device is allegedly under the bleachers on the visitor’s side of the gym. It’s set to go off at nine.”

  With sirens blaring and lights flashing the usual three minute trip to the school took less than half that. Sheriff Hanks was surprised to see what appeared to be most of the student body milling about on the football field, away from the gym just as he had ordered.

  Principal Newlin, obviously panic stricken, raced toward the sheriff’s car shouting. “We’ve just about got everyone evacuated. What do you need me to do?”

  Zeb eyed the newly hired administrator. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five. But these days everyone seemed younger. Everyone except him. Her accent, pale complexion and blonde hair spoke of an outsider from the Midwest--Iowa, perhaps Minnesota. He thought of how everyone, everything was changing.

  “Should I call the school bus company? Have them take everyone home?”

  “Just sit tight,” assured Sheriff Hanks. “Keep everyone
on the far end of the football field. We will go in and check this thing out. Make sure no one goes near the school buildings. Try to keep everyone calm.”

  “Sheriff, are you sure everything is going to be okay?”

  It was a ridiculously absurd question, but she was young and youth wore ignorance like a tightly fitting glove. He could offer no such assurances.

  “Keep your fingers crossed. Whisper a little prayer for us.”

  “I already am, Sheriff. Please save the school.”

  He was thinking buildings can be replaced.

  “Are the bleachers up or down?”

  “They are down all the way. We had an assembly scheduled for nine this morning.”

  Deputy Steele and Sheriff Hanks exchanged a glance. The same horrible thought collectively passed through their minds. Maybe the idea was to kill and injure a whole lot of children.

  “Miss Newlin, a man with two dogs will be arriving any minute. Direct him to the gym through the front door. Tell him to double time it. Advise him that three of us are already in the building.”

  Principal Newlin’s ashen face inferred a woman on the verge of shock. Sheriff Hanks grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I know what to do.”

  Deputy Delbert Funke stood by the front door. The lumbering man directed the last of the school kids out of the building as Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele raced around the corner.

  “Why would somebody want to blow up the gym, Sheriff?”

  “How did you know the bomb was in the gym?”

  “Some teachers said everybody was ordered to get out of the gym first, the rest of the rooms after that. I just figured…”

  “We got a threat around eight thirty-five saying a bomb was set to go off at exactly nine. The caller said it was under the bleachers in the visitor’s section.”

  “Jiminy cripes,” said Delbert pointing to a large clock in the hallway. “We only got about thirteen minutes.”