Holes in the Sky (Zeb Hanks: Small Town Sheriff Big Time Trouble Book 2) Read online

  Holes in the Sky

  A novel by

  Mark Reps

  Copyright 2013 Mark Reps

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Mark Reps at Smashwords

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Note to Reader

  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 Fourteen

  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

  About Mark Reps

  Other books by Mark Reps

  Connect with Mark Reps

  Ádios Ángel Sample Chapter

  Acknowledgements

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

  Note to Reader

  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.

  Chapter One

  Under the dimly lit sky an effeminate hand gripped the shoulder of a nearly flaccid body and shook with unseeming 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 t
hat 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.

  Chapter Two

  “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 belted it out 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.

  “I hear that old man in the moon all right, but I can’t quite make out the words.”

  Zeb ran his tongue over her finger. She felt weak in the knees.

  “Doreen?”

  “Yes, sugar dumplin’?

  “That sweet old man in the moon is saying...will you marry me?”

  The hushed quiet of the night became palpable. Chirping crickets paused. Creatures of the night froze in mid-step. Even the warm evening breeze calmed as it awaited a reply.

  Doreen ran a caressing hand over her man’s recently flattened stomach, stopping only when she reached the inside of his thigh. The tingle of pleasure it originally created suddenly turned to pain as she grabbed a pound of flesh.

  “Ouch! Damn! What was that for?”

  “I just wanted to make for certain you wasn’t talkin’ in your sleep…and that I wasn’t dreamin’.”

  Doreen drew her flushed body tightly into her man’s loving arms.

  “Before you answer,” said Zeb, “there is one important thing you have to think about.”

  “Is this the part where you prattle on ‘bout the down side of bein’ a sheriff’s wife?”

  “A cop’s pay isn’t so great. And the hours are terrible...”

  “Do you think for half of one minute, what with the path I’ve beat through my life any of that would even matter?”

  “It’s not just...”

  Before he could say another word, Doreen kissed him long and deep. She pulled back and stared into Zeb’s moonlit eyes. Suddenly now didn’t seem like the right time to tell her the Tucson Police Department had called today and made him an offer to return to his old position as a homicide detective. It sure as hell wasn’t the time to let her know there were things he could never tell her about.

  “Baby, I didn’t fall in love with the badge. I fell in love with the man.”

  Her words rang true.

  “It’s just that I don’t want you to worry every time the phone…”

  As if on cue the ringer on Doreen’s phone pierced the special feeling of the moment. Goosebumps involuntarily flared from every pore of her body as she grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Doreen, this is Kate Steele. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I saw the sheriff’s car parked in your driveway. I have to talk to him. It’s very important.”

  “Don’t think twice, hon, it’s all right. I know it’s business. Hang on one short sec.”

  “It’s Kate,” whispered Doreen, handing him the phone. “She says it’s important.”

  “Deputy Steele, what’s up?”

  “We’ve got a situation.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve got a dead man, white male, undetermined age. We found his body three miles west of town on state route three, six, six, just beyond the Mount Graham Market.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “Not yet. There was no ID. The body is mangled beyond recognition.”

  “Somebody dump him there?”

  “No.”

  “Car go off the road?”

  “No. Nothing quite that ordinary. It’s rather strange. That’s why I called you.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Deputy.”

  Sheriff Hanks cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear. Using his finger, he made a writing motion against the palm of his hand. Doreen had already anticipated his need and was reaching into the nightstand for a pen.

  “It looks like a suicide.”

  “Suicide?” asked the sheriff. “How do you figure?”

  Heading into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, Doreen reversed direction and returned to the bedroom upon hearing ‘suicide’. She sat next to Zeb, placing an understanding hand on the leg she’d just pinched.

  “Give me what you’ve got,” said the sheriff, pointing to his pants and mouthing to Doreen, ‘I need my clothes.’

  “George Halvorson, owner of the Mount Graham Market, called it in about thirty minutes ago. He was rousted out of bed by a frantic trucker banging on his door. Mr. Halvorson described the driver as being in a state of shock. He said the trucker was unable to utter a complete thought. Even though George was in his pajamas, the trucker grabbed him by the arm and practically carried him to the spot where he’d just run over a man.”

  “Was the victim walk
ing along the side of the road?”

  “That’s the odd part. Apparently the dead man had placed his rocking chair in the westbound lane in a depression just beyond where the road crests.”

  “Sweet mother of Jesus.”

  The mental image…a man sitting in a rocking chair…on a dark lonely stretch of road…in the middle of the night…flattened by an eighteen wheeler, made Zeb shudder.

  “There’s no way the driver barreling down the road at seventy miles an hour had any chance of seeing him, much less stopping. His truck hit the man head on. The man and the rocking chair were smashed to pieces. I’m sure the man died instantly.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” mumbled the sheriff.

  “Pardon me, Sheriff?”

  “I was talking to myself. Go on.”

  “The driver panicked. He flipped his rig over into the ditch when he realized what happened.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  “He just keeps muttering. ‘Man—rocking chair—middle of the road—I killed him’.”

  “Call Doc Yackley and let him know what’s up. Better have him bring a sedative for the trucker. The poor son of a gun. Have Deputy Delbert get someone to tow the rig out of the ditch. I sure as hell don’t want a bunch of gawkers hanging around there tomorrow morning causing more accidents. I’ll be right there, shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes.”

  “I haven’t completely surveyed the entire scene yet,” replied Deputy Steele. “I’ll take care of things until you get here.”

  Zeb set the phone on the nightstand, tugged up his pants and turned to Doreen.

  “Now that’s about the damndest thing I ever heard.”

  “What is? Tell me what happened?” begged Doreen.

  “We’ve just had a suicide.”

  “What’s so crazy about that? There’s been at least one every year since I moved to town,” said Doreen. “Some people get depressed and see no way out of it but dyin’.”

  “It wasn’t the suicide, Doe,” said Zeb, slipping into his boots. “It was how it happened.”

  “Now dumplin’, that ain’t the kind of story you pull the reins in on halfway through. Tell your sugar what happened.”