Holes in the Sky

by Mark Reps

  “His favorite cup? Evidence in a suicide? Well, I never.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Song Bird moved with ineffable intent throughout Delbert’s hospital room. Except for four headdresses he placed at the foot of the bed, his mannerisms were more those of a Medical Doctor than those of a Medicine Man.

  “Delbert, how are you feeling?”

  The big deputy nodded and forced a smile. He blinked twice, hesitated and blinked once.

  Delbert’s mother, sitting by her son’s side, served as his voice.

  “One blink means yes and two blinks means no. I think that means no and yes. I don’t know if he understands what he is trying to say.”

  “Not so great, huh, Delbert?” said Song Bird. “Maybe it’s time to change that.”

  Delbert blinked once and held his eyes shut.

  Song Bird walked to the window. Opening it slightly he placed a bundle of sage on a small piece of cedarwood at the edge of the sill. He struck a stick match with a thumbnail, lit the sage and began to chant. Placing his hand amidst the small stream of swirling smoke, Song Bird increased the pitch of his incantation as he collected dark oily residue on his fingertips. Song Bird walked to one side of the bed and smudged three lines on each of the sick man’s cheeks and one from his forehead to the tip of his nose.

  “Here. Put this on the sage.”

  Delbert’s mother placed more herbs on top of the smoking sage. They created a filmy haze which blew into the room and coiled around her son’s body.

  Song Bird held an eagle feather in one hand and a piece of turquoise in the other. He began to pray and chant. At each of the four directions, the Medicine Man stopped and covered himself with a new headdress. With each new adornment, Song Bird placed a ceremonial ornament against Delbert’s body. His gesticulations were intended to scatter the sickness to the four winds. As he completed his task, a nurse entered the room. The opening of the door swept the smoke out the window to the northwest, toward Mount Graham.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded. “Does Doctor Yackley know about this?”

  “We are helping a friend. A man who needs healing,” answered Song Bird.

  “You had better wait right here while I get Doctor Yackley. He’s going to want to know about this!”

  “What do I do now?” asked Delbert’s mother.

  “Pray,” replied Song Bird. “Pray and meet me here tomorrow.”

  Delbert’s mother bent down to kiss her son. When she turned around, Song Bird had gathered his things and disappeared with the smoke.

  “Del, wait for me here,” said his mother. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ve got some serious praying to do.”

  Strolling out of the hospital and heading straight for the church, she felt the weight of the world had somehow been lifted from her shoulders.

  Hours later, deep sleep and comforting dreams enveloped Delbert’s mother as she slept in the chair next to her son’s bed, holding his hand. It was almost noon before his stirring awoke her. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and focused on the Medicine Man who had returned.

  Song Bird stood at the side of the sick man’s bed. He laid out a small mortar bowl, a pestle and four bundles of herbs. Meticulously he removed a single stalk from each of the packages. He placed them in the bowl and began to grind the herbs into a fine powder. Taking some of the mixture and adding a drop of oil, Song Bird placed the concoction on the sick man’s chest. With great delicacy he rubbed the mixture into Delbert’s skin in a clockwise direction with the heel of his hand. Delbert’s chest became purplish red. Song Bird walked to the opposite side of the bed, rolled Delbert slightly up on to his side and repeated the procedure on the sick man’s back. The deputy remained still, unmoved. His mother prayed as Song Bird dipped his fingertips into a brackish, oily substance and shoved them deep into Delbert’s nostrils.

  Delbert began to cough and gyrate. His chest heaved up and down like a man gasping his last breath. Mournful guttural wails shot from his mouth. Suddenly he rolled onto his back, his pale face now strawberry red. He turned to his mother and smiled broadly.

  “You had better go tell the doctor his patient is improving,” advised Song Bird.

  “Nurse,” shouted Delbert’s mother. “Nurse! He’s better! My boy is better! Get Doc Yackley.”

  The nurse checked Delbert’s pulse and placed her hand on his forehead.

  “I’ll get the doctor right away.”

  Doc Yackley greeted Song Bird and the happy mother before looking into his patient’s eyes. Lightly touching the purplish red patches on his chest, he wiped some residue from Delbert’s nose.

  “Nurse, help me remove the ventilation tube,” said Doc Yackley. “He’s breathing on his own. Anyone care to tell me what’s been going on here?”

  “This man was poisoned by water hemlock,” said Song Bird.

  “How do you know that?” asked Doc.

  “It is the job of an Apache Medicine Man to know such things. I have seen it many times. Nature gave me the cure.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you did, but whatever it was it ranks up there somewhere between spontaneous healing and a full blown miracle. I’ve never been one to argue with positive results. Nurse, check Delbert’s vitals every fifteen minutes and keep me informed.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Mrs. Funke, it looks as if your prayers have been answered.”

  The old woman was staring so deeply into her son’s eyes she didn’t hear a word Doc Yackley said.

  “Hemlock you say, water hemlock?”

  “It smells like sour carrots when it’s thrown back up,” said Song Bird.

  “When I pumped his stomach, it smelled just like rotten carrots. I remember it as clear as a bell.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The once hulking frame of Deputy Delbert Funke had been reduced by illness to a gangly stick figure of his former self. Nevertheless, the sheriff’s face burst into a smile as he walked into the hospital room and saw his deputy standing and looking out the window.

  “Delbert! Damn but you’re looking good.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder, Zeb. I got a mirror in the bathroom.”

  “Let me put it this way. You’re looking a might better than you did a week ago,” said Zeb.

  “Zeb, Sheriff Hanks I mean, Deputy Steele stopped by earlier. She brought me up to date on what’s been going on. I think I have something that might help.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Delbert. You shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

  Delbert sat on the edge of the bed. His breathing was heavy and labored, obviously winded from the activity.

  “It’s about that snooping around you wanted me to do on Mrs. Espinoza. You know, Father McNamara’s housekeeper.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “She’s a real nice lady. I didn’t want her to think I was spying on her. So I just kind of asked her what she thought about the way Father McNamara died.”

  “Yes, Delbert?”

  “Well, after I asked her that question, I could’ve knocked her over with a feather. She blessed and crossed herself three or four times, like so.”

  Delbert rapidly made a backward sign of the cross on his face, aping the housekeeper’s behavior.

  “It was like she was trying to ward off evil spirits or something. You know, like Catholics do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she mumbled off a whole bunch of words in Spanish. I told her to slow down ‘cause I don’t habla no Española but just a little bit. Then she started talking just as fast in English. I could hardly understand a word of that either.”

  “Did she seem excited? Or upset?”

  “Both, I guess. When I finally got to hearing what she was saying, as near as I can figure anyway, she was saying she thinks the devil came right into the priest’s house on the night Father McNamara died. She says half in Spanish and half in English, the diablo, that’s Espanol for devil, came and carried old Padre McNamara ri
ght down to Route tres, seis, seis, in his rocking chair and set him down in front of that big ol’ semi-truck. Well, shucks, I knew right off that was just crazy talk.”

  “Did you ask her why she believed the devil had paid a visit to Father McNamara?”

  “No. I couldn’t hardly get a word in edgewise because then she started talking about how the Pope himself was friends with Father McNamara. Talk about double loco-loco. She said Father McNamara used to get letters from the Pope. She said she saw the letters with her own eyes.”

  “Did she say if Father McNamara saved the letters? Are they still in the rectory?”

  “Naw. I asked her that too. She says Father McNamara destroyed every single one of them right after he read them. One time she even walked in on him when he was burning one of them. She asked the padre why he would burn letters from the Pope. He said they weren’t actually from the Pope, but they were from some other place in Rome. The church headquarters. I forget the name of it.”

  “The Vatican?”

  “Yeah, that was it.”

  “Go on, what else did she say?”

  “She was worried about Father McNamara. She figured burning letters from the Pope was probably a real big sin. You know being superstitious and all like a lot of those old Mexican Catholic women are. She figured throwing those religious papers in the fire was like giving them right to the devil. Father McNamara told her it was okay because he was just following orders.”

  “Following orders?”

  “Dang, that’s exactly what I said. Mrs. Espinoza didn’t know what following orders meant, but I think I got it all figured out. I was gonna tell you that night up on the mountain when that little doctor invited you, me and Jake to dinner.”

  “What’s your idea, Delbert? What do you think was going on?”

  “You know how those Catholics like to eat their fish on Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bein’ there aren’t so many lakes in Arizona and there’s a lake up there on the mountain, maybe the Pope was buying a lake for the Catholics to fish in.”

  “Thanks, Delbert,” said Zeb. “I’ll give it some thought. Now I think you better lay down and get some rest.”

  “You’re right, I am a little tuckered,” said Delbert, lying back down on the hospital bed. “Oh, Zeb, there was one other thing. I don’t think it means anything. You remember the night the padre died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Espinoza said Father McNamara had a dinner guest.”

  “Did she say who it was?”

  “She didn’t know his name. She said he was a funny looking hombre, no bigger than a pepito. I think that means mouse. She said he had big thick glasses.”

  “Thanks, Delbert. You’ve been a great help. Get some rest.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “Say, Delbert, mind if I use the phone? It’s business. I gotta call the office.”

  Sheriff Hanks question was greeted by a rippling snore.

  “Helen, put me through to Deputy Steele, would you?”

  Kate answered on the first ring.

  “Sheriff, I’m glad you called. I just got a phone call from Farrell’s secretary. I think she was feeling guilty for being a little short with us the other day. I told her I would drop by and have one last look around.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Zeb. “I keep getting this vague feeling there’s something we overlooked.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m on my way over there now,” said Kate.

  “I’ll call Doc Yackley and see if he’s heard anything from the lab on Farrell’s blood and tissue samples. Why don’t you meet me at the Town Talk when you’re done, and we’ll go over everything,” said Zeb.

  As she drove to the real estate office, Kate’s eyes were drawn westward toward the top of Mount Graham. Its thundercloud encased peaks defined the boundaries of the Indian spirit world. Up high, where the sky kissed the land, was the holy turf of ancient shrines and sacred stones. The clouds near the peaks of Mount Graham parted, revealing an aqua blue sky. As the billowy formations drifted away and separated, Kate’s imagination returned to childlike eyes while she envisioned thousands of images in the slowly moving clouds.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Inside the Town Talk, Zeb walked past a trio of old men shaking dice and took a seat near the kitchen. Doreen scampered across the room to greet him.

  “Good morning, tootsy-wootsy. What’s shakin’ your booty this morn’?”

  “Delbert’s on the mend. Song Bird’s medicine is working.”

  “Hallelujah! Praise the good Lord and the Indian spirits both,” exclaimed Doreen.

  “What’s all this blubbering about?” asked Jake.

  “Ya big galoot, dincha hear the good news?”

  “What? Did you win the lottery or something?”

  “Naw, but if you leave a nice tip, I’ll buy me a ticket on Saturday. I heard the jackpot is up to fifty one million buckaroos.”

  “I’ll leave the tip if you tell me the happy news.”

  “Zeb just told me that Delbert’s improvin’ like crazy. Ain’t that great?”

  “Now that is good news, Doe.”

  “Lordy, I almost forgot. I got a business to run. Coffee for the good guys?”

  Doreen poured a couple of cups of fresh brew for the officers as Deputy Kate Steele walked through the door.

  “Katie, I suppose you already heard about Delbert?” asked Doreen.

  “Good news travels fast.”

  “Anything besides a cup of mud for the likes of you two? Katie, coffee?”

  “Coffee’s good.”

  “Same here,” said Zeb. “Go ahead and take care of your real customers.”

  “I suppose with Delbert on the mend, I’ve got about a week to help you solve the Farrell case?” said Jake.

  “Well, Jake, even if he is out of the hospital in a week, I doubt he’ll be ready to get back to work any time soon. You’d better plan on sticking around a while. Deputy Steele and I can use your help.”

  Jake sipped his coffee, unable to hide his joy at being able to remain on the job.

  “What did you find out, Kate? Did Miss Thompson spot anything unusual while she was cleaning up?” asked Zeb.

  “No, but she’s still in a tizzy over the missing coffee cup. Excuse me, missing espresso cup. I figured maybe he broke it and tossed it out without telling her, so I went behind the building and had a look in the dumpster.”

  “Makes sense,” said Jake.

  “Darla walked out there with me. She pointed out where Farrell parked his car. He parked in the same spot every day. According to her no one else ever parked back there.”

  “How’d she get to work?” asked Zeb.

  “She walked.”

  “Find the espresso cup?”

  “No, but something else grabbed my attention. There were two parking spots next to the trash bin. Farrell’s was well worn and rutted. But the other spot, the one Darla said no one ever parked in, had a fresh set of double wide tire tracks.”

  “Double tire tracks?” asked Jake.

  “A lot of the new, fancy trucks have a second set of tires on the rear axle,” said Zeb. “Somebody was probably driving through the alley and did a U-turn.”

  “Just thought I’d mention it,” said Deputy Steele. “Did you get a hold of Doc?”

  “He was busy. I left a message.”

  “You know, the more I think about it, good old common sense tells me it’s highly unlikely Farrell would hang himself. What do we really know about him?” asked Zeb.

  Deputy Steele flipped open her small notebook.

  “He’s well to do but not rich. He has no real debt to speak of. He’s been married to the same woman, Zelda, for twenty-five years. They have two adult children. No one in the family has any arrest record. He’s been the owner of Rodeo Real Estate for twenty-two years. He and Zelda liked to vacation. France was their favorite spot. They didn’t really live extravagantly. He was active in c
ivic and church organizations. Most of his friends seem to be from his business associations.”

  “Any known enemies?” asked Zeb.

  “None that I could find,” said Kate.

  “Did he have any major confrontations with people on the commission or people who brought matters before it?”

  “There was a mild disagreement or two along the way, but nothing hostile,” said Jake. “I think when you saw his reaction to my questioning the land deals up on Mount Graham, you saw him at his most confrontational.”

  “For argument’s sake, let’s say he didn’t commit suicide. Let’s assume he was murdered. Somebody would have to have a reason to kill such a seemingly innocuous man,” said Zeb.

  “A hidden enemy? An old grudge?” questioned Kate.

  “Maybe he screwed somebody over in a real estate deal?” offered Jake.

  “If he was murdered, he had an enemy who wanted him out of the way, maybe even needed him out of the way,” said Zeb.

  “Who would gain with Farrell out of the picture?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “Telephone for Sheriff Hanks.” A bellowing Doreen Nightingale held up the telephone and called out in perfect mimicry of an old movie hotel bellhop. “Telephone for Sheriff Hanks. Here ya’ go, honey bear,” said Doreen. “It’s Doc Yackley.”

  Zeb took the phone. He talked to Doc Yackley quietly for a brief minute before returning to the counter and his fellow lawmen.

  “It was poison, all right,” Zeb announced. “The lab tests confirmed it.”

  “What did Doc have to say?” asked Jake.

  “The lab identified something called lobelia in Farrell’s system. He said around here it’s called Indian tobacco or water hemlock,” replied Zeb.

  “I’ve heard of Indian tobacco. People say it tastes real bitter,” said Jake.

  “Doc Yackley said in small liquid doses it’s used as a muscle relaxant. It can also be used to make someone sweat like crazy. He said the Apaches use it to sweat out evil spirits. Larger doses are toxic, even deadly. He said Farrell’s autopsy findings, the dilated pupils, the excessive sweat stains on his clothing, the changes in the lung tissue and death due to respiratory paralysis match the signs of water hemlock poisoning to a tee.”