Holes in the Sky

by Mark Reps

  “Then tell us,” said Zeb.

  Bede turned momentarily to Kate. “Thank you, my dear. You know something? You are so kind. You remind me of my mother. Are you by any chance of the Catholic faith?”

  The murderer’s compliment and question sent an uneasy chill through Kate.

  “I went to Catholic school.”

  “Good, good, that’s good. Once again the Lord has blessed me.”

  “You were going to tell us how you killed Farrell?” said Sheriff Hanks.

  “Yes. Pardon me, but a dying man drifts in a sea of past events. Sort of instant replay of his life,” said Bede.

  “How did you kill him?” demanded Jake.

  “It was so simple. He was a man of routine and efficiency. I understand that kind of thinking because I too am a man of precision and competence. He ate lunch, as did his secretary, every day at the same time. Noon. I really only had to watch him twice, and ask once, to determine he would be alone in his office between twelve and one. He created the opportunity for me, really he did. His downfall was so simple. It was the fancy French coffee he loved so much. Espresso is so strong he didn’t even taste the poison when he drank it. He lost consciousness in five minutes. Five minutes. How long has it been since I took my hemlock?”

  “Eight minutes.”

  “I knew I was stronger than that fool. I took three times as much as I gave him. He was weak, but I don’t hold that against him. He died valiantly. I admire that. He fought hard, or at least his body did. I cannot speak for his soul. But I get ahead of myself. After he passed out, I had to return to my truck to get the rope. I parked it in back by the garbage cans. I suppose you already know that. It hardly matters. I had already made a noose. I am a man who likes to be prepared. I was a Boy Scout, you know. Were you a Boy Scout, Sheriff?”

  “Yes, Dr. Bede. I was,” replied Zeb.

  “That’s good. Boy Scouts usually grow up to be good citizens. My mind is wandering again, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’m trying not to give in to the effects of the poison.”

  Bede’s eyes rolled up under his eyelids. His breathing became shallow, lessening.

  “Is he dead?” asked Jake.

  “I don’t…”

  “No, I am not dead. Just standing near Jacob’s ladder. Now where was I?”

  “Farrell’s death, the French coffee, it was his downfall,” said Zeb.

  “Yes, yes. I needed to make Farrell’s death look like a suicide. I thought I had succeeded. What gave me away?”

  “Science, Dr. Bede. Science gave you away.”

  “Excellent. That’s perfect. Like Christ, a Judas of my own betrayed me. Delectable irony, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ironic, yes,” muttered Jake.

  “Go on”, prompted Zeb.

  “At first I put the rope around his neck as he lay slumped over his desk in the chair. Then I rolled him back a few feet and tried to throw the other end of the rope up over the beam. It wasn’t long enough. It didn’t reach. I stupidly tried three or four tosses before I realized I would have to throw it over the crossbeam before I put it around his neck. It’s funny but I remember two thoughts I had then. The first had me wondering how I could have made such an obvious mistake with the rope. How very unscientific of me. I concluded murder is not really a logical process and therefore absolved myself immediately. The second was an old adage I had always heard. ‘Give a man enough rope, and he will hang himself.’ At the time I was almost unable to carry on because I found it so hilarious, the old adage I mean.”

  Zeb, Kate and Jake watched and listened as Bede laughed sardonically, reliving the moment. His craziness blended all too well with the effects of the water hemlock.

  “Finally, I took the noose off his neck and threw it over the beam. That worked much better as it should have. I slipped the rope over his neck. He had a large Adam’s apple you know. It stuck way out. Did you ever notice that about him?”

  “No,” said Kate.

  “Yes,” said Jake and Zeb simultaneously.

  “I put the noose around his neck and began hoisting him with all my strength. I cut my hands. Look.”

  Bede held his rope-burned hands out for them to see.

  “My hands felt like they were leaking blood. The Stigmata came to my mind. One prays for small miracles at times like that. I had hoped it was a direct blessing from the Lord for doing his work, but on the other hand I did not want to leave behind bloodstains. It would make my duty to God too public.”

  Bede paused and lifted his hands into his own line of vision.

  “No, it was not Stigmata,” sighed Bede. “More to the point my hands were not bleeding and John Farrell was a slightly larger man than I, so there was another problem to solve. I had to go back out to my truck and get a pair of gloves to keep the rope from slipping through my hands. The gloves worked fairly well. I was able to hoist him high enough into the air so he dangled well above the floor. I stood back and looked at him. I thought he was dead. But he started to twitch. He jerked back and forth. It seemed like he was trying to speak. I stepped nearer to have a closer look. The rope was stuck below his abnormally huge Adam’s apple. The poor man was choking. I couldn’t live with that. He should have died without pain. That was the idea. I do not think of myself as a brutal man. I climbed on the chair and tried to slip the rope higher up on his neck. It was troublesome and difficult. Believe me, it was an ordeal. But somehow I managed. Still he didn’t die. He began squirming, kicking, twisting. He even tried to reach up toward the rope, but, in his state, his arms were too weak to reach his neck. The poison should have killed him by then. I reasoned an unintended consequence of hanging was the stimulation of the nervous system. It brought him back to life. I had to put an end to it for his sake. So I grabbed on to his ankles and pulled down hard. I actually swung back and forth a few times. It was playfully grim. Then his neck snapped like a dry tree branch. The squirming and twitching finally stopped. I then left immediately.”

  Kate glanced at her watch. Ten minutes gone. If Bede were right, he had five minutes left to live.

  “Why? Why did you kill him?”

  “I had to. He was conspiring.”

  “Conspiring with whom?”

  “He was buying land for AIMGO, the American and International Mount Graham Organization.”

  Shivering and sweating, the dying man paused and cleared his throat.

  “I’m getting cold. Do you have something you could warm me with?”

  Zeb took off his jacket and placed it over the trembling Bede. Kate wiped away black and green sputum from his ashen cheeks.

  “Thank you both. To comfort the afflicted is an edict of the Lord. You are serving Him well.”

  “The conspiracy, Dr. Bede? You were talking about a conspiracy.”

  “The University, the Institute, the governments, the Vatican, Father McNamara, they were all working with the heretics in the Order of St. Barnabus.”

  “Father McNamara?”

  “Yes, he had to be done away with as all Barnabites should be. The heretics of that Order shunned me repeatedly, you know.”

  “You killed Father McNamara?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  “Yes.”

  “You poisoned him too?”

  “Yes, of course. I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a Barnabite and all Barnabites are heretics. They ruined my life and vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, and I, Dr. Venerable Bede, am the handmaiden of the Lord!”

  Blood trickled from Bede’s mouth as his words became an amalgam of saliva and sputum.

  “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, Safford, Arizona

  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 down 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  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. There were a thousand unanswered questions.

  “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 know 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 as though the world, the Order of Saint Barnabus specifically, had forced him to abandon his hopes and dreams. That 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.

  “He had a nice side to him too. Don’t forget that. You can never know somethin’ about someone unless ya’ll know everything about ‘em.”

  “Do you know something we don’t know, 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 that none of this would ever have happened had the powers that be not built the telescope up on Mount Graham,” said Jake. “That being said, science has made some great advances because of that telescope.”

  “The Apache Nation has suffered great losses because of powerful institutions that 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 there. There is no truth greater than that.”

  Silence fell on the table. Everyone, even Eskadi, knew 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 i
f 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 just don’t want anyone else getting hurt or killed,” said Zeb.

  “What happens on the mountain is a story that is 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 that what had just happened was but a single chapter in a saga that would last much longer than either of them.

  The End

  About Mark Reps

  Mark Reps has been a writer and storyteller his whole life. Born in a small town in southeastern Minnesota, he trained as a mathematician and chiropractor but never lost his love of telling a good story. As an avid desert wilderness hiker, Mark spends a great deal of time roaming the desert and other terrains of southeastern Arizona from December to May. A chance meeting with an old time colorful sheriff led him to develop the Zeb Hanks character and the world that surrounds him. Mark returns often to SE Arizona for inspiration, information and to maintain the general feel of the area, learn its history and understand the local residents. His books are often compared with the LONGMIRE television series and books by Craig Johnson. To learn more, check out the Mark Reps website at http://www.markreps.com

  Other books by this author

  Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by Mark Reps:

  The Zeb Hanks: Small Town Sheriff Big Time Trouble Series

  Native Blood

  Holes in the Sky

  Ádios Ángel (See sample chapter on following pages)

  Native Justice

  Native Bones

  Native Warrior

  Native Earth

  Other Books by Mark Reps

  Heartland Heroes

  Butterfly (with Pui Chomnak)