 
# NATIVE BONES

### BOOK 5 ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES

## 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.

NATIVE BONES

Text Copyright © 2015 Mark Reps

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1511734981

ISBN-10: 1511734981

# Also by Mark Reps

**ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES**

NATIVE BLOOD

HOLES IN THE SKY

ADIÓS ÁNGEL

NATIVE JUSTICE

NATIVE BONES

NATIVE WARRIOR

NATIVE EARTH

NATIVE DESTINY

NATIVE TROUBLE

NATIVE ROOTS (PREQUEL NOVELLA)

THE ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES 1-3

**AUDIOBOOK**

NATIVE BLOOD

HOLES IN THE SKY

ADIÓS ÁNGEL

**OTHER BOOKS**

BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI CHOMNAK)

HEARTLAND HEROES

# Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my wife for her editorial skills as well as her patience with me while I wrote this book. I would also like to thank my son, Benjamin, for the academic books he rounded up and presented to me as background and research material on the Apache Nation. For all of you who have continued to read, follow and tell others about the **Small Town Sheriff: Big Time Trouble** series I am in your gratitude. I am forever thankful for that curious place from which inspiration is born and grows into a fictional tale. Enjoy the read. More to come.

### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Free Book from Mark Reps

Also by Mark Reps

About the Author

NATIVE WARRIOR - Chapter 1

# 1

A man carrying a cardboard tray with three coffee cups whistled the theme song from an old western movie, _The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean_ , as he walked up the sidewalk. He knew the main door to the funeral home would be unlocked. Balancing the coffees in one hand and pulling on the door handle with the other, he nudged his shoulder against the large entry door, making certain not to spill the hot drinks. He was a frequent enough visitor to the funeral home to know what would happen next. Opening the door triggered a sound system that played serene music throughout the mortuary. He stopped whistling as he listened to the tune of the doorbell. Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes, hard at work in the preparation room, didn't bother to look up from their work. He breezed through the entry to the casket room. Seeing no one, he spoke.

"Hello? Anyone here? Hello."

"I'll get it," said Rainen.

"Thanks, I'm right in the middle of this," replied Elizabeth. "If I stop now, I'll have to start it all over."

Rainen stepped through the preparatory room door into the casket room.

"Hey," said Rainen. "How goes it?"

"I was driving by fifteen minutes ago and saw the lights on. I figured you were working late, so I drove into town and got you each a Red Eye."

The man pointed at the three medium-sized coffee cups.

"Double espressos over black coffee..."

"Just what the doctor ordered," said a bleary eyed Rainen.

"...with a shot of cognac," said the man. "A Red Eye Special."

"Praise Jesus," added the undertaker.

"Amen."

The men chuckled as Rainen accepted one of the drinks.

"I assume Elizabeth is working too?"

"Come on in back. She's hard at it. It's been a very long day. She'll be glad to see a friendly face."

Rainen led the welcomed visitor through the door to the preparatory room.

"We've got a visitor," said Rainen. "He's got a little treat for you."

Elizabeth turned her head and peered over the rims of her glasses. The man behind the smiling face was holding up her drink in one hand, his own in the other.

"After a day like this you are truly a bearer of gifts," said Elizabeth.

"Beware of Greeks, or is it geeks, bearing gifts," he said. They all had a good laugh.

Elizabeth put down her tools and happily accepted the Red Eye Special. She knew the visitor well enough to know this was his drink of choice. She set the coffee next to the body she was finishing and gave the man a big hug.

"It's good to see you," she said.

"My pleasure," replied the man. "As always."

"If you don't mind my saying so, it's been a hell of a long day," said Rainen.

"We started our day at 4 a.m. with a sunrise burial," said Elizabeth.

"Unusual, but not unheard of," said the visitor.

"Longstanding tradition," said Elizabeth. "It's the third one we've done for the family. Actually, it's kind of nice to have a ceremony that time of day."

"We had a one o'clock service and burial that ran late. We had to rush back here and put the final touches on two more. Then a little over an hour ago we had a blind drop-off," said Rainen.

"They are much too common these days," said Elizabeth. "Even with the economy on the uptick."

All three of them were familiar with the blind drop-off. Some people died alone or had no money to pay for a funeral or cremation. Others had family simply too poor to afford anything. Still a third group just didn't want to pay for the burial of a family member that they just didn't care for. The blind drop-off was such a common practice in Graham County that there was a certain group of people who would deliver a dead body to the funeral home for a very small price, sometimes as little as a case of beer. Elizabeth and Rainen had only the day before been joking that it had been almost two months since their last dreaded blind drop-off. Then a body appeared. Between them it was a case of speak of the devil and he shows up.

"We lose money on every one of these," said Rainen.

The visitor glanced toward the body Rainen was pointing at. It was covered in a bloodstained white sheet."

"Do you know who it is, or was?" he asked.

"Normally we don't," said Elizabeth, "but this time Rainen recognized him right away. Then I remembered him from a picture in the paper."

"Who is it?"

"Frederick Bingham," said Rainen.

The visitor walked over and pulled back the bloody sheet. He quickly dropped the covering.

"Not a pretty picture, is it?" said Elizabeth.

"Suicide?"

"I doubt it. He has a second wound in the chest. It looks like a total of two shots. In many years of doing this I've never seen a suicide that shot himself both in the head and chest," said Elizabeth, re-covering the body.

"Did you notify the next of kin already?"

"I called his brother, Foster," said Elizabeth. "He had a driver's license as well as a card with Foster's name and number on it in his pocket. Foster identified Frederick by some scars. We're certain it's him."

"It's always tough, isn't it? I mean telling the family."

"I hate it," said Elizabeth, "especially when it's a young person."

"Ditto," added Rainen.

"I suppose you called the authorities since it looks like foul play?' asked the visitor.

"I'm right in the middle of something. I only had time for one quick call to Foster since I felt it was important to notify the family first. I'll call the sheriff's office as soon as I finish here," said Elizabeth.

"So, Sheriff Hanks doesn't know anything about the dead man?" asked the visitor.

"He will very soon. I imagine that kind of news will bring him out here fairly quickly," said Elizabeth.

The visitor's heart rate increased ever so slightly. His face tightened but not so much that Elizabeth or Rainen might notice. He had his reasons for not wanting to see Sheriff Hanks.

"You look tired, Elizabeth. So do you, Rainen," said the visitor. "Drink your beverage. It will perk you up enough to finish your work."

Elizabeth and Rainen needed no prodding.

"I didn't realize how tired I was," said Rainen. "I must have been running on pure adrenalin. I'm going to my office and sit for a minute while I finish this coffee."

Rainen knew of the unique relationship Elizabeth shared with the visitor. He gave them some privacy.

When Rainen had been gone several minutes, the visitor offered to rub Elizabeth's shoulders. She declined. He insisted. She declined a second time. He insisted until she took him up on the offer.

"Oh, does that feel good. When you're done with the neck and shoulders, would you mind massaging my feet?" The visitor smiled as she carried on with small talk. "I probably shouldn't have taken the time to rest. My eyelids are getting heavy. I feel as though I could fall asleep right on the spot," Elizabeth said.

The visitor continued on with his gentle massage. Thirty seconds later her eyes closed. A light purr, that peaceful sound of a woman snoring, passed through her lips. The visitor looked over toward Rainen's office. His head, turned to the side with eyes shut, was resting on his desk. The visitor coughed loudly. Rainen didn't move. He too was asleep. The visitor turned off most of the lights, leaving just enough illumination so he could see clearly.

"It's time to go to work, Lillie."

His words were accompanied by the withdrawal of a freshly sharpened knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle.

He set Lillie on Elizabeth's desk and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a plastic raincoat he had scrunched into a small rectangle and slipped it on. His lips pursed as he began to softly whistle the same tune he had on his mind when he entered the funeral home. The visitor stood behind the sleeping woman. He placed his hand over her mouth as he cradled her head against his chest. With a single swipe of the blade he cut through both jugular veins and carotid arteries. He was somewhat surprised at how finely he had honed Lillie's cutting edge.

Rainen made a small, involuntary snorting noise. With Lillie in hand the killer swiftly moved toward his office. Standing behind the second funeral director, he let Lillie do her job. In the process he nearly decapitated the man, his friend.

Satisfied both were dead, he sheathed Lillie. With great deliberation and delight he walked to the dead body of Frederick Bingham. He struggled only slightly as he slung the dead body over his shoulder and carried it to the trunk of his car. The visitor drove off into the darkness, whistling a happier version of the old western tune.

# 2

Sheriff Zeb Hanks took a sharp right and pulled beneath the arched entrance of the Safford Public Cemetery. From a distance he had seen Marcos Bren's backhoe digging a grave. Bren had been digging graves with pinpoint precision for the last thirty years, something of a living legend in the business of dying. Yet over all that time Sheriff Hanks had never seen Marcos up close, in action, doing what he did best.

Marcos was considered by Natives and Whites alike to be an old-time Apache. He made his home on the San Carlos Reservation but did most of his work in town. He never intermingled with Whites except when he was digging their graves. He followed most of the traditional ways of the Apache tribe. A quiet man, Marcos kept to himself.

Zeb pulled his truck about fifty feet from where Marcos was digging and placed it in park. Zeb liked watching someone who took pride in his work. He turned off the radio and listened to the sound of the digging equipment. After ten minutes or so Zeb stepped out of his truck. He walked around front and leaned against the hood. With a fair amount of fascination Zeb continued watching the grave being dug. With the sun nipping at his back, he tipped the brim of his well-worn and even better known cowboy hat up ever so slightly to cover his neck. Folding his arms across his chest, Zeb maintained a watchful, learning eye on the gravedigger and his equipment. Undoubtedly Marcos knew he was being watched. Marcos ignored the sheriff. He didn't so much as lift his head in recognition or look in Zeb's general direction. Zeb figured, like most working men, he didn't like being bothered while he plied his trade. The sheriff respected that. In the past twenty some years Zeb and Marcos had only on the rare occasion waved at each other. During that same stretch of time not so much as a single word of conversation had passed between them. Zeb hadn't thought about their lack of personal interaction until now as he considered Marcos' amazingly precise digging. This was definitely a man he should know, a man who knew the finer points of his profession.

Watching a final resting place, not merely a hole in the ground, being crafted from sand and dirt gave Zeb pause. While no stranger to death, he had kept himself at a distance from this part of the process. From the corner of his left eye, off toward the southeast corner of the cemetery, Zeb noticed a mini dust devil flickering up and moving noiselessly like the shadow of ghost. As quickly as it had risen, the dust devil blew itself into disintegration. Zeb couldn't help but sense it was an omen, an ill-defined message of some sort from the spirit world. He parked the image in the back of his mind. He made a mental note to discuss the event with Song Bird and have him help sort it out, if indeed it meant anything at all. A warm southerly breeze grazed against his cheek, tickling it. Zeb shooed away an imaginary fly that seemed to languish near the corner of his left eye. Even with these distractions the grinding of the diesel engine and the work it was doing garnered nearly one hundred percent of his attention.

The bucket of the diesel-powered backhoe sliced through the coarse, red desert dirt of the graveyard with the ease a serrated knife cuts though freshly baked bread. As the bucket did its job, the cab of the yellow and green machine barely jiggled. Zeb had seen backhoes work the local dirt many times. In his memory the edge of the bucket always rebounded hard as it attempted to penetrate the time-hardened, arid desert dirt. Something was different about Marcos' equipment. What? The morning sun warmed Zeb's back as he stared past the backhoe and its driver at a desert mirage flickering in the far distance. His eyes stopped wandering when the image lost itself into the horizon. Once again he shifted his gaze on the dig and the digger. A loud, scraping, clunking noise filled Zeb's ears. As quickly as the sound struck Zeb's ears the backhoe driver shut his machine down, but not before lifting the bucket a foot or so above the ground. Marcos dismounted his work vehicle and walked to the hole. Zeb could hear him say something in his native language. The Athabascan words, which Zeb did not know, needed no interpretation. They were most definitely curse words and the driver seemed fluent in them. Marcos walked to the back of the hoe. Deftly he opened the built-in toolbox tucked in the bed of the vehicle. Digging in with both hands Marcos removed a four inch wide rasp. Zeb noticed the cutting edge of the bucket glittered brightly in the rising sun. Marcos ran a gloved hand along the edge of the bucket. Then he stopped and stared intently down into the hole. This time he cursed in a lower, gravelly tone and jumped into the grave. Zeb watched as the old man lifted an awkwardly shaped rock out of the hole. It must have weighed a hundred pounds. He set it next to the rim of the grave with ease. Marcos used both hands to hoist himself to the edge of the hole. Without breaking stride, he picked up the huge rasp and began sharpening the edge of the bucket the rock had dulled and damaged. Zeb walked toward Marcos. Marcos ignored Zeb until the sheriff spoke.

"Occupational hazard?" said Zeb, pointing at the rock.

Marcos grunted and continued pressing the rasp firmly against the bucket's edge. Zeb thought it best to let the man do his job before speaking again. Marcos made quick work of the dulled bucket edge. After returning the lip of the bucket to a razor sharp edge he turned toward Zeb.

"Help you, officer?" He eyed Zeb's uniform more closely. "Sheriff."

"No," replied Zeb. "Just curious. Never seen it done before."

"A hole being dug?" asked Marcos. "You don't get around much, do you?"

Zeb eyed the gravedigger for a good thirty seconds before responding. He decided to let the sarcasm slide.

"No, a grave being built for all time and eternity is something I've never seen being done up close before," replied Zeb.

"You make it sound like serious business," said Marcos. "It's just a hole in the ground. No sense getting all philosophical about it."

"Nice piece of equipment," offered Zeb.

"Give me a couple of decent men and a pair of shovels, and I'll get a hole dug just as quick and just as well," replied the grave digger. "It's just that I prefer working alone."

Sheriff Hanks didn't quite know what to make of Marcos Bren. The man might be derisive by nature, Apache by his way of dealing with a White Sheriff or just a guy who didn't like anyone looking over his shoulder while he worked. A graveyard was no place to make new judgments or, in this case, a new friend.

"I'm Graham County Sheriff Zeb Hanks," he said, extending a hand.

Marcos set the monster rasp on the flat part of the downward facing bucket, took off his right glove and shook the sheriff's hand. Zeb may as well have placed his hand in a vice grip. For a man of sixty-five or maybe more Marcos' hand strength belied the humble look in his eyes and the sinewy arms that snaked up from his wrists. Zeb and Marcos stared at each other, both men reading and judging what they saw. For several long seconds their hands remained gripped. Neither spoke. Something felt odd to Zeb. Being as subtle as possible he lowered his eyes to Marcos hand. That was it. Marcos was missing the tip of his little finger. In its absence the missing fingertip didn't fall against Zeb's skin during the handshake. It was just odd enough to notice. Marcos' eyes never moved from the sheriff, but he knew exactly what the sheriff was looking at.

"Accident," he said. "Many years ago. I wasn't paying attention. Not paying attention can create a world of hurt. I'm pretty sure you know exactly how that works."

Zeb had a feeling that Marcos' words carried a double meaning, an oblique inference to something. Marcos grabbed the rasp, walked to the rear of the backhoe and replaced it in his tool chest. Zeb ran a finger across the cutting edge of the bucket. It was thick, strong and honed to a razor sharp edge. Marcos jumped into the cab and ignited the diesel engine. It cranked over once, emitted a puff of gray-black oily smoke and started up with a growl. Zeb stepped back. Marcos wore a Cheshire cat-like grin as he spoke over the engine noise.

"Take that damn rock with you, would you, Sheriff Hanks?"

Zeb knew Marcos was toying with him, yet he bent at the knees like his chiropractor had taught him and began to lift properly so as not to injure his back. With great effort he tugged on the rock. He estimated its weight to be at least one hundred fifty pounds. Zeb, at six feet three inches, was nearly a full foot taller, a hundred pounds heavier and a few decades younger than Marcos. Marcos had managed the rock with relative ease. Now that he had tacitly accepted Marcos' challenge, Zeb had no choice but to finish it. With significant effort he picked up the rock and carried it almost fifty feet to his truck. Sweating and grunting he lifted the dead weight up over the tailgate and dropped it into the bed. The rock clunked as its dead weight bounced the springs on his rear axle. Zeb's back immediately barked out as it shot an unpleasant zinger down his left leg. Marcos watched with amusement. However, when Zeb turned to look at him, he acted as though he had witnessed nothing.

Zeb clapped the dry, dusty dirt from his hands. Wiping the sweat off the back of his neck, he left grimy fingerprints as a reminder of the work he had just done. Zeb gingerly stepped into his truck, adjusting the back support to ease the pressure on his newly injured spine. Doc Pendergrass, his chiropractor, would be seeing him real soon. He gave a small wave-like gesture with his pointer finger toward Marcos. Marcos nodded expressionlessly, tilted his head and continued his work. He had this hole to finish and another one to dig. It was a good day for making real money.

Slowly Sheriff Hanks pulled past Marcos and followed the shallow ruts of the unpaved dirt road that led to another part of the graveyard. He had some visits to make.

Zeb hadn't visited Doreen's grave since her funeral. He wasn't really sure why. He couldn't answer that with any amount of certainty. For months he had been too drunk to even consider it. Then he was in Mexico chasing down Doreen's killer. Then, well, he just didn't feel ready, at least that's what he told himself. The truth was there was no simple answer, just the reality of the situation.

The Safford Public Cemetery was built on land unusual for the area in the fact that it curved upward in the middle. Doreen's grave was in an area unseen from where Marcos was digging the new graves. A slight wind carried most of the noise of his backhoe away from Zeb.

Zeb put his truck into park and switched off the ignition. He glanced not toward the grave of his dead wife, but instead his eyes followed a beeline up the inclined knoll in the general direction of the peaks of Mount Graham. He thought of his proposal to Doreen, the wild flowers he had picked for her up on the Mount, her laughter, her hair, her smell, her words, their lovemaking. A tear welled in his eye. Zeb fought it. His heart, squeezed by an unseen hand, ached hollowly. He took a deep breath then another before opening the door of his truck. Beneath the heel of his boot hard dirt and small rock made an ever familiar crunch. As he made the walk, his gaze fell downward toward the toes of his cowboy boots. Slowly, deliberately, he approached Doreen's grave marker. Each time his boot heel connected with the earth it echoed in his ears more loudly than the previous step.

Zeb didn't look up until he was but twenty feet from Doreen's marker. He smiled as his eyes fell upon her old Harley Davidson Electra Glide. The sun glinted off the thin layer of hardened plastic material that covered the bike to protect it from the elements. A local guy who used to run with the Hell's Angels in Los Angeles had told him about the process of enshrining a bike.

Zeb's eyes contemplated the marker which held her name.

DOREEN NIGHTINGALE HANKS

WIFE, DREAMER, LOVER, BIKER

Zeb ever so gently ran his finger across the letters of her name allowing it to rest momentarily in the grooves of each etched letter. A solitary tear dropped from the corner of his eye and landed smack dab in the middle of the O on LOVER. He eased himself down and lay on his back in the dirt. He could hear Doreen's voice as though she was lying there next to him. Her silly way of exaggerating things, the way she dropped her gs, her eternal words of love and her ever present folksy words of wisdom. He would never hear these again. His passionate sentiments flipped to anger. He cursed God. Perhaps he should just die and be with her. No, that was not the way it worked. That was wrong. Death would be too easy of a way out of this vale of tears.

Zeb gazed at Doreen's name again. He closed his eyes and dreamed of better days, of days gone by, of days that were and could never be again. The future imaged itself only as a dull haze. He lay there, unmoving, for a long time. Eventually, his ear to the ground brought a sound. It was a scared rabbit racing through the graveyard that grabbed Zeb from the surrealism he was swept up in. He glanced at his watch. Time had disappeared for a brief while and, for that brief while, a strange respite overcame Zeb Hanks. Sighing loudly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a shiny agate. Even though it was perfectly clean he licked it and rubbed it against the front of his shirt before reaching over and placing it in the lettering of Doreen's marker.

When he stood, he saw and heard Marcos' backhoe being driven away on a flatbed behind a truck. Marcos glanced in Zeb's direction. Zeb may as well have been invisible for all the attention Marcos paid to him. Zeb walked to the back of Doreen's grave marker where the inscription he had chosen was chiseled. It said simply AN ANGEL TOO SOON.

Zeb walked in an arc several hundred feet to another gravesite. He recognized almost every name on every headstone on the short trek. Eventually he stopped at two side-by-side graves. One held the name of his brother. Zeb shook his head as he looked upon Noah Hanks' grave marker. What a screwed up life his brother had led. He lived and died because of bad thinking, bad habits and a bad upbringing. He bent down and placed a stone, not unlike the agate he had placed on Doreen's final resting place, on his brother's grave. He said a quick prayer, hoping, pleading that God would be kind to Noah. Next he walked to his father's headstone. Clearing his throat, Zeb worked up an enormous globule of spit and hurled it on his father's grave. It was the first time he could remember that he hadn't emptied his bladder over his father's remains. Zeb wiped spittle from the corner of his lips and slowly returned to his truck. He had work to do.

# 3

The warm beauty of desert spring time darkly contrasted with the emotions of the townspeople attending the double funeral being held in the cool interior of the First Dutch Evangelical Reform Church.

Reverend Klaus Kurker V loomed large behind the oaken pulpit. His soft hands pressed firmly against the open pages of his family's King James Bible. The Reverend could feel the power of God through the 300 year old book. Generations of Kurkers had carried this book with them as they helped settle Arizona. Inside the front cover were the names of every Kurker who had lived in the United States. Less than two hundred years ago his people had fought the Apaches, Geronimo, Cochise, Mangas Coloradas, the Spanish, Padilla, Narbona, a plethora of ever-changing Mexicans and even American renegade miners in order to gain and maintain the land now known as Arizona. Through this ancient family heirloom the word of God spoke to him.

Directly in front of him the pews were tightly packed with family and friends of the deceased as well as local parishioners. The majority of those present were there to give a proper earthly send off to the deceased. However, the oddity of a double murder, occurring late at night inside the walls of a funeral home, had drawn the attention of the statewide news services and more than a few funereal gawkers. The Reverend Kurker was simultaneously appalled by and drawn to the outsiders. The people of Safford and the tribal members of the San Carlos Apache Reservation were of equally mixed feeling regarding the presence of the news media.

Sheriff Hanks observed the locals' reactions to the Tucson television station personalities. For the most part the good people of Safford and the San Carlos dined nightly with these very same television news people only feet from their tables.

Reverend Kurker had previously asked the television people politely, twice, to shoot no camera footage of the open casket inside the church. The third time he spoke to them his request was firm and demanding. It no longer fell under the category of polite entreaty from a man of the cloth. Rather, it carried an air of irritation.

The Minister cleared his throat as was his habit to quiet those present. Instantly a dead silence permeated the apse and nave of his church.

"Let us pray," he began. "Let us pray for the deceased and for their families. Let us offer our humble prayers on this difficult situation to the Lord, God Almighty. Let our supplications be focused on the spirits of the recently departed and not upon the deceased bodily remains of Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes, for they are now blessed to be seated at the right hand of God, the Almighty Father."

Standing at the rear of the church, Sheriff Hanks held his cowboy hat at his side with tightly pressed fingers. Too many bad memories created a strong dislike of funerals. Standing next to him, Deputy Kate Steele remained motionless, stoic and attentive. Both listened as their eyes swept and simultaneously observed the crowd of funeral attendees. Their eyes would likely fall upon the killer or killers of Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes. Neither officer of the law carried much doubt that the murderers were seated in the pews of the First Dutch Evangelical Reform Church on this beautiful spring day. Remembering faces for future purposes might come in handy as their investigation progressed.

The highly educated Reverend Kurker stood before the congregation. He had received his undergraduate education at the University of Arizona and was a third generation Yale Divinity School graduate. This extremely sophisticated man of the cloth was part highly modern rector and part old-fashioned Bible thumper. There were those locally who saw him as an odd duck who was nevertheless commendable for choosing to return to where his family had placed their roots in southeastern Arizona. Some saw him as a man with a calling directly from the Lord, God Himself, with a mission to save the sinners and convert the heathens of Graham County.

Zeb hadn't given the Reverend much thought. The Kurkers had lived in the area longer than his own family. Reverend Kurker seemed to tend his flock and do his job. Since he didn't create any trouble, there wasn't much reason to focus on him one way or the other.

Reverend Kurker sermonized for the better part of half an hour. His words were at once competent and moving. He spoke of how we are temporarily flesh and blood before we become but hair and bones before they too become mere dust. He mentioned how the body was born of the mother in the hospital, raised in the home and ultimately buried in the graveyard. This was the fate of our body. Our soul, depending on how we lived in our body, either went to heaven or hell. Many present cried and wept aloud. When the Reverend Kurker finished preaching, he asked if anyone present wished to come up and testify about the deceased.

"Praise Jesus. Who will be the first to testify?" asked Reverend Kurker.

His words did not fall upon deaf ears.

From the middle of the church, a sinewy, suntanned man surrounded by four beautiful young women rose from his pew and strutted to the pulpit. Everyone in the church knew who he was but most by reputation only. The leather soles of his burgundy, eel-skin cowboy boots hummed a blunted echo off the walls of the otherwise serene church. The dark-haired man was dressed in a black leather duster with an interior silk lining that matched his boots. His thumbs rested perfectly atop the broad lapels while his callous-free fingers slipped easily through the buttonholes. Zeb and Kate both did a double take. What could this man possibly have to say about the deceased morticians? And what the hell was he doing dressed up like the movie version of a western marshal?

"My name is Sun Rey." He paused, using his dark, seductive eyes to gather the congregation. "Most of you don't know me. I have lived in this fine community for only a short time. You may have heard of me by name. You may have frequented one of my business establishments."

Indeed Zeb and Kate knew of him by his reputation. In fact, both had been to one of his business establishments but not the same one. Their perspectives of the young man were based on rumor and reputation. They both saw humility as his short suit. Kate was highly suspicious of the man whom appeared to be in his late twenties. She thought of him as a con man at best, evil at worst. She considered his so called sect, Master Light of Sunshine, creepy and quite possibly dangerous, especially to the beautiful young women who seemed to have fallen under his mystical spell.

Zeb, on the other hand, had a different take on Sun Rey. He had seen the man in action during a snake handling service at Sun Rey's Church of God Holiness. Sun Rey could quote numerous justifications, word for word, from the Gospels of Luke and Mark that placed a biblical authentication upon his actions. Zeb was drawn to Sun Rey's meetings, having attended numerous tent ministries in his youth with his mother and brother. Zeb had been present several times when what he believed to be an astonishing snake-handling miracle healing took place. As to the Master Light of Sunshine sect, Zeb had done some investigating. All those involved in the sect were adults. Those hearing Sun Rey's preaching and observing his snake handling seemed capable of making the personal choice to be present at the tent revivals. Most importantly, everything Zeb had seen involving Sun Rey's businesses and his sect seemed to fall within the bounds of legality. Zeb thought Kate was being overly protective of the young women.

Sun Rey continued. "When I first came to Graham County, I was a penniless drifter. I had nary a friend in the world. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself, but I guess maybe I was."

Sun Rey overly accentuated certain words and often drew out others to a great length for emphasis. His voice reminded Zeb of the old-fashioned tent ministers of his youth, ministers whom he believed saved his and his mother's lives.

"It was a chance meeting with Rainen and Elizabeth, or the divinations of God, in the very graveyard where they are to be buried, that turned my life around."

Sun Rey pivoted on one toe, spun around and completed a three hundred and sixty degree circle on the heels of his shiny boots. His duster jacket flew open as he stopped on a dime. The burgundy inner lining was stitched in white lettering with Bible verses. He held the lining open a long moment for all to see. Zeb's eyes fell upon a shiny object, a silver knife handle perhaps, tucked into the young man's belt.

"I was contemplating ending it all right then and there. Rainen, carrier of the spirit of the Lord that he was, could see with his loving eyes right into the pain of my heart. He knew, he knew without fail that I carried a wounded essence inside my weakened body. Sister Elizabeth, God rest her loving soul, looked at me in a way that only a mother can look upon a wayward child teetering at the edge of everlasting darkness."

Sun Rey paused again. This time he slowly wiped away a tear from the corner of his right eye. Scanning the crowd he caught as many eyes as would catch his. Zeb knew he was working them, just like any revivalist worth their weight in salt would do. Zeb's body stirred in memory of how proselytizing had saved his soul when he was a child. He was beginning to feel the message.

"Brothers and sisters, in a marvelous, mind-blowing, God-loving, God-fearing way, Brother Rainen and Sister Elizabeth helped me change my life and renew my spirit in a manner no words can describe. Perhaps you could say I dug their vibes, if you dig what I mean?"

A few in the crowd stirred uncomfortably at his loose language and mannerisms, but most listened intently.

"I could see right away they wanted to help me turn my life around. They took me in. They fed my body. They strengthened my soul. They helped me wash away the stain of my sins. They gave me good, hard, honest work, work that is good for the mind and the body. I can say that without the two of them I might be underground right now."

Zeb turned to Kate and quietly asked, "How well do you know this guy?"

"Some. He runs the 322 Coffee Bistro over on the corner of Fourth Street and Walnut Avenue. How about you?"

"Some. Not much really. He keeps mostly to himself," replied Zeb. "I know of the café, of course. I've heard that some of the young women from his sect do exotic dancing over in Tucson. For the Lord, of course."

Kate frowned and rolled her eyes. Zeb didn't mention the snake handling ceremony he had seen Sun Rey at or that the Sheriff of Graham County had frequented the iCandy Gentleman's Club in Tucson featuring some of the women who were sect members. However, he knew the rumors that were floating around town about the 322 Coffee Bistro. It was rumored that teenagers could get home-baked, marijuana-laced brownies. Zeb didn't understand how an overly expensive cup of joe with an impressive sounding name somehow was worth treble the regular price. The introduction of coffee elitism in Safford was just another thing that reminded Zeb of how his small town was changing. The double murder of Elizabeth Townes and Rainen Kayita was definitely another.

Zeb hadn't had any citizen complaints about the 322 other than some grumbling by customers that they had been taken to the cleaners. In reality he hadn't bothered to take the time to nose around the coffee shop. The 322 was face-to-face competition for Doreen's former place of business. That alone was enough to make him keep his distance. He didn't need any of that overpriced, foo-foo tea. He enjoyed his very rare and very real slurp of coffee, but primarily it was herbal tea at the Town Talk Diner among the company of regulars and the memories of times gone by that kept him in his comfort zone.

"Is he full of shit?" asked Kate.

Her heavily stressed accent on shit caused a few heads in the pew ahead of her to turn sharply and give her a nasty look.

"Who knows?" whispered Zeb. "Let's talk about it after the funeral. And keep your voice down. We don't want the sheriff's office to offend anyone."

Zeb, for some reason, wasn't being up front with Kate about how he really felt. He could smell the real thing miles from the pasture. Even though he enjoyed the showmanship and was drawn to it, Zeb knew Sun Rey, or whatever his real name was, was slinging bullshit with each utterance.

Zeb glanced over at Jake Dablo who had made a late entrance and was a half dozen feet directly to his left. When their glances met, Jake rolled his eyes. Zeb smirked, nodded and placed his hand on his cheek, turned his head and pinched his nose. The childish maneuver brought a smile to Jake's face. He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and jotted something down. Kate elbowed Zeb in the ribs and mouthed 'grow up' as Sun Rey continued to testify.

"But as it is I am a better man for having known them. I was blessed to have been shown some excellent and highly ethical business principles by Brother Rainen and Sister Elizabeth. I would not be the honest man I am today without their careful and holy guidance. They were like a second set of parents to me. They were like the parents I wish I had growing up. But Brother Death did not allow Father Time to take them in the natural way. May they rest in peace, rise to God's glorious Kingdom and be eternally at one with the Spirit of our Lord. Amen to you my brothers and sisters. Amen. Amen."

More than a few in the crowded church complemented his amen with their own. Jake grumbled "bullshit" loudly enough to be picked up by Zeb's ears. Once again some people turned to give Jake a disapproving look. Across the aisle Zeb stared directly at this shoes, shook his head and gritted his teeth. As much as he hated not being himself, there was an election coming up. He needed to rein in his deputies, at least in church.

Several more of the congregated made their way to the lectern. Each spoke glowingly of the work the pair had done in preparing their family members for the journey into the afterlife. Elizabeth Townes, according to those who gave testimony, was particularly adept at dressing the dead and applying make-up such that the dead often appeared alive, stunning those who attended visitations. On the other hand, rather surprisingly, Rainen Kayita was apparently nothing short of a spectacular hairdresser. The very thought of Rainen being a specialist in that particular area brought a smile to Zeb's face. Not only was Rainen a macho man, an excellent hunter and a man among men, but he rarely combed his own hair. More than once Zeb remembered Rainen referring to men who styled their coifs as girly-men or worse.

Zeb's mind momentarily trapped itself in a circle of thought regarding the actual moment of Rainen's death. How had someone managed to get the jump on him? It truly didn't make sense. Early investigation into the crime gave nearly incontrovertible evidence showing that Rainen died second. The time difference wasn't great, but Rainen had definitely been killed after Elizabeth had breathed her final breath. Along with Zeb's findings Doc Yackley had figured it out using horse sense, and the special medical examiner called in from Tucson verified the facts. On the surface the order of their deaths was seemingly incongruent. Why kill a small woman when a big man was obviously nearby? Why didn't Rainen do more to protect himself and Elizabeth? He was certainly capable of doing so, but his hands showed no signs of self-defense.

Next to testify was the newly elected tribal chairman of the San Carlos Apache Reservation. Nations Wentsler was a life-long friend of Zeb's. Nations had graduated from Safford High School one year after Zeb. He had played football, baseball and basketball with Zeb as well as being in choir and band with him. Both were captains of the sports teams. However, after graduation from Safford Public High School, Nations followed a decidedly different course than Zeb. After a quick stint in the Army, which Nations hated because of all the 'White man's rules', he became the regional pot dealer. He pedaled his wares on the San Carlos and White Mountain Apache Reservations but also to the Hopi, Zuni, Ute and Navajo tribes up in the Four Corners region. He made a pile of money before he got busted. Sentenced to ten years, he served only ten months at the federal prison in Safford. Somehow Nations managed an early release. The file on his pot dealing case was sealed, likely for his own protection. Therefore, Zeb had no access to the circumstances of Nations' release. Word on the streets and dirt roads of the Rez, as well as all over the town of Safford, was that Nations was not only able to obtain an early release without the help of lawyers but was allowed to keep most, if not all, of his ill-gotten gains. The actual facts surrounding his arrangement with the Feds were mired in rumors. Since Zeb wasn't officially informed by the federal government as to the details, he assumed the rumors were just that, rumors. Unless Nations came clean to him about the pact he had made, Zeb would never know the truth. That was all fine and dandy with him. Deals were made every day within the judicial/prison system. There was absolutely no doubt in Zeb's mind that Nations had managed to make a particularly good one.

One thing Zeb did know was that Nations still liked to puff on the chronic. Nations made no bones about that. Zeb's libertarian ideals allowed him to believe what a man did in his private time was his own business unless he was harming someone else. As a lawman Zeb believed in victimless crimes. Besides, the chance that marijuana would soon be legal in Arizona was great. There were always bigger fish to fry than dope smokers.

"It is a sad day for both Graham County and the San Carlos," Nations began. "Sometimes life ends too early. Death, as it is said, has no mercy. Brother Death carries a perfect record. He takes each and every one of us. Death had no mercy for my good friend, Rainen, and none for my occasional lover, Elizabeth."

The congregation collectively piqued its ears. Even at this solemn occasion no one wanted to miss out on any gossip.

Zeb had shared a few words with Nations outside the church before the ceremony and couldn't help but notice his reddened eyes. He guessed that Nations' eyes were not reddened from sadness and death, but from the marijuana reeking from his clothing, breath and hair. Now, as Nations spoke from the pulpit apparently stoned out of his skull, he was admitting an affair with one of the deceased. Although Nations was a half dozen or more years older than Elizabeth, he was close enough in age for the affair not to be age inappropriate. Elizabeth was divorced. People are people thought Zeb. Experience had shown him that funerals often brought out strange reactions, emotional outbursts and often unknown truths. Even so, Nations had chosen an odd time to confess what had obviously been an extremely secretive relationship. What purpose did it serve for Nations to sully the good name of Elizabeth Townes by admitting it publicly? Zeb suspected time might just offer an answer to that very question.

Kate turned to Zeb and whispered her own conjecture on that very subject.

"To say such a thing at a funeral," said Kate. "He must be feeling genuine remorse for having had the affair."

Zeb shrugged his shoulders. From his perspective most men were weak when it came to primal urges. Such impulses were often driven by that which hung below their belts and hid behind the metallic teeth of their zippers. Elizabeth was only human. She had her needs. Only recently, during his brief marriage to Doreen, had Zeb realized the carnal yearnings of women were no different than the sexual desires of men. Zeb noticed three young women known to work at the Copper Dolls Cabaret, the local house of ill-repute. Today was no time to pass judgment on Elizabeth, Nations or the whores sitting in the pews only a few feet from him. God above, in his infinite wisdom, would have his almighty hand in that business. Zeb had deep doubts God would be much bothered by such trivialities of the human heart and the human flesh. God's realm is only of the spirit. Maybe Nations, stoned as he was, was trying to pave a path for Elizabeth past Saint Peter at the golden gates.

"I loved her, but I will confess I was not truly in love with her," said Nations. "She was a fine woman, a great lover and a constant friend. I only pray that the good sheriff of Graham County, Zeb Hanks, whom I see standing in the back of the church, has the good luck and professional skill to find the killer or killers of Elizabeth and Rainen. Whoever did this foul deed needs to be put away behind bars for a very long time."

All eyes turned to look at Zeb. He kept a game face on, pursing his lips. Stoic, he patiently waited for the crowd to return their collective gaze back to the pulpit. Zeb knew the citizens of Graham County as well as the tribal members of the San Carlos would demand this murder investigation come to resolution quickly. Without a swift and positive outcome dread would dance with rumors and diffuse quickly to the far corners of both the county and the reservation. Fear and anxiety among the general populous was something neither Nations nor Zeb wanted.

"I trust that my newly appointed Tribal Police Chief Rambler Braing will do his part to bring the killers to justice. Sheriff Hanks, I am aware that the killings took place off the Rez, but Rainen Kayita was born on the San Carlos and lived there all of his born days. Since the funeral home where the murders took place serves both the Rez and town and sits halfway between the two, I know we will all want to work together on this. I can promise you the tribe will cooperate in every way possible with the investigation. We will also be doing a complete and wide-ranging investigation of our own."

Several spirited amens were heard from the family and friends of Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes. Zeb, Kate and Jake thought it a very unusual time for Nations to put public pressure on the sheriff's office and the tribal police to solve the murder. This was especially troubling in light of the fact Nations hadn't approached any of them once in the four days since the murders.

As Nations returned to his seat, the back doors of the church burst open. Sunlight flooded the semi-darkened church as a gust of wind blew in a modicum of desert dust and sand. Six men, Native Americans, Apache from the looks of it, all with shiny black hair pulled back into ponytails and dressed head to toe in shiny black leather, marched into the church, two by two, military style. Zeb had heard the sound of motorcycles moments before their appearance.

"May I testify?" asked the man. Zeb assumed the speaker was the leader of the bikers. His voice was firm and polite. It was obvious to Zeb the man wasn't really asking the Reverend Kurker for consent.

"Please do," said Reverend Kurker hesitatingly. "Are you a friend of either of the deceased?"

The outlaw-looking crew, arms crossed on their chests, moved to the side aisles of the church at fifteen foot intervals. Zeb checked them out. Clearly they were all packing side-arms. The last thing he needed was a shootout at a funeral. Already Kate and Jake had their weapons at the ready. A moment passed and, with a closer look, Zeb realized these men were not looking for trouble. The collective tough guy act they portrayed was just that, an act. The lone exception to the tough guy act was man who asked to testify. He face was hard. He stood solid as a rock at several inches over six feet. His body seemed chiseled out of granite.

"I barely knew them," said the man. "I hope and pray they are resting in peace."

"If you hardly knew the deceased, may I enquire as to why you would like to testify?" The good reverend, taken aback by the situation, was clearly puzzled.

"My name is Foster Bingham," replied the leader of the motorcycle group. "I come because you need to know there has been another murder."

He definitely had the attention of the congregated at this point. Several of the women gasped aloud and brought handkerchiefs to their mouths. Foster Bingham aimed an accusatory finger, like the barrel of a gun, at Sheriff Hanks.

"Sheriff Hanks, how many bodies were in the funeral home being prepared by Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes for burial four days ago when they were murdered?"

The question seemed rhetorical to Zeb. The people of Safford and the San Carlos Reservation seated in the pews all knew the answer. It was common knowledge, not only from the rumor mill but from a story in the newspaper that two bodies were at the funeral home when the murders occurred. One of the bodies had been completely prepared and was lying in a casket ready for burial. The other was being worked on at the time of the murders. The entire town knew the details. What this man was talking about was totally irrelevant to the murders of Rainen and Elizabeth. What was this biker in black getting at?

Like a low flying cloud, confusion shrouded the inside of the First Dutch Evangelical Reform Church. Threads of doubt were being woven together. Perhaps Sheriff Zeb Hanks was holding something back from them, something they had the right to know.

"Two? Is that the number everyone has in their heads? Well, that number is shy by one. There were three bodies in the funeral home. The third body was that of my brother, Frederick James Bingham. Why do I know that and none of you do?"

Foster Bingham posed the query. This time he truly was being rhetorical. He answered his own question before anyone could draw as much as a solitary breath.

"Not long before the bodies of Elizabeth and Rainen were found I received a phone call from Elizabeth Townes informing me a body with the identification of my brother, Fredrick James Bingham, was dropped off at the back door of the funeral home. It was dumped unceremoniously near the garbage cans. How can I be certain it was my brother?" Another rhetorical question. "Because he had multiple forms of identification. I was also able to give Elizabeth four distinct identifying marks that were on my brother's body. However, she could not find a sacred family relic that Frederick always carried around his neck. He was obviously killed for the family heirloom."

A collective gasp disquieted the church. Yet another murder had struck Graham County. How could this possibly happen in their fair corner of the world? This sort of thing, multiple murders, simply did not happen here in their back yard. This was the evil stuff of New York or Los Angeles, maybe Phoenix. The seeds of fear which had been sewn with the double murder of Rainen and Elizabeth had just been fertilized. The trepidation and anxiety that accompanies fear was beginning to grow in people's minds spreading from one to another like a summer desert wild fire.

"Now my brother is dead. Elizabeth Townes is dead. Rainen Kayita is dead. Not only is my brother dead, but his body has somehow vanished right from under the noses of Sheriff Hanks and the Safford County Sheriff's Department as well as the San Carlos Tribal Police and their distinguished Chief Rambler Braing. Sheriff Hanks, Police Chief Braing, can you tell me where my dead brother's body is, and what you are going to do about it?"

The church mouse scurrying across a back corner of the First Dutch Evangelical Reform Church was the only sound in the building. Foster waited in dramatic silence before once again speaking.

"My family is directly descended from Cochise. Cochise was the greatest Chiricahua Apache chief. The relic stolen from my brother's neck was handmade by Cochise's mother when he was pronounced Nantan of the Chokonen. Cochise's real name was Cheis. Cheis means strong, like oak. The amulet is not only our family heritage. It belongs to the entire Apache nation. It was an eternal vestige for our family, our tribe and our personal link to all that ever was and all that shall ever be. It was created from the most ancient oak tree known to our people. The talisman has four sacred hoop symbols carved into it. The circles represent our traditional homes, the place of our religious ceremonies, our traditional circle dance and the circular paths of the lives of all creatures. I promise death to anyone, White or Apache, who has stolen it from us."

The spokesmen nodded to his confederate bikers. At his nearly imperceptible signal they reached inside their leathers and removed copied photographs of Frederick James Bingham. Next to the image of the allegedly dead man was an image of Cochise. The motorcycle gang, acting like church ushers, dispersed them among the crowd. The resemblance between Frederick James Bingham, Foster Bingham and Cochise was uncanny. Except for the obvious time difference in the photographs, the brothers, Frederick and Foster Bingham, could have been born of the same womb as the last great and perhaps greatest ever Apache chief, Cochise. In the lower right hand corner was a sketch of the amulet which had never been photographed.

"Sheriff Hanks, Police Chief Braing, find my brother's body. Find the oak amulet that ties my family to the eternity of the Apache Nation. That amulet is the most important artifact of the last great Apache chief. I will deal with whoever took it. I can promise you their days are numbered."

The death threat in and of itself was enough to place the man in handcuffs for further questioning. In his wisdom Zeb knew this was certainly the wrong time for such an action. Foster Bingham's words would hang heavily in Zeb's and Rambler's minds until the man who allegedly killed Frederick Bingham and stole a piece of Cochise's family history was either dead or in jail.

The attendees on Elizabeth Towne's side of the aisle turned to Sheriff Hanks. The congregants on the side of Rainen Kayita immediately turned to Tribal Police Chief Rambler Braing. Foster Bingham slowly walked down the center aisle, his eyes piercing each person he passed on his way out of the church. Was he looking for the killer, or was he making certain no one would ever forget who he was or what he looked like? The sheriff and the tribal police chief exchanged a brief, telling glance. This was neither the time nor the place to make a scene. Sheriff Hanks watched motionlessly as the bikers departed from the church.

As the doors of the church closed behind them a familiar eerie echo entered the church. The sound was known by the locals as the ghost wind of Mount Graham. Whenever it was heard, trouble seemed to follow closely on its heels.

# 4

"I'm fucking sick of digging holes in the ground," said Stretch.

Joaquin, the leader of the crew, stood above the freshly opened grave looking down disdainfully on the two diggers, Gimpy and Stretch. He responded quickly to the complaint.

"Shut your pie hole and get on with it. It pays the bills, don't it?"

"The boss is right," said Gimpy. "We're getting paid to do this."

"Not enough," replied Stretch.

"Yeah, just shut your yap and do some work, would you?" said Gimpy.

"I do twice as much as you do," said Stretch. "Even when I'm working at half-speed."

"You wouldn't know real work if it bit you in the ass," said Gimpy.

"Get back to work," said Joaquin. "You're wasting time. Quit screwing around and get to it."

"Yeow, ouch, my back is killing me," said Stretch. "First we dig that hole down near Dragoon and now this. I'm tired, I'm sore and I'm sick of digging in this lousy dirt."

"You stinking, rotten bastard," said Gimpy. "You're just saying that because you want me to do all the work. I oughta bash your brains in."

"Take it easy, you two," said Joaquin. "We've got work that's got to get done. We're on a time schedule."

"Wait a second, I think I struck a rock," said Stretch.

Dusk had deftly taken a dive into night time. The sky was beginning to paint itself with stars. Joaquin shined fifty lumens of light into the hole from his Princeton Tec EOS. A brilliant beam of light shot into the floor of the freshly dug hole in the ground.

"I don't think you struck a rock," said Joaquin. "I think it's something else."

"Then what the hell is it?" asked Stretch.

"Step aside and wipe off the dirt," said Joaquin, throwing Stretch a towel and a bottle of water.

Gimpy had been doing the majority of the digging and was glad for the break. He leaned on his shovel and glanced up at the man in charge. After Stretch poured the bottle of water over the object and wiped away the dirt, Joaquin leaned forward for a closer look. After doing so, he spoke excitedly.

"Gold, solid freaking gold. A skull with a hole in it above the right eye. The skull itself is huge. That describes exactly what we're looking for," said Joaquin. "This is the skull of Mangas Coloradas."

The name meant nothing to Stretch. Gimpy had heard it but didn't remember why.

"Are you sure we got the right grave?" asked Gimpy. "Cause if it ain't the right grave, all we got is an old skull and some old bones."

Joaquin pulled out an intricately drawn map. He began to count aloud as he pointed into the dim, ever-darkening distance. For the amount of cold, hard cash the collector was willing to pay, it made perfect sense to double and triple check everything.

"One, two, three big rocks angled in a row toward the southwest. One, two old piñon trees, the second one dying at the roots."

Gimpy lifted himself out of the hole. He leaned over Joaquin's shoulder and had a look for himself at the map.

"Here, grab the end of this tape measure and walk over to the piñon tree," Joaquin ordered.

Gimpy fumbled with the end of the tape and limped over to the first piñon tree as instructed. He gently placed the measuring tape on the ground.

"Precisely sixty-two feet," said Joaquin. "We're at the right grave all right. Ain't no doubt about it."

"What do we do now?" asked Gimpy.

"Yeah, what do we do now?" echoed Stretch from the hole in the ground.

"Put the skull in the duffle bag, numb nuts. Do I have to do all the thinking?"

Stretch did as his boss ordered. Carefully, he handed Joaquin the skull from the hole in the ground.

"I thought Injuns didn't bury their dead back in the day," said Stretch. "I thought they just left them to the wild, let the animals have their way with them and all that kind of shit."

"This particular body was reburied to hide it from the evil White man, you idiot," said Joaquin. "And what the hell do you mean when you say Injun?"

The man in the hole had forgotten his boss was proudly one-fourth Apache. On the other hand he didn't give a shit that the man helping him dig the hole was full blooded Apache.

"Should we refill the hole?" asked Gimpy.

"Yes, but first jump back down in there and see if you can find any more large bones."

Gimpy looked begrudgingly at Joaquin.

"You know I don't like jumping into these things," he said. "It's bad luck. Besides, you said the only thing we had to dig up was the skull."

"I don't give a fuck whether you like it or not. Nor do I give a shit about what I told you earlier. Just do your goddamn job."

Gimpy eased himself back down into the dirt hole, his leg pain evidenced by his grimacing face. Joaquin leaned on a shovel, resting from directing his fool partners. He shined his flashlight into the night. Shadows of darkness now surrounded them. Nothing and no one was to be seen for miles, or so it would seem.

"Shine some goddamned light in this freakin' goddamn hole would you?" demanded Stretch.

Joaquin shined the light into the eyes of Stretch who had never left the hole. Covertly, Joaquin slowly eased a .45 from a holster he had tucked under his jacket. This gun had no safety to click off. No sound would give him away. Joaquin aimed the big weapon directly at Stretch. Exhaling to remove all quiver from his arm, Joaquin squeezed gently back on the trigger. The bullet created both an entry and exit wound before the man could utter a single word. Stretch crumpled instantly into a pile. A second shot blew a hole in his chest.

"Now get out of that hole and bury that lazy son of a bitch," Joaquin shouted at Gimpy.

Gimpy began the process of burying the dead man, shovelful by shovelful. Stretch had occasionally been nice to him. Gimpy felt a tiny pang of guilt about his dead friend as he looked down at the now half-buried body. Stretch's skull still oozed blood into the reddish dirt, and his arms jutted up as if someone had shouted hands up and he had obeyed.

"Better a two way split than a three way," said Joaquin.

"How much we getting' this time?" The thought of money eased Gimpy's conscience.

"Seven thousand five hundred U.S. dollars each, my good friend, plus twenty-five hundred each for the first skull we dug up. Enough money to keep us in liquor and whores for quite a long while."

Gimpy continued his work burying Stretch. Covering a body in a shallow grave was much easier and faster than digging a hole in the ground. He tossed the last shovelful and patted the dirt flat.

"All done here, boss," said Gimpy.

A demonic horselaugh flew through what remained of Joaquin's tobacco-stained teeth, ricocheted through the night, across an open field to an ancient canyon, before it was interrupted by the roaring blast of the .45 Joaquin had never bothered to re-holster. This time his first shot was straight to the heart, the second to Gimpy's head. His body fell halfway atop the freshly flattened red dirt.

"The critters will eat your carcass and carry your bones away before anyone or anything wanders out this way," uttered Joaquin. "Adiós, my full blooded Indian, gimpy-legged amigo. You were a dumb shit who had no more foresight than a cross-eyed baboon. We reap the seeds we sow my friend."

Joaquin reached down and removed the necklace with the wooden trinket from the gimpy-legged man. The stars rose and a blood moon appeared on the horizon. He began thinking about which of the young ladies at the Copper Dolls Cabaret he would spend his new riches on. As he walked to his truck a cold coyote wind blustered up from nowhere causing the hairs on is neck to stand up. He looked down at the oak trinket in his hand and noticed a carving on the amulet. Guilt, something he rarely felt, rose up. He looked back in the direction of Gimpy's body and cursed. He didn't know why but some unseen power was impelling him to act. He quickly returned to the grave and grabbed the dead man by the collar. He occasionally made money dropping off dead bodies at the funeral home. This time he was doing it for free.

In the far distance, under the same blood moon, Jimmy Song Bird paid close attention to the wind as he performed a healing ceremony. Song Bird cocked his head listening to what could not be heard. Once again Song Bird turned his eyes skyward as the mooned glowed an orange-red color. Science told him the reddish hue was caused by sunlight scattering off Earth's atmosphere, but Song Bird knew the old ways as well. He could read the omens. Something bad was happening to one of his people. Death loomed large. The healing he was performing was all but nullified by what nature was telling him. Slowly he packed his things, keeping a hand on his sidearm. With his first step a night raven cawed a single cry. Song Bird's flesh rippled.

The night sky, twinkling with stars, was suddenly missing the reddish-orange moon that had hidden itself behind some low drifting clouds. Joaquin began to feel the presence of doom. Something he couldn't quite place his trigger finger on was murmuring in his ear. It whispered unnervingly that his evil deeds were about to catch up with him. His heart began to race like a rabbit far from his hole being hunted by a coyote. His right foot slammed down on the gas pedal. Was this angst or exhilaration? What did he care? For the moment he was safe in his car. If he were to die tonight, it would be best to be in the arms of a whore.

# 5

With a beaming smile that favored his half-rotting teeth, Joaquin zipped up his pants with a quick move, holding his other hand over his junk. Coming to the Copper Dolls Cabaret had been a wise choice. He felt much lighter. Due to his good mood and fresh stack of cash, Joaquin laid out a pair of twenty-dollar bills for the whore.

"A little something extra for you," he said.

"Why, thank you. I do appreciate that, and you are welcome back any time you're feeling frisky," said the whore.

"I like you," said Joaquin. "What's your name?"

"Evita," replied the petite woman.

"It's a beautiful name," said Joaquin.

"Thank you. That is very kind of you," said Evita.

"I've never known an Indian gal with that name," said Joaquin. "And I probably never will again. Professional name?"

The whore smiled shyly and nodded her head up and down.

"How much time do I have left on the clock?" asked Joaquin.

"Twelve minutes," the whore said, glancing at the oversized clock on the wall.

"I've got to learn not to be so quick on the draw," laughed Joaquin. "But it's been a while. My gun was loaded, and your finger managed to press down on the trigger just right."

Joaquin sat at the edge of the bed on top of the messed up sheets. He liked this whore. There was something different about her. She was young, pretty and easy to talk to. These were characteristics he rarely found in his circle of friends and acquaintances and never among the whores in his life. Like most men who operate on the wrong side of the law he wanted to confess his sins. Confession could help his tainted soul, but his words could only be said to someone who had no reason to rat him out. Whores, he knew from life experience, wanted as little to do with Johnny Lawman as he did.

"Would you think it was strange if we just sat here and talked for those twelve minutes? After all, I paid for them."

"You're down to eleven. Say your piece," said the whore, slipping on her panties but leaving her dangling breasts bare.

"Are you a religious woman?" asked Joaquin.

"My first piece of ass was a preacher's boy. I guess that sort of makes me religious," she said. "Traveling tent revival preacher's boy. I was twelve, he was fifteen. I thought it was love. He thought it was a miracle from God. As I look back on it, we were both part right and part wrong."

"Were you in love, Evita?" asked Joaquin. Joaquin felt strangely close to the whore as he used her name.

"Hell no," replied the whore. "Lusty loins were driving my libido down the tracks like a runaway train, but it felt like love at the time."

The whore smiled wistfully as private thoughts carried her back to a place and time that lived in the dust bowl of memory.

"How about you? Since we're trading secrets, who was your first lover?"

Joaquin hesitated a full minute. He had never told anyone before that his older sister had popped his cherry. Speaking this truth to the whore would create an unbreakable bond with her. Sharing the deep dark secret that he kept locked away in a solid gold vault at the center of his soul would cross a river of no return. If he could find it to trust the whore with his deepest secret, he could tell her anything. It was just what he needed. He blurted his answer.

"My sister. My older sister. We were poor. We shared a bed. We were both curious. It was her idea. Really it was. I was scared to death. I only lasted about two seconds. I still feel guilty when I think about it. I think I do anyway. Actually, I don't know what I feel or what I should feel. You're the first person I've ever told that story."

The relief of letting go of this hidden truth caused Joaquin to feel shame. The whore slid to his side and comforted him. She grabbed his right hand and placed it between her breasts over her heart.

"Feel my heart beat. It will make you feel better," Evita said.

"I feel like such an idiot," he replied. "I feel weak."

"Don't worry. Sometimes that's just the way things happen. You're not the first man to tell me exactly that same story. You're here now. That's all that matters. The past is dead and gone. Everything is gonna be all right."

Joaquin snorted, choking back tears. They both laughed.

"Ain't that a line from a country song?" he asked.

"Hell, it's a line from a dozen of 'em. I was thinking of Paul Thorn's version of a song called just that, _Everything's Gonna Be All Right_. You know what made me think of that?" asked Evita.

Joaquin shook his downward facing head. Here he was confessing his most unoriginal sin to nearly a complete stranger. He laid back down and glanced into the ceiling mirror. If a book could be judged by its cover, he would be a best seller on guilt and shame.

"I'm sorry for crying in front of you, Evita," said Joaquin. "I think I just opened up a can of worms."

"Don't worry about your tears. They're special," said Evita.

"What are you talking about?" asked Joaquin.

"Your tears. Your words. You. You made me feel hopeful. You made me feel that bein' a whore is more than just bein' a whore. You know what I mean?"

Joaquin shook his head woefully. He didn't have a clue what she was talking about. Then again, he wasn't thinking all too clearly at the moment.

"I mean you make me feel like everything really is gonna to be all right. I like that feeling. I love that feeling. I used to get it all the time. Lately, not so much. But here you are serving up a good feelin' to me like there was nothing to it." She kissed him gently on the forehead. "Would you come back and see me sometime? I'm here every night except Tuesday," said Evita.

"Sure," said Joaquin. "I'm going to be around for a little while longer with my work. That would be nice. I like you. You're so easy to talk to. I don't have a woman I can talk to. I never did. Not even my mama."

"What kind of work does a man like you do?" asked the whore.

Joaquin's mind snapped back to attention and clarity. This was something he had to be very cautious about. He liked the whore. He wanted to make a connection with her, but the last thing he could tell her was the truth. He couldn't tell anyone the truth. He didn't even like telling himself the truth about what he did and who he was.

"I find certain things for rich people," replied Joaquin.

"Are you a detective?" asked Evita.

"In a manner of speaking. Yeah, I'm a detective. That's a real fine word for what I do."

"Oh my God. Can you believe it? I need a detective."

With a sweeping bow Joaquin proudly announced, "At your service, ma'am."

"Do you think you could help me find my ex-husband and my son?" she asked.

Joaquin's heart sank. The whore was looking for her ex-husband. His heart felt crushed at the thought of her with a regular man. Jealousy was such a peculiar emotion for him to feel. Evita could see the concern on his face.

"I only want to find my ex-husband so I can see my son. I want nothing to do with the ex. My son, Elisha, is almost four years old now. God, but I miss him so much it makes my heart hurt."

"Maybe I can help you find him. Depends on what you know about where they might be. It would help if you had a picture I could look at."

Evita quickly reached under her bed and grabbed an old, wrinkled manila envelope. Inside were a half dozen pictures of her in somewhat better days. Standing next to her in the photograph was a rough, ruggedly handsome looking man and a beautiful young boy. The child had longish, messy hair and a carried a beaming smile so full of joy that it nearly brought tears to Joaquin's eyes. He really wanted to help her. Evita seemed to believe him. Joaquin held up the pictures and studied them closely.

"You've got a right handsome young lad for a son. I would be glad to look for him. I have some work to complete. When I get it done, and that should be soon, I can get right on it. I will help you find your son. Every boy should know his mother."

"I expect to pay your regular fee," said Evita. "I've got some money saved up."

"Why haven't you gone to the cops?" asked Joaquin.

"I've got a half dozen warrants on me and," she said. Evita pointed to the picture of her ex-husband and added, "He has even more. I just want to give the kid a break. I don't want him to see his daddy or his mommy in jail, especially his mommy. His daddy is a real dickhead but he ain't always a bad guy. He just wasn't right for me. I blame myself for all the shit that went down between us. Still, I want to see my son."

Joaquin sighed. The story could be his own. He had once heard a preacher speak of redemption. Maybe this was his chance at deliverance. It was also a chance to see more of Evita.

"Say, cowboy, you've never told me your name," said Evita.

"Joaquin."

"Do you live around here?" she asked. "Maybe we could get a drink sometime when I'm not working."

"Maybe. I mean, yes, I'd like that. I'd like it a whole lot," said Joaquin.

In the back of his mind he knew he was crossing a dangerous boundary into even more potentially perilous territory. If people associated her with him and he got caught at what he was doing, she might be in big time trouble. She might even be considered his accomplice. He didn't want to bring her any more trouble than she already had.

Evita grabbed his hand. She wrote on his palm with a Sharpie.

"This is my personal cell number." She stopped, thinking, and began writing again, this time on the underside of his forearm. "And this one is my business cellphone, just in case."

"A drink then, in the future, Evita," said Joaquin.

"Yes, Joaquin, sort of like a date. Something normal people get to do."

"When?" he asked.

"You've got my number. Call me any time."

The big clock made a buzzing sound as it struck the top of the hour. Evita finished getting dressed. She wrapped her arms around Joaquin and softly kissed him goodbye as she led him out the door.

# 6

Rambler Braing, San Carlos Reservation Chief of Police, had insisted that Zeb come to his suggested meeting place alone. When Zeb asked why, Rambler curtly refused to explain himself.

"Show up by yourself if you want to get any closer to finding the missing body of Frederick Bingham. I don't really know your staff well enough to be sure they won't screw the pooch on this one," said Rambler.

The rendezvous would take place at four p.m. on the Aravaipa Canyon Road, on the front porch of the old and long abandoned Aravaipa store. With the recent rain it would take Zeb an hour or more to traverse the dirt and gravel road, that is if he didn't get stuck or slide off the slick road. Zeb glanced at his watch, two fifty-four. He pushed himself up and out of his office chair, grabbed his cowboy hat and headed toward the outer office.

"Helen, I'm headed out to meet Chief Braing at the Aravaipa Store," said Zeb.

His longstanding, stalwart secretary glanced at the clock.

"You checking out for the day or coming back?" she asked.

"I can't really say for sure. It depends on how long this meeting takes."

"Do I need to make a note as to what this meeting is about?" asked Helen.

"Nope."

"I'm leaving at four-thirty for my grandchildren's soccer games. Anything vitally important I should get done before I head out for the day?"

Zeb contemplated Helen's inquiry as he stared out the window off in the distance toward the side hills of Mount Graham. His eyes seemed to be playing tricks with him. He was certain he saw movement that appeared to be a bear which was very unlikely. Bears on the Mount were notorious for their ability to avoid human contact. Jimmy Song Bird schooled him long ago that Coyote had taught Bear the secrets of avoiding human beings or People as he sometimes called them. Zeb shook his head, clearing his mind. Suddenly it dawned on him what he had been waiting for all day long. He momentarily forgot he was talking to Helen as words absentmindedly escaped without forethought.

"My lord, where is my mind?" he said aloud.

"Not between your ears," replied Helen. "Unless it's taking a rest."

"Sorry, Helen. I was thinking aloud."

"Well? What is so important that you couldn't remember it?"

"Thanks for asking, Helen. It nearly escaped my mind."

"Shocking," replied Helen with gentle sarcasm. "Anything escaping the great sheriff's mind I mean."

Helen was not only his right hand but his aunt. She could speak any way she wanted to Zeb. Even though he outranked her as an official of Graham County, he didn't according to family status.

"I'm expecting a special delivery package from the FBI."

"It will be here first thing tomorrow morning," replied Helen. "Agent Rodriguez is delivering it in person. He said he had a few questions and some things he wanted to go over with you. He called about five minutes ago."

"Did Agent Rodriguez mention what it was he wanted to go over?" asked Zeb.

Unseen by Zeb, Helen rolled her eyes. "The man is an FBI agent. He isn't going to give me a crumb of information unless there's a loaf of bread in it for him."

Zeb laughed. That response was exactly why Helen was the perfect front end of his sheriff's office. His mind began to churn through the myriad of possibilities that might bring Rodriguez personally to town, all the way from Tucson.

"Five cents says his shoes are freshly shined," remarked Zeb.

Helen laughed. "As a young Mormon girl I was taught that men who shined their shoes to a spit polish did it so they could look up a girl's dress to see her panties. It sounds silly, I grant you that, but when I see Agent Rodriguez, I can't help but wonder if he isn't some sort of pervert."

"Old lessons die hard, don't they?" said Zeb.

"Nevertheless, I will be more comfortable if you are here when he arrives," replied Helen. "I don't care much for the way he treated you when...you know...when...when Doreen was..."

"Thanks, Helen. I don't remember him much from those days, but I'll take your word for it."

"Thanks so much, Sheriff. Blood's thicker than mud."

"You got that right, but sometimes the blood of a family is a bit muddy."

This time it was Helen's turn to giggle. As the family historian she knew where all the dirty secrets lay, some buried and some not.

"Well, in that case, I'd better not keep my old pal Rambler waiting," said Zeb.

"Oh, and don't forget you have an interview tomorrow with the final candidate for the new deputy sheriff position."

"More of my time wasted," said Zeb.

"The county needs another deputy," replied Helen.

"If temporary free money from the Feds didn't pay for it, the county commissioners would never have forced the issue."

"The extra man power will take a little pressure off of everyone," said Helen.

"Bah," said Zeb. "He'll have to be trained and that eats up a whole lot of time. Plus, what about when the federal grant ends? It'll totally mess up our budget."

"You can't fight city hall," said Helen.

Zeb muttered something under his breath as he placed his cowboy hat squarely on his head and made the short trek to his truck. What exactly could be Agent Rodriguez's reason for delivering the files on Foster and Frederick Bingham in person? The last time he encountered Agent Rodriguez was the day after Doreen had been murdered. Rodriguez was a strong reminder of the worst time in Zeb's life. In order to keep his pain at bay, Zeb had all but blacked out his entire memory of that day. To top it off he did not like the FBI personally invading his turf, and the personal attention Rodriguez was paying to this could not be anything good.

As Zeb backed out of his parking space and headed down the road he put a Guy Clark CD in his disc player. From _Cold Dog Soup_ to _Be Gone Forever_ each song struck a chord in his heart. At the city limits he was half-singing, half-humming along with _Cold Dog Soup_.

"Cold dog soup and rainbow pie is all it takes to get me by. Fool my belly 'til the day I die, cold dog soup and rainbow pie."

Somehow the words made perfect sense to Zeb even though he didn't have a clue what the songwriter actually meant. The music of Guy Clark was his and Doreen's private music. As goofy as it seemed they fell in love partially because of it. Zeb had never shared with anyone that he and Doreen sang every song of the CD aloud, together, every time they listened to it. As the CD continued with _Fort Worth Blues_ , Zeb was feeling lighter of spirit and possessed by pleasant, loving memories of Doreen.

# 7

Zeb pulled up to the Aravaipa Canyon store next to the old busted, red and white AT&T phone booth that occupied a small area in front on the southwest corner outside the long vacated general store. As he shifted into park Zeb eyed the nose of Chief Rambler's police vehicle sticking out from behind the building. He waited. Certainly Rambler had seen him coming down the road. There was no way to miss Zeb's vehicle or the dust it raised.

Zeb was closely watching the tribal police car when suddenly something caught his attention in the rearview mirror of his truck. Rambler Braing had walked around the opposite side of the building. Foster Bingham was walking next to him with a dark and angry scowl on his face. Zeb and Rambler stared at each other for a few short seconds before Rambler finally spoke.

"I don't believe you two have been formally introduced. Sheriff Hanks, this is Foster Bingham, Foster this is..."

"I know who he is," interrupted Foster. "He's the son of a bitch who doesn't believe my brother's body is missing and hasn't lifted a damn finger to find out the truth of what happened to Frederick."

Rambler smacked the motorcycle gang member across the back of the head hard with an open hand. For a brief moment he gripped Foster's long ponytail then abruptly let go of his hair and gripped him by the upper arm.

"Either you mind your manners or I'm going to throw some cuffs on you," said Rambler.

"Don't ever do that again, if you know what's good for you," said Foster, rubbing his head with a leathered glove hand.

"Can't take a little knock on the noggin? Bet you cried when your mama spanked you too," said Rambler.

"Enough of that shit," said Foster. "Keep my mother out of this. Remember that respect is a two-way street. If you want me to talk, you had better give me some."

Rambler gave a good three inches and forty pounds to the rough looking, muscular man he had just walloped but showed no signs of taking Foster Bingham's threatening words or looks seriously.

"Foster, please tell the good Sheriff of Graham County what you told me. Believe me, it will go a long way in helping us find your brother."

"Why should I trust him? He'll probably arrest me right here on the spot," replied Foster. "You can never trust a White man. You know that, Brother Rambler."

"First of all, you should trust him because I said you could trust him. Sheriff Hanks is a man of his word. Second, he sure as hell can't arrest you for providing information in an ongoing case unless it's a confession. Thirdly, I am not your brother. We both happen to be, by accident of birth, Apache. Frederick was your brother."

"You know what I mean," said Foster.

"It still doesn't make us brothers. Now talk or you're just eating up everybody's precious time. And tell the whole truth. We all have the same goal here. It might be a long shot, but I would venture a guess that Sheriff Hanks has better things to do than listen to your bullshit."

The stern words seemed to make an impression as Foster quickly opened up to Sheriff Hanks.

"My brother, Frederick, was a petty thief. Nothing big. Just little stuff, like copper pipes from abandoned houses, an occasional horse, a steak from the Safeway store, that sort of thing. He wasn't exactly a criminal per se."

"Sounds like an upstanding citizen," said Zeb.

"He led a troubled life. From the time he was three years old, when our dad was just back from the war, he used to beat Frederick senseless with his fists, a belt, a switch cane, anything he could get his damn hands on when he was in a beating mood, which was just about any time."

Zeb instantly softened his stance as he graphically drew up the image in his mind of his own father beating the tar and feathers out of him. It was the kind of thing that not only defined a boy, but a father-son relationship. It was also a situation that no child could help but carry into adulthood. His anger took a right turn toward empathy for the missing and allegedly dead Frederick Bingham.

"Our mother drank some, not a lot, when she was pregnant with him. When Frederick was able to get out of the house as a teenager, he ended up hanging with the wrong crowd. He wasn't fully developed mentally or emotionally. Maybe it was the alcohol my mom drank, maybe it was the beatings. I don't know. The beatings certainly didn't help his situation. He had more issues than most."

"I'm sorry about what I said," replied Zeb. "I should have chosen my words more carefully."

"Before we get all politically correct here," said Rambler. "Frederick was no upright citizen, that's for damn sure. He had his chances, but he didn't make anything of them. Let's not leave him blameless for the life he led. He was a career criminal, a petty one, but a habitual criminal nonetheless. From what I knew of him he lived without the least bit of remorse for any of his bad behavior. I suspect that's what ultimately did him in."

Zeb looked back and forth between Rambler and Foster. If anything passed between them because of Rambler's little rant, it was missed by Zeb. Rambler loosened the grip he had maintained on Foster's arm.

"Now tell Sheriff Hanks what you told me."

Foster looked around. There was nothing but an empty store, a phone booth, an abandoned trailer, an old LP gas tank and some rocks, sand and cacti for as far as the eye could see. Yet Foster spoke quietly and cautiously as if the wind might carry his words far away to some unknown place with ears.

"Sheriff, my brother was involved with some bad people who took advantage of him. He was about as sharp as a marble, God rest his soul, so it wouldn't be hard for someone to pull the wool over his eyes. Christ, it took me two years to teach him to ride a motorcycle with an automatic transmission, and still he crashed six of them in the last year."

"He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed is what you're saying?" Zeb commented.

"He would have been lucky to even find his way home without a map and some serious help," said Rambler. "But that's hardly the point. Go on now, Foster."

"Like I said, he was hanging around with some bad guys who would do just about anything for a buck. They all worked on and off in the gypsum mines down near Dudleyville. Working in your line of business, you know the type of people I'm talking about. I'd be willing to bet his pals have spent a night or two in your jail cells."

"What kind of bad guys are they?" asked Zeb. "Tell me how you see them. Don't make me guess."

"Just bad guys. They were a different breed of crooks. You might say they were the kind that would do anything short of murder for a buck, and I'm not so sure murder would be off the table for the right amount of money."

Out of nowhere Rambler smacked Foster with an open hand over the right kidney.

"What the fuck was that all about?" asked Foster. "I said they were bad guys."

"Tell Sheriff Hanks what you told me."

"They were the kind of bad guys that got paid to secretly drop off dead bodies at funeral homes and morgues. At least that's one of the things they did," said Foster, flinching and turning toward Rambler to see if another rabbit punch was coming his way.

Zeb was puzzled. Who the hell would pay to have a dead body dropped off anonymously? If someone killed someone, wouldn't they just leave the body where it fell or drop it in the desert? It made about as much sense as the quickness with which Rambler seemed intent on bashing in the back of Foster's head or punching his kidneys.

"Do you think they killed your brother?" asked Zeb.

"I know they killed him," replied Foster Bingham.

"You seem mighty certain of that."

"As certain as I'm looking you in the eye," replied Foster, spitting on the ground right next to Zeb's recently polished boots.

"How do you know for sure they killed him?" asked Zeb.

Foster moved a couple of steps away from Rambler Braing, not wanting yet another punch to the back of his head or kidneys. He chose his words with great caution.

"I talked with my brother the same day his body showed up at the funeral home. He told me that he and his buddies were about to make a big score, a really big score. He claimed he was going to make close to a thousand bucks for one hour's work."

"Did he mention what the job was?" asked Zeb.

"No, he didn't say. I don't know if he wouldn't or couldn't say what it was he was up to. He just asked to borrow my digging shovel, a flashlight and twenty bucks for gas. It was a quick phone call."

"Tell him what he said he needed the gas, flashlight and digging shovel for," demanded Rambler, bending his elbow and clenching his fist at his side.

"He needed the gas for his truck. He said he needed enough gas to get about as far as it is from Dudleyville to our folks' place."

"And tell him what he needed the digging shovel and flashlight for," coaxed Rambler.

"This is gonna sound weird, Sheriff Hanks," Foster turned to Rambler, eying his fists closely. "But he said he was going to do some digging in the desert at night, maybe in a couple of different places. He said first place they were headed was across the border."

"Did he say where?" Zeb asked.

Foster looked forlornly at Rambler's clenched fist, then at Zeb's gun and badge. He didn't want to tell them too much, or much of anything as far as that went. But Foster knew if he had any chance at avenging his brother's death, he had to play ball with the law. He had already shared most of what he knew with Rambler. Now Rambler was forcing him to share the disgraceful information about his brother with a White sheriff. As much as Foster disliked the federal government and those who enforced its rules, he hated the Mexicans much worse. Some things just couldn't be forgotten.

"Dragoon Springs," said Foster.

"That's in the middle of nowhere. There's nothing out that way," said Zeb.

"I never even heard of the place, might've heard it wrong. I don't know." Foster shrugged his shoulders.

"Where was the other place he was headed?" asked Zeb.

"He didn't know where the other place was. He just said it was between the Rez and town and he needed twenty bucks for gas."

Rambler and Zeb exchanged a clueless glance. What the hell was this all about?

"Did he say whose grave he was digging up or what he was looking for?" asked Zeb.

"No, he didn't, except that he was going to have to do some work in a graveyard," said Foster with his own fists clenched facing Rambler. "Like I said, the conversation was short and to the point. He absolutely did not tell me one thing about whose grave he might be digging up or what he was hoping to find." Foster paused with great intent, moved closer to Rambler and continued. "And no blow to my kidneys or smack on the back of my head is going to jar loose any information you think I might be keeping from you."

"That's everything you've got for us?" asked Zeb. "You're certain there's nothing else you can remember? Take a moment and think about it. Step over here by me where my buddy Rambler can't smack you down."

The good cop, bad cop routine was something Foster had seen before. This time he felt comfortable with it. He knew Zeb wasn't about to give him a beating, even if he was a White cop.

"Sheriff Hanks, I swear on my dead grandmother's grave that is all I know. Based on what you've done so far, which ain't much, this information ought to be enough to get you started on the trail of finding my brother's killers," said Foster.

"Do you by any chance know any of the Dudleyville guys he was hanging around with?" asked Zeb. "Any names you can give me?"

"He mentioned a tall skinny guy. He called him Stretch. Frederick said the dude was a candy ass, momma's boy. They called him Stretch because he used to be a first baseman. There was another dude, but Frederick never mentioned his name or anything about him. That's all I got. I honestly wish I could tell you more. In the worst way I want to find the sons a bitches who killed my brother and put them in the grave. I vow by everything sacred to my family that those men are going to meet their maker in short course. They are going to die painfully. I promise you that. Their only chance of staying on this earth is if you find them before I do. If I find them first, you won't ever find the bodies."

Zeb understood that statement all too well. Nevertheless he advised Foster in the strongest terms to leave it up to the lawmen.

"Be sure and let Rambler or me know if you remember anything else."

Out of nowhere Rambler smacked Foster upside the head one more time as a form of reinforcement. Foster's assurances that he would follow the lawmen's orders seemed as sincere as a politician's promises prior to election-day.

"Foster, go sit in my vehicle," said Rambler. "I've got to talk to the sheriff in private. And don't screw around with anything in the truck. I know where everything is."

Foster moved slowly and with a pissed off stride back to Rambler's police vehicle. When the door slammed, Rambler spoke.

"Do any of the funeral home records indicate Frederick Bingham's body was ever there?"

"Deputy Steele has looked the place over. She hasn't found anything that would indicate the body of Frederick Bingham was logged in," said Zeb.

"There must be some sort of protocol."

"If they'd had the time to do it, I'm certain they would've logged the body in. But remember they were busy with other bodies."

"What say we go over and check it out ourselves," suggested Rambler.

"Drop Foster off and meet me there in two hours," replied Zeb. "In the meantime I'll have Deputy Steele check with all the local cemeteries to see if they have had any vandalism in the form of someone digging up old graves."

"Maybe it's some kind of a _Walking Dead_ zombie thing. That's all the rage with the kids these days," said Rambler, imitating a zombie walk. His twisted sense of humor eased the tension of the moment.

The men shook hands. Zeb enjoyed Braing's directness. It was refreshing in his line of work, especially when it came to dealing with San Carlos policemen. History had taught him it wasn't always this easy. Braing also trusted Zeb. For a White guy, he wasn't half bad. They shared a weird history. They had a bond that was created when they were both youngsters at a snake handling ceremony on the Rez. Both men realized it was a real plus that they could work together. Both of them wondered what the hell Frederick Bingham and his pals from Dudleyville might really be doing digging up old graves, if indeed that was what they were up to.

# 8

Tribal Police Chief Rambler Braing was intently walking the perimeter of the funeral home searching for clues as Zeb pulled into the parking lot. The dumpster and garbage cans where Frederick Bingham's body had allegedly been unceremoniously dumped seemed to be grabbing the better part of his attention. Zeb walked directly to Rambler.

"Dow'den," said Rambler, greeting Zeb in native Athabascan.

"Dagot'ee," replied Zeb, returning a variation of the same greeting.

"Impressive," said Rambler. "Not many Whites know one Apache greeting much less two of them."

"I have spent more than a little time with Song Bird. He's gone to great lengths helping me expand my understanding of traditional Apache ways."

"Song Bird is a good man," said Rambler. "One of the best."

"I've known him for as long as I can remember," said Zeb, lightly touching the brim of his hat. "Have you talked to him about the murders?"

"I haven't yet. Is there a specific reason you think I should at this point in time?"

"No, not specifically, at least not with the information we have so far. But, as you know, he has his finger on the pulse of the Rez as well as anyone," replied Zeb.

"Good advice. I'll talk with him," said Rambler.

"Good. What have you got so far?"

"I've been searching around the garbage cans where Foster said Elizabeth told him his brother was found."

"Find anything?"

"Yes and no. There are footprints. We can compare them to the shoes of Rainen and Elizabeth. That shouldn't be an issue. There are numerous car and truck tire tracks too. The garbage truck tracks are easy to figure. It makes sense they left tracks when they picked up the garbage."

Zeb politely interrupted Rambler's musings. "Someone might have used a garbage truck to drop off Fredrick's body. It would be the perfect cover."

"That it would," replied Rambler. "I do not disagree with that being a real possibility."

Rambler paused and pointed toward the funeral home. His gesture was traditionally Apache in the fact that he held four fingers together with the thumb up and the palm flat when he pointed.

"However, based on the location of the windows in Elizabeth's and Rainen's offices as well as the room where they were found murdered, I have to think otherwise. Both look over the garbage containers. If something had been suspicious about the garbage truck or if someone was doing something out of the ordinary, I do believe they would have had their guards up. Who doesn't look out their window when a large, loud garbage truck pulls up?"

"You're right. I would assume they know the driver. It's likely the same person picks up the garbage every week. I think Elizabeth and Rainen would certainly have noticed someone dumping a body."

"Let's not rule it out. Let's check the garbage truck driver or drivers. I doubt it will lead us anywhere," said Rambler. "But our job is to leave no stone unturned."

Zeb started to chuckle.

"What?" asked Rambler.

"No stone left unturned reminded me of that bumper snicker Nations has on his car."

"You mean the one that says 'No Left Turn Un-stoned'?"

"Yup," replied Zeb. "Even as a lawman I find that to be funny, considering the source."

"Nations does have a stoner's sense of humor. You have to grant him that."

"I do. I know he was high when he spoke at the funeral," said Zeb.

"Good observation for a straight, White dude," laughed Rambler. "But puffing on a pipe is his business, wouldn't you agree?"

Zeb nodded. Even though he had never had as much as a single hit of marijuana, he had thought about trying it. Rambler had obviously smoked pot. In Nations' case, it didn't seem to be doing him any harm.

"Did he ever tell you how he got his butt out of the federal prison so fast?" asked Zeb. "I looked into it out of curiosity, but the records are sealed."

Rambler responded with a wide grin and put his hands over his eyes, then his ears and finally his mouth. Zeb got the message.

"Okay. Let's get back to work. What else did you see while you've been looking around?"

"From what I've noticed in the past whenever I drove by, both Elizabeth and Rainen parked back here near the dumpsters but under the awning, in the shade," said Rambler.

"Right. I've noticed that myself," agreed Zeb.

"You always did have a keen eye," said Rambler. "Even back when you were a high school jock. You always managed to hit the open man in basketball and find the open hole in football. I thought highly of you and Nations for your abilities back in the day. Even though you were only a few years ahead of me in school, you were my sports heroes."

"Thanks, but those days are far behind me now. I would like to think my keen eye was still with me though. Did you look in the garbage cans or dumpsters?"

"Not yet. I thought I would leave part of the fun for you."

"Same old Rambler Braing, always leaving the dirty work for me," said Zeb.

"Dirty man gets dirty work," replied Rambler.

Zeb flipped him the bird. They both laughed.

"If you ever want to work for the Graham County Sheriff's Office, just let me know," said Zeb. "I've got an in. I think I can get you the job."

"I've got enough troubles of my own to work with a White devil like you," replied Rambler. "But this could be a brand new start to an old and beautiful friendship."

Once again the men laughed loudly. Rambler couldn't help but flashback to when he and Zeb were young and learning about the world. Zeb also remembered back to a time when he and Rambler were the only two kids at a snake handling ceremony. One Native, one White. Neither of them saw skin color back then when both were called to an improvised altar by an evangelical preacher. He asked them both to hold the snake. Neither dared and their collective fear had magically solidified their friendship. It created a permanent, if not somewhat intermittent, bond between them. However, their lack of action seemed to have powerful consequences as Rambler's grandmother died the next day. For many years Rambler thought it was his failure to believe that the snake wouldn't hurt him that killed his beloved Shichu. Zeb's dog got run over by a car the day after the incident. His father beat him to a pulp, believing the accident was a result of Zeb failing to control the dog. Rambler and Zeb had been brought together by the kind of misery that required company. Today they were men of the law and had work to do.

Zeb reached in his truck and grabbed two pair of thick rubber gloves. He handed one of the pair to Rambler who slipped them on easily but slowly. Each man opened the garbage can nearest them. Both were empty.

"Local garbage pickup was one day before the murders," said Zeb. They must not have filled their trash cans from the office in that time."

Together the men lifted back the large, heavy metal top of the dumpster. A stale, pungent odor drew directly to their noses. Two black garbage bags rested atop what looked like a heavily used blanket. Other than the blanket and garbage bags the dumpster was empty, except for the horrific smell.

"It stinks like old garbage and dead, rotting animal corpses," said Rambler. "I'm not sure it's the sort of smell I was expecting from this dumpster."

"It's a mortuary. God only knows what gets left behind after an autopsy or the like."

"Aren't there state and federal regulations?"

"Against mortuary stink? I don't think so."

"Zeb, you are a regular comedian."

"Which bag do you want? The one on the right or the one on the left?" asked Zeb.

Rambler grabbed them both, plopping the heavier, smellier one at Zeb's feet. The other he placed gently at his feet.

"I guess I'll take this one," Rambler said, pointing to the less rancid of the two, "and you take that one. Sound fair?"

"Nope, it sucks that you're always giving me the crappy jobs, but that's the way life is sometimes," said Zeb. "Indians giving White guys the dirty laundry."

"Have the big political machine in Washington give us back all of our rights and all of our property and we will gladly take the crappy jobs," said Rambler.

"That is never going to happen," replied Zeb.

"Maybe not in our lifetime but sometime. You know the legend of the Sleeping Ute Mountain, don't you? My grandfather was one-fourth Ute, and he told it to me as a child."

Zeb had heard it many times but graciously allowed Rambler to retell the mythical tale.

"The Sleeping Ute Mountain told this story to Chief Ouray, leader of the Mountain Tribe. He told Chief Ouray of the Evil Ones who caused much trouble. Though the Sleeping Ute Mountain was mighty, the Evil Ones were a formidable foe. A great battle ensued. The Evil Ones were defeated, but the Sleeping Ute Mountain was bloodied and wounded. Blood filled the lakes from his battle wounds and became the living water for all creatures. Now he creates the seasons and provides the food for the Indian nations. One day he will return and help all the Native nations rise up against their enemies. Our enemies are those who stole our land and our livelihood. We will conquer them one day. It is only a matter of time.

As Zeb watched Rambler tell the mythical tale, he noticed a misty look in Rambler's eyes that said Rambler believed in the myth of the return of the Native Peoples. When he was done, Rambler simply looked wistfully to the north in the general direction of Ute Mountain.

"It's a nice story," said Zeb. "But right now it's the White man who rules the land."

"Nothing lasts eternally except the Creator," replied Rambler, quickly snapping back to reality. "So I guess that means we had better get our asses in gear."

"Right. Wait a second. I'll get a couple of plastic sheets. We can dump the contents of the garbage bags on them."

Zeb grabbed two large pieces of plastic from the back of his truck. Together the men laid them out. Almost simultaneously the men pulled nearly identical Randall knives from their belts and cut the top of the bags.

"Fancy knife you carry for everyday work," noted Rambler.

"You too," replied Zeb.

"I bought it for my fortieth birthday. It is the most I have ever paid for a knife," noted Rambler. "Coolest knife on the planet, if you ask me. Where did you get yours?"

"Mine was a wedding gift from my wife," said Zeb.

Mentioning the subject of his dead wife brought an uneasy silence between them which Rambler quickly alleviated.

"I knew her, Doreen I mean, from the restaurant. I cannot imagine what you have had to go through," said Rambler.

"I don't suppose anyone can unless they've been through it themselves."

"The whole situation surrounding her murder does not fit into the natural cycle of life."

"I know it doesn't. Believe me, I've worked it around and around in my head," said Zeb.

"Have you talked to Song Bird?" asked Rambler.

"I have. Just another dead end. Actually, that's about enough said on the subject for now," said Zeb.

The men went at their respective garbage bags methodically, dumping them out as orderly as possible. The area in front of the dumpster and everything in the garbage bags were protected from the light breeze that was blowing in from the south. None of the loose paper from the garbage bags flew away. As they meticulously went through the garbage piece by piece, they found mostly paperwork consistent with that of a funeral business, old newspapers, shredded documents, coffee grinds, empty soda cans and used coffee cups. The disposable coffee cups were standard cups purchased from the local Safeway store except for two of them. Those bore the advertising trademark of 322 Coffee Bistro, the new coffee shop in Safford owned by Sun Rey. Rambler stuck his nose into the cup and quickly pulled it back.

"Whew. That is some strong coffee," he said. "It smells oily and greasy, almost like rancid bear fat."

Rambler handed Zeb the empty container. Zeb took a whiff and then a second one.

"I think they were drinking espresso. That is some strong shit," said Zeb. "I think it's French coffee, the kind they drink at the sidewalk cafés in Paris."

"At least they weren't dumping hazardous material," said Rambler.

"That's debatable," said Zeb.

Rambler snorted out a chuckle.

"The 322 Coffee Bistro sells strong French coffee. Well what do you know? I haven't had that kind of brew since my college days. Speaking of real coffee, have you ever had Jimmy Song Bird's home brew? Whatever they brew at the 322 Coffee Bistro can't be stronger than that."

Zeb smiled, fondly remembering the first time he had tasted Song Bird's brand of coffee. He was an adolescent, feeling like he was all grown up, when Song Bird had offered him a taste of his special mix of home brewed coffee. It had knocked him for a loop as well as setting back his belief that he had achieved manhood.

"I know for a fact that Elizabeth and Rainen followed the letter of the law when it came to controlling and disposing of hazardous and dangerous material," said Zeb. "More than once I hard Rainen complaining about state inspectors combing through his business looking for illegally dumped body parts, blood and the likes of what may remain after a body is prepared for its final resting place."

Rambler watched as Zeb put the last of the garbage back into a clean bag which he marked as Exhibit FH 1, Funeral Home One. He noticed Zeb paying special attention to the disposable coffee cups with 322 Coffee Bistro written on them.

"Hey, what's that?" asked Rambler, pointing to a pair of stapled together newspaper clippings that bore the face of an ancient Apache.

Zeb slipped his bifocals from his forehead to his eyes.

"It's an old article from the Courier," said Zeb.

Rambler pulled his own pair of cheaters from his front pocket. He moved over next to Zeb and had a look for himself.

"It's dated a few years back," continued Zeb. "One story is on Cochise and Geronimo. The other is about Mangas Coloradas. Somebody must have been cleaning out their desk. I remember when the Courier ran these pieces. Kind of interesting. I learned all sorts of history that I'd never known."

"I hate to sound like our former chairman, Eskadi Black Robes," said Rambler. "But the stories in the Courier were written totally from the White man's point of view. You've got to remember there are two sides to every story. When it comes to the White man's version versus the Native's version of a story, there are likely even more sides to it."

"I thought the series of stories were written fairly. I discussed them with Song Bird. He said they were as close to the truth as you could get this far down the line."

"Zeb, I guess we will have to agree to disagree," said Rambler. "If you want to know the true story of those men and their lives, I would be glad to share it with you from my point of view. I won't say the articles were inaccurate. I will say they were grossly incomplete. History is always told from the winner's point of view. If you read a book from the Native American Press on the subjects of Geronimo, Cochise and their impact on local and national history, I am certain you would read a much different story."

"Okay, hot shot. I forgot you were an Ivy League graduate," said Zeb.

"Dartmouth. With honors."Rambler held up his college fraternity ring. It glistened in the sunshine. "Phi Sigmu Nu. I majored in Native American studies with an emphasis on Southwestern Native American history and culture. Four of the most fun and entertaining years of my life."

"How did you afford an Ivy League school?" asked Zeb.

"If your parents' income is less than seventy thousand dollars a year and you are a Native American, you get a full scholarship to Dartmouth. That is, if you qualify academically."

Rambler had graduated second in his class from Safford High. There was nobody on the Rez who made seventy thousand dollars a year that Zeb knew. Those two facts made it clear how Rambler got such a fine education for almost nothing.

"What about that old blanket sitting in the bottom of the dumpster?" asked Rambler.

Zeb reached in and pulled it out. Together the men spread it out on the cement. It was a standard, tourist-style, wool blanket. It had a traditional Kokopelli design at its center. The material of the blanket was well-worn. Both men examined it for blood stains, tears, hair or any other substance. There was plenty of hair, sand and dirt on the untorn surface. What appeared to be a rather large blood stain was at the center of the design.

"Do you think someone carried Frederick Bingham to the dumpster in this blanket?" asked Rambler.

"I do," replied Zeb.

"What makes you so certain?"

"Someone has gripped the corners."

The men examined imprints of fingernails at each corner of the Kokopelli wool blanket.

"Is it your belief that those are the fingernail prints of the people that killed Frederick?" asked Rambler.

"Don't know, but at least we've got something, a starting point," said Zeb.

"Maybe we got more than we even know," responded Rambler.

The men exchanged glances. Zeb had the distinct feeling Rambler knew or thought he knew something that he wasn't about to share with Zeb, at least not now.

"What next?" asked Rambler.

"I'm going to send all of this to the lab in Tucson and see what they make of it," replied Zeb. "I'll get a hold of you when I get a report."

The men shook hands.

"Wait one minute," said Rambler. "Our fraternity had a secret handshake. It was a sign that you could be trusted. I would like to share it with you."

Zeb felt honored. In a very special way he was on the inside of something he knew very little about. They shook hands and parted, agreeing they would talk again soon.

On the trip back to town Zeb placed his hat on the seat next to him. As he ran his fingers across the brim, he thought of the best way to ask Rambler if he thought Nations' wife had it in her to kill someone. Little could he imagine how Rambler would respond.

# 9

Zeb's boot heels rested lightly on the sill as he gazed out his office window. The sun glinting off the crags of the upper reaches of Mount Graham formed a picture perfect backdrop for a red tailed hawk that circled lazily overhead. Zeb knew hawks well enough to understand that this red tail was enjoying the morning updrafts, not hunting for breakfast. Song Bird had taught him much about the local birds, animals and flowers. Right now he was allowing himself a few moments of relaxation in what would likely be a very busy, very complex day. His daydreaming was interrupted by a sharp rap on his door. It was Helen Nazelrod's aging and boney knuckles creating the urgent sound.

"Sheriff, FBI Agent Rodriguez is here to see you."

The tone of Helen's voice matched the terseness of her knock. Zeb sighed audibly. There were many reasons he didn't want to see Rodriguez and absolutely zero reasons for interacting with him at all. Unconsciously Zeb rubbed his sheriff's badge between his thumb and first finger, perhaps a tacit reminder of his duty to the law. Maybe a desire to not be a law man when he had to chat with Rodriguez.

"Show him in."

"Sheriff Hanks, do you remember that you have an interview with Mr. Dawbyns in half an hour."

Helen's statement was as much a question as it was a reminder. Zeb had completely forgotten about the interview with Devon Dawbyns. The county commissioners had unilaterally made a decision that Graham County, with the expansion of the mines and increased tourist growth, needed an additional deputy sheriff. Zeb figured that a temporary federal government grant that paid the salary for three years was the deciding factor. Politicians never could turn away from free money even if there was a catch. For Zeb's part another deputy was just one more person to administrate. He really wished Josh Diamond would have applied for the job, but Josh's growing relationship with Deputy Kate Steele posed a thorny problem. Over a twelve pack of Rolling Rock beer, Zeb and Josh had decided it would be a bad idea for Josh and Kate to work together.

"I remember it now," said Zeb. "Helen, I really do appreciate you acting as my memory."

"Remember that when my review comes up next month. My grandchildren are getting more and more expensive every day. Why just the other day..."

"Send in Agent Rodriguez, and how much of a raise do you want?"

"Enough to pay for the things I want to get for my grandchildren."

"Okay, got it. I'll see what I can do for you," said Zeb. "Bring the agent in, please."

"Thank you, Sheriff," replied his longtime secretary. "Even though you've caused more than a little trouble for your mother, I think you're the best."

Zeb smiled at the cryptic response from his aunt. Yes, he had given his mother more than her share of grief, but they loved each other and had a strong mother/son bond. Though Zeb hadn't always followed it, his mother had shown him a righteous path. The same could never have been said about his deceased father. Zeb's thoughts quickly shifted to Agent Rodriguez who rushed past Helen as though she didn't exist. This disrespectful act was just another reason not to like the man.

Zeb stood to shake the agent's hand who had briskly entered the room. Agent Rodriguez began talking before his rear-end hit the well-worn seat of the visitor's chair.

"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," said Agent Rodriguez. "I trust you are doing better?"

The last time the men had seen each other was shortly after Doreen's murder. Agent Rodriguez was a woeful reminder of the most difficult and trying time in Zeb's life. The FBI, and Agent Rodriguez specifically, had been all but useless when it came to helping Zeb track down Doreen's murderer. In fact, Zeb assumed Agent Rodriguez had little to no idea what had transpired since that day.

"I understand you no longer have a drinking issue," said the agent.

Zeb responded under his breath with a disdainful grunt. If Agent Rodriguez could have read Zeb's inner dialogue, he would have heard, "Fuck you asshole. What business is that of yours?" Zeb knew better than to mess with Rodriguez who could bring big trouble down on him, so he remained professionally neutral.

"Good. I heard via the rumor mill that Doreen's killer is no longer among the living," said Agent Rodriguez.

Zeb should have seen that one coming. Still it felt like a sucker punch out of left field.

"So I've heard. Who's spreading that rumor in your circle of friends?" Zeb asked.

"I can't say exactly because I don't know. My best guess is that the word came from someone high up in the lofty air of the D.C. office," said Agent Rodriguez. "It's just a rumor of course."

"Based on what?"

The agent let the terseness of Zeb's voice slip by, but not unnoticed.

"Seems as though someone with big time influence in the cartel met their demise with a sword through the heart. Ring a bell? Is it the same rumor that's circulating around this office?" asked Rodriguez.

The agent was taunting him. Rodriguez was a bigger asshole than Zeb could have ever imagined. The deed was done. The problem was solved. As far as Zeb was concerned nothing that happened to Doreen's murderer was inside the jurisdiction of the FBI. What was Rodriguez doing? Why was he trying so hard to get under Zeb's skin? The bait Rodriguez was tossing at him certainly wasn't anything Zeb would bite on. Perhaps Zeb wore his heart a little bit too far out on his sleeve when it came not only to this specific matter but to the FBI in general. Screw the FBI. Fuck Rodriguez. He was an A-number-one dick bag. As much as Zeb would have liked to jump across the table and bust Rodriguez in the chops, he knew that would only enhance the agent's suspicions. Still, the SOB had one good throttling owed him.

"I've heard the person who killed Doreen crossed someone in the cartel and ended up losing their head over it," lied Zeb. "As for me, some good counseling and the support of my friends has helped me get over my loss to the extent that anyone can."

"I see," said Agent Rodriguez, taking out a notebook. "That's good to hear. Unfortunately, we don't see it as a closed case. We lack too many facts to wrap this thing up. You know how it is. We can't just leave a case open when a sheriff's wife was killed. We've got to search deeper into it."

Zeb stared intently at Agent Rodriguez. What the hell did he know? What was he getting at? What Zeb believed to be over and done, morally as well as legally, was now rearing its extremely ugly head. Zeb didn't need this annoyance. It felt like a large, nasty and improperly trained dog nipping at his heels.

"I heard that you took some time off a short time after Doreen's death," said Agent Rodriguez.

Zeb's skin crawled as Agent Rodriguez took the liberty to call Doreen by name. The question was a probing one. "Yes," replied Zeb.

"For personal reasons I assume?"

"Yes. I made the mistake of letting the bottle get the better of me. I was trying to bury the pain, drown my sorrows so to speak. It didn't work. I really wouldn't suggest excessive drinking as good therapy," replied Zeb. "But, being a worldly man, I would bet you know that already."

"I do. As a recovering alcoholic I am personally glad you are conquering that demon one day at a time. Yesterday I talked with Deputy Kate Steele. I also chatted with your friends, Josh Diamond and Deputy Jake Dablo. And, I had a real nice talk with your fine secretary, Helen Nazelrod. They all seem to think you are doing very well considering your loss."

How dare Rodriguez go behind his back and talk to his friends and employees without informing him first. Even if it was part of his job Rodriguez could have shown Zeb the least little bit of respect by letting him know he was contacting them. His anger rising, Sheriff Hanks took a deep breath. He couldn't the Fed rattle him.

"We have some pretty good intel from our FBI contact in D.C., Elaine Coburn. Apparently she's a good friend of Deputy Kate Steele. We learned that you crossed back and forth over the border into Mexico for some period of time after your wife's death. Ms. Coburn had some pretty extensive records as to your whereabouts when you were down in the old country, but there also seems to be quite a bit of time and activity that is unaccounted for. Care to clue me in on anything about your time in Mexico?"

Zeb was irate. His skin crawled as he gritted his teeth, tightening his jaw. Had Elaine, however inadvertently or maybe even on purpose, tossed him under the bus? What kind of game was Rodriguez playing? Was the FBI agent setting a trap? Zeb knew Rodriguez, through innuendo and by his actions, was trenching a river that Zeb could never build a bridge over. In taking the life of Doreen's killer he had crossed a line that ran down a one way road. Zeb's only option when it came to FBI Agent Rodriguez was to continue with the lie he was living.

"I was keeping an open eye on cartel activities while taking a break from my work as Sheriff of Graham County. I needed the time to sort some shit out, personal stuff, all of which is exactly none of your damn business," said Zeb.

"Oh, but I'm afraid it is," said Agent Rodriguez setting down his notebook and grabbing a folder he had placed atop Zeb's desk.

"How might my personal life be any of your damn business?" asked Zeb.

"No reason to get defensive, is there, Sheriff Hanks? The FBI is just looking to clear a few things up. I thought maybe you had some insight that you might want to share with us."

Rodriguez opened the folder like it contained gold dust that might flicker away in the wind. The agent withdrew several eight by ten glossy photographs. Rodriguez's piercing dark eyes stared at the images for a long moment before slowly sliding them across the desk to Zeb's clenched fists. Zeb stared down hard at two graphic pictures of a woman he once thought he might feel something for. The glossy prints were those of a dead Carmelita. The sword Zeb had jammed through her heart and pinned her to the ground with was as crystal clear in the pictures as the day he had held it in his hands and ended her life with his nefarious but necessary deed. The longer Zeb stared at the photographs the more relaxed and at ease he became. His mouth easily formed the words to a question for Agent Rodriguez that he already knew the answer to.

"Who's this dead woman?"

"I was hoping you would know," said Rodriguez. "Are you certain you've never seen her before?"

Zeb turned the photographs and viewed them from various angles. A thousand thoughts and even more memories were so vivid to him. He could break the last five minutes of the evil Carmelita's life into millisecond fragments. He glanced up at Agent Rodriguez. The lies came so very easily.

"I would most certainly remember someone who was so amazingly beautiful if I had ever seen her before," replied Zeb. "Sorry, Agent Rodriguez. I can't help you with the identification of this woman."

"That's too bad. I was really hoping you knew her. She was the money man, excuse me, money woman for the cartel run by Ramón Alvarado, the man we all know as El Coyote. I know you are intimately familiar with him. Her name, the dead woman with the sword through her heart, is Carmelita Montouyez. However, since she had dozens of aliases, we can't be absolutely certain that was her real name. She was the paymaster for the cartel. We also believe she acted as the personal doctor of El Coyote. However, we are running into nothing but dead ends as we look into her possible medical training."

"Not very macho of him having a woman run the financial end of his business," said Zeb. "She's obviously dead. Did you get El Coyote? I haven't heard a word about him in a long time but, then again, he always laid low."

"Not yet. But we will. You can count on that," said Agent Rodriguez.

"You always get your man?" said Zeb, mimicking the credo of the constabulary, bad-assed RCMP. Rodriguez caught the inference and chose to ignore it.

"We got these pictures of her anonymously with a letter. The letter implicated her killer as some big American cowboy type. Coincidentally, this big American cowboy wears a hat identical to yours, right down to the distinctive Apache style band. You know anything about that?"

"There are lots of big American cowboy types south of the border. I would dare to say there are thousands of cowboy hats just like mine sold every year. I'm fairly certain I could even google it and find the exact number of sales, if I were so inclined," said Zeb. "I've heard of many American cowboy types trying to make a quick buck by working their way into, or at least trying to work their way into, the extremely dangerous drug business. Like I said, I saw any one of a number of people who match that description when I was down ol' Mexico way."

This time it was Agent Rodriguez' turn to grunt. "Your hat band looks handmade. Where'd you get it?"

Zeb grabbed his hat from the edge of his desk and examined the hat band intently. He knew exactly where it had come from. Song Bird had made it especially for him. It was truly a one-of-a-kind band. Zeb fingered it all three hundred sixty degrees around before answering.

"It came with the hat."

Rodriguez could smell a lie. Zeb noticed the agent's nose twitching.

"Got any photos of those American cowboys that are so common in Mexico for me to look at? That would be a big help," said Rodriguez.

Zeb shoved the pictures back to the FBI agent.

"Your question sounds kind of gay. Might I suggest you try the Chippendales' website or catch an old video of the Village People singing YMCA," said Zeb.

Rodriguez shook his head. It took all he had to hold back from calling Zeb a liar, and he had to restrain his temper at the sheriff's sarcastic and inappropriate responses. He glared at Zeb as he picked up the photographs of the dead woman and placed them back into his folder.

"One more thing," said Rodriguez. "I pulled these for you. I've been watching the news and looked into this guy Foster Bingham who spoke at the funeral of your local undertakers. Did you know the Binghams are direct descendants of a famous Apache chief?"

Zeb opened the two small folders. They contained nothing he didn't already know, suspect or could find out quickly on his own. He thanked Rodriguez and shoved the files back in his direction.

"Keep them, Sheriff Hanks. They might stir your memory," said Rodriguez.

"I don't need them. I can pick them up on the Internet anytime," said Zeb. "I'm familiar with your website."

Once again Rodriguez pushed them toward Zeb. Zeb picked them up and dropped them in the wastebasket, keeping his eyes on Rodriguez the entire time.

"Then I guess that's about it for today," said Agent Rodriguez. Standing up from his chair, the agent flung his card onto the desk, making no effort to hide his frustration with Zeb.

"Call me if you think of anything you might have seen or if you remember ever seeing this woman called Carmelita or a cowboy that looks like your reflection in the mirror."

"If I call anyone, you'll be the first person, Agent Rodriguez. On that you have my solemn oath."

As Zeb politely showed him out, it took all he had not to raise his boot and kick Agent Rodriguez' sorry FBI ass out the door, down the street and out of town.

# 10

By the time Devon Dawbyns arrived for his job interview Zeb was in no mood for bullshit of any kind. His irritation level even made his unbuttoned collar feel tight on his neck. His insides burned like the fires of hell. His rib cage tightened like a man about to blow open with a heart attack. Amazingly, his hands did not quiver in the slightest. Opening a locked drawer in his desk, Zeb removed a pint bottle of Knob Creek Kentucky bourbon. The long pull from the bottle put a bit of a smile on his face as he licked the last of the taste from his lips. The alcohol had the pleasant side effect of going a long way in easing his angst and placating his anger. Maybe this was why his father drank? Maybe his father wrestled with something he held inside that no one ever saw?

When Helen showed Devon Dawbyns into Zeb's office, one thing was immediately apparent. He definitely wasn't from around Graham County.

"Sheriff Hanks, this is Devon Dawbyns," said Helen, handing Zeb a folder and three letters.

Devon thanked Helen for showing him in. She was obviously impressed as she gave a nod, a smile and a raise of the eyebrows. Zeb took this as her tacit blessing of the young man.

"Have a seat, Mr. Devon Dawbyns," said Zeb. "Make yourself comfortable. This won't take long."

Devon Dawbyns eased himself into the large chair directly across from the Sheriff of Graham County. The prospective candidate carefully eyed the office of the man whom he hoped would hire him as his deputy sheriff. As Zeb read the letters of recommendation that Helen had handed him, Devon made a quick and accurate assumption about Sheriff Hanks. The man was a minimalist.

The letters were the most impressive Zeb had ever seen. The first was from United States Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell. The second bore the letterhead of Frank Dunleavy, a highly-respected Federal Circuit Court Judge and a legendary Safford native whom Zeb admired. The third was from the regional director of the FBI, Derek Parks, whom Zeb knew only by name. Zeb read them thoroughly, glanced up at Devon and looked back down at the letters. He made one observation, then followed the observation with a single question.

"Obviously you are a well-connected young man. With connections like these, what in the sam hill are you doing applying for a job as a deputy sheriff in rural Arizona?"

As Dawbyns answered, Zeb was distracted by the defining contrast between the young man's perfectly white teeth and his ebony black skin.

"May I be completely honest with you, Sheriff Hanks?"

"If you're not being totally straightforward with me, there isn't much sense in carrying on a conversation about the job," replied Zeb.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor. In my recent work forthrightness is a rare commodity."

Not only was Devon Dawbyns direct, soft spoken and clean cut, but he carried the air of a true professional. Zeb asked him to continue as a single suspicion buzzed his brain. A well-educated, well-connected, young black professional didn't seem like the sort that would want this job. Something wasn't passing the smell test.

"You were explaining to me why you want to be deputy sheriff of Graham County?"

"Yes, sir, of course. Would you prefer the long story or should I cut to the quick?" asked Devon.

"Around here we generally take our time telling stories, but you may do as you choose," replied Zeb. "As long as it doesn't take all day."

"I was born and raised in Phoenix. I graduated from the University of Arizona in criminology. I went to law school at Georgetown in D.C. for one year. I didn't care for what I saw in the profession of law, nor the people who ran the school. Since I saw little chance of progressing in something that carried so little appeal, I applied for and obtained a job in Senator Russell's office. Being that my roots are in Arizona, my interest was in helping resolve border issues with Mexico. I wrote several select committee papers for the senator on the subject."

"I see on your resume that those papers were published in well-respected journals as well."

"Yes, sir. I am proud of that."

"Pardon me, son, um Devon, for one second while I think out loud. That's a real nice start to a story you're beginning to tell, but you're still quite a few miles from explaining why you want to be a deputy sheriff in Graham County," said Zeb.

"I'd heard you were a direct man, blunt and to the point," said Devon. "I recognize that as a valuable trait. That being said, I will get right to it, the truth and not much else."

"I wholeheartedly appreciate that," said Zeb, becoming more fascinated by each sentence that came out of this impressive, young man's mouth.

"Well, to put it frankly, since I was twelve years old I have wanted to become the governor of the great state of Arizona. As you surmise without my saying it, the first Black governor of the great state of Arizona. Though, in my opinion, being black-skinned should have nothing to do with it. I say it merely as it is a fact."

Zeb leaned forward to have a closer look into Dawbyns' eyes. When he saw what he was looking for, he leaned back and put his boots on the edge of his desk. He stared at Devon Dawbyns for another long moment before speaking. Their eyes remained in constant contact, yet another trait Zeb found to be unique to forthright men.

"That's mighty ambitious of you. I applaud your lofty goals. Myself, when I was twelve, I wanted to be a United States Marshal. Even with all that you've told me, I still don't understand why you're here. I mean here, in my office, in Graham County, applying for a job as deputy sheriff. Not that it's not a decent and respectable job. It just seems, well, odd."

"Senator Russell first advised me to discuss a future in law enforcement with the sheriff of Maricopa County. Sheriff Joe was most helpful with his explanation of the political system that operates in his environment. He suggested that my path would be best served where I might be able to make a name for myself much faster. Sheriff Joe felt that I would be too small of a fish in too large of a pond in Maricopa County. He doubted I would stand out among the crowd. He said you were the man who could help me accomplish my goals much faster than he could."

Zeb rubbed his chin with his thumb. He and the Maricopa County Sheriff had known each other for nearly twenty years. Zeb had known Senator Russell since he was a child, having been introduced to him by then Sheriff Jake Dablo in a year when both were running for public office. But someone wanting to become governor would most certainly have more opportunities in Phoenix or even Tucson as opposed to Safford.

"Did Senator Russell say what I might do to help you?" asked Zeb.

"He said you'd understand once you read this letter of recommendation." Devon took a letter out of his briefcase and handed it to Zeb.

Zeb opened the sealed letter from Senator Russell. After a brief introduction it cut to the chase with two words— Elaine Coburn.

"Have you read this?" asked Zeb.

"I wrote it for him," replied Devon.

"Do you personally know Elaine Coburn?"

"I had dinner at her home three nights ago."

"I see," said Zeb. "What exactly did she have to say about me?"

"That you are an independent but excellent sheriff. She emphasized, in no uncertain terms I might add, that if you couldn't help me move forward in my career, a woman named Carmelita could. She explained that if I put it to you in those exact words, it would require no further explanation. I don't know the woman, Carmelita, that she was referring to. When I asked, she said it wouldn't be necessary at this time."

Zeb picked up his phone and dialed Deputy Kate Steele's extension. "Kate, I need you in my office rickey-tickey."

Ten seconds later Kate walked through the door of Zeb's office. Zeb offered a cursory introduction of Devon to Kate. He referred to Kate only as his deputy. Devon politely stood when she entered the sheriff's office.

"It seems your friend, Elaine Coburn, and Devon have some friends in common. Elaine's border project was funded by Senator Russell," said Zeb.

"That's news to me," replied Kate.

"Me too. It seems that Senator Russell is asking a favor from us in return for his backing of that local project. He wants us to hire this young man, Devon Dawbyns, in order to jumpstart Mr. Dawbyns quest toward Governor of Arizona."

Kate looked more than perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps I'd better let Devon explain."

"Deputy Kate Steele? Am I correct?" asked Devon.

"Yes. You seem to have the advantage on me, Mr. Dawbyns."

"Please, call me Devon."

"Devon, what are you talking about? I thought you were interviewing for the new deputy sheriff position."

Zeb handed Kate the letters of recommendation from Senator Russell, the regional director of the FBI and Federal Judge Dunleavy. Kate scanned them while Zeb and Devon courteously remained silent, politely avoiding eye contact. When Kate finished, Devon reached into his briefcase and handed a sealed letter to Kate. It was a note from Elaine Coburn. Its contents contained an exacting emphasis that if Kate had any influence in the final decision, it would be personally advantageous should she help Zeb opt for Devon. In closing the note she mentioned the death of a cartel money launderer, not by name, but with strong inference that made oblique reference to the fact that Zeb might know more than he has told anyone.

"What is it that you want?" asked Kate.

"To be a deputy sheriff in Graham County for a short term. Then I would like to run for the state senate from this district. Ultimately, I would like to parlay that into the governorship of our fine state."

"Lofty goals," said Kate.

"Lofty goals indeed," said Zeb. "From the looks of your recommendations, I would have to say welcome aboard. You start tomorrow."

"Thank you, Sheriff Hanks. I promise to be a quick study and never to disappoint," said Devon.

"Welcome aboard," added Kate.

"Thank you, Deputy Steele. One quick request."

"Shoot," said Zeb.

"I'd like to buy a cowboy hat, a black one. Can you recommend a good store in town where I might find one?"

Kate and Zeb exchanged a glance. There was but one spot in town to send someone with Devon's obvious fashion sense.

"Take a right on the highway. When you see a store with a horse sticking out into the street, that's your place," answered Zeb.

"The horse's head or the horse's other end?" asked Devon.

"The end of the horse that you should follow," replied Zeb. The sheriff was of course referring to the Safford Western Wear store. "I would suggest the Stetson Angus for a head like yours," said Zeb.

"Thank you, Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Steele. I hope to be an integral part of this team while I am here. When do I report?"

"Seven a.m. tomorrow. Bring coffee for four and two chamomile teas."

"Excellent. Where is the closest Starbucks?"

"Tucson," said Kate.

# 11

"I've got what you asked for," said Joaquin.

"Perfect." The collector reached for the bag.

Joaquin didn't want or need to know the name of the tall man with perfect teeth, hair and plenty of money.

"Not so fast," said Joaquin, turning slightly away from the collector and pulling the bag tightly against his body. "Do you have my cash?"

"Let me have a closer look at what you've got. I want to make certain I'm getting what I'm paying for."

The man took the bag of bones from Joaquin. His delicate fingers untied the knot that kept the bag tightly closed.

"One second," said the collector. He walked to a small built-in wooden cabinet and deftly removed a bed sheet. Grabbing the cloth by the corners with a quick but gentle snap of the wrists, he opened the sheet and allowed it to drift perfectly atop the desk. "Proceed."

Joaquin carefully laid out his wares on the large maple desk. A broad smile rose on his lips as he separated the skull from the less desired bones. The long bones and teeth, especially the teeth, looked white, too white for some of them to be roughly two hundred years old.

"Where did you get these?" asked the collector.

Joaquin removed the small, well-worn map from his back pocket. He placed it flat on the palm of his hand, holding it out for the man. The collector had already donned a pair of gloves. He carefully unfolded the map, flattened it on the sheet-covered desk, rested his head pensively on his fist and stared at the map. After a long moment he looked over at Joaquin.

"It's one of the three maps you gave me. You should recognize it from the little tear in the upper right hand corner," said Joaquin, pointing to the jagged edge of the map. "I handled it with care like you told me to."

The man had, indeed, at their first encounter, given Joaquin three highly detailed maps. Each of them contained the layout and location of an ancient graveyard or burial ground. Two of the graveyards/burial grounds were hidden far from the eyes of anyone who would not otherwise be looking for them. These were secret boneyards. These were the burial grounds/graveyards where the mortal remains of the famous and, in some people's minds, the infamous were laid to rest. The third graveyard was less than one hundred feet from a moderately travelled county road.

"No one saw you? You are most certain of that?" The collector was both demanding and nervous as he barked the questions at Joaquin.

"I can guarantee on my own dearly departed mother's grave that no living person knows I dug these up," said Joaquin, pointing at the relics. "There is nothing within miles of those old graveyards. You know that."

Now it was the collector's time to act like an outlaw.

"If anyone saw you and this comes back to me, you are a dead man. You're aware of that, are you not?" cautioned the collector.

Joaquin saw through the tough guy act like it was a freshly cleaned pane of glass. He had to be careful not to let his actions belie his disgust for this man. How dare the collector, who hired him to dig up old skulls and bones, talk to him in such an ominous tone? Joaquin knew full well that this man was neither tough nor particularly dangerous. One look at those perfect teeth, manicured fingernails and fifty-dollar haircut told Joaquin that the collector was obviously a man of privilege. There wasn't a single callous on his hands. To think that just because he had money he could threaten him crossed a wide chasm into the absurd. Men like Joaquin killed others. Wealthy wimps like the collector paid the bills for such actions. They certainly didn't get their hands dirty in such heinous dealings as the death of another human being. Joaquin knew the threat was as empty as a long dried-up desert well, but he played along for the money. The money was good, almost too good for the amount of effort he had put into it this little project. Men like Joaquin didn't get too many chances to make large sums of cash. This was a golden opportunity, and there was even more money to be made. Joaquin might be many things, but he was not fool. He kept his cool.

"Of course I'm aware that you are in charge. I understand that no one can or should ever know of your involvement. I'm a working man. No one has ever called me a fool. Do you think I want to blow a good thing? This is easy money for a man like me. For a man like you, well, it's work you wouldn't do, couldn't do and certainly don't have the stomach for. So let's just say this is a mutually beneficial situation. On that level I feel certain we understand each other, don't we?"

Joaquin had called his bluff. The collector realized he should have just kept his mouth shut. In the end it hardly mattered. The rich man knew he would be protected if the roof caved in. If Joaquin decided to do something foolish like speaking with the authorities, cunning men with wealth always had a well-constructed Plan B.

"Agreed," said the collector as he peeled off one hundred crisp one hundred dollar bills.

Joaquin lifted them up to the light, checking to see if they were real. He had seen the tellers at Wal-Mart do it, but he didn't know what he was looking for. His gesture was one of merely making a point. He also checked and double-checked to make certain the numbers on the bills weren't consecutive. If there was any monkey business with this payment, the rich man would find himself on the losing end of a .45.

"When are you going to do the next dig?" asked the collector.

"In a couple of days. I'll pick up a couple of young day laborers in front of the Circle-K and have them do the dirty work," said Joaquin.

"What happened to your crew? I thought you said you had very reliable men?"

"My former employees have decided to look elsewhere for work, but there is no need to worry about them. They are long gone and will never utter a word of what went on. I can give you a lock-stock guarantee on that."

"You're certain?" asked the collector.

"As certain as night becomes day and then becomes night again."

"I'll have to trust you on that. Please use the utmost caution with whom you hire. We have to be certain they won't ever be trouble."

The collector didn't like what he had just heard. It had been his intention to have the same crew all the way along. He had even made it clear that Joaquin should offer them a bonus at the end when the project was completed.

"I've already got it figured out," said Joaquin. "My Española is good enough to figure out who the dummies are, who the single men without families are and who needs the money most desperately. You understand that I also need to be certain they won't talk."

"Be careful. I don't want any of this coming back on me. It would ruin the good I am trying to do," said the rich man. "Not to mention that it would ruin my life and my destiny."

"Quit worrying. It'll put wrinkles on your face. It's my job to make sure everything is properly taken care of," said Joaquin. "It's called _doing my job_. Just make sure you have the money you promised me. I'll take care of the rest. I'm what you call a pro at this business."

"I know you are the best at what you do. Haven't I always paid you very handsomely for your work?"

The men chuckled. It was a running joke between them, the money that is. Joaquin knew just by looking at him that the collector was wealthy, maybe even aristocratic. But he knew little else about him. The rich man had been very careful to keep his identity hidden. However, the collector was not the complete and total wimp Joaquin thought he was. What Joaquin couldn't possibly imagine were the serious plans the collector had in mind once his jobs were finalized.

"Call me on my burner phone when you've got the next set of bones," said the collector. "And boola boola."

"¡Hasta luego!" replied Joaquin. "Adiós, mi amigo and boola to you."

Joaquin shook his head. Why did the collector always say boola? It was nonsense. It wasn't even funny. And why did he talk so high and mighty? Joaquin shrugged it off as gibberish and walked back to his truck, re-examining the money to make certain none of the one-hundred dollar bills were counterfeit. Something inside him told him not to trust the rich White man in the fine garments and fancy shoes. A rich man who pays big money to dig up old Indian bones and skulls might just shoot a poor man like him as quickly as he would put down a rabid dog. But even in his wildest imagination, Joaquin was certain the collector did not have the cojones for such an extreme act as murder, especially up close killing. Joaquin knew he could never appear weak in front of the collector. Joaquin had to play this carefully or he might possibly end up as dead as the gravediggers he had hired.

Joaquin decided it was best to take his mind off such dark thoughts. It was time to leave the collector and their future business behind, and there was no better place to do that than the Copper Dolls Cabaret. A double shot of tequila with a beer chaser and one hour with the good-looking whore. The immediate future could not have looked brighter to him.

# 12

Devon Dawbyns, proudly displaying his new black Stetson, was puffing on a cigarette fifteen minutes before his inaugural meeting as a deputy sheriff. Jake pulled up in his ancient pickup and looked at Devon leaning against the building. Jake's mind momentarily tricked him into believing what he was seeing was just another of those silly cowboy silhouettes that were becoming popular as yard ornaments. He did a double take when the silhouette bent over at the waist. The town grapevine had already notified him about the new deputy. One look and he could read Devon like an open book. Time for a little rookie razzing.

"Dawbyns?"

Devon quickly snapped to attention at Jake's gravelly voice. He crushed the butt of the cigarette under his shiny new Dan Post Renegade Snip Toe cowboy boots. Jake shook his head slightly. This greenhorn was going to have sore feet by the time five o'clock rolled around. For half a short second Jake considered saying something, but just as quickly decided that sore feet might just be the humble pie this young man on the rise needed. The urge to goad the newcomer quickly disappeared. Dawbyns would create enough trouble on his own.

"Yes, sir?"

"Deputy Jake Dablo's the name. Looks like we're on the same team." Jake extended an open hand to the newcomer.

"Nice to meet you, sir" said Devon.

"Nice hat," replied Jake.

Devon ran a thumb and finger across the brim of his new hat.

"Thank you, sir."

"It should keep the sun out of your eyes," added Jake. "And your nose from getting sunburned."

Within minutes Helen and Zeb pulled into the parking lot in separate vehicles. A half minute later Kate and Josh pulled up together in Josh's truck.

"You bring the coffee and teas?" asked Zeb.

"They're inside," replied Devon. "One thing Senator Russell taught me was to always have everyone's favorite beverage at hand when the morning meeting began. He said it kept people from getting crabby and made them more likely to get their job done."

"Senator Russell is right about that," said Jake. "I can get mighty irritable without my first cup of joe."

Everyone chuckled except Helen who remembered all too well exactly how grouchy the former sheriff could get until his first cup of coffee burned the sleep from his system. It was crowded inside the sheriff's office. Even a cluster of this small size made Zeb claustrophobic.

"Let's make this a quick meeting," said Zeb. Heads nodded in agreement. "Everyone, this is our new deputy, Devon Dawbyns. Devon this is Kate, Jake and Josh. You've already met Helen."

Everyone already knew who Deputy Dawbyns was. The formality made it official.

"Get to know him on your own terms," said Zeb. "That way there won't be any bullshit."

"Got it," said Kate.

Josh nodded and Jake merely said, "Yup."

"Devon, you and I are going to be meeting with Tribal Police Chief Braing this morning. We need to dot our i's and cross our t's to make certain we are sharing information completely and correctly."

Devon took notes in his iPhone.

"Josh, how are the new dogs doing?" asked Zeb.

"They're ready for business. Always in training, but ready for work," said Josh.

"Good. I'd like you to go out to the funeral home with them. Have your dogs do their work around the garbage cans and dumpsters. I checked it over with Rambler. We got some useful information but we could use more. I suspect your dogs might find out more than we did."

Zeb reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a large zip lock bag with a t-shirt and socks in it.

"These belonged to the allegedly missing man, Frederick Bingham. I got them from his brother, Foster. See if your dogs can come up with anything. I know it's been almost a week but see what you can do."

"Yes, sir," replied Josh, taking the bag from Zeb.

"What'd you decide to name those two?" asked Zeb. "Mutt the second and Jeff the second?"

Zeb's flippant question caught everyone's attention. Mutt and Jeff had been executed by the Mexican drug cartel the same day Doreen had been murdered. To hear Zeb being somewhat glib about the whole matter was a bit disconcerting, if not confusing to his workmates. However, neither Zeb nor Josh seemed the least bit fazed by the interaction.

"Nah, I went with Bow Wow and Snoop Dawg," replied Josh.

The answer brought a chuckle from everyone except Devon who had no idea what had happened to Mutt and Jeff or, for that matter, what role they had played with the Graham County Sheriff's Office.

"Good choices," replied Zeb. "Let's hope they can help us out."

"If there's something to find, they'll find it."

"Try and keep Snoop Dawg away from the chronic," added Jake.

Devon looked at the older, former sheriff, more than a bit surprised at this hip usage of the word chronic and the marijuana reference.

Jake noticed Devon's surprised look. "I'm cool, home boy."

Everyone in the office doubled over in laughter, even Devon. Jake's ridiculous attempt at street talk was a small town way of welcoming a new member to the veteran team. Devon sensed the comradery. It was totally friendly and done with ease, so unlike the backstabbing, sniping and sycophantic behavior he was used to back in D.C. It was his first inclination that he was going to have to learn a lot quickly if he was to be good enough at this job let alone consider a run for public office.

"Kate and Jake, I want you two to go over the preliminary autopsy reports on Elizabeth and Rainen. Review them with a fine-toothed comb. Talk to the medical examiner. I'm sure Doc Yackley has some ideas of his own. Also start looking into their last days in this vale of tears. See if anyone is aware of known enemies or standing grudges, real or imagined. Also check into the two dead bodies that we know were at the funeral home. What led to their deaths? Who brought them in? I want to know if there is a link between the two bodies Rainen and Elizabeth were working on and their murders. I know that sounds like a stretch, but maybe somebody was after something in or on one of the dead bodies or wanted to remove something from one of the dead bodies," said Zeb.

"Yes, sir," said Kate.

"Devon and I will be checking on Foster Bingham," said Zeb.

Devon reached into his ever-present briefcase and pulled out five or six typewritten pages.

"I went ahead and did my due diligence on Mr. Foster Bingham last night," said Devon. "Here is the full report. Would you like me to summarize to save time?"

"By all means. Give us what you got," replied Zeb, peering at the others.

In anticipation of the meeting Devon had made copies of his notes for everyone present. As he handed them to the deputies, Zeb and the others exchanged quizzical glances. Either this new guy was two steps ahead of everyone else or obsessive compulsive in his work. Either way it was working at the moment.

"Foster Bingham, age thirty-three, is one of four sons of Redmond and Elisia Bingham. Both parents are full blood members of the San Carlos Apache Tribe. Foster is the eldest of the four. Frederick is the second son and Fernando is second to youngest of the brothers. Fernando attends Arizona State University. Frederick was brain injured as a very young child, fetal alcohol syndrome was ruled out according to his medical records. However, he has been clinically tested and has an IQ of seventy. He walks with a limp, having broken his left leg in a motorcycle accident some years back. The three oldest boys make proud declaration about being direct descendants of Cochise. I don't have any information on the fourth son other than that he exists. Redmond and Elisia reside on the far edge of the San Carlos. No specific address is stated. They pick up their mail at a box at the tribal post office. Foster has numerous arrests, mostly to do with disturbing the peace, petty theft and public drunkenness. He has had no arrests in the last five years. Most of the trouble occurred when he was nineteen or twenty years old. Although he was not a member of Reverend Kurker's church, he publicly gave the good reverend credit for saving him from a life of crime. Foster has never filed an income tax return. He has five known associates, members of his small biker gang that goes by the name of the Guerrilla Warriors. He is the presumed leader of the motorcycle club. They are suspected of drug running. However, none of them have ever been arrested or convicted on any such charges. Sounds like a case of somebody looking the other way."

The room got abruptly still, quiet like the pall of death. Was this young black man, a literal outsider, accusing the San Carlos Police of purposefully not following the law when it came to Native Americans, Apache natives specifically? It sounded like it to everyone in the room. The team that was beginning to form just took the first blow to its foundation. The tension swept over Devon like an ill wind.

"I am not accusing anyone of anything. It's just when you put it together, it looks a bit like profiling, or more properly stated, anti-profiling. I've taken numerous classes in college on profiling from some of the best professors in criminal education."

"Since this is your first day in law enforcement, I am going to let that one slide," said Zeb. "In the future you had better have some proof when making such inferences, got it? I understand the Black community as a whole has been discriminated against, so has the Native American community. We do our best to treat everyone with equality and that includes the tribal police. In return we expect that treatment is a street that runs both ways."

"Yes, sir," said Devon, quickly understanding the politically correct world of Washington D.C. extended its arms to the rural confines of southeastern Arizona but with quite a different attitude.

"What your professors taught you doesn't mean jack to me. I could give a shit less about theory. Here in Graham County and on the San Carlos we are living in the real world. I just wonder how much real life experience in law enforcement any of your college teachers had."

"I don't know the answer to that," said Devon.

"Well you might want to find out," replied Zeb. "Sheriff Joe taught me long ago that criminal law enforcement theory has a strange way of becoming totally irrelevant when it comes to the reality of law enforcement. He likes to say the law's the thing you have to follow to be a good cop."

Sheriff Hanks added one final addendum. "We don't profile. The San Carlos Tribal Police do not profile, at least not to the best of my knowledge. However, we do, as trained law enforcement officials, recognize patterns of behavior both psychological and physical. It would serve you, the people of Graham County and your potential future in politics best if you kept your lip zipped unless and until you actually know what you are talking about."

When Devon opened his mouth to defend himself, Zeb shot him a look. The young man was intelligent enough to interpret it without more being said.

"Alright, everyone has their assignments. Let's get to work," ordered Zeb. Devon, come with me. We've got to take a closer look at Foster Bingham."

"What makes you think he has anything to do with the murders of Elizabeth and Rainen?" asked Devon.

"I don't have much of anything to connect him to their murders, at least not yet."

# 13

Devon's questions on the highway to the San Carlos kept Zeb interested if not slightly annoyed. At times it bordered on the type of inquiry that seemed based in superstition and ignorance. Devon quizzed Zeb intensely about the history of the area. Diamondback rattlesnakes, in particular, seemed to arouse Devon's curiosity as well as his concern.

"Are they really as dangerous as people say?"

"Stay away from them and you'll be fine," advised Zeb. "Never provoke one with a short stick or one of the toes on those fancy new boots of yours. They can be real quick in coming at you and take a chunk out of your leg before you have a chance to back off."

"From the tone of your voice I take it you don't approve of my new boots," said Devon.

"Scuff 'em up a little and spit polish 'em a lot. That makes new boots look like they've been walked in, if you catch my drift."

Devon knew he looked like a rookie. He probably even appeared to be a rube to his fellow officers, but it wasn't them he need be concerned about. It was the citizens of Graham County who would take the most notice and pass harshest judgment. He had future elections to win. He needed to get off on the right foot with the citizenry. After a longer than normal silence Devon spoke up again.

"What if I chance upon one by accident?"

"One what?" asked Zeb.

"Rattlesnake."

"Don't shoot it. Don't even shoot at it," added Zeb. "It will only piss the rattler off if you do. You can cut one in half with a knife, the head will still bite you and the venom will likely as not kill you depending on the circumstances."

Devon didn't know for certain if Zeb was pulling his leg or not.

"Really?" asked Devon.

"Really," replied Zeb, rolling his eyes. "Didn't they teach you any herpetology in college?"

"I must have skipped that class," said Devon.

When it came to the history and lore of Aravaipa Canyon and the Turkey Creek area, however, Devon had done his homework.

"Is it true that the Aravaipa Western Apache clan allowed both Geronimo and Cochise clear passage through Aravaipa Canyon in order to escape federal soldiers?" asked Devon.

"That's the story that gets told. From the way Jimmy Song Bird tells it..."

"Jimmy Song Bird?"

"San Carlos Medicine Man and good friend of mine. Stick around long enough and you'll meet him. The canyon tribe was constantly wary of outsiders. Cochise was a chief of the Chokoken band of Chiricahua. The Chokoken lay claim as the real Apaches."

"Hold on one second. What do you mean _real_ Apaches?"

"The government gave designations to the Indian tribes. They clumped together unrelated bands of Natives and called them all, erroneously, Apaches. Some of the bands didn't even have the common bond of language and yet were called Apaches by the United States government," explained Zeb.

"That's screwed up," replied Devon.

"Are all African-Americans the same?" asked Zeb.

"No, of course not."

"Well, the government doesn't do much to designate the differences, do they?"

"I'd never thought about it quite like that," replied Devon.

"Back to the subject at hand. Geronimo was a Bedonkohe Apache. He was born right up there in Turkey Creek, at the edge of Aravaipa Canyon. If the stories are true, my guess is that Geronimo got safe passage much more readily than Cochise, but you never know what kind of temporary or ongoing alliances the different bands had. Not exactly my area of expertise and not that well recorded, but I'd bet nickels to dimes that Song Bird or Rambler would talk your ear off about that stuff."

Devon quickly jotted down a note in his iPhone regarding Song Bird and Rambler and possible education. He entered their phone numbers from Zeb's cell phone as well.

"I know from my reading that Geronimo was an associate of Cochise," added Devon.

"Actually both were followers of Mangas Coloradas. Mangas Coloradas held more power than either Geronimo or Cochise at one point. If you really want to know about Mangas Coloradas, I'd have a pow-wow with Song Bird. He knows the earlier history as well as anyone," said Zeb.

"Pow-wow, isn't that politically incorrect?" asked Devon.

"Depends," replied Zeb. "If you're an Apache or from around these parts, it's okay to use it. If you're an outsider, I guess it's not okay. Catch my drift?"

"Are you suggesting language is local and that certain people are allowed to say it and others aren't?" asked Devon.

"I get you're not from the ghetto, but isn't ghetto talk a private language that is local? How about Italian parts of big cities or Chinese sections? Don't they speak their own dialect and slang language?"

Realizing he was trapped by Zeb's logic, Devon didn't dignify the remark by attempting to counter it. It dawned on him that Zeb could play politics as well as the next guy when he wanted to. What he had heard about Sheriff Hanks before arriving in Graham County wasn't matching up with the real Zeb.

As they made the turnoff onto IR 17 toward the office of Rambler Braing, Devon kept his comments neutral, noting what a beautiful area this was in a desolate sort of way. Zeb assured him that even though the land appeared bleak and barren at first glance there were many scenic regions on the Rez.

"On the higher elevations there are plenty of places with lush landscape, but there are also some very bleak areas on the Rez as well."

"Isn't Rez a rather derogatory term for reservation?" asked Devon.

"I'll leave that one to Rambler. Best to ask him," replied Zeb, slightly shaking his head and wondering how this politically correct outsider was going to fare here in the west.

Rambler's police truck was parked in front of his office. Two of his deputies were sitting on a bench outside the door. The tipped their hats to Zeb but eyed the younger deputy with a great deal of curiosity. After they entered the office, Devon was about to comment to Zeb that he felt people were looking at him. Before he could open his mouth he overheard the Apache deputies wondering aloud who the "Black White man" was. He opted to keep his mouth shut.

"Gentlemen, welcome to my office," said Rambler, extending a warm hand to Zeb and Devon. "Have a seat."

Zeb took the wooden chair. Devon parked his body in an overstuffed chair with bent, well-used springs. Slipping into his seat, Devon felt like a little child in a chair that was far too big for him.

"Coffee, tea?"

"I'm good," said Zeb.

"Coffee for me, black," said Devon.

Rambler pointed to the coffee pot.

"There might be some Styrofoam cups in the cabinet if you look behind a few things."

"What's new in town?" asked Rambler.

"The Free Bird Circus is coming to town next week," said Zeb.

"Same circus as last year?" asked Rambler. "Hell of a good circus."

"I thought so."

"Remember how Eskadi Black Robes used to go on and on about how circus clowns were from the Native tradition?" asked Rambler. "Where'd he get that shit?"

Zeb shrugged. Devon made some sort of lame statement about having heard the same thing about clowns. Rambler and Zeb let it pass and once again began talking about the Free Bird Circus.

"Great," said Rambler, jotting a note on his daily calendar. "I wouldn't miss the Free Bird Circus for the world."

"Other than that, not a bunch is going on. We've got a bicycle thief on the loose. Six bikes in the last week alone," said Zeb.

"Maybe he's opening a store," laughed Rambler. "And building up inventory."

"We think it's a woman. We're fairly certain she's selling them for meth money."

"Bummer," replied Rambler. "That's no kind of life. Stealing from kids to support your bad habit. That is plain vanilla fucked up. White people's crime, eh?"

Zeb chuckled. "I suspect you've got the same problem out here on the Rez." They both waited for Devon's reaction, but he wasn't taking the bait. The men gave each other an ever so slight shrug of the shoulders.

"Other than that, the murders of Elizabeth Townes and Rainen Kayita and the potentially missing body of Frederick Bingham are my biggest concern. And how about on the Rez?"

Zeb significantly drew out and accented the word Rez. Devon cringed.

"You know the Rez, Zeb. Same old, same old. Petty theft, petty crime, family disputes, the usual. But all the gossip is about Frederick Bingham's missing body, Rainen Kayita's murder and, of course, the women are all talking about Nations' confession of having an affair with Elizabeth. I mean, what a joke, they all knew about it anyway, but making a public statement at Elizabeth's funeral has given it a life of its own," chuckled Rambler. "I don't think they like the fact Nations was parking his car in the garage of a White woman. Good old-fashioned jealously."

"That kind of gossip is like letting the genie out of the bottle. It ain't ever getting back in. I must admit to being surprised by Nations' timing," said Zeb.

"Funerals, you know..."

"Yup," replied Zeb.

"How's the new position of Deputy Sheriff of Graham County going, son?" Rambler inquired of Devon.

"Actually it's my first day on the job. I'm listening and learning. Mostly trying to keep my mouth shut at the right time. I don't seem to be doing so well on that account. I guess I'm getting used to how things work down here."

Zeb found Devon's touch of humility surprising and endearing.

"It's a different country, both figuratively and literally. I'm sure a smart young man like yourself will figure it out," said Rambler. "Just pay attention to the nuances and don't believe most of what you hear and about half of what you see."

"I must say I am pleasantly surprised at the beauty of the San Carlos Reservation," said Devon.

"Might be the most beautiful place on earth, at least in the good parts, as far as many of us are concerned," said Rambler.

"Home is where the heart is," added Devon.

"Here on the Rez it's good to know when to speak up, when to put up and when to shut up. I suppose it's the same everywhere," replied Rambler.

"I suppose it is, at least in some ways," said Devon. "I'm working on figuring out the differences."

"That's not a bad idea," replied Rambler. "But sometimes the more different things appear, the more they're alike. As an outsider, my advice to you would be to pay extra close attention and leave your prejudices at the Graham County line and off the Rez."

Devon made a mental note of Rambler's rather terse advice. Zeb knew Rambler was offering some damn solid guidance to the newcomer. He hoped Devon would follow it. However, he doubted Devon's ability to keep his personal beliefs out of the stewpot. Time would tell.

"Enough of the small talk. We should get some work done. That's why they pay us the big bucks. I suppose we'd better bring each other up to date. What have you got on the Bingham brothers situation?" asked Rambler.

Zeb nodded at Devon who proceeded to reiterate everything he had told the sheriff and more.

"The Bingham's have four sons. I'm not exactly sure where their residence is."

"The family lives out by Glyph Gulch. Their house is just a few miles past a dry river bed called Rattlesnake Creek. Some of the old timers say once there was a lot of gold in Rattlesnake Creek. Some say there still is, but I think any talk of gold out that way is a lot of hooey," interrupted Rambler.

Devon made a note of it in his iPhone and cringed at the thought of a dry creek full of rattlesnakes.

"All of the Binghams seem to make their wages on day labor. None of them has a specific job they have held for a long time," said Devon.

"With 70% unemployment, if you don't have a job at the casino, it's pretty damn likely you're going to be unemployed much or most of the time. I'm sure you've seen the same among your own people in the ghettos that are in every large city in America."

Devon choked at the words he was hearing. How dare Rambler make such a blanket statement?

"I've rarely spent any time in the ghetto. I wouldn't know about the unemployment rate in certain areas of large cities by anything other than what I've read about or seen on the news. Not all blacks live in ghettos, and certainly 70% of blacks are not unemployed. In fact, the majority of Black Americans earn a middle class living."

"Didn't mean to strike a nerve," said Rambler. "Just making a statement. A young man like yourself is prone to shoot off his gun without pointing it first. Around here that often causes a person to shoot themselves in the foot, or worse. I'm just trying to keep those fancy boots of yours in working order."

"Your point is well taken," said Devon. "I'll try and leave any preconceptions I have at the county line and off the San Carlos Reservation."

"Maybe we'd better get down to business before we create a truckload of bad blood between us," said Rambler.

Devon sheepishly agreed. He was beginning to recognize just how wet behind the ears he was when it came to rural ways, both Native and White. But he would learn. He had to. He was here with several specific missions in mind. Senator Russell had demanded in no uncertain terms that he remember to stay on task. Trouble was he had no one to share one of his missions with. That issue was a private request from Senator Russell.

"What else do you know about the Binghams, and where did you learn what you do know?" asked Rambler.

Zeb pointed a thumb at Devon.

"Mostly from the Internet and public records," said Devon. "Foster Bingham and his brother share a Facebook page. I also did some background checking last night using standard police methods."

Zeb smiled. Maybe Devon wasn't all hot air. At least he was showing some initiative. Still he wondered if the Bingham boys were so stupid they put out personal information on Facebook that might cause them trouble. God only knew what this next generation was capable of.

"None of the Bingham boys," added Rambler, "Foster, Frederick, Felipe and a fourth son, Fonzie, who lacks a birth certificate, have much in the way of public records on file. Just typical encounters with the police when they were young. That's likely why you found so little."

"Wait one second. Do you mean to tell me the Binghams actually named one of their sons Fonzie, as in the TV show, _Happy Days_?" asked Zeb.

"Crazy Indian, stuff, eh, Zeb? Wait a second, didn't Frank Zappa name on of his kids Moon Unit and the others Diva Muffin, Dweezel and Ahmet?" Rambler hung his head and chuckled. "Crazy White people."

"You're right," said Zeb. "No one group holds the patent on crazy."

The easy give and take between these men of different backgrounds, skin colors and social strata was a tad confounding to Devon, but he was beginning to catch on. Part of him felt like a boy among men, real men. Part of him felt superior because of his background. He needed to find a way to blend the two.

"Why no birth certificate on Fonzie?" asked Devon.

"Long story short, Redmond accused Elisia of having an affair that resulted in Fonzie as the by product. Redmond was too pissed off at her to allow any birth certificate to be filed. In essence, Redmond wanted it like Fonzie didn't exist. Funny part is, Redmond gets along better with him than any of the other boys. Stupid Indian pride, I guess."

Zeb nodded. Devon didn't know what to think.

"Go on, Devon. Tell me what you've rounded up on the Bingham boys," urged Rambler.

"As I was saying, the Bingham boys worked on several government-funded, tribal building projects. Mostly they did roadwork. There is a picture on Facebook of Frederick holding a stop sign and one of Foster in a hard hat standing around with a group of guys with shovels. None of the Bingham boys have any traditional vocational training. None of them have served in the United States military. They get by on low-end, low-paying temporary employment. None of the four have ever filed a tax return even though they've all received 1040 forms from employers."

"Tax evasion is the work of the IRS," said Rambler sharply. "Not the tribal police. If you are making any official reports, don't include that."

"We try to keep our noses out from under the flap of that particular tent," added Zeb. "You step on the toes of the IRS and they run over your feet with a truck."

"I know from talking to Marcos Bren that he hires Foster and Frederick to close up graves," said Rambler. "He pays them cash. He pays everyone who works for him in cash. I put in a few days with him digging final resting sites back in the day. He knows every new and ancient graveyard from Tucson to the border. The Binghams are good with a shovel according to Marcos, especially Frederick."

"An FBI agent by the name of Rodriguez dropped off the files of Foster and Frederick. They know less than we do about them," said Zeb.

"What would you expect? The FBI doesn't come around here unless they can make the newspaper with it," said Rambler.

"Well, all of that leaves us exactly nowhere," said Zeb. "Let's put our heads together and see if we can think of anyone who might want to kill either Rainen or Elizabeth..."

"Or Frederick Bingham," added Rambler.

"Or Frederick Bingham," echoed Zeb.

"Whom, by the way, carried a life insurance policy for three-quarters of a million dollars," said Devon.

Rambler and Zeb looked at him curiously.

"Facebook posting from March third of last year."

"They keep postings up for quite a while?" asked Jake.

"Until you take them down," replied Devon.

"That could lead to trouble," said Jake.

"It does," said Devon. "In fact, the Bingham brothers posted in rather lengthy detail about how the death of Frederick would make certain family members, his parents and brother, Foster, quite wealthy."

"Nothing like sharing your private business with the whole world," said Jake.

With that Devon pressed a button on his iPhone and up popped a snapshot image of the Facebook posting. Rambler and Zeb slipped on their cheaters and leaned forward to have a look as Devon held his iPhone up to their line of sight.

"I'll send it to both of your phones and to Ms. Nazelrod's computer," Devon offered.

"Good starting point. Nice work. Would you mind copying Kate and Jake as well?" asked Zeb.

Not three seconds had passed before Devon pronounced it done.

"Devon's generation seems to have a better handle on technology than us old timers," said Rambler.

"Any thoughts on the allegedly missing body of Frederick Bingham?" asked Zeb.

"Do you mean does his dead body actually exist, or is it some kind of ruse on Foster Bingham's part?" asked Devon.

"Are you suggesting Foster and Frederick are in cahoots with some kind of insurance fraud?" asked Zeb.

"It happens all the time in the big city," replied Devon. "Insurance fraud is an eighty billion dollar a year business in the U.S. alone," added Devon. "I wrote a report for a senate subcommittee that Senator Russell sits on."

"Has Facebook allowed you to connect any dots that might suggest insurance fraud on their part?" asked Zeb.

"Not yet," replied Devon. "But I have it up on my radar."

"I doubt any of the Binghams had the smarts to pull off something that big," said Rambler. "They are petty thieves at worst. Something involving that large amount of money is way out of their league."

"Why would you think Frederick would take out such a large amount of life insurance?" asked Devon. "He never made enough money to file a tax return. It doesn't really add up."

"Greed." said Zeb. "Greed is a big time motivator for small time crooks who dream of getting rich quick."

"Maybe they got the idea from watching a rerun of the _Rockford Files_ ," said Rambler. "It's on every night at nine on satellite TV. Everybody on the Rez talks about it."

Zeb pointed at Devon's iPhone and made some writing motions in the air.

"Got another research project for you. Check out what the plots were on the _Rockford Files_ reruns during the thirty days prior to Frederick taking out the insurance policy. I hear the Internet is a pretty good way to check up on that sort of thing," Zeb suggested sarcastically.

"I'm beginning to feel like low man on the totem pole," said Devon. "No disrespect intended."

"Wrong tribe," said Rambler dryly."Totems, yes. Totem poles, no, not really. You might want to try using the Internet for educational purposes as well as gossip."

"You are low man on the totem pole," added Zeb. "It's where you start out here in the wild, wild west."

"I'll figure out the date the policy was purchased and check out the plots of the _Rockford Files_ reruns just prior to that," said Devon.

"How about Rainen?" asked Zeb.

"Rainen didn't have any known enemies to speak of," said Rambler. "But he charged a tidy sum for sticking you underground with the worms. Quite a few folks owed him money from what I hear."

Zeb pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket.

"I pulled the accounts receivable from his computer. He had over eight hundred grand on the books. Seems kind of high to me."

"He's been in business for over twenty years, remember that. We might want to age the receivables and see how much is from each of the last twenty years," said Rambler.

"Maybe he wasn't good at collecting his debts," said Devon. "How many burials does he do a year? What is the average cost? How long has he been carrying that amount of debt? All those are questions that need answering. I can think of about a hundred questions regarding..." Devon stopped in mid-sentence, realizing what his words had just gotten him into.

"That's a good job for you to work on," said Zeb, pointing to Devon's iPhone. "Those are good questions. They all need answering as soon as possible. The password to all of Rainen's computer accounts is 4deadMEN. His computer information was written down in a red address book in his desk drawer. Thumb through it and you will find his accounts, passwords and user names. I found it when I opened his middle top drawer."

Devon mumbled something about being stuck with grunt work, causing Zeb and Rambler to grin.

"It's good solid police work," said Zeb. "It's how you learn the business."

"Did you have the same kind of luck snooping through Elizabeth's desk? Did she have any known enemies or other secrets that you know about?" asked Rambler.

"I suppose Nations' wife, Na'isha, might be considered a known enemy, especially if she knew about the affair," said Zeb.

"Everyone else knew about it," said Rambler. "I can't imagine for one second that she didn't know about it."

"Good point," said Zeb.

"Let's stay on track," said Rambler. "Back to Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth was a headstrong woman. She could easily have ruffled more than a few feathers along the way. She had what you might call some unusual connections. She finagled numerous minority-owned business contracts, in this case minority being female, with the federal and state government to cremate illegal aliens when no family could be found. She told me about it one night when I was still on a toot after Doreen was murdered. I also know she bailed a couple of the Bingham boys out of hot water a few times over the years," said Zeb.

"Which ones?" asked Rambler.

"Foster and Frederick. D and D's. Devon has already checked on it"

"Your new deputy is beginning to catch on," said Rambler. "Got one like him who would like to earn a few bucks working for me?"

"I might loan him to you if you really need him."

"You can't do that," argued Devon. "I know what my contract as deputy sheriff allows. I read it from cover to cover."

"Did you read the ultrafine print? The part where it says you have to put up with the sheriff's sense of humor?"

"I must have been skimming when I came to that paragraph."

"Let's get back on track here. Nations' wife is a starting place because of his affair with Elizabeth. Anyone else stand out in your mind?" asked Zeb.

"We can look at the people who owed Elizabeth and Rainen a significant amount of money," suggested Rambler.

"Hell of a way to welch on a debt," said Devon.

"What do they do in D.C. or your old Phoenix neighborhood when someone skips out on a large debt?" asked Zeb.

"Either a legitimate collection agency is used, or thugs are called in. If it's someone in government, it's not unusual for someone to apply a little political pressure. How are things done around here?"

"Usually people rely on a collection agency," said Zeb.

"Which is always a bad idea as it creates bad blood," interrupted Rambler.

"But often times in a close-knit community nothing at all is done. The creditor hopes that he or she will eventually get paid as the circumstance of the debtor changes," said Zeb. "Most of the time people act quite rationally and eventually pay their bills or both parties agree on a reduction."

"How about on the San Carlos Reservation?" asked Devon.

"Depends," said Rambler. "Depends on family history mostly. Folks tend to work it out, one way or the other. Sometimes with force. Mostly without physical violence. I take it that's what you're asking?"

Both Zeb and Rambler were fairly certain that the two murders were not about money or some kind of debt. Though neither said so, Zeb and Rambler both were beginning to suspect Devon had a concept of the rural west from movies and television.

Devon was suspicious both of the other lawmen were keeping something from him, much as he was keeping something from them. What that something was they might be withholding, he had no clue. Devon was beginning to think the bullshit of the politics he had seen so much of in D.C. also extended deep into the rural west.

# 14

Kate and Jake pulled slowly into the funeral home parking lot. In discussing the case they had both concluded it would be a good idea to take the autopsy reports and read them at the scene of the murders. To Jake this was simply common sense. It was the way he did business when he was Sheriff of Graham County years earlier. Both Jake and Kate were seasoned enough in the business of law enforcement to understand immersing themselves into the crime scene could yield valuable information.

They had a quick look around inside the funeral home before settling down in a pair of overstuffed leather chairs.

"These must be the chairs the funeral director has you sit in when they're closing the sale," said Kate.

"Or making a pitch for a higher priced casket," added Jake.

"What kind of casket are you going to have them bury you in?" asked Kate.

"I'm going to be cremated. It's cheaper and what if somebody wanted to dig up my bones someday, for an autopsy or something? I wouldn't go for that, it's creepy."

"I'm opting for cremation too," said Kate. "It just seems more ecological."

Kate handed Rainen's report to Jake and began silently reading the autopsy report on Elizabeth Townes. When each finished, they exchanged reports.

"Propofol," ruminated Kate.

"That's the drug that Michael Jackson overdosed on, wasn't it?" asked Jake.

"I believe the overdose was ruled accidental," said Kate.

"I suspect that will be argued for years," replied Jake. "Mega-bucks involved in that estate."

"Yes, I believe you're right about that, but in our case it's clear that Propofol wasn't used to kill either Rainen or Elizabeth," replied Kate.

"A deep slice with a very sharp knife or razor to their jugular veins and carotid arteries seems to have done the job," said Jake.

Kate flipped on the funeral home's computer. She did a historical search to see if anyone had previously looked up Propofol. They hadn't. She pulled up a couple of websites, one medical and one for druggies on Propofol.

"They call it milk of amnesia because it looks like milk of magnesia and produces amnesia. Clever. The Missouri Supreme Court allowed it to be used in executions."

"Ah, the beauty of the Internet," added Jake.

"Here we go. This is what I was looking for," said Kate. "The lethal dose of Propofol is generally considered to be around twenty-five milligrams, depending on the body mass of the person. The autopsy reports indicate roughly ten milligrams were found in both Rainen and Elizabeth."

"I'm no doctor, but I would assume that ten milligrams is enough to knock them out but not kill them," said Jake. "Does that seem right to you?"

"Seems about right," said Kate. "Doc's report also notes that no needle marks were found on either body."

"So it was ingested orally," said Jake.

"That's exactly what the report suggests. He also states that it would take five to ten minutes to take effect as a sedative if swallowed as opposed to less than one minute if taken intravenously," said Kate.

"They had to know they were taking it, didn't they? Do you suppose they were using it recreationally?" asked Jake.

Kate shrugged her shoulders. People have strange habits. As lawmen they both knew drugs were among the most common of them. She looked further into the recent history on the funeral home's computer. No one had done a recent search on recreational drug use.

"Let's think about it for a minute. What are the possibilities?" asked Kate.

"They were drugged before someone slit their throats. Rainen's throat was cut after Elizabeth's."

"Which makes me think they were either unconscious or at least somewhat incapacitated by the drug at the same time. Rainen was a big, strong, manly man. If he had been conscious when someone was cutting Elizabeth's throat and he saw it, he would have tried to defend her. He certainly would have fought to protect himself. Doc Yackley's report says clearly that neither Rainen nor Elizabeth show any evidence of having attempted to fight off anyone. No tissue was found under their fingernails. No fingernails broken. Doc found no bruises on their hands or arms. The only blood present was blood that ran down their arms from their necks," said Kate.

"Leaves one obvious possibility," said Jake.

"Not to me," replied Kate. "What do you mean?"

"They drank the poison unwittingly," suggested Jake.

Kate turned back to the computer, punched a few keys and, voila, she had what she was looking for.

"Here we go. Propofol has a bad taste, but it doesn't have much of an odor," said Kate.

"If they were working on a body, which they were, the chemicals they were using to embalm the body might mask any smell of the Propofol. The taste is another problem," said Jake.

"Not really," said Kate. "Haven't you noticed if you are eating something and, for example, you drive by a huge cattle or pig operation..."

"..the smell overpowers the taste of the food."

"That's right," said Kate. "In theory the embalming fluids could have masked both senses, taste and smell."

"Still, how could they not have noticed a thick, milky white substance in what they were eating or drinking?" asked Jake.

A long silence ensued. Jake rolled his fingers on the desk. Kate stared out the window. Both sensed a temporary dead end. Neither officer cared to be at an impasse. Jake reacted with a sense of agitation. Kate tried to turn her mind down the road to new possibilities. Something as obvious as the noses on their faces was there, but they couldn't see it.

"When I get stuck, I move onto something else," said Jake. "Let's have a little look-see in the morgue's refrigeration unit at the two bodies that were being prepared for burial at the time of the murders."

Jake pushed down on the handle that opened the thick, heavy, metal doors. There were a half dozen roll-in refrigeration units. Only two had files attached with recent dates on them.

Kate grabbed the file on Unit #1. Jake opened the refrigerator door and pulled on a handle that easily allowed the body to slide out of the unit. Jake pulled back the white sheet that covered the cadaver. She looked like she had been dead a while.

"This is Mae Lynn Rose Brenerson. She was a Safford resident. By the address here I can see she lived on the north end of town near Thatcher. No known living relatives according to the information stated here. She was 77 years old at the time of her death. According to the file her cause of death was heart failure secondary to diabetes and obesity. She's been dead almost two weeks now."

"She looks lonely, even in death," said Jake. "But I would've thought she would smell worse being dead that long."

"You can thank Oliver Evans and Jacob Perkins for their refrigeration invention, or at least improving upon the original design by William Cullen, a Scotsman, for that," said Kate rather nonchalantly.

Jake open his eyes widely and rubbed his chin.

"Just how do you happen to know that little bit of trivia?"

"I did a report on refrigeration in for a class in college. It's about the only thing I remember from my research," replied Kate, smiling. "It's in the useless information hard drive part of my brain. I remembered the name William 'Bill' Cullen because it's the same name as a guy who hosted a bunch of TV shows I used to watch with my grandma. I think the shows were _To Tell the Truth_ and _I've Got a Secret._ "

"I remember him and the shows. Big glasses. Goofy, toothy grin."

"That's the guy."

"I guess you never know when that kind of thing becomes handy," said Jake. "Now I'll remember it. You know, it's that kind of information that can fool people into thinking you're smarter than you really are."

"Or it can liven up a dull party," added Kate.

"Or make people think you're either boring or nuts," said Jake.

"Enough said. Now let's get down to business. She handed Jake Elizabeth's handwritten jottings from the small paper file that had been attached to the refrigeration unit.

"It looks as though the taxpayers of Graham County are footing the bill on this one. No services, no preacher prayin' over her, no nothing. A woman alone who spent her final days just holding hands with the clock, just waiting for her time to come. Seems so sad," said Jake.

Jake re-covered her body with the sheet and slid her silently back into the cooler. He wheeled out the second body. This body was that of a middle-aged man of Mexican descendant.

Kate read Elizabeth's report. The man was found dead from dehydration in the desert just outside of Safford, actually not too far from Jake's trailer. No doubt a poor man, judging from his clothing and worn out shoes, probably looking for a better life in El Norte. Name: José Doe. DOB: Unknown. Cause of Death: Heat stroke and organ failure likely secondary to dehydration.

Kate gave Elizabeth's notes a closer look. In her autopsy report Elizabeth had noted injury to the rectum, a tear with minor ripping around the anus. His blood carried small traces of cocaine. On a side note she had written 'Possibly a drug mule with a stash of cocaine stored in his rectum. Too little evidence to prove. No cocaine or other packaged drugs found inside of the remains'. According to the notes, the body of José Doe was found by two off duty border patrol agents on their way home from work. They dropped off the body as a courtesy. Kate shared this information with Jake.

"How's this for a theory? Drug mule is being followed by cartel members or robbers who knew he was carrying drugs. Before anyone can grab him, José Doe is found by local border patrol agents. The robbers spot the agents taking the body and follow them to the funeral home, knowing the body of José Doe has cocaine stashed in his rectum. They break in, kill Rainen and Elizabeth and end up with the cocaine." Jake speculated.

"That would make sense only if Elizabeth hadn't written the report as she obviously looked in the rectum. If there had been drugs inside the body, she would have found them. Also, when would the Propofol have come into play?" countered Kate.

"Maybe he swallowed balloons and the cocaine was above the rectum and she missed it." said Jake. "If someone knew it was inside him, maybe it went further down the intestinal tract toward the rectum after death. It seems possible to me. I've heard the intestinal tract relaxes after death. The packages of dope could have been higher up in the body and dropped down some time after death."

"We need to get everyone together on this one. You and I simply don't know enough," said Kate.

"Maybe the drugs had already been removed from the body by the time it got to the morgue."

"Dishonest border patrol? Wouldn't be the first time."

"Now that is something I can get behind," said Jake. "No pun intended."

"Clever, let's get our rears in gear and haul our butt's back to the office," replied Kate. "No puns intended."

"Death is weird, isn't it," said Jake.

"It takes us all in the end," replied Kate. "Once again, no pun intended."

Jake thought back to when Kate had first joined the Graham County Sheriff's Department. She was the first woman deputy ever in Graham County. Back then Jake was going through his seven-year drunk period after the ritualistic murder of his granddaughter. He had said some irrational, stupid things about Kate as a woman on the force back then. He suddenly felt the urge to apologize.

"Kate, back when I was on my long bender and you were just a rookie, I said some things about your ability to be a deputy sheriff. I am so sorry for having said them. Please accept my apology," said Jake.

Kate laid a gentle hand on Jake's arm.

"You were in a tough place in your life. I never took it personally," said Kate.

A tear rolled down his grizzled face. Somehow her forgiveness completed an arc in the circle of his life. They drove back to the sheriff's office in comfortable silence. Zeb was waiting for them.

# 15

"Kate, I have permission from Police Chief Braing to talk to the elder Binghams about the disappearance and possible death of their son. I thought having a woman along might make Mrs. Bingham feel more at ease. Can you come along?"

"Certainly," replied Kate. "Did you think of asking Song Bird to come with us?"

"I asked him, but he's busy with a three-day spirit healing ceremony for a soldier that just got back from serving his third tour with Special Forces in Afghanistan," replied Zeb.

The Binghams lived in an area claimed by both the San Carlos Tribe and the State of Arizona yet governed by neither. Numerous court battles over the land had proven fruitless. The area was, for all intents and purposes, lawless and without governance of any sort. The argument over who actually owned the land was a decades old battle. Both sides wanted the land, but neither had any interest in caring for the treacherous roads or assigning law enforcement, utilities, postal service and other government functions to the area. The Binghams had chosen to live in an uncontrolled, no man's land.

Twenty miles down a stretch of dirt that hadn't seen a road grader in decades Kate noticed a narrow side road that seemed to lead to a small area surrounded by a decrepit wooden fence. A group of birds was circling above the small area. Periodically one of them swirled to the ground.

"Zeb, what's that? And that?"

Kate pointed down the washed out road. Zeb stopped the truck and took out his 5 X 50 Steiner military binoculars. These had been procured at no cost to the Graham County Sheriff's Department when the United States military began cutting back its operations in Iraq. The cost would have otherwise been prohibitive for Graham County.

"I'm not sure. It could be a very old, probably long-forgotten Apache or settler gravesite."

"And the birds?"

"They look like ravens to me."

"Let's have a closer look," said Kate.

Zeb did a double take. "Are old graveyards a hobby of yours?"

"No, well maybe. This one just sort of looks interesting to me. I am curious as to what it's doing way out here. There are no ranches around for miles. Let's see what it is and what those birds are up to."

Zeb backed up the truck and reluctantly headed down the deeply rutted road.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Curious about the history of the place, I guess. It just seems so odd that there would be a graveyard out here, literally in the middle of nowhere."

"Curiosity, how's that old saying go, killed the cat? Let's hope we can make it back out on this road if and when we get there."

"You used to be a lot more adventurous when Doreen was around," said Kate.

Kate knew full well Zeb had avoided talking about Doreen with her for way too long. Certainly he wasn't going to bring it up, so she felt she had to.

"Yeah, I guess," said Zeb, his mind stirring with thoughts of his dead wife.

Kate placed a hand on Zeb's shoulder.

"We all miss her. The hurt in your heart is greater than in ours, but I still think of her often. I know everyone does. It helps to talk about it, you know?"

Zeb knew Kate was right. He felt safe talking about Doreen with Kate, but what could he say? The mere thought of Doreen nearly froze him.

"I miss her a lot," said Zeb.

"Of course," said Kate.

"It's like part of the landscape that was there forever is gone and is never coming back. Like someone being erased from a photograph or blotted out of a painting."

"It's easy for me to say, but it helps when I think of all the times she made me laugh or when we chatted it up as girls. I know you have a ton of good memories. It helps to concentrate on those. If you believe and have faith, you should know that one day you will be with her again."

Therein lied the rub. Zeb wondered if he hadn't lost his faith, or at least part of it, when Doreen died.

"I hope you're right," replied Zeb. "I hope you're right."

Two miles of rough, rutted, winding road, much worsened if that was possible by a recent downpour, led them to what was indeed a very old graveyard. The wooden fence surrounding the cemetery was mostly falling apart or fallen down. The grave markers, or what was left of them, were covered by scrub brush and low-lying undergrowth. When they stepped out of the truck, they were immediately overcome with a foul smell carried on a light breeze. Several more ravens landed as they turned off the vehicle.

"What's that smell?" asked Kate. "It's horrible."

Zeb pointed in the direction of some old pinón trees just off the edge of the far southwestern corner of the small graveyard. This was also where the ravens were gathering and circling. Zeb glanced at the ravens and remembered what Song Bird had taught him years earlier. He had learned from the Medicine Man that when the ravens circled like this it was called an unkindness or a conspiracy. They foretold a bad omen. Whatever this was, it wasn't going to be good.

"Ironically, this being a graveyard, I think there's something dead over there. I hope it's just an animal, maybe a cow or a horse. My guess is that since the BLM doesn't manage this land somebody probably grazes it for free. A wolf or a bobcat could have gotten a calf, a cow or a horse. Let's check it out."

Nearing the cause of the smell, Zeb stopped suddenly. He held his arms out to his sides indicating Kate should stop in her tracks. He stared intently at the ground around him. He was making sure that no evidence was accidentally destroyed by them.

"Go back and get the camera from the truck. Bring a body bag, gloves and a shovel. Be careful where you step."

Kate glanced ahead. It was no animal that they were smelling. It was the partial remains of a once shallowly buried and now partially unburied human body. Some critter had clawed back the dirt and helped itself to the dead man's guts. The ravens had been pecking away at the rest. The hollowed out eyes were freakishly eerie, even to Zeb, who had seen his fair share of dead men. As Kate returned with Zeb's requested items, she found him crouching over a rotting corpse. A pair of rather large holes, one in the skull and another in the upper chest, were instantly noticeable. Another homicide scene. This territory was confusing at best as to whose jurisdiction it fell under. Zeb exhaled heavily. He would take the responsibility knowing Rambler would coordinate with him to make it easier. This dead body wasn't at all what he needed, but it's what he got.

"I found this," Zeb said, handing Kate one shell casing. "I see two entry wounds on the victim. They appear to be from a .45. Look around and see if you can find any others."

On the opposite side of where the dead person's bones were laying, near the edge of what looked like a recently dug grave, Kate found three more casings. They were definitely from a .45. Kate knelt near the minimally decomposed, partially eaten remains of the dead body. She pointed to the lower left leg.

"Didn't Foster Bingham say his brother had broken his leg as an adult?"

"Yup," replied Zeb. "That leg looks like it has a healed fracture, but Frederick Bingham fractured the other leg."

"That rules out the body being Frederick Bingham," replied Kate.

Zeb reached toward the pinky finger of the right hand of the dead body. He reached forward and grabbed a turquoise ring. He handed it gently to Kate.

"I don't have my glasses. Check for an inscription."

"Stretch, that's all it says, Stretch," said Kate. "You know anybody named Stretch?"

"Just Archie Bunker's best pal on _All in the Family_ ," replied Zeb. "His name was Stretch Cunningham."

"Your age is showing, Sheriff Hanks," said Kate.

"Wait a second," said Zeb. "I do know of a guy named Stretch. Foster Bingham mentioned him in passing when Rambler and I were talking to him."

"Who is he?" asked Kate.

Zeb looked across the desert in the direction of the Bingham homestead.

"He ran around with Frederick Bingham. They lived together down in Dudleyville."

Zeb rubbed his hand along the edge of the grave.

"The splatter pattern and four casings tell me there was another person shot here," said Zeb. "That is my age and experience showing."

"Where's the other body? Who is the other body?" asked Kate. "If this is Stretch, the other body could well be Frederick."

"I'm afraid you might be right," said Zeb. "Help me get this one into the body bag."

Kate knelt next to Zeb and opened the bag. Suddenly Zeb jumped back. With a firm, coordinated shove he pushed Kate back and away.

"What the hell?' said Kate.

Then she saw it, a rattlesnake creeping out though the open wounds in the abdomen of the dead man. They both stood back and watched it slither away, rattling its tail the entire time.

"Never had that happen before," said Zeb. "And I hope I never have it happen again."

"No shit," replied Kate. "Do you think it's an omen of some sort?"

"No, just nature doing what nature does," replied Zeb.

They lifted the remains of the dead man into the body bag. Zeb began to dig to the bottom of the grave. He found a number of old bones with no skull and definitely no other recently buried body.

"Is somebody robbing graves for skulls and putting a new body in an old grave?" asked Kate.

Before Zeb could formulate a response Kate had another question, "Whose grave is this, do you think?"

"Somebody important, most likely," replied Zeb.

"What makes you say that?" asked Kate.

"When grave robbers steal only a skull, it means something. It means the skull belonged to someone who was very important. It could also mean someone was getting long-awaited revenge by stealing the skull."

"Apaches believe by taking the skull you would disturb the spirit of the dead person. The desire for revenge can last for generations," said Kate.

"Kind of like the Hatfields and the McCoys," said Zeb. "Another possibility is that something was hidden in this grave long ago, and somebody just now figured out where to look for it."

"Where do we go from here?" asked Kate, taking pictures, drawing a quick sketch of the scene and realizing just how much she had to learn.

"We still have to talk to Redmond and Elisia Bingham," said Zeb.

# 16

The Bingham house was run down. The area immediately around the house was filled with a lifetime of discarded junk. Two small buildings, also dilapidated, were on the south side of the main house. No electrical lines came to the house. A ramshackle, unpainted outhouse stood fifty feet behind the main building to the east.

"They put the outhouse in the right place," said Zeb. Kate's quizzical look told him she didn't know what he meant. "Toward the rising sun. Better to get your business done in the sun when it's the cold of the morning."

"Your knowledge is as deep as the ocean," quipped Kate.

"And my wit is as dry as the desert," responded Zeb as he knocked on the Binghams' door.

He knocked a second time before any movement was heard inside. One minute later an older man with an older woman standing behind him and to his right side opened the main door. Both stayed behind the screen. Zeb looked at them, then past them, then directly back at them. The inside of the house was dimly lit. The man wore a traditional Apache hunting knife on his belt. A small caliber pistol was holstered on the opposite side. He wore them both with as much ease as Zeb and Kate wore their weapons. The woman was wearing Native garb, dressed in a long dress and turquoise earrings, necklace and rings. Her gray hair was in a single long braid running down her back. The old couple studied Zeb and Kate. Kate and Zeb studied the situation. Finally, Kate spoke.

"We're from the Graham County Sheriff's Department. I'm Deputy Kate Steele and this is Sheriff Zeb Hanks."

The pair responded with silence until the old woman nudged her husband in the ribs.

"Sheriff, Deputy. I'm Redmond Bingham and this is my wife Elisia."

Zeb tipped the brim of his hat and nodded his head. Kate smiled at Mrs. Bingham who politely returned the gesture.

Zeb noticed neither were wearing shoes, and the stove was kicking out significant enough heat for him to feel it at the doorway. Neither of the older folks seemed affected by the heat of the wooden stove which practically had enough intensity to push Zeb and Kate back from the front door.

"It's never good news when the federal government shows up at your door," said Redmond. "Is this about Frederick? Did you find his body?"

"It is about Frederick. No, we haven't found his body," replied Zeb.

Mrs. Bingham sighed audibly. Hope radiated from her as much as heat did from the wood stove. She nudged her husband in the ribs for a second time and nodded toward the inside of the humble dwelling with her chin.

"The last time the government came knocking on this door was to tell us that my twin brother had been killed in Vietnam," said Redmond. "I apologize for not being friendly. I have been feeling nauseated. Won't you come in for some tea or lemonade? My wife has already made some dandelion tea to calm my stomach."

Redmond Bingham held the dilapidated screen door open. Zeb took off his hat as he and Kate passed over the threshold of the Binghams' home. Elisia had already pulled back chairs around a large kitchen table that took up most of the room. Within a minute both Zeb and Kate were sweating profusely. Elisa noted their discomfort and handed each of them a small handheld fan along with room temperature lemonade. Mr. Bingham drank warmed dandelion tea while Mrs. Bingham sipped on lemonade.

"It could have been me that was killed in Vietnam," said Redmond. "We were in the same unit. My brother, Victorio, volunteered for another ninety-day tour so he could bring home some extra money to help fix up this place. It was our parents' house back then. He was killed by what they called a Bouncing Betty. Only good thing was it killed him right away. He didn't suffer. I believe his spirit is at rest, thanks to Song Bird."

Kate said, "I'm so sorry." Zeb just listened.

"I'm pretty much over it," Redmond added. "It's not as bad as it used to be, thinking about it, I mean. I still miss him."

A sweet smile came to his face. He slid his hand across the gingham-covered table top, gripped his wife by the hand and softly squeezed.

"I'm glad you aren't bringing us bad news about our Frederick," said Redmond. "His mother has always worried about him."

"Yes, sir," replied Kate. Zeb once again was totally silent.

"How is the lemonade?" said Elisia.

"Tastes just like my grandmother's," replied Kate.

"It's very good," added Zeb.

"Fresh lemons from a grove of trees just down by the old creek bed," said Elisia.

The four sat in silence, sipping tea and lemonade. Zeb wondered where to begin. This was not what he had been expecting. It certainly wasn't going to be easy.

"When was the last time you saw Frederick?" he asked.

The old man rubbed his chin, thinking. The old woman spoke.

"Foster and Frederick bring us groceries on the first and fifteenth of every month. Just like clockwork. They never missed, so that would have been exactly a week ago."

"Foster kept an eye on Frederick. He knew that Frederick had trouble taking care of himself. Foster promised us no harm would ever come to Frederick," said Redmond.

"He even called himself Frederick's guardian angel," said Elisia.

"Frederick was fortunate to have such a loving brother," said Kate.

"How was Frederick doing the last time you saw him?" asked Zeb.

"Doing?" asked Redmond. "He was crippled up and his mind, his brain, didn't work so good. How do you think he was doing? He was doing like he always does."

Elisia admonished her husband with a cold, hard glare.

"I'm sorry," he quickly added. "He was doing about like he always did. He must have been working because Foster said Frederick insisted on paying for the groceries himself. He wouldn't even take some gas money when I offered it up. Foster even mentioned that he paid him back some money he owed him. He was working all right."

"Do you know who he was working for?" asked Zeb.

"He did odd jobs," replied Redmond. "He helped Marcos Bren dig graves, helped out doing painting and stuff at the First Dutch Evangelical Reform Church, did odd jobs for folks..."

As his voice trailed off, Elisia chimed in.

"He must have been doing some yard work or digging graves. I noticed he had lots of dirt under his fingernails when he set down the grocery bags, right here on this table. When he hugged me, his hands felt rougher than normal. He had been working doing some manual labor of some kind."

"Do you know where he was living?" asked Zeb.

"Down in Dudleyville," said Elisia. "He lived with a tall, skinny guy he called Stretch."

Kate eyed Zeb as he intuitively ran his fingers across the ring in his shirt pocket, the one they had just found with the dead body.

"I think his name was Dwayne Santos or Sandoz, something like that. Some other people lived there too. A couple, I think."

"We met Stretch a couple of times," said Redmond. "We never met the couple."

"Stretch loved his mother," added Elisia. "He was always commenting on her. He had a girlfriend too. He never mentioned her by name."

Another half hour of discussion didn't really give Zeb or Kate anything they didn't already know. Zeb had several questions in his mind. He was waiting for the right moment.

"What can you tell me about the old graveyard back down the road a ways?" asked Zeb.

"There are too many ghosts there," said Redmond.

Elisia reached into a cabinet and withdrew a bunch of sage that was tied together with a willow strip. She lit it and placed it on the table between Redmond and Zeb. Before Kate could respond, Elisia gently picked up her hand and led her out of doors where they sat on an ancient porch swing. When Kate asked why, Elisia just patted her hand and stared off in the direction opposite the graveyard and said softly, "What they are talking about does not concern women."

"Ghosts?" asked Zeb. "What kind of ghosts?"

"Apache ghosts. Blue coat ghosts. Ghosts of children."

"Blue coats?"

"Cavalry soldiers who killed my ancestors after they finished killing all the grey coats."

"That place is a military cemetery and a Native American burial ground?" asked Zeb.

"Yes," replied Redmond. "My people were from many places, many Nations are buried there. They came from all over to fight the blue coats. The blue coats were from Camp Grant and Fort Goodwin I have been told."

"The ghost children?"

"From murdered women who were with child. Also children who had never been prepared for battle but fought like true warriors. All of them are not at rest," explained Redmond.

Zeb sipped his drink. He could tell that Redmond was a good man. His sons may have been less than perfect, but Redmond was a straight shooter.

"I found a dead body, a recently dead body, at the cemetery just a short while ago. It was in an old grave that I suspect was being robbed."

Zeb reached into his pocket and placed the turquoise ring he had found in front of the old Indian. Redmond picked it up and stoically looked it over, running his hands over it. He handed it back to the sheriff.

"I've never seen it before."

"There is an inscription on the inside. It says Stretch."

"My son's friend?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I need to show it to his mother or someone who could identify it."

"Do you think if he is dead that my son is also dead?"

"I can't say," replied Zeb. "I do have the body of the man who was wearing this ring inside my vehicle. Could you identify Stretch?"

"Yes."

"The body has been somewhat mutilated by animals. They eyes have been eaten by ravens and..."

The old man stopped Zeb with a simple gesture of a raised hand.

"I have lived a long time and seen many dead things, including men, women and children. I have fought in war and seen far worse than anything you could show me."

"Let's go have a look," said Zeb.

The men walked by Elisia and Kate without uttering a word. Elisia looked pale and was holding her hands folded over her stomach. She stared away as Kate watched the men go to the back of Zeb's truck. Slowly Zeb unzipped the body bag. Redmond did not flinch as the mutilated body was revealed. Zeb stopped opening the bag when the half-eaten guts were revealed. When he stepped back, Redmond continued undoing the body bag. At the feet he rolled up the left pant leg.

"This is my son's friend, the one he calls Stretch," said Redmond, pointing to the leg injury. "He limped like Frederick only on the other leg. He showed me his leg scar one time when he was here. He and Frederick were comparing scars. I think their limps were a part of their friendship."

As Zeb reached over and closed the body bag, he noticed Kate helping Elisia back into the house. Elisia didn't look well at all. Before Zeb could say a word about it, Redmond spoke firmly.

"She gets ghost sickness."

"Ghost sickness?"

"When someone does not get the proper burial rites, their spirit cannot leave the earth. The spirit of that person tortures the living with ghost sickness. My wife has had it several times. For her there is nausea, fever, tiredness and a sense of suffocating. At worst it can cause hallucinations."

"Why would she get ghost sickness from a dead white man?"

"She wouldn't."

"Then why..."

"When my brother was killed in Vietnam, he was buried improperly. The Army screwed up the paperwork. They buried him in a military graveyard without performing the proper Apache rituals. Elisia sensed it long before we even knew he was dead. She believes his ghost was trying to come and take her with him. You see, before Elisia was married to me, she was married to my brother. Traditional ways were such that I should take her for my wife. It was an easy task for she was and is a very beautiful and loving woman. However, she gets the ghost sickness now because she got it then. She can't shake it. Song Bird has tried five times to heal her of it. It is her destiny to have ghost sickness."

Redmond looked up at the sky, then to the four directions before once again speaking.

"I am certain my son, Frederick, is no longer among the living," he said. "The ghost sickness my wife is suffering tells me so."

"Could your wife's illness be anything else?" asked Zeb.

Redmond thought for a brief second before speaking.

"If Stretch's body was found in one specific grave, it could be big medicine at work," said Redmond.

"Whose grave?" asked Zeb.

"My ancestors tell a story. Some say it is not true, but I believe it is factual. It has been told to me that the skull of Mangas Coloradas was secretly buried there."

"Only the skull?" asked Zeb.

"Mangas Coloradas was the greatest Apache chief, much greater than Geronimo, even greater than my ancestor, Cochise. Mangas was a huge man, a giant. It is said by some he was almost seven feet tall. He was shot in the chest many times by the blue coats, but he recovered from those wounds. He met with blue coat Brigadier General Joseph West under a flag of peace, but it was a false peace. General West called Mangas nothing more than a murderer and ordered him executed. The General handed Mangas over to his blue coats and told them to bring him Mangas' head by morning. That night the blue coats tortured, shot and cut Mangas many times with bayonets that had been held in the fire. He never once cried out in pain. They killed him when he moved to avoid being burned alive in the fire. They claimed he was trying to escape. The cowards then cut off his head and boiled it in water. It is said some of the crazy blue coats ate the skin and drank the broth water."

"How did he end up buried here?" asked Zeb.

"The General ordered the skull be sent to the Smithsonian Institution so it could be displayed in the center of the White man's world. They could show complete and total domination of the Apache with the great chief's skull. Cochise and his men knew which stagecoach the skull was on. They stopped the stagecoach and took back what was rightfully Apache. The skull of Mangas Coloradas could not be buried where anyone might find it. It was buried over there in that old graveyard, and there it should remain until all Apaches rise up and reunite to take back what is rightfully theirs."

"Do you know which grave his skull was buried in?" asked Zeb.

"I do not and cannot know. All those who knew have long been with our ancestors."

Zeb was fascinated. Could someone have precisely known where the skull of Mangas Coloradas was buried? Was this grave robbing linked to the other recent grave robbery? Was this somehow linked to the disappearance of Frederick Bingham?

The men walked slowly back to the house, both deep in contemplation.

"I have ghost sickness," said Elisia, thick tears forming in her eyes. "I am afraid Frederick is dead."

"We don't know that," said Kate.

"I know it," replied Elisia.

A room full of pain enveloped them all. Zeb knew nothing he said could offer consolation. Zeb and Kate said their goodbyes and headed to the door. Redmond and Elisia were right behind them. Almost as an afterthought Zeb spoke.

"I feel foolish bringing this up right now, but did either of you know Frederick had a life insurance policy with Foster and the two of you named as beneficiaries?"

The old couple looked at each other blankly.

"What do you mean?" asked Redmond.

"It means you two, along with Foster, will inherit three quarters of a million dollars. A quarter of a million dollars for each of you."

The expressions on their faces were nothing short of shock as a painful river of tears flowed from Elisia's eyes. A dead son and wealth were two things she had never allowed herself to imagine.

# 17

Zeb called an early morning meeting at the sheriff's office. His and Kate's discovery of what turned out to be the murdered body of Dwayne 'Stretch' Santos, a former local ne'er-do-well, made a third dead body positively identified. A fourth, perhaps Frederick James Bingham, would likely be found soon, that is if Elisia's ghost sickness was accurate. Zeb's gut told him it was. There was ample evidence of two people being shot at the remote grave where Stretch was found. Backing Zeb's theory that it was likely Frederick was the fact that he periodically shared a living space in Dudleyville with Stretch and his friends.

Zeb informed Jake and Devon what had recently transpired at the ancient graveyard and at the Binghams' house. Zeb explained that the body that they found was that of Dwayne Santos. He was tall and skinny. As a kid he had played first base in the Thatcher Little League and carried the nickname of Stretch ever since. Since he had grown up in Thatcher, it took only a few hours and some phone calls to find out almost everything about him. The ring had been a gift from his mother who had also had given him the nickname.

Tribal Police Chief Rambler Braing, who had also been called to the meeting, arrived a few minutes late. He was quickly brought up to date.

"Sorry," said Rambler, walking into the meeting of Zeb, Kate, Jake and Devon. "I just met with Foster Bingham and, believe you me, he is on the warpath. He is also certain the second body you suspect was at the graveyard with Stretch was that of his brother."

Devon cringed. Did these people in the sheriff's department, even the Native American police chief, not understand just how crude that kind of language was and what the implications were? Could they not see that the word warpath spoken by Rambler when used in reference to a Native American made it incorrect by a factor of two? How long could he keep biting his tongue and keep his mouth shut? Devon doubled down on his resolve to become governor. Someone had to right the wrongs he was too often seeing and hearing.

"Foster Bingham wants blood. He wants it fresh, red and preferably from a White man, but I suspect he will take it wherever he can get it. To make matters worse he wants revenge ASAP. He might end up killing someone. I truly believe Foster will confront anyone he considers to be the man who pulled the trigger on his brother. He is not going to fool around waiting for real proof or solid evidence," added Rambler.

"Can you keep him on some sort of a short leash by letting him know we're working on it as quickly as humanly possible?" asked Zeb.

"He could give a shit less about our timing. I could lock him up for twenty-four hours, but that would be more trouble for me than it's worth. His desire for payback is boiling his blood. Right now he is out of control."

"Can't say as I really blame him for that," said Devon. "In fact, I understand and agree with his feelings."

The room quieted. These were strange words from Mr. Inside the Nation's Beltway Master of Political Correctness. Everyone stayed hushed until the rookie explained himself.

"My cousin was killed by gang violence. It was a drive-by shooting. I was fifteen years old when it happened," said Devon. "I wanted nothing more than to wipe the killer of my favorite cousin from the face of the earth. I didn't care one bit if everyone knew how I was feeling. My heart was flowing with hatred. That hatred turned to blood lust the moment it occurred to me that the police weren't going to spend any of their precious resources looking for a low-life gangbanger. It was precisely then I knew I had to take matters into my own hands."

"Somehow you just don't strike me as the vigilante type," said Jake. "Actually you strike me as kind of a pussy. When it comes right down to it, you seem like a city boy right down to your marrow."

Jake's words were spot on. The rest of the group felt pretty much the same but would certainly never express it aloud.

"I appreciate the honesty, Jake. However, I'm neither a vigilante type, whatever you consider that to be, nor am I a pussy. I am a peace-loving, law and order kind of guy, and I _was_ raised in the city, not to be confused with the ghetto. I always have been and I always will be what I am. It's my nature. That is why I want to be a public servant. But when my cousin was murdered, I was one hundred percent certain I knew who pulled the trigger. I felt in my heart of hearts that it was my God-given duty and my absolute right to exact a pound of flesh. The flames of Dante's hell burned with less hatred than I carried in my heart at that moment. The best revenge could only be revenge. I knew it was the only way for me or my family to have resolution."

Zeb listened thoughtfully. He understood all too well what Devon was talking about. He felt an odd sort of kinship growing between them as he listened to the story. A bit of respect for the outsider now seemed possible.

"What'd you do?" asked Jake. "Put a bullet in his skull and bury the bastard?"

"Once again, I appreciate the fact that you aren't mincing words with me, Jake. However, it doesn't matter what I did. It truly doesn't. What's done is done. What happened is between me and my maker," replied Devon. "Let's just say that the first bite of revenge tastes sweet. But, then again, I am fairly certain you all know that." Devon paused and looked soulfully into each of the others at the meeting. "The sweetness of vengeance doesn't last long. Ultimately it leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth. In my case I believe it also left behind an ugly stain on my soul that can't be removed in this lifetime."

Zeb had to struggle to keep the contents of his freshly eaten breakfast from regurgitating into his mouth. He knew from his personal experience of finding and disposing of Doreen's killer that the taste of revenge was a bitter fruit in a horrible and ultimately indescribable way. Zeb felt the silent but indelible mark his actions had etched into his own psyche and soul every day. Now, as he pondered Devon's words, he couldn't help but worry Senator Russell had purposefully sent him a very smart mole or, worse, a psychopath who could hide just about anything.

Zeb made eye contact with everyone in the room except Devon. They all had a pretty damn good idea what he was thinking. When Zeb completed a round of eyeballing his team and Rambler, he gave Devon a thorough once over. His mind's eye witnessed the aura that shadowed the young deputy. Zeb tilted his head slightly to the left and almost imperceptibly shifted his gaze, passing it ever so lightly around the head and torso of Devon. Seeking the faint glow of a latent aura by using his higher sensitivity was something Song Bird had spent considerable time teaching Zeb as a youth. Zeb sensed no impression of guilt, nor even an iota of hatred, surrounding Devon as he spoke of his dead cousin and the retaliation he had presumably taken.

Devon caught Zeb's eyes as they studied him. Devon responded with a laser beam glare that shot right through to the core of Zeb's heart. Devon's icy cold stare sent an ugly rush of evil smack dab through the essence of Zeb's very being. In the dead silence that crowned the room, Zeb emitted a wheezy exhale. Like his yoga instructor had taught him, breath in the good, let go of the bad. The bad was having trouble but trying its best to escape. That thing inside of Zeb that drove him at times to do what was not necessarily the best thing, but always the right thing, had fellowship with the same invisible quality inside of Devon. Zeb shivered at the thought. He now understood exactly how dangerous the new deputy could be. Devon could be exactly as dangerous as Zeb himself.

Zeb considered what the odds might be that Devon knew precisely what he had done to Carmelita? He flashed back to the life-changing instant he felt the tip of his sword piercing Carmelita's still beating heart. Zeb couldn't hide from the fact that there was a reasonable likelihood, in fact a near certainty, Devon knew he was a cold-blooded killer. Zeb knew this because he knew Devon was a stone cold killer. He also was certain Devon carried precisely the same disposition. Zeb's more paranoid temperament had him momentarily certain Senator Russell and Elaine Coburn were using Devon, Agent Rodriguez, Federal Judge Dunleavy and the regional FBI Director to nail him for Carmelita's murder. The more he thought about it the more certain he was there was some political motivation behind all of it. He might just be the target of a murder investigation. What the rest of the equation was he could only imagine. He stopped himself from letting his paranoia get the better of him. If push ultimately came to shove with Devon, it was a battle Zeb was willing and able to fight. Now was not the time to enter that world. Zeb seized control of his troubled thinking. Song Bird called it an unseen slap upside the head. This was the time to handle the business at hand. There is no changing the past. The only thing Zeb could do was live in the moment, this moment.

"Let's get down to business. We've got a third dead body, Dwayne 'Stretch' Santos, and Frederick Bingham still hasn't shown up in the flesh, alive or dead," Zeb's words caught in his throat. In no way, no matter how hard he tried, could he shake the overpowering feeling that Devon was onto him. "Rainen and Elizabeth are still dead, and we don't know who killed them or why."

"Maybe we do," replied Devon.

Once again the room was blanketed with a deathlike soundlessness.

"Know what?" asked Jake.

"Know who killed Rainen and Elizabeth and why. I've gone through the funeral home's computer with a fine-toothed comb. There are a vast number of considerations we must take into account."

"Let's hear them," said Zeb, relieved to have his mind go elsewhere than the final painful, awe-struck visage on the face of the slowly dying Carmelita.

"First of all, Elizabeth Townes and Nations Wentsler used the computer for personal communications. Not only was this foolish but reckless as it is easily traceable. They must have known there was no hiding their communications, yet they continued to use email to chat. There are more than one hundred messages between them. Many of them are exceptionally intimate in nature. Secondly, on numerous occasions Elizabeth tried to break off her relationship with Nations. He wouldn't have anything to do with ending the affair. He was, for lack of a better term, smitten with her. Perhaps more properly stated he was addicted to her. At least that is my conclusion based on multiple readings of the many emails. On the other hand, two weeks before the deaths of Elizabeth and Rainen, Elizabeth sent an email to Nations' wife, Na'isha, essentially telling her everything."

"Everything?" asked Kate.

"The whole enchilada in rich and lurid detail," replied Devon.

"Rambler, did you know anything about this? I mean were you aware that Elizabeth wanted to break it off with Nations? You're good friends with Nations, right?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, I was acutely aware of the fact that Elizabeth wanted to break off her relationship with Nations and yes, we are good friends. That being said, I did not know he refused to allow his relationship with Elizabeth to end," replied Rambler. "He never gave me any indication about how seriously she wanted to end their affair. He only told me she was ready to call it quits between them."

"Did Na'isha respond to Elizabeth's email?" asked Zeb. "I mean the one that gave her the harsh details of what her husband was up to?"

"I should say she did," replied Devon. "Let me read you her response. I quote. _Elizabeth, we are both grown women. Nations and I have not had a meaningful loving or sexual relationship for over ten years. For all I care you can have him. If you want him, take him, just leave me with our money, our house and my dignity. If you agree to that I will bear you no ill will. However, if you want him and any of our possessions or slander me publicly you may find yourself in the fires of hell very quickly._ She even signed her full name, Na'isha Wentsler."

"Sounds like a none too veiled death threat," said Jake.

Everyone in the room turned in Zeb's direction. His experience and leadership was needed. Na'isha seemed like a good bet as the prime suspect in the murders of Elizabeth and Rainen, by proximity and time, to all of them. His answer caught them a bit by surprise.

"I don't think so. Na'isha may have only been indicating that she would make divorce difficult and make Elizabeth's life with Nations a major financial mess. When you read those words, there is no actual threat of physical violence. On the other hand we have a double murder and a missing person, all of which are linked to the same location."

Devon cleared his throat. Obviously he had something he wanted to add.

"Devon?" said Sheriff Hanks. "What have you got that you'd like to share with the rest of us?"

"I know that Na'isha's own words make her look guilty of something. Anyone who threatens to make someone else's life a living hell..."

"Not to mince words, but Na'isha said Elizabeth may find herself in the fires of hell very quickly. That just means she could make things hot for her, troublesome in many ways. In my mind it doesn't imply physical violence. It's more like saying don't mess with me or you'll find plenty of trouble," said Zeb. "That covers a lot of territory."

"Perhaps," said Devon. "In fact, I think it's important everyone knows that Nations' wife wasn't the only person Elizabeth had a conflict with via regular email communications. There are numerous emails back and forth between her and Sun Rey," said Devon.

"We all heard him speak at the funeral. His personal witnessing for them made it clear that Elizabeth and Rainen had helped him tremendously when he needed it the most. He practically sainted them when he testified," said Zeb.

"It's quite obvious that they also had their differences," said Devon.

"How so?" asked Zeb.

"Here's an email from two weeks before her death. It is from Sun Rey to Elizabeth and it contains her response. I will read it verbatim. Sun Rey writes, _You know why I came to the area. I have a mission to complete. I feel as though you are putting up personal resistance and making my task most difficult. I demand that you keep your nose out of my personal business. What I need to do will determine my ultimate destiny as well as my divined future. Do not, I repeat, do not stand in my way. You know exactly what I am capable of doing._ Elizabeth replied with this. _Unfortunately I do know precisely what you are capable of. You know that I have tried to help you and have been willing to forgive you. I can forgive, but I can't forget. You have crossed an irreversible threshold. Crossing over the brink is a bad idea for today and a worse idea for the rest of your life. In the strongest terms possible I beg you not to continue in the direction that I perceive you are headed in._ "

"Anyone have any idea what this is all about?" asked Zeb.

Jake, Kate, Rambler and Devon had nothing to offer. The email exchanges were a complete mystery to everyone present.

"There's more," said Devon.

"Let's hear it," said Zeb.

"Sun Rey replied to Elizabeth the same day. _What I have chosen to do I have to do. The choices and the decisions have already been made. If I fail to follow through with this, my destiny will be unfulfilled. Should that happen I will be no one and nobody. I am no more than a man without a heritage unless I prove myself. Do NOT stand in my way!!"_

"What did Elizabeth have to say back to him about that?" asked Jake and Zeb in unison.

"Here it is. _Sun Rey, though I love you like family, you are merely tilting at windmills. You will never prove what you feel you need to prove in order to validate your very being. You are dealing with people who have more than enough power and influence to squash you like a bug. I beg you to leave it alone. You do not need what you consider your family name in order to be a man in your own right."_

"Is that it?" asked Zeb.

"No," said Devon. "There is one more message and one more response."

"Let's hear them."

"Sun Rey writes, _My family name is mine to own. What is rightfully mine can never, under any circumstances, be taken from me. It is my birthright. If I fail to seize what is mine, what good am I as a human being? I might as well be an animal. As to them squashing me like a bug, I believe it is I who could do the squashing should the truth be made known to the general public._ Elizabeth responded. _I have seen your dark psychological and wicked sides. They do not scare me. I know why darkness resides in your soul. I also understand what you hope to accomplish by your actions. Let me warn you in no uncertain terms. You are doomed to fail. Save yourself now, while you can. Just get on with the great life you have created for yourself, here in Arizona. I love you like a mother loves a son. However, I also know that is not enough for you. I beg of you, please accept my advice and my love._ "

"What the hell is all that about?" asked Jake.

"Those emails were all written and responded to within ten days of Elizabeth's murder," said Devon.

"Kate, have Devon help you dig up everything you can on Sun Rey," ordered Zeb.

"I can handle it by myself," offered Devon. "I would like to prove myself as a lawman."

Devon's offer caused Zeb's gut to roil with mistrust. Something about the way Devon wanted to handle it by himself didn't feel right. In fact it felt wrong, dead wrong. There was no way in hell he was going to let Devon investigate this by himself, even if Zeb didn't exactly know what was driving his misgivings about Devon's offer.

"No. Kate you run lead on this," said Zeb. "Devon you assist her."

Devon knew his mission down to the minutest detail. His direct orders from Senator Russell were about to be compromised, and there was nothing he could do about it. He gave it one more try.

"If I am ever going to be any kind of a decent lawman, I have to figure out things on my own, without assistance," said Devon.

"You ain't ready for the big time just yet, cowpoke," said Jake.

"Isn't my readiness or lack of it the sheriff's call?" asked Devon.

Zeb stared coldly at Devon. Now he was certain there was something deceitful about his request to look into Sun Rey on his own. Zeb nodded his head in Jake's direction.

"What Jake said is the way it's going to be," said Zeb.

"Well, all right then," replied Devon. "I'm just trying to pull my own weight."

"I think it's time we paid a little visit to Sun Rey," said Zeb. "And another to Na'isha."

"You'll know everything we can possibly know about Sun Rey within twenty-four hours," said Kate.

Devon's heart sank. The potential governorship of Arizona, his ultimate dream, felt like it was rapidly slipping out of his grip. Was it time to apply pressure on Zeb? He had the right information and the ability to do so. He needed time to think. He knew that all good things came to those who wait. He also knew that he who hesitates is lost.

# 18

On Wednesday nights all else in Sun Rey's multi-pronged business world came to a halt. One evening a week he became the Most Reverend Sun Rey of the Church of God Holiness. In the recent past Zeb had attended a revival meeting in which Sun Rey had seemingly saved souls. Zeb's crisis of faith, from the loss of Doreen, had led him to the revival tent. Had he been seeking redemption or merely deliverance from the pain in his soul? It didn't matter because this night he had a much different reason for attending the gathering. Sun Rey had moved high up on the list of suspects in the death of Elizabeth Townes and, by proximity and time, Rainen Kayita. He needed to see with his own eyes if Sun Rey was unfettered by conscience.

Sun Rey's revival tent relocated frequently. Part of the time it was set up on his own private land east of Safford. Other times the revival tent was erected on Talkalai Lake, a small man made reservoir created by the Blue River and the San Carlos River. Zeb knew the area well, having fished for largemouth bass with Song Bird from its banks. Tonight Zeb knew Sun Rey would be performing his snake handling religious ceremony there. Zeb's mind and senses were razor sharp as he headed out to the Rez. When he arrived at the destination, he was somewhat shocked and angry to see Deputy Dawbyns sitting on a fallen log that served as a pew.

"What are you doing here?" growled Zeb.

"Getting saved," replied Devon. "Isn't that the general idea of these meetings?"

Zeb placed a tight grip on Devon's shoulder and squeezed down hard. He bent forward and whispered in his new deputy's ear.

"Did you follow me to see what I'm doing?" asked Zeb, bearing down even harder on Devon's shoulder.

"If you ease up on the Vulcan grip, I'll tell you exactly why I'm here," replied Devon.

Zeb loosened his grip ever so slightly.

"My grandmother gripped me hard than that when I was a screwing off as a kid," said Devon.

His remark caused Zeb to laugh and completely let go of his grasp.

"Too bad you didn't learn a little more from her," snapped Zeb. "It might have saved me some trouble."

"Okay, okay. Your grip made your point," said Devon. "Why do you even care if I am here or not? It's a public forum."

"I don't care that you're here," said Zeb. "It's just that I wasn't expecting you. It almost feels like you are subordinating me by being here. I specifically told you Kate was lead on Sun Rey. I can handle this situation. I don't need your help."

"I'm not here to back you up, but I will back you up if it becomes necessary. I'm here because Senator Russell advised I learn about all of the people, that is, if I hope to be Governor of Arizona one day," replied Devon. "He told me religious people vote in the primaries, and I need their bloc of votes to win."

Devon's words, though true, sounded like so much more of his bullshit. Zeb rested his hand on Devon's shoulder causing Devon to squirm in anticipation of another heavy-handed grip. The mere mention of Senator Russell's name from Devon's mouth flooded Zeb with a monstrous rush of paranoia. His mistrust of everyone who had recommended Devon, especially Senator Russell, had been growing ever stronger. Zeb was becoming dreadfully aware that the politics behind Devon's hiring likely carried with them a primary intent of trapping him. Carmelita's execution by Zeb's hand, Agent Rodriguez' persistent and ongoing investigation of her death, the funding by Senator Russell's office at the request of Elaine Coburn for equipment to track the Mexican drug cartel all seemed anything but coincidental. As Zeb rested his hand on Devon's shoulder, he was all but certain Devon had an ulterior motive, at least as far as it concerned Zeb.

"You lie well enough to be a politician," whispered Zeb. "Don't fuck anything up here tonight."

"Yes, sir."

"In other words, young man, you keep your lip zipped," said Zeb.

"I'm here to learn and observe. I have no desire to be an active participant," replied Devon. "Bless you, Brother Zeb."

Zeb's open palm tapped lightly twice on Devon's cheek as he grinned and whispered facetiously, "Bless you, Brother Devon."

With that he walked to the front of the tent just as The Most Reverend Sun Rey made a spectacular entrance. With a hissing rattlesnake in each hand, Sun Rey triumphantly held the lowly vipers at his sides as they slithered around his shoulders and arms. The twenty or so gathered for the service jumped to their feet and hailed Sun Rey's arrival with an enthusiastic, ecstatic round of "Amen" and "Hallelujah". Sun Rey responded with a benevolent smile that quickly turned into a sneering, devilish grin. Sun Rey had immediately taken total command of his audience. He spoke eloquently of love and hate, good and evil, subjects Zeb believed the preacher knew all too well.

Glancing over his shoulder, Zeb noticed Devon discretely clicking pictures with his cell phone. Another flash of paranoid panic swept through him. Had Senator Russell, through the FBI, somehow managed to find out Zeb's history with revivalist evangelism too? Or was the presence of the devil in the form of Sun Rey's snakes merely making his guilt rise to the surface. Sun Rey's words quickly garnered his entire attention and all other thoughts drifted away.

"And these signs shall follow them that believe. In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover."

Zeb was not the least bit baffled by what he was witnessing. On the other hand, Zeb noticed Devon was beginning to take notes in addition to filming. A trace of terror flipped his stomach. What exactly _did_ Devon know? What was his motivation?

Someone in the crowd broke into a hymn called _Heaven Come Down_. An organ player and drum machine joined in. Sun Rey danced the traditional lively heel to toe back step to the tune. The jubilation, with attendees joining in the dance, went on uninterrupted for twenty minutes. A sweat-drenched Sun Rey walked down the center aisle of the small tent and returned to the makeshift altar. After replacing the snakes in a box, he began to preach of the power of faith that each person in attendance held inside. He began with his voice in a whisper. The rapt crowd leaned forward so as not to miss a single syllable.

"Does anyone need a healing? I said does anyone need a healing tonight?" said Sun Rey in an ever increasing crescendo while music rose up in the background. This went on for several minutes before the master of his craft gently lowered his hand to bring down the music as his first sufferer came meekly forward.

A young Native American woman tenderly carried a beautiful toddler to the altar. He looked to be about four years old. The child's legs were bent like bows, braced and deformed.

"Can you please help my child's suffering?" begged the mother.

Sun Rey removed a perfectly white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the mother's tears. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead before holding his hands over the child's head. He softly began to pray and within seconds was euphorically praying in tongues. The rapt crowd murmured, some in the language of tongues others in hopeful prayer. It was difficult for Zeb to decipher exactly what he was hearing. Devon filmed it all on his cell phone, periodically aiming the phone directly at Zeb. Zeb watched with great intent. He had witnessed a hundred or more of these healings since he was a child. Sometimes they seemed to create an inexplicable restoration that could only have been the work of God through someone else's hands. Other times nothing appeared to happen. Zeb's heart went out to the crippled child, and the prayers he offered up for the boy were genuine and authentic. Sun Rey's words beseeched the Lord God above for the power of healing to pass through him and into the crippled child.

"Let your faith be strong that this child may walk in the sunlight of the Lord," Sun Rey commanded of the child's mother as he held one hand on her head and the other on the child. "Allow the sins you brought into this child to be washed away by the tender mercy and the love of Almighty God. Let your cleansed soul heal the child you have brought this very night into God's world, into this tent to be healed. Now trust in Jesus' name and let the child stand with your assistance."

Sun Rey continued praying as he ceremoniously washed his hands. The mother did as he ordered and lowered the child to the floor, holding him only by his small, bent arms.

"I command you to let go of your son's arms," said Sun Rey. "These are not my words. These are the words of Jesus Christ and his Father, God Almighty in Heaven, speaking through me. I command you to let go of your son's arms. Pray for this child. Pray for yourself. Pray for the sinners of this world. Pray that your son be healed with and through the grace and power of Jesus Christ and his Father."

The woman stared back in astonishment. Sun Rey, once again but more forcefully, repeated his command. Ruefully the tremoring mother, eyes full of tears, let go of one of the child's hand, then the other. She exuded hopefulness, fear and faith. The boy stood unmoving, but without assistance. His little head turned to the small crowd. A smile beamed radiantly from his face. For an eternal thirty seconds he remained steadfast on his feet before suddenly collapsing to the floor. He lay there somewhat stunned, not moving a muscle. When his eyes found those of his mother, he began to whimper then cry, not out of pain but rather in confusion. As the Native American woman leaned over to pick him up, Sun Rey decreed she leave him be. Her hands quivered and her arms shook as she obeyed the evangelist's command. Murmurs of prayers rippled through the tent. Sun Rey reached for the box that held the rattlesnakes. Swiftly he picked it up and placed it next to the child. The mother gasped and reached for her son. Sun Rey's outstretched hand halted her gesture.

"Fear not," decreed Sun Rey. "Allow your faith to be strong as the mountain and unflappable as Job. Allow your faith to accept the will of God in heaven."

Sun Rey reached inside and grabbed the largest of the rattlesnakes. He held it above his head. The snake lifted its head and emitted a low hiss as the chattering vibration of its tail began to oscillate in rhythm with the background music. The congregation responded with clapping and softly stated affirmations. Slowly Sun Rey began to move the hissing snake around the child's legs, arms and torso. When he brought it to the child's head, the mother turned white in terror. Sun Rey, master of such situations, quickly jerked the snake away. He held the viper over his head triumphantly before returning it to its container.

Sun Rey bent down and lovingly kissed and caressed the crippled child's head before lifting the youngster for all of the celebrants to see. He swept back the child's bangs which were covering his forehead. When he did so, a discolored, purplish-red mark was revealed.

"This child can only be healed on a Sunday," announced Sun Rey. "The Old Testament tells us that the forehead..." Sun Rey circled the mark on the child's forehead with his pointer finger. "...represents the mind. This child can only be healed when it knows in its mind to keep Sunday as a Holy Day. Hallelujah! Praise Jesus and his righteous ways and thank him for exposing for us this obvious omen."

Sun Rey assured the mother that her child would one day be healed, be completely whole. He had no doubt whatsoever in his mind that the physical wounds of the child were but a temporary punishment because the mother had sinned with his conception. His voice rose to a fevered pitch as he explained to the flock that the healing of a child born with sickness required patience, understanding, time and prayer. He implored the flock to pay attention to their own sinful natures. In doing so they may prevent the ones they loved from suffering. From where Zeb sat and later from watching Devon's cell phone footage, the mother was no doubt elated and brimming anew with faith and hope.

Three beautiful women entered the altar from behind a side curtain. They wrapped Sun Rey in a golden robe and helped the exhausted evangelist off the stage. Zeb recognized the women from the funeral of Elizabeth and Rainen. They had attended with Sun Rey. Devon also recognized them, but rather from a Tucson gentleman's club he had frequented several times. A young man in a suit came onto the small stage and announced the meeting had come to an end. He openly invited them back in two weeks and, if they were so inclined, offertory baskets would be in the back of the tent. Slowly the tent emptied except for Zeb and Devon. Devon approached Zeb.

"What's with the James Brown routine?" asked Devon. "Part of his act?"

"I've never seen it before. It was probably staged, but it may have been spontaneous. I am certain he surrounds himself with people who are on the same page that he is."

The curtness of Zeb's response was a reflexive reaction to Devon's seeming disrespect to the evangelistic ways. Zeb had witnessed one too many miracles to offhandedly dismiss what he had just seen, yet he understood the need for showmanship.

"Mind if I stick around while you talk to him? I read and re-read the emails between Elizabeth and him. I might serve as a good memory in case you forget something."

The implication by the inexperienced deputy that Zeb might forget something annoyed him. Yet it would certainly be a good learning experience for Devon. Zeb realized he couldn't allow his sometimes severe mistrust of Devon to stand in the way of a necessary part of an investigation.

"Sure thing. Stick around, but use your words without accusation. No words coming out of your mouth is our best bet. If you need to interject, choose what you say with the utmost caution. We don't want Sun Rey to know what we're thinking. He's a terribly clever man. Always follow my lead, got it?"

"Yes, sir. I read you loud and clear."

Devon pulled out an e-cigarette that dangled from a leather necklace. He looked around and, seeing that the tent was empty, took a short puff and quickly sneaked it back inside his shirt.

"Didn't your mama teach you not to smoke in church?" asked Zeb.

"I'm trying to quit," responded Devon. "Sometimes just one puff puts me back in line and reduces my craving from a ten to a one. It's a tough habit..."

"Next time." Zeb pointed to the flaps that served as a door to the outside of the revival tent.

Ten minutes of silence passed before a refreshed looking Sun Rey came out to greet them. The trio of beautiful young women, a blonde, a redhead and a brunette who had enshrined Sun Rey in the golden robe at the end of his performance, accompanied him. As Devon eyed them up and down, Sun Rey dismissed the young women with the flick of his wrist. Two of the women did an immediate about face but the third, who made no effort to hide her sensuality, made eye contact with Devon. Devon returned her gaze with a smile that said 'remember me, the big tipper'? Noticing the interaction, Sun Rey jerked his head toward the door. Her smile disappeared as quickly as she did.

"Zeb or is it Sheriff Hanks?" asked Sun Rey.

"It's business, but Zeb is fine," replied Zeb.

Sun Rey extended a hand to Devon. "Deputy Devon Dawbyns, I presume?"

"You presume correctly."

"Is it Deputy or Devon?" asked Sun Rey.

"I prefer proper titles, so Deputy Dawbyns works fine for me."

"Deputy Dawbyns it is then. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"It's about Elizabeth Townes," said Zeb. "We have a few questions."

"Am I a suspect in her murder?" asked Sun Rey. "If so, shouldn't I have an attorney present?"

"He's right," said Devon.

"No, you are not a suspect in her murder. You are a person of interest. It is our belief that you may have some information which could be useful to our investigation. You don't need an attorney unless you want to take the advice of Deputy Dawbyns."

"It's all good," said Sun Rey coyly. "Ask away. I am the hand servant of the Lord. I have nothing to hide."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Zeb. "Because I happen to have all of the emails written between you and Elizabeth."

"Then you know everything there is to know," said Sun Rey.

"I know a lot," said Zeb.

"Elizabeth and I chatted by email quite often. I know that some of what you read may seem as though there was conflict between us," said Sun Rey.

"Was there?" asked Zeb.

"Don't all friends have disagreements that make their relationship stronger, Sheriff Hanks?"

"I suppose they do. To that end, I have a few questions. I want to fill in a few blanks so I can complete the investigation into the deaths of Elizabeth and Rainen," said Zeb.

What Zeb perceived as a crocodile tear came too easily to the corner of Sun Rey's left eye. He made no attempt to wipe it away.

"From what you said at the funeral it appears that Elizabeth had a very positive impact on your life."

"Yes she did, as did Rainen," replied Sun Rey. "I loved them both. I still love them, even in their passing. They were both cherished and rare people in this world of wickedness and turpitude."

"Of course," replied Zeb. "Being that they helped you so much, was Elizabeth the primary reason that you came to the area?"

Sun Rey paused, thinking about his response.

"No, I only met Elizabeth and Rainen after moving here. They had no part in my moving to the area."

"You're certain of that," said Zeb.

"Of course I'm certain of that," said Sun Rey quickly. "I know exactly why I moved to the area. I assure you it wasn't because of Elizabeth or Rainen."

Devon realized the tactical methodology Zeb had just used to set up Sun Rey in order to bring up a question the sheriff needed answered. Zeb wasted not a single second in getting to the point.

"What brought you out west? Specifically, what brought you to Graham County?" asked Zeb.

Zeb and Devon watched the wheels spinning in Sun Rey's mind. Such a simple trap had caught him totally off guard. Certainly Sun Rey was an experienced liar. Zeb and Devon waited for an answer that might have, at best, a modicum of twisted truth to it. However, the truth as anticipated by Zeb was not the actual truth known by Devon.

"Is this really necessary? What does my moving here have to do with your investigation into my good friend Elizabeth's death? How can the two possibly be related in any way, shape or form?"

Zeb and Devon easily recognized the stalling technique. Apparently this was not a lie Sun Rey had prepared an answer for.

"If you must know the truth, this is going to sound silly, I was on a journey to find myself. It's very typical of men my age to be lost and wandering, searching for themselves as it were and traveling great distances to find themselves. Actually, I ended up here because the cost of living was low and the weather was good, great in fact. Isn't that why everyone moves to this part of the country?"

"So there was no specific reason that brought you right to our front doorstep?" asked Zeb. "No specific mission in mind?"

The expression on Sun Rey's face when he heard the word mission spoke volumes.

"Of course I came with a mission in mind. You were part of that healing mission tonight. Healing of others through snake handling is my mission in life. I thought you understood that, Zeb. God only knows what I'm capable of if I use my gift."

Both men were now certain Sun Rey was onto them. He was practically quoting the email between himself and Elizabeth. This was going to be tricky at best. It was clear they weren't dealing with a fool.

"Did you and Elizabeth ever have an altercation of any sort? One that might require forgiveness?" asked Zeb.

"We disagreed on things as friends often do. I suppose I asked her forgiveness for something I might have said in haste and likely vice-versa. But there was no bad blood between us if that's what you are suggesting."

"Nothing of the sort," replied Zeb. "Was she concerned about you? Perhaps about something you were doing or capable of doing?"

Once again Zeb read the liar's face like a book. In practically quoting Elizabeth's email to Sun Rey, Zeb was able to gently push the evangelist into a hard, nearly inescapable corner. Sun Rey suddenly found the falsehood he was looking for.

"She thought the snake handling bordered on craziness, but other than that, no nothing that I can think of. Perhaps our emails suggested she was worried about my businesses and my financial success? She always seemed to be worried about my competition. Maybe because there is so much competition in the funeral business she projected that concern onto me. I don't know." said Sun Rey. "I can honestly tell you that my business enterprises are thriving."

"Enterprises?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, the 322 Coffee Bistro, my archeological dig tours and, of course, as you know Deputy Dawbyns, my girls dance at the iCandy Gentleman's Club and make R-rated videos. I am their manager. They get paid commensurate with the going rate. I am not a pimp, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't," replied Zeb. "But I may want to see their W2 forms."

"My accountant handles all of that. Should the time and necessity come for that I will have my lawyer put you in contact with him."

"Elizabeth was okay with you having your girls dance at a strip club?"

"It's a member's only gentleman's club."

"Whatever. Elizabeth was fine with it?"

"Yes."

"But she did think snake handling was a bit out there," replied Zeb.

Devon was chomping at the bit waiting for Zeb to surprise Sun Rey with a question about Elizabeth's statement regarding his dark psychological and violent sides, but Zeb said nothing about that. Devon made a mental note of Zeb's interrogation techniques.

"I suppose you're tired after tonight's service and working today at the 322?"

"No, not really. I love all of my jobs. None of them seem like what most people would consider work," replied Sun Rey. "Have I told you anything that was helpful?"

"You've told me everything I need to know," said Zeb, "for the time being."

"I really don't feel like I was much help," replied Sun Rey.

"I feel one step closer to finding Elizabeth and Rainen's killer," said Zeb. "You were helpful to that end."

"If you think of anything else you want to ask, you know where to find me," said Sun Rey. "Trust me when I tell you that I want you to find Elizabeth's killer as badly as you do. Although we didn't always see eye to eye, she was very dear to me."

"I understand and appreciate your assistance," said Zeb.

The men shook hands. Sun Rey headed toward the back exit of the tent. Zeb and Devon headed for the entrance flaps when abruptly Zeb stopped, Devon nearly running into him, and shouted to Sun Rey.

"Sun Rey?"

"Yes, what else can I help you with, Sheriff Hanks?"

"Sun Rey, is that your Christian name?" asked Zeb. "Is Rey your family name?"

The wheels inside Sun Rey's head came to a grinding halt. Was Zeb Hanks, the small town, rural sheriff, onto him? This answer to Zeb's questions was a well-rehearsed lie.

"No, actually it isn't," replied Sun Rey. "It's the name I am using, for the time being."

"Would you mind telling me your Christian name?"

"No, I wouldn't mind telling you if I knew it," replied Sun Rey.

"You don't know your name?" asked Devon.

"You see, I am a bastard child. I was adopted after spending time in numerous foster homes. My father abandoned me from birth, and my mother died when I was very young. It was only recently through the Internet that I was able to learn about my birth mother's death from cancer."

"Bad shit happens sometimes," replied Zeb.

Sun Rey was about to say something but instead just stood there sadly looking toward the floor.

Zeb tipped his hat. He and Devon exited through the entry flaps of the tent.

"What the fuck was that all about?" asked Devon.

"He's a liar," said Zeb.

"So what? You had him in the palm of your hand and you allowed him to slip right through your fingers. Why in hell would you do that?"

"Didn't anyone teach you not to swear in church?" asked Zeb.

Now it was Devon's mind that was racing. Zeb was going to find out exactly why in the hell Senator Russell set him up as deputy sheriff.

# 19

Zeb got to the office earlier than usual before anyone else arrived. He passed by Kate's office where his eyes were drawn to the wall directly across from her desk. She had begun to build a profile chart on the people of interest and evidence in the deaths of Rainen Kayita and Elizabeth Townes. To the right of that she had a second set of information involving the death of Dwayne 'Stretch' Santos. To the left was information involving the allegedly missing person, Frederick Bingham. As Zeb studied what she had done, Kate walked through her office door.

"Zeb, what do you think?"

"I like what you've done here," Zeb replied.

Kate took a seat at her desk and had a few sips of coffee from a cup that carried the logo and name of the 322 Coffee Bistro.

"Do you mind?" asked Zeb.

"Go ahead."

Zeb picked up the cup and smelled it.

"Didn't think you drank much coffee anymore," said Kate.

"I don't."

I suppose you get a kick out of the smell?" said Kate.

"Just thinking about something."

"What?" asked Kate.

"If someone spiked this with a poison..."

"Propofol?" asked Kate.

"Yes, Propofol. Would you know it?" asked Zeb.

"If I was drinking espresso mixed with black coffee like Elizabeth and Rainen were? I doubt it."

"Okay. Let's keep that in mind," said Zeb.

"Right."

"Let's go over what you've got. I might have a few things to add," said Zeb.

Kate stood and walked directly to the erasable chalkboard she used to build her flow chart, carrying her coffee with her. She pointed to her layout with a Sharpie. At the top of her profile chart, taped to the chalkboard, there were six pictures—Rainen Kayita, Elizabeth Townes, Dwayne Santos, and the allegedly missing Frederick Foster. Also pictured were the two dead bodies of José Doe and Mae Lynn Rose Brenerson that were being prepared for burial by the funeral home.

Zeb walked up near the images. His mind couldn't help but wander to Doreen. The dead all seemed to blend into her image. He considered that this might be what PTSD is like and wondered if he might be suffering from it. He attempted to let that thought pass. No luck on that account. It stuck and whirled like a leaf in the wind filling up the empty spaces inside his mind. He scolded himself. He had work to do. Thoughts of Doreen would have to wait. He pushed harder against the thought of her. No matter how hard he tried to squeeze her out of his mind, her image remained.

Zeb shifted his gaze back to the flow chart. Directly beneath Elizabeth's picture was the name of Na'isha Wentsler and her picture taken from the Arizona Driver's License Bureau archives. Underneath Na'isha's picture two things were written, **Had Motive** and **Emails** with the subheadings of **Money and Tribal Power**. A line from the picture directed itself to a place under Rainen's picture as well. There Kate had written **Victim of Circumstance**. It made sense. They all believed that the murders of Rainen and Elizabeth were simultaneous. If Rainen was a victim of circumstance, he defined what it meant to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"She looks quite young in that picture," said Zeb. "I bet it was taken a decade ago."

"Close," replied Kate. "Eleven years ago to be exact."

"I wonder if the state of Arizona is ever going to make it mandatory to update facial images on driver's licenses?" pondered Zeb.

"Maybe if Devon gets elected we can get him to bring it up," replied Kate.

"He'd probably be against it because of ageism," chuckled Zeb.

"He does have a habit of finding prejudice under every dust bunny, doesn't he? I suppose it's part of his life's experience," said Kate.

"Bullshit," said Zeb. "He's more cut out of the middle of the cloth than either of us. He's just got a bee in his bonnet. His view of the world may be different than yours or mine, but it is skewed. Youth, I would say, is the primary reason, classical conditioning from television is another. Mixed into that is some private shit that he won't talk about—ever."

"Keep in mind that he has worked with high level politicians. His life's goal is joining their ranks," said Kate. "I sense you don't trust him."

"I don't know him enough to trust him or not," said Zeb.

"Either way, I suspect he knows how to play the game of politics," said Kate.

"Could be he's playing us. I sure as hell wouldn't put it past him. In my mind his inside the beltway political experience only serves to make him a little less trustworthy," said Zeb. "But I'm the one who hired him, so it's on me."

Zeb and Kate pondered Zeb's statement about politicians and trust. Her dealings with Elaine Coburn at the FBI certainly had politics involved with them. Any office discussion of politics would only lead them down a path of frustration. There was no time for that.

"Politics is a topic for a later discussion," said Kate.

"Or not," added Zeb.

"Or not," replied Kate. "More to the point, Na'isha had the motive. Her husband was having an affair with Elizabeth."

"But she didn't seem all that shook up about their relationship, at least that's how I interpret the emails," said Zeb.

"If you remember, Na'isha didn't care if Nations left her. However, it was extremely important to her that she not lose her financial well-being or her status. Her words were," Kate picked up a piece of paper from her desk, " _if you want him and any of our possessions you may find yourself in hell very quickly._ At first I thought she was only interested in the money."

"But?" said Zeb.

"Na'isha's wording struck me. Her entire statement was, _Elizabeth we are both grown women. Nations and I have not had a meaningful or sexual relationship for over ten years. For all I care, you can have him. If you want him, take him, just leave me with our money and our house. If you agree to that I will bear you no ill will. However, if you want him and any of our possessions you may find yourself in hell very quickly._ "

"What exactly are you suggesting?" asked Zeb.

"She seemed willing to let Wentsler go. But when she coupled letting him go and taking their possessions, she made no bones about the fact that it would mean serious trouble for Elizabeth. It's confusing. She seemed suddenly scorned when the possessions were coupled with Wentsler. I don't believe she was willing to let him go at any cost. In reading and re-reading the email I think, from the beginning of Na'isha's email until she finished it, she thought about what she might be giving up."

"That being?" asked Zeb.

"The power that goes with being the Tribal Chairman's wife. Perhaps other things that go along with that. Political power that we know nothing about. I just don't get the feeling from the email that she really wanted to be out of his life regardless of the fact that they were no longer sexually intimate."

"I agree. She may be right up near the top of the list of suspects in Elizabeth's death," said Zeb. "But I have my doubts."

"What kind of doubts?" asked Kate.

"Gut feeling kind of doubts. I can't quite finger exactly what they are, but they are strong enough to be felt," replied Zeb.

"I'll bear that in mind. I have a gut instinct about her as well. I believe jealousy might enter into the picture. I know it sounds sexist, but, speaking as a woman, even if I wasn't in love with my husband or partner, I really wouldn't be all that excited to see someone taking my place."

That sort of logic escaped Zeb's natural way of thinking. He understood it but it wasn't logical to him. Then again he had no reason to dispute Kate's thinking.

"I guess love, hate and jealousy aren't exactly logical emotions," said Zeb. "And they are first cousins of each other."

The second picture beneath Elizabeth's was that of Sun Rey. Zeb recognized it as one of the iPhone images Devon had shot at the tent revival.

"Did Devon show you all of the pictures he took that night?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, he did," said Kate.

"That son of a bitch."

"You looked like you were at ease. You looked comfortable. Actually, as I looked at the pictures of you I saw the old Zeb Hanks. In fact, you appeared more like yourself in those images than you have since Doreen died," said Kate.

"She was murdered," said Zeb.

Kate let the statement pass. She had never lost anyone as close to her as Doreen was to Zeb. It was not her place to judge his anger. His emotions regarding loss were living in a place she hoped to never visit.

"I know something about Devon, actually a lot about him, sticks in your craw," said Kate. "Everyone around here sees it, even as much as you try to hide it at times."

"Between the two of us, he's got something up his sleeve other than his desire for a run at political office," said Zeb.

He hesitated momentarily, letting his words sink in before pointing back at the chart and the image of Sun Rey beneath which Kate had written **322 Coffee Cup w/Propofol Traces, Careless Timing, History of Sociopathic Behavior and Sexual Predator**. Zeb stood back and re-read it. Kate had been doing some homework.

"I agree that Sun Rey is a potential suspect, maybe even a primary one. Not unlike my feelings regarding Devon, I know your personal feelings about Sun Rey make you think he is not exactly legit. Try not to let that get in the way of your professional duty when it comes to him."

"Point well taken, but believe me my personal feelings toward him do not enter into this. He is my number one suspect. Traces of Propofol were found in two disposable coffee cups in the funeral home dumpster. The disposable cups were from the 322 Coffee Bistro," said Kate, taking a sip of latte from her 322 Coffee Bistro cup.

"Isn't that a little too obvious?" asked Zeb. "If Sun Rey poisoned the coffee when Elizabeth picked it up, the trail is too direct. He'd have to be awful stupid..."

"...or careless. I've considered that," interjected Kate.

"Also, if Elizabeth picked up the coffees, she likely would have taken a sip or two on the way back to the funeral home. If she did that, she may have been too drugged to drive or at least noticed something wasn't right. If Sun Rey drugged her with Propofol, he would have known how quickly it worked. He would once again be pointing the finger of suspicion directly at himself and become a prime suspect. It would be almost like he was setting himself up to get caught," Zeb countered.

"Maybe he's just that stupid or, like I said earlier, careless," said Kate. "Or just that amoral."

"I don't think so," said Zeb. "I've seen how he can manipulate a crowd. He does it well. He understands human nature. I would guess he understands his own nature as well. I don't think it's a mistake Sun Rey would have made."

"I believe the man is a sociopath," said Kate.

"Explain that to me, would you?" asked Zeb.

"Sun Rey is glib, superficially charming, manipulative, cunning and has a grandiose vision of himself. I believe he is a pathological liar. He has a need for stimulation, manifest by his impulsiveness and entrepreneurial aspirations."

"Sounds like you've thought about this," said Zeb.

"On top of that he had early childhood issues."

"How do you know that?" asked Zeb.

"As per your request I've been looking into him. I got my first background report from social services in Massachusetts. He was moved around seven times in three years between the ages of six and nine. Multiple social workers' reports as well as input from the families he lived with referred to him as an intolerable child with a tendency to hurt others, emotionally detached, a chronic liar, living in a fantasy world and shameless when he was caught in the act of thievery or destruction. The list goes on and on and includes killing a cat with a hoe when it messed up a flower garden. I will give you a full report when I have it. Should be soon."

"Good," said Zeb. "Keep me tightly in the loop."

"And when it comes to relations with the opposite sex, he was more or less a sexual predator, even at an early age. At the age of nine he was accused three times of lascivious contact with girls."

Zeb nodded. Kate had just pounded the nail on the head about what was really bothering her. She obviously felt that Sun Rey was using the beautiful women around him, those that worked the strip club circuit and likely those who worked at the 322 Coffee Bistro, for his own sexual needs and desires. There was little doubt she felt he was anything but a sexual predator.

"I see what you're talking about," said Zeb. "I suppose you're fairly certain he put the Propofol into the coffee that drugged Elizabeth and Rainen."

"If he didn't, how did the Propofol get in their coffee?" asked Kate.

"Another good question is where he got the Propofol?" said Zeb

"On the Internet, I would guess. You can get any drug you want there," replied Kate. "Like I said, the only question I have is how did he get it in their coffee?"

"Good question," replied Zeb. "One we need to answer. Let's look at it from another angle. Suppose the killer knew Elizabeth and Rainen. He or she could have simply stopped by and slipped ten milligrams of Propofol into their coffee cups, which were undoubtedly just sitting on the counter..."

"...and when the Propofol rendered them more or less semi-conscious, it's not exactly a quantum leap to have the killer simply cut the throats of two heavily drugged people."

"Seems logical to me," said Zeb. "That's the way I would do it."

"That give us a possible how," said Kate. "But we are still lacking a motive that we can pin down and, most of all, more credible suspects than either Na'isha or Sun Rey for Rainen's murder."

Both agreed, once again, that Rainen was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I would think that Na'isha would have known that Rainen and Elizabeth would likely be working together the night of the murder," replied Kate.

"Maybe she had some help?" said Zeb. "Maybe she was working with someone else?

Using the Sharpie, Kate wrote **Possible Accomplice** beneath Na'isha's name.

"Maybe Na'isha and Sun Rey had something going?" said Zeb.

"We need a lot more to make that leap," replied Kate. "We don't even know if they knew each other."

They added what they theorized about Na'isha and Sun Rey to the wall of information. Zeb looked at the picture of the anonymous José Doe found at the funeral home.

"Let's go back to the drug cartel theory. Suppose whoever the drugs were intended for was following José Doe, that he did have drugs in his body cavity and that either Elizabeth or Rainen were in on it. Then whoever came to pick up the contraband killed them either because something went wrong or because that was their intention all along?" said Zeb.

"Once again that falls under the far-fetched category," said Kate. "I just can't imagine any circumstance that would have Elizabeth or Rainen dealing in contraband."

"Nor can I, but stranger things have happened. We've got to think broadly. It's too early to rule anything out," said Zeb.

"Certainly we've got to keep our minds open to any and all possibilities," said Kate.

Kate took the marker and wrote **Drug Mule and Drug Dealers**? under the picture of José Doe.

What are your thoughts on Frederick Bingham," said Kate, nodding at his picture.

"Frederick Bingham," said Zeb. "Two things jump out at me. One, his brother, Foster, and that insurance money. Motive for sure and no doubt he had plenty of opportunity. Secondly, the guys that dropped bodies off at the mortuary, Frederick's friends from Dudleyville. I think it's time we had a little chat with them."

Beneath the picture of Frederick Bingham Kate had written **Foster Bingham, Insurance Money, Body Drop-Offs at Funeral Home** **and Dwayne 'Stretch' Santos/Other Friends**.

The insurance payoff of three-quarters of a million dollars was enough to make many men kill someone, perhaps even their own brother. It was also possible, since no body had been found, that Foster was in on a scam with Frederick. Along with Stretch, Frederick and his pals in Dudleyville dropped bodies off at the funeral home.

"Maybe Foster is telling us the truth," said Zeb. "Maybe his brother's body was dropped off at the funeral home. Phone records indicate that Elizabeth made a call that night to Foster."

"And where is Frederick Bingham's body?" asked Kate.

"If we think Elizabeth and Rainen could have been in on things, maybe they were part of the scam and the phone call was all a ruse. Everyone knows all it takes is a warrant to trace a phone call," said Zeb.

"So is Frederick alive and breathing or is he dead and buried?" asked Kate. "I just have a hard time with the idea that Foster killed his brother."

"Money is a powerful motivator. Could be he was sick and tired of keeping an eye on Frederick for his parents," said Zeb.

Silence once again filled the room. Kate pointed to the name and picture of Dwayne 'Stretch' Santos. Beneath his picture she had written **Girlfriend?**. Mrs. Bingham mentioned the so-called girlfriend. Kate considered her a person of interest as she might possibly know something. Beneath that she had written **Body Found in Graveyard Near Bingham Residence**.

"I imagine Foster has already made a trip down to Dudleyville to have a little chat with the girlfriend," said Zeb. "Let's hope we don't end up with another dead body. We don't need dead bodies piling up like firewood at this point."

Jake and Devon walked into Kate's office.

"Firewood?" said Jake.

"Dead bodies," replied Zeb. "Don't need a pile of them."

"Got it," replied Jake.

"We've got more bodies?" asked Devon.

"Not yet," said Jake. "And we don't need them."

"What did you find out on the Rez?" asked Zeb.

"Rambler has brought Song Bird into the equation. He figures people might talk to or say something to Song Bird because everyone has respect for him, sometimes a lot more respect for him than the law," said Jake.

"Does he have anything yet?" asked Kate.

"The only thing out of the ordinary is that Marcos Bren bought a new bucket for his backhoe. He paid cash, at least that's what he told Rambler," said Devon.

"What's odd about that?" asked Zeb.

"According to Song Bird and Rambler, there was nothing wrong with his old bucket. On top of that Marcos is tight with a buck and wouldn't spend a dime if he didn't have to, once again according to both Song Bird and Rambler," said Jake.

"I noticed at the graveyard he took impeccable care of his equipment. He did hit a rock when I was watching him dig a grave," said Zeb. "But just like that he fixed it up. It looked fine to me, but I'm no expert when it comes to heavy equipment."

"Should I add him to our suspect list?" asked Kate.

"No," replied Zeb. "But we should figure out why he bought a new bucket and what happened to the old one. He's someone we should talk to. Put his name up there with a question mark behind it. I am going to call him a person of interest, but at an arm's length."

Kate wrote **Marcos Bren** on the edge of the flow chart. Beneath it she wrote **New Bucket, Frederick and Foster Dug Graves With Him**.

"Are you thinking there might be evidence on the bucket?" asked Devon.

"Exactly. Jake must have rubbed off on you some today," said Zeb.

"He's taking the time to teach me the ropes," said Devon. "Whether he knows it or not."

"Then I hope he taught you that not all evidence is relevant even if it looks like it is," said Zeb.

"Can't teach a new dog all your old tricks in one day," said Jake, grinning and shrugging his shoulders.

Jake wasn't quite sure why he was giving the city slicker the benefit of the doubt, but he felt the young kid was trying. Jake believed Devon was naïve to the point of being ridiculous at times, but he was showing that he was trying to do a good job. Before today Jake thought the kid was a real A-one asshole. However, Jake didn't tell anyone in the sheriff's department that Devon had respectfully asked about his dead granddaughter, and they had a long discussion on how her death had affected his life.

The last thing on the wall contained no images of people just the heading **Unknown Person or Persons with Possible Link to Dead Bodies of José Doe or Mae Lynn Brenerson**.

"Anyone have anything to add to this list?" asked Zeb.

The room was silent until Jake spoke up.

"Zeb, let's you and me head down to Dudleyville and check out Stretch's girlfriend. Maybe we can find something in his trailer that might tell us more about Stretch or Frederick."

"Good idea," replied Zeb. "Kate, you and Devon head up to the Rez and see what Na'isha Wentsler might have to say."

"Do you want me to ask Song Bird to come along with us? I'm sure he'd want to help out?"

"No. Talk to him after you've talked with Na'isha, but give Rambler a heads up. He may want to go with you."

"At some point I'd like to have a little one-on-one chat with Sun Rey," said Kate. "I know he's dirty."

Zeb started to say no but stopped. Perhaps Kate was onto something. Because of her strong personal feelings about Sun Rey's behavior, attitude and lifestyle, Zeb wasn't sure she was the right person to put the hammer down on him. On the other hand, as a woman and bearing in mind there were quite a few women under Sun Rey's control at his commune, Sun Rey might just be audacious enough to think he could control her. If he was a sociopath as she suspected, she wouldn't be going in blind. For sure Zeb wasn't about to let Kate have a one-on-one with Sun Rey.

"Give it a shot," said Zeb. "Don't be overbearing and take Devon with you. He needs to learn some interrogation techniques from a woman's point of view."

Kate looked down at Devon's new cowboy boots and sized him all the way up to his hat.

"Sounds good," said Kate. "He looks the part."

Cryptic smiles slid across the faces of Zeb and Jake.

"Everyone meet back here tonight so we can all get on the same page. Am I forgetting anything or anyone?"

"Who knows? There are too many unanswered questions," said Kate. "This is a good place to move forward from. Let's see what we can find out."

"People are getting antsy, both in town and on the Rez," said Zeb. "It's time for some answers."

"Re-election's not that far off either, is it?" noted Devon.

Zeb's lip curled into a sneer. The new kid was a politician right down to the marrow in his bones.

# 20

It took Zeb and Jake an hour on US 70 to cover the seventy-four miles to State Highway 77 just south of Globe. Another forty-five minutes through mountainous, winding roads brought them to Dudleyville. The city itself, decidedly long and narrow, was strewn with trailers on the west side of the highway. At first glance it looked more like a series of small trailer parks than a city. A significant majority of the mobile homes appeared in need of maintenance or repair of one kind or another. Zeb and Jake decided the majority of local residents must be old bachelors, young bucks or divorced alcoholics. Their logic was based on the number of haphazardly discarded items strewn about just outside the front doors of many of the trailers. One brief stop at the community center helped them locate the trailer listed in county records as being owned by Stretch's mother.

"You think Stretch's girl is going to be trouble?" asked Jake.

"I doubt it," replied Zeb. "But I'd bet your last paycheck that she or anyone else living there won't talk too freely to an out of town sheriff and his deputy."

"There it is," said Jake.

Jake pointed to a trailer with several boarded over windows, a yard full of discarded and broken machines, a fire pit under a shredded umbrella and a front door with the screen half ripped out. Several dog houses were in about the same level of disrepair as the trailer. A pair of half-asleep mutts lazily lifted their eyes toward Zeb and Jake. Ultimately the canines, unconcerned at Zeb and Jake's presence, licked their lips and returned their heads to a resting position atop their paws.

"Worthless as guard dogs," said Jake. "Doesn't look like anybody feeds or grooms them regularly."

"Scruffy looking rascals, aren't they? I bet Josh could teach them a thing or two."

"I can't imagine what kind of girlfriend we might find at this place," said Zeb.

"Let's just say if any gal living here has half her teeth, she's top shelf for the neighborhood."

Jake approached the ripped screen door, reached through and knocked. From inside, a woman's raspy voice screeched, "What?"

Zeb put his head near an open window next to the door and said politely, "Graham County Sheriff."

The reply was instant. It was obviously not the first time law enforcement of some variety had stopped by for a visit.

"Got a warrant this time?" The woman sounded irritated but not too upset.

"No, ma'am," replied Zeb. "We just want to talk."

"Wanna talk to who?"

"Dwayne Santos' girlfriend," replied Zeb.

"Hah!" said the woman. "He ain't had a gal pal ever, far as we all know. Best guess is that he's queer for a steer or Freddy."

Zeb and Jake exchanged a glance. Poor old Mrs. Bingham had clearly been misled by her son.

"Okay, how about Frederick Bingham? Is he around," asked Zeb.

"He ain't," barked the woman. "He ain't here."

"Do you have any idea where we might find him?"

"No, hell no."

"When did you last see him?"

"You got a hell of a lot of questions for someone without a warrant. Mind showin' me some identification?"

"Come to the door," said Zeb.

A scraggly, pear-shaped woman with stringy hair and a cigarette dangling from her lower lip opened the inside door part way. The one eye that peered at Zeb deviated off to the side. She stayed behind the ripped screen and kept her foot firmly against the lower threshold of the door. Dressed in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a saggy, stained swimsuit top, she displayed a mostly toothless smile at Zeb. Zeb nodded and flashed his badge. The woman looked over at Jake who was standing at the bottom of the stoop.

"Your boyfriend, is he a cop too or just a peeping Tom?"

The woman grinned. Jake showed the woman his badge.

"Do you know where Frederick Bingham is?" asked Zeb a second time.

"Nope. Don't."

"How about Dwayne Santos?"

"You mean Stretch?"

"Yes," replied Zeb. "Do you know where Stretch is?"

"Nope. Ain't seen hide nor hair of him for some days now." She hacked and coughed. "But then again we been out of town. Stretch's ma send ya?" She obviously hadn't heard the news of his death. "Stretch's ma owns this glorious but humble abode. She reminds us of it every time she drops by. Real bi-atch, that woman, a real in your face bi-atch. You'd think Stretch was still suckin' on the teat the way she treats him."

"Anyone in there with you?" asked Zeb.

"Just Big Tank Lopez. Can't you hear the son of a bitch snorin'? He's sleepin' off a party. We've been over in Lordsburg for the last three days. Party sucked, man."

"I suppose that's why it only lasted three days," said Jake.

"You got a smart mouth on ya, dontcha', old man?" snarled the woman.

"Are there any weapons in the house?" asked Zeb.

"Huntin' rifle and a rat killer," replied the toothless woman.

"Rat killer?"

".22 pistol."

"Are they locked up?"

"You kiddin'? How am I gonna give them rats a ride to hell?"

"Where are the guns?"

"Closet."

"Are they loaded?"

"No siree. I'm a law-abidin' gal when it comes to them guns. Two short, five-shot clips set right next to the .22. Don't know where the rifle ammo is. Don't care to know. Don't shoot the damn thing. Not ladylike."

"Do you have a name?" asked Zeb.

"Yup, I sure do."

"Mind telling us what it is?" asked Zeb.

"Nope. Not if you ask me real nice."

"Would you mind telling us your name, ma'am?" asked Zeb.

"A lady likes bein' treated with at least a little bit of respect. My name is Maurita Angeline Payne, but my good friends call me Angel."

"Maurita, would you mind waking up Big Tank so we can have a word with him?"

The woman turned, farted loudly and walked back inside the house. She left the front door slightly ajar and unlocked. Zeb peeked inside as he listened to her trying to wake the man she referred to as Big Tank. Based on the tone of his voice he wasn't too happy about having his sleep interrupted. Five minutes later the woman returned. This time Zeb could see just how rough looking and disheveled she was.

"Come on in," she said with resignation. "Big Tank is droppin' the kids off at the pool. He suffers mightily with the 'roids. It might take him a while if he can't get his constitution up and runnin'."

Zeb and Jake entered the trailer. It was even worse looking on the inside. Beer cans littered the floor, cigarette butts overflowed in the ashtrays, the TV was on without any sound and a sad country ballad scratched on a radio with lousy reception. From inside the bathroom a man was cussing and groaning. A few seconds later the toilet flushed three times. Big Tank had obviously had significant success or the plumbing was bad. Big Tank sighed loudly as the water ran. A few minutes later he strolled out of the bathroom closely followed by a horrific smell. Clad only in a pair of bagged out tighty-whities and a beer-stained, wife-beater T-shirt, Big Tank's face was covered with a gruff, three-day growth of beard. He reached into his shorts and scratched his privates. Despite his name Big Tank was skinny as a beanpole and a good half foot shorter than Maurita.

"Are you Big Tank Lopez?" asked Zeb.

"Who's askin'?"

Zeb and Jake flipped out their badges. Big Tank took a quick but close look at the identifications. He knew the drill.

"What do you want from me? I ain't done a damn thing that's illegal, least not lately."

"Big Tank your Christian name?" asked Jake.

"Is old fart yours?" replied Big Tank.

"Jake's my handle."

"Fernando's mine, but call me Big Tank."

Big Tank plopped himself into a worn-out, plaid sofa, jagged coils poking through the fabric.

"Do you live here?" asked Zeb.

"I pay rent and I'm up to date. Did that bitch who owns this dump say I'm behind on my share of the rent? I don't owe that whore ten cents."

"Watch your language around the lady," suggested Jake.

"I seen him pay up all that he owed. He done it just last week," said the woman, first looking at Zeb and Jake, then at Big Tank. "I never thought that ol' bitty would actually call the cops. What a douche bag thing to do."

"I'm sure the rent is fine," said Zeb. "That's not why we're here."

"Thank God for small favors," said the woman.

"Thank him for big favors too," added Big Tank.

"Do you know where Dwayne Santos or Frederick Bingham is?" asked Zeb.

"Did something happen to Stretch and his retard buddy?" asked Big Tank.

"What makes you ask?" said Zeb.

Big Tank checked a couple of bottles that still had beer in them before he found one without cigarette butts floating around. He tipped his head back and finished off the bottle, licked his lips and let out a sigh, followed shortly by a belch that filled the room with a noxious odor.

"No reason except the fact that two cops, excuse me, sheriffs would come looking for them."

"Maurita, do you know Frederick Bingham?" asked Zeb.

"That booger eatin' moron tries to sneak a peek in on me every time I take a shower," she said. "What's that dang gum fool done now?"

"I take it you know him?" asked Zeb.

"Hell yes," said Maurita. "I know his sorry ass."

"Yeah, we know Freddy," said Big Tank. "I ain't seen him lately either but, then again, we been gone."

"How long since you've seen him?" asked Jake.

"Oh, a week I suppose, give or take," said Big Tank.

"Where was he when you last saw him?" asked Zeb.

"Sittin' around the fire pit drinking a beer. Can of Schmidt big mouth."

"Yeah, that's right," added the woman. "Freddy was drinkin' a lot of beer that night."

"And you haven't seen him since?" asked Zeb.

"Nope," replied Big Tank.

"Do you have any idea where I might be able to reach him?"

"Probably some fancy ass bar over in Safford. Maybe even down in Lordsburg. How the hell should I know where he is? Do I look like his daddy?"

"You're his friend and he stays here, right? At least that's what we've heard," said Jake.

"He had a job up near the Rez is what he told us," said Big Tank. "Claimed he was going to make a pile of money and come back with a shitload of booze for all of us. He promised the next big party was gonna be on his dollar."

"Yeah, that's right," said the woman, her memory starting to fill in some blank spots. "He never made it back from the booze run. Where do you suppose that SOB is? He owes us a beer bash. He'd better make it back with something for us before he spends it all whoopin' it up or screwin' some old, five-dollar whore."

"Who was Freddy going to work with?" asked Zeb.

"Not a clue," said Big Tank.

"You sure about that?" asked Jake.

"You deaf or what? I said it, didn't I?"

His belligerence inferred to Zeb and Jake he knew more than he was saying. Jake was getting sick of the old man jokes. If these were the old days, he wouldn't have hesitated to clean the floor of this ramshackle hovel using Big Tank as a mop. He was tired of fucking around with these idiots.

"We know you boys help out poor folks by dropping bodies off at the back of the funeral home up in Safford for them," said Jake. "It's a nice service you provide for people who can't afford a proper burial."

"Thank you. It's just, well, kind of our way of doing something."

"Shut up," shouted the woman. "You wanna end up back in jail agin'?"

"It's okay," said Jake. "We're not here about that either."

"If you don't know where Freddy is or who he was working with, can you tell us who he has worked with in the past?" asked Jake.

Big Tank began to look worried. He scoured the table for another drinkable beer. Eventually he found two of them and downed them in a heartbeat, practically whiplashing his neck in the process.

"None of us really work for nobody. We work for everybody and anybody," said Big Tank. "Real poor folks that ain't got two pennies to rub together just call us up and tell us granny or gramps or somebody died. They need the body taken to the funeral home and dropped off out back. Everybody knows how it works. They give us what they can and we transport the body. That's all there is to it. If you want to haul me off to jail for helpin' poor folks, go ahead. If I don't do it, somebody else will. There's no stoppin' it. For Christ sakes, give me a friggin' break."

"Drop off any bodies lately? Say in the last couple of weeks?" asked Zeb.

"Naw, it's been months."

The woman grabbed a magazine, walked over to Big Tank and bashed him across the back of the head. Cuss words flowed out of her mouth. She dressed him right down to his bad breath for being such a danged fool. Jake grabbed the magazine from her.

"Why don't you take a seat, ma'am? I wouldn't want things to escalate here, and you end up arrested for disorderly conduct," warned Jake.

In spite of how ornery she was she immediately complied. No doubt she had outstanding warrants.

"We'll let the illegal transport of dead bodies go for now," said Zeb.

"But you're going to have to help us if you want us to keep out of your business," said Jake.

Big Tank knew they had him dead to rights. He'd better give them something, or he would be back behind locked jailhouse doors again.

"What do you need?" growled Big Tank.

"Tell us where Frederick and Stretch are."

Big Tank scratched his head then his armpit. He smelled his fingers. He was thinking. He knew that he knew something. He cursed the hangover that was still making his head fuzzy and his thinking clouded. He looked over at Maurita. She picked at what remained of one visible tooth. Zeb walked next to her.

"I don't suppose if I went out to my car and called it in I'd find out that you had some outstanding warrants, would I?"

She held her head in shame. There were at least a dozen ways the sheriff's department from Graham County could make her life miserable, including parole violation. She allowed the possibilities to ramble around in the vast empty space between her ears. What difference did it make if she told them where Stretch and Freddy went? Neither of them were too violent. The worst that would happen would be a backhand to her face. She could handle that. The woman decided to cough up what she knew.

"They were headed to a country bar, over toward the New Mexico border. They were going to meet up with Fossie. Freddy said Fossie was gonna give him some bread," she said.

Big Tank gave her a look of wonderment. He had no idea how she knew what she knew.

"Fossie?" asked Zeb.

"Foster Bingham, Freddy's bro. They were headed to the TATTOO-U-2 Bar."

"That's a long haul from anywhere and especially a long ways off the Rez," said Zeb.

"They were meeting someone after Fossie gave him the dough. I don't really know any more than that," said Maurita.

"You're sure about that?" asked Jake.

"Sure as that old red nose on your face, Mister Deputy Sheriff," said Maurita.

"For the record, could I get your address?" asked Jake.

"I live right here in this trailer. You got that address. If I ain't here, I'm livin' in my car. Sometimes I end up sleepin' in the back seat for weeks at a time. It all depends on how things are going."

Zeb handed each of them one of his cards.

"Give me a call if either of you hear from Frederick or Dwayne. You'd be upright citizens if you called me next time Foster comes around."

Zeb knew that wasn't going to happen. By the time they were out the door of the trailer Maurita and Big Tank Lopez were hollering at each other about who was going to make the trip to the liquor store and what store would accept their welfare cards for beer.

"People sure can make a mess of their lives," said Zeb.

"Don't we know it," replied Jake.

"Well, we know Foster was telling the truth when he told us Frederick wanted to meet him to borrow some money," said Zeb.

"Do you think Foster killed Stretch?"

"Maybe?" replied Zeb.

"Think he killed Frederick?"

"Could be."

"That's ice cold," said Jake. "Killing your own brother."

"Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money and even more temptation," said Zeb. "I'm not ruling him out. There's too much proximity to time, and he's the one who is insistent upon Frederick being dead and his body having been at the funeral home."

"Maybe we should consider a trip over to Lordsburg to the TATTOO-U-2 Bar at some point," said Zeb.

"You know that place?" asked Jake.

Zeb knew Jake well enough to know that from the sound of Jake's voice there was more to the TATTOO-U-2 than he suspected.

"No, why do you ask?" asked Zeb.

"It's a gay cowboy bar," replied Jake.

Zeb waited a good ten minutes before asking the obvious question.

"I don't want to pry but how do you know the TATTOO-U-2 is a gay bar?"

"We all have our secrets, don't we?" said Jake, lisping as he dangled a limp wrist in Zeb's direction.

Zeb began laughing so hard it took every bit of his control to keep from driving right into the ditch.

"Lordsburg is going to have to wait for now," said Zeb. "Any information we are going to get will still be there in a day or two. Likely just an out of the way meeting place where they wouldn't be recognized or arouse suspicion. For now Foster and Frederick are long gone, and we know Stretch is gone for good."

"Are you sure you don't want to go over there for a little afternoon delight maybe?" lisped Jake.

Zeb, tears in his eyes, doubled over in laughter.

"You're not my type."

Both men were grateful for the levity.

# 21

The trip to the Rez filled Kate with countless thoughts of Eskadi Black Robes. This was the exact route she used when she visited the former tribal chairman, first as his friend and ultimately as his lover. Her heart swelled, drew back, swelled again and brought with it memories she had long since let slip below the routine awareness of her mind. She had rarely felt such a mystically strange combination of love and pain. Kate realized just how much she had repressed the pain of losing of Eskadi. However, now was not the time to get stuck in the past. She had work to do.

Kate called Rambler on the two-way radio. He told her he had already had a talk with Na'isha, and he would provide his input when they all met later.

Devon shifted uncomfortably in the front passenger seat.

"Does it bug you that Sheriff Hanks asks you to talk to Na'isha to get a woman's point of view? It just seems so sexist to me that he would ask you to interview her for that specific reason," commented Devon.

The thought had never entered Kate's mind. Zeb was not perfect, but he certainly wasn't sexist. To Kate it seemed natural and logical that Zeb would have her talk to Na'isha. Kate knew that there was a secret language between women men knew nothing about. Zeb, as unclear as he was about women and how their minds operated, knew full well Kate could deal with women, professionally, much better than he could.

"How well do you know women?" asked Kate.

Devon pondered the question momentarily. He had a mother, two grandmothers and three sisters, all of whom had played major roles in rearing him. His response was quick and confident.

"I'd say that I know women quite well."

"Good. Glad to hear that," said Kate. "Since you have a good understanding of women, what's the first thing you'd want to know about Na'isha?"

"I'd ask her about her relationship with Nations Wentsler. I think that would be a good starting point," said Devon.

"Her relationship with Wentsler was bad. We already know that. We can assume there was a fair amount of animosity between them. Do you think by opening with that kind of a question she is going to open up to us?" asked Kate. "It would be like rubbing salt into an open wound."

"No, it would not be a good opening question, and yes, it would be liking rubbing salt into an open wound."

Devon hung his head. Clearly he hadn't thought it through. Kate saw his shame.

"Don't worry. You'll learn. Most men would make the same mistake."

As they pulled into Na'isha and Nations Wentsler's plush estate, Devon let out a whistle.

"Wow, I didn't think they had cribs like this on the reservation."

"It's rumored to be the nicest house out here," said Kate. "Wouldn't mind a place like this myself one day. I doubt I'll get it on a deputy sheriff's salary."

Zeb had taught Kate, just as he had learned from Song Bird, to wait until they were recognized before getting out of the vehicle. Na'isha stepped onto the porch and motioned them to the house. She greeted them at the door with the pleasantry and class that accompanies those in high political position.

"I was sort of expecting a visit from the sheriff's department. Rambler has already been here. I told him everything. You can just ask him whatever it is you want to know," said Na'isha.

Her tone was friendly enough, but she clearly didn't want to speak to them. As she began to shut the door, Kate put out her hand to stop it from closing.

"I know this has been very stressful for you," said Kate. "We just want to find out who committed the murders of Elizabeth and Rainen, that's all."

"I don't believe I caught your name, Deputy," said Na'isha.

"Deputy Kate Steele," replied Kate. "You can call me Kate."

"Well, I can tell you this, Kate. I didn't kill them," said Na'isha. "You know that I knew about the affair between my husband and Elizabeth. I know you know about the emails between Elizabeth and myself. What else do you need to know?"

"We believe you might know something which might be relevant to the murders. It might be a little thing that you consider to be of no importance but could help us solve their murders. If we could just ask you a few questions? We don't suspect you of murder. I want to make that clear. We think you may be able to help us solve this. Solving the murders of Elizabeth and Rainen will make the community safer," said Kate. "I'm certain that would be in your best interest as well as the tribe's."

Na'isha suddenly softened. Her defensive posture all but disappeared. Even Devon noticed. Kate's opening gambit had worked, at least for the time being.

"Who's your sidekick?" asked Na'isha, nodding to Devon.

"Deputy Devon Dawbyns," replied Kate. "He's new to the department."

"Welcome to the better side of the Rez, Deputy Dawbyns. Nice boots. You're not from around here, are you?" asked Na'isha

"I grew up in Phoenix but, no ma'am, I am not from here. Most recently I'm from back east, Washington, D.C. to be exact."

"Too bad for you," said Na'isha. "But I guess everybody's got to be from somewhere."

"This will only take a few minutes," said Kate. "Do you mind if we come in?"

Na'isha showed them in. Immediately the emails made sense. The interior of the house was opulent. Modern art hung on every wall. The furniture even smelled expensive. It was plain to see why she didn't want to give it up to a husband who was having an affair. She offered them coffee and served it in expensive china.

"Have you ever heard of the drug Propofol?" asked Kate.

"Isn't that the drug Michael Jackson was addicted to and died from?" asked Na'isha.

"Yes."

"I suppose I know as much about it as anybody who watches TV or entertainment news," said Na'isha.

"Do you know what it looks like?" asked Kate.

"As I recall from watching Dr. Oz do a show on it, Propofol is kind of milky looking. Other than that I didn't pay that close attention. Outside of the _Thriller_ album, I never was a big Michael Jackson fan. I kind of was more into the oldies, the Jackson Five stuff."

"So you've never had the occasion to use Propofol or have it on hand?"

"No, of course not. Why would I? It's a general anesthetic. Who keeps that sort of drug in their bathroom cabinet?"

"Just covering all my bases. Do you know a man that goes by the name of Sun Rey?" said Kate.

"Y-ye-yes," Na'isha stammered.

Devon noticed Na'isha's eyes avoided Kate when she responded. Life experience told him that the question caught her by surprise. He suspected her mind was either quickly building a paradigm of potential lies or thinking back to recent encounters with him.

"Are you friends with Sun Rey?" asked Kate.

Na'isha's face turned pale. She looked sick to her stomach. Her interactions with Sun Rey had been of a healing nature. They had also been confidential. Since they were, by request, done privately, how could Deputy Kate possibly be aware of them? Maybe they were guessing, taking a shot in the dark. By proximity and his business in Safford alone, she might well know him. Na'isha hesitated until Kate asked her again if she and Sun Rey were acquainted in any way.

"I bought coffee at the 322. I talked to him at his place of business. Does that make us friends? I don't know. You could say I was his customer. Yes, I was his customer. Indeed, I was quite a good customer at that," said Na'isha.

She hadn't lied, but she had skirted the truth. Kate saw what was going on right away.

"A customer at the 322 Coffee Bistro?" Kate continued the questioning. "Nothing else? No other interactions?"

"I was a fairly regular customer. I love a triple chocolate latte in the winter and a frozen caramel cappuccino in the summer. I spend a lot of money there. If Sun Rey says we know each other, well I do chat with him about many different topics. I find his intellectual capacity and point of view to be rather unusual and quite interesting," said Na'isha.

Even the inexperienced lawman, Devon, knew that when someone offered too much information too quickly they were invariably hiding something. He had her pegged for an out and out liar.

Kate suspected the words coming from Na'isha's mouth were anything but the truth. If she could figure out what Na'isha was lying about, no doubt it held promise as a good lead. An extremely long shot would be that as a regular customer Na'isha picked up the Propofol-laden coffee and took it to the funeral home. That would put her and Sun Rey in cahoots. The motive was obvious, a way to get rid of Elizabeth and the potential of losing her home. Kate knew that reservation property rights highly favored the husband. But what would be Sun Rey's motive? Maybe Na'isha and Sun Rey were having an affair? Someone likely would have seen or reported that by now. Gossip about the tribal chairman's wife was hot, heavy and quickly disseminated. Kate would have to know more before pursuing this line of questioning any further.

"My next question may be uncomfortable," said Kate.

"You want to know about my relationship with Nations and his relationship with that harlot, Elizabeth."

"I am interested in the relationship you had with Elizabeth, but if you want to speak of Nations and Elizabeth's relationship, please go ahead."

"My husband had a sexual relationship with her for many years."

"About how many would you say?" asked Devon.

"Ten years or so where he made no bones about it. They probably had been screwing for at least fifteen years, maybe for as long as we were married, maybe even before that. What difference does it make?"

"It might make all the difference in the world. It might help us solve the case of her murder," said Kate.

"In that case, I don't know. I do know it was ten years for sure. My guess is that it was fifteen or twenty. She was such a slut. She was probably having sex with the stiffs at the funeral home for all I know or care."

"I understand your anger," said Kate.

"They took sexual pictures of each other and selfies. Nations kept them. He doesn't know I know about them. He hid them, but my maid found them when she was doing the cleaning. She gave them to me."

"Did she look at them?" asked Kate.

"No, they were in a sealed envelope behind the safe. I suppose they'd fallen back there. It was sickening. They had sex on the tables where they laid out dead bodies to prepare them for burial. Can you imagine the possible diseases, and I mean not just from the table but from that bitch, Elizabeth?"

"I can see where you would find it all very troubling," said Kate.

"That's when I cut him off. I didn't tell him I knew about the pictures, but whenever he wanted sex, I said no, hell to the no. He isn't putting that thing in me ever again."

Devon's thumbs were zipping along at high speed, writing notes into his iPhone. In addition, he was recording every word on a second phone he carried. Transcript alone would not come close to describing the tone of Na'isha's spiteful anger.

"I suspect if you look inside his safe, they even made sex tapes. What I wouldn't give to make them public."

"Can you access the contents of the safe?" asked Kate.

"No. Because there is so much cash routinely held there, the insurance company and the manufacturer of the safe have the combination on a perpetual two week cycle. Even Nations has to clear the current combination with them when he wants to get in. The casino has one just like it. Both of them were put in after Eskadi Black Robes was murdered."

"Makes sense," said Kate. "I have to ask this and I know it's complicated, but did you ever threaten Elizabeth."

"Hell yes. Wouldn't you? When I first found out, I was so irate I threatened to tell everyone. I even put a knife next to her ear and threatened to stick it through her eardrum so she couldn't hear my husband telling her how much he loved her."

"I take it you didn't complete the act?" said Kate.

From the reddening of her face and ears, the widening of her pupils and the wild animal look on her face, Kate and Devon could almost see Na'isha taking herself back to the moment she was describing.

"I slipped her some Valium I had been prescribed by Doc Yackley, five of the big ones, into a beer at the annual LaGrange Rodeo. I followed her to the port-o-potties and grabbed her. I knocked her to the ground. I put a headband in her mouth and held her down. I had a knife in one hand and a sharp pencil in the other. I was hell bent on puncturing both of her eardrums. She'd have been deaf if I hadn't wanted her to hear me out. I wanted my voice to be the last one she heard. Just then Reverend Kurker happened by. He was talking to someone, some derelict, trying to save his soul I suppose. He saw me and heard me talking to her. The man he was with skedaddled pronto when Reverend Kurker came to Elizabeth's rescue. He talked me down but not before I put a notch in her left ear. I did it so she wouldn't forget me and the power I had over her."

"Did Reverend Kurker report the incident to the police?" asked Devon.

"Not that I know of. As far as I know he never told anyone," said Na'isha.

"Did you ever tell her that you would divorce Nations and that they could be together?" asked Kate.

"Yes, of course I made her that offer. I made it to my husband as well. She could have him but not the property and the money. Shit, she was rich anyway. I had to at least leave with my property and dignity," said Na'isha.

"Why do you think they didn't take your offer?" asked Kate.

"I honestly believe Nations didn't want to lose his authority on the Rez," said Na'isha. It's all he ever really had. Without it, he would just be another Indian who no one gives a shit about."

"Do you think he killed Elizabeth and Rainen?" asked Kate.

"Nations? Are you kidding? He's an out and out pussy. He couldn't harm a fly."

Kate glanced at Devon. "Pussies have been known to kill under the right circumstances."

"Not Nations. I could have killed more quickly than he ever could have." Na'isha paused for a moment. "When it came right down to it, I couldn't ever kill anyone either," said Na'isha.

"Devon, is there anything you want to ask Na'isha?" said Kate.

"No, I'm good."

"Na'isha, we'll be coming back to talk to you in the near future. Please keep yourself available," said Kate.

"I've got nothing to hide," said Na'isha. "You know where I live."

As they drove back to town Devon pondered a question for Kate. Something was clearly eating away at him. The men were tough on him and, in times of trouble, he always turned to his mother. Kate would have to act as a substitute.

"Do you think I'm a pussy?" he asked.

"You could use some manning up. But are you a pussy? No. You're just a regular politician on the low rung of a very tall ladder."

"Do you think I stand a chance of climbing up that ladder?" he asked.

"You know the right people. If you do their bidding, you'll get where you want to be."

Devon tensed. Their bidding? How could Kate know about that? What had Elaine Coburn told her? Was his cover blown?

"Let's go have a little chat with Sun Rey," said Kate. "I promised Sheriff Hanks a full report on him when I had all the information. I've got what I need from social services, the Massachusetts legal system and a few other places. I want you to be there when I go over my report with the sheriff."

Devon was now absolutely certain he had been found out. He was cornered. If he lied, he was out of a job. If he told the truth, he was out of a future. He considered playing ignorant when the time came. That was something he was definitely not good doing.

# 22

"Sun Rey works at the 322 all day today," said Devon. "We'll find him there."

"You know his schedule?" asked Kate.

"I know my schedule. Remember when you told me Tucson had the closest Starbucks?"

"I was kidding," said Kate. "But it is the closest one."

"I got up early that day and drove to Tucson and back to make sure everyone got what they wanted. It was the kind of fear Senator Russell had instilled in me. On the way back I drove by the 322 Coffee Bistro and stopped in. I saw they had exactly the same kinds of brews that Starbucks had. Of course I realized then I had been pranked and felt quite foolish."

"Did it take the shine off your new boots?" asked Kate.

Devon chuckled. Kate was all right. He tipped his yet to be broken in cowboy hat and answered, "Yes, ma'am, it surely did."

"You're catching on. You'll do fine," said Kate.

Devon badly needed an ally and he needed one now. Was this the time, was Kate the person to tell what he knew about Sun Rey? He took a chance. It might make him. It could break him. His future just might hinge on the next few minutes.

Kate pulled in front of the 322 Coffee Bistro and turned off the vehicle. They could both see Sun Rey talking to customers.

"Let's go have a chat with Sun Rey over some latte," said Kate. "We need to get some things straight with him."

Devon stared at Sun Rey through the window but didn't budge an inch. Kate noticed he was frozen.

"Something on your mind?" asked Kate. "You look like the cat who swallowed the canary with your owner watching."

"I've got to tell you something, something that may change the course of this investigation," said Devon.

"I'm all ears," replied Kate. "I can only assume that since we are sitting in front of the 322 that it concerns Sun Rey?"

"It does. Kate, have you ever noticed if the first step of a plan is bad, then every step of the plan after that is even more wrong."

"A bent tree grows more crooked the taller it gets," said Kate. "That's the way my daddy taught it to me."

"I have to confess this to someone. You seem like you will be the least harsh on me about it. I'm hedging my bet that you might even understand my situation," said Devon.

"It sounds serious," said Kate. "I promise you will feel better once you get it off your chest."

She looked over at the young deputy. He looked more like a boy than a man. Devon pointed a finger at Sun Rey who was standing in the window, still chatting it up with customers.

"That man is the reason I'm here. He is the reason Senator Russell, Judge Dunleavy and Derek Parks recommended me for the job as deputy sheriff. He is the reason I got shoved down everybody's throat. Zeb would never have hired me if it hadn't been for them. I know that."

"We all know that," said Kate. "You've done a decent enough job so far, but they definitely got your foot in the door. So, what's the big secret?"

"Sun Rey isn't his real name."

"I know that. His real name is Clinton Russell the second," said Kate. "He is the illegitimate son of Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell."

"How do you know that?" asked Devon.

"Police work," said Kate. "Now why don't you explain why you've been hiding the fact that you knew he was the illegitimate son of Senator Russell."

"I'm on a mission directly from Senator Russell. The Senator wants to know what Sun Rey is up to and if he's doing okay. Once Senator Russell found out Sun Rey was actually his son, he has seen to his every need. He has pulled him out of more messes than you can imagine. Senator Russell counted on my discretion which I guess he no longer can."

"I already knew just about everything you just told me. That makes your bond of trust with the Senator solid," said Kate.

"I know Sun Rey is not a well man. He does fine when he stays on his medications," said Devon.

"I assume you're referring to the anti-psychotics he's been prescribed," said Kate.

"Yes."

"What is Sun Rey doing here?" asked Kate.

"I don't know for certain. Neither does Senator Russell. I suspect it has something to do with proving to Senator Russell once and for all that he is worthy of the family name," said Devon.

"To that end, what is he up to besides being a successful businessman?" asked Kate.

"That's just it. I don't know for certain. What I do know is it has something to do with completing a task for his father that his father was unable to do for himself. At least that's what I have concluded," said Devon.

"That's vague. Any idea what that is?" asked Kate.

"Yes, I do. I have a theory. It goes back to Senator Russell not finalizing a duty in a secret society at Yale and Sun Rey never even being accepted to the college at all," said Devon.

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Kate.

"I don't have all the answers. That's about as much as I know so far."

"Let's go have a little chat with Sun Rey and see what he's got to say. Let me do the talking," instructed Kate.

Devon and Kate walked through the front door of the 322 Coffee Bistro. Sun Rey eyed them up and down, walked over and led them to the best seat in the house.

"Welcome. Good to see you aren't as prejudiced as your boss about where you buy your coffee. What can I get for you?"

"Triple chocolate latte, extra whipped cream," said Kate. "And a scone with butter."

"Café Arizona," said Devon. "With chocolate whipped cream and almonds."

"Be right back with them," said Sun Rey.

"Will you have a few moments to sit down and talk with us?" said Kate.

Sun Rey did not hesitate in answering, "Of course, I've been on my feet all day. I could use the break."

Sun Rey quickly brought back the drinks and eased himself into the seat next to Kate. "On the house. I learned a long time ago that it is wise to have good manners towards law enforcement officials."

"We thank you," replied Kate.

"My pleasure," replied Sun Rey. "Now, what can I help you with?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Better you than Sheriff Hanks. I don't think he likes me. He never comes in here."

"It's a long story," said Kate. "I assure you he has nothing against you personally or professionally."

"Well then, what can I do for you?"

"Some of this will be easy," said Kate. "So let's start there."

"Good. Ask away," said Sun Rey.

"Do you know Na'isha Wentsler?"

"Yes, of course. She's a regular customer. Mostly she drinks cold pressed juices or a chocolate drink. God that woman loves dark, dark chocolate. She occasionally has espresso, but I don't suppose that's what you want to know. You want to know if I slept with her?"

His bluntness surprised both Kate and Devon. Sun Rey answered his own question.

"Of course I slept with her. She's slept with half the town and most of the Rez. She's a veritable satyress."

"Was it a lasting affair?" asked Kate.

"Ha! No one slept with her more than once, except maybe her husband."

"Do you know if she slept with Rainen Kayita?"

"I assume she did," replied Sun Rey. "I have no first-hand knowledge of it, but one can easily conjecture based upon her sexual libido and her history of conquering every man she laid eyes on that she did."

"Do you know of any bad blood between Na'isha and Rainen?"

"No."

"Do you think she is capable of murder?" asked Kate.

"Only if she gave somebody a heart attack during sex," said Sun Rey.

This was clearly going nowhere. Kate shifted her line of questioning.

"We'd like to ask you about Elizabeth Townes."

"I sort of figured that's why you were here. She was like a mother to me. I'm sure you heard my words of testimony at her funeral."

"I did," replied Kate. "Very touching."

"I meant every word. She was like a mother I never had. You see my own mother wanted nothing to do with me. She abandoned me to foster homes when I was very young. Unfortunately she died of breast cancer before we ever reconciled.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Kate.

"It's ancient history, but it still pains me every day of my life. I often wonder what my path would have been like had she stayed in my life. I can't tell you how I've prayed for an answer to that question. In fact, that is why I became an evangelical preacher, that and the sermons of Billy Sunday."

"You would say Elizabeth Townes saved your life from going down the tubes?" asked Devon.

"Yes, of course," replied Sun Rey.

Under the table Kate crushed the toes of his new boots with the heel of her own. Devon quickly understood he was out of line.

"Was she ever your lover?" asked Kate.

The question came from so far out in left field that Sun Rey was totally unprepared for it. His immediate response was anger.

"How dare you ask that of the woman I called my mother?"

His face and ears were burning red. The rage in his heart flamed up like a copper smelter. He laid his hand on the table knife next to Kate and began to roll it nervously back and forth between his thumb and first finger. Abruptly catching his own reaction to the question, Sun Rey set the knife down and started to get up to remove himself from the conversation.

"Don't get angry," said Kate with a nod to Devon. "It's just this email we pulled from Elizabeth's computer."

Devon reached into his briefcase that was on the chair next to him. He handed it to Sun Rey. It spoke of a wonderful, rapturous night of aggressive sex that she freely admitted to enjoying. Caught in a lie, the expression on Sun Rey's face turned innocent. He sat back down in his chair.

"You caught me. I lied. I didn't want to sully her already tarnished name. I was only trying to protect her, even in death. I'm sorry. I loved her in many ways."

"So, it was just one time?" asked Kate. "That you and Elizabeth were lovers?"

"Four, maybe five. She was trying to help me. I was feeling impotent around women and felt so unattractive. I think it was out of pity that she made love to me."

"From the time-stamped date on the email this appears to be shortly after you moved to the area," said Devon.

"That is correct. God, I am so embarrassed that I lied to you. Please forgive me?" begged Sun Rey. "I promise everything else I tell you will be totally honest."

"Forgiven," said Kate. "Almost everyone gets nervous and flustered when we question them. It might be best for you to answer the questions I ask as if you thought I knew the truthful answers."

Sun Rey held his head downward, staring a hole in the table. He hated being caught in a lie. It was stupid and could lead to worse mistakes.

"Was the sexual relationship with Elizabeth violent or sadomasochistic?" Kate probed.

Another question from the left field bleachers.

"Absolutely not. It was normal and healthy."

"Even given the fact that she was roughly twenty years older than you," interjected Kate.

Once again the hell fire of anger rose up in Sun Rey. He took a drink of water to quell the emotion.

"Deputy Kate, this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth or twentieth. Women take younger lovers all the time. Perhaps you, yourself, have?"

Kate let his remark pass. This man, who was obviously a sociopath, was not going to get under her skin. She would not allow that, but it took every ounce of what she was made of to keep her on her game. Something about Sun Rey, something more than all the facts she actually knew, stuck deep enough in her craw to make her want to reach over and throttle him by the throat.

"We're here about you, not me," she said. "Was the relationship in any way dangerous or harmful to her, or perhaps to you?"

"No, it was not harmful to either of us. It was temporary and caring and giving. Actually, it was her idea. She thought it would help me out of my funk," said Sun Rey.

"Your funk?"

"Depression. I have been diagnosed with a very mild case of depression and situational anxiety. Part of the reason I came here is that I thought the sunshine would help my illness. It has. Early on, as a child, I was diagnosed with bipolar disease. I can tell you that diagnosis was incorrect because none of the medications they gave me worked. ADHD and PTSD were also working diagnoses from some psychiatric, state-appointed quack back home, but obviously they were incorrect."

"What do you think is the matter with you, medically speaking?" interjected Devon.

"Nothing is wrong with me. I am mentally healthy. I am a successful businessman. As you know from coming to my evangelical services, seeing my girls dance in Tucson, yes, I've seen you there more than once, and coming here to the 322, I am doing very well, thank you."

Sun Rey was nothing if not smug. Kate had to once again quash her anger. He was exploiting the young women by pimping them as strippers, making R-rated videos and selling them online and God knew what else. He was ripping off the people of Safford with coffee that was five times as expensive as it should be, and he was nothing short of a con artist with his promises of healing by way of snake handling.

"Did she ever make you angry?" asked Kate.

"We had our differences on occasion."

"You're certain you were never violent with her?"

"Yes, of course I am certain I was never brutal or aggressive with her," said Sun Rey.

Kate nodded toward Devon's briefcase. He withdrew a copy of another email between Sun Rey and Elizabeth.

"What, then, did you mean by this?" asked Kate, handing him the email. "This is an email from you to Elizabeth two weeks before her death."

Sun Rey carefully read it word for word. Kate couldn't help but notice he moved his lips when he read, but only at certain words.

_You know why I came to the area. I have a mission to complete. I feel as though you are putting up personal resistance and making my task most difficult. I demand that you keep your nose out of my personal business. What I need to do will determine my ultimate destiny as well as my divined future. Do not, I repeat, do not stand in my way. You know exactly what I am capable of doing._

Sun Rey nonchalantly handed the copy back to Kate. Kate handed him Elizabeth's reply.

_Unfortunately I do know precisely what you are capable of. You know that I have tried to help you and have been willing to forgive. I can forgive but I can't forget. You have crossed an irreversible threshold. Crossing over is a bad idea for today and a worse idea for the rest of your life. In the strongest terms possible I beg you not to continue in the direction that I perceive you are headed in._

"Yes," said Sun Rey. "What do you want to know?"

"What is the mission you mention that needs completion?" asked Kate.

"It's personal. It has to do with my life. Frankly, it's none of your business and I won't discuss it. I didn't like that Elizabeth was asking me about it. I am offended that you are."

"How was she standing in your way?" asked Kate.

"By nosing around my personal affairs, which were none of her business," replied Sun Rey.

Kate noticed he was calm, too calm for her liking. She wasn't rattling his cage at all with her questions.

"What did Elizabeth mean when she said she knew precisely what you are capable of? And what threshold did you cross?"

"Very simply stated she knew I was capable of shutting her out of my life. I have no idea what threshold she was talking about, but I can tell you I made it very clear to her I didn't like her prying into my personal affairs. I simply would not allow that to happen," replied Sun Rey.

Kate listened as he cleverly evaded answering her questions.

"What direction did she perceive you were headed in that caused her such consternation?" asked Kate.

"Once again, it's highly personal and none of your business."

"It seems as though you were threatening Elizabeth when you demanded she not stand in your way," said Kate.

"My personal affairs simply were none of her business. I was simply making that as clear as I possibly could."

"Fine, I'll accept that," said Kate, taking the copy of another email from Devon. "You responded to her with this."

_What I have chosen to do I have to do. The choice and the decision have already been made. If I fail to follow through with this my destiny will be unfulfilled and I will be no one and nobody. I am no more than a man without a heritage unless I prove myself. Do NOT stand in my way._

"I did not want her interfering with a very private part of my life," said Sun Rey. "And frankly I'm getting a bit uneasy with your prying into my personal affairs as well."

"You are a person of interest, not a suspect, in Elizabeth's murder. The more helpful you are the quicker we can find the murderer. I am certain you want that to happen, don't you?"

"Of course. Don't be ridiculous, Deputy Steele," said Sun Rey.

"Then tell me what Elizabeth meant by this." She handed Sun Rey another email.

Sun Rey quickly scanned the email.

_Sun Rey, though I love you like family, you are merely tilting at windmills. You will never prove what you feel you need to prove to validate yourself. You are dealing with people with enough power and influence to squash you like a bug. I beg you to leave it alone. You do not need what you consider your family name in order to be a man in your own right._

"Since you have all the emails, I am certain my reply to this one, which I remember well, will give you your answer."

"Why don't you read it anyway, just to refresh your memory," said Kate.

Sun Rey took the email and glanced at it.

_My family name is mine to own. What is rightfully mine can never, under any circumstances, be taken from me. It is my birthright. If I fail to seize what is mine, what good am I as a human being? I might as well be an animal. As to them squashing me like a bug, I believe it is I who could do that to them should the truth be made known to the general public._

"What is your family name?" asked Kate.

"Right now my family name is Rey. In the future that might change, but that is my personal business and none of yours. I will thank you to leave it alone."

"One more thing before we go," said Kate.

"Go ahead. It's not like you haven't had your fun browbeating me with Gestapo tactics so far," said a highly irritated Sun Rey.

"What's your relationship with Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell?"

The expression on Sun Rey's face spoke volumes as he jumped to his feet, clenched his fists and gritted his teeth so hard that his neck turned as red as an over ripe tomato. He locked eyes with Kate.

"My relationship with him is the same as yours. He's the standing senator from the great state in which we all reside. I would have thought a woman as smart as yourself would know that. And didn't your sidekick, Deputy Dawbyns, work in Senator Russell's office before moving here? Goodbye and good riddance."

With that Sun Rey stomped out of the room like a petulant child.

# 23

Zeb met with Kate, Devon, Jake and Rambler at the office to compare notes on their individual investigations. All information needed to be shared and everyone brought up to speed as quickly as possible.

"What've we got on Sun Rey?" asked Zeb.

"He's a misogynistic asshole," said Kate. "A sociopath, a liar, a phony..."

"Okay," said Zeb. "We got the picture."

"He is definitely a self-centered individual," added Devon.

"Did you learn anything that might lead you to believe if he is, or is not, our killer?" asked Zeb.

Kate filled them in on his sexual liaisons with Na'isha and Elizabeth.

"He was very casual when discussing Na'isha but touchy when it came to Elizabeth. I believe they were close friends. Even though the emails suggest conflict between them, I see no reason why he might have killed her," said Kate.

"I agree," said Devon. "Disagreements, yes, violence, no."

"However, he blew his top and wouldn't talk to us when we brought up Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell," said Kate.

Kate informed Zeb and the others that Sun Rey had spent a lifetime trying to prove he was actually the birth son of Senator Russell and rightful heir to his name and fortune.

"He's got a lot to gain if he can prove he is Senator Russell's son," said Kate.

"Senator Russell is fairly certain that Sun Rey is his son. He had an affair with Sun Rey's mother," said Devon.

"Does the mother concur with Sun Rey's allegations?" asked Zeb.

"She passed on when Sun Rey was a child. Breast cancer," said Devon.

"Has anyone done any DNA testing?" asked Zeb. "That would be a simple enough way to find out."

"Senator Russell has an identical twin brother who also claims he had sexual relations with Sun Rey's late mother. According to Senator Russell, even the latest scientific research is not advanced enough to tell the difference in DNA between identical twins," said Devon. "Believe me, he has put a lot of time and effort into finding some sort of conclusive evidence, either way, if Sun Rey is his son."

"It seems as though you've been purposefully keeping this from me," said Zeb.

"I was following Senator Russell's orders," said Devon. "I was only to tell you if it was absolutely necessary."

"And the payoff to you is his political backing?" asked Zeb.

"More or less," replied Devon. "That's the way it works in D.C."

Zeb was ticked. He stood and pointed an accusatory finger at Devon. This had suddenly become all too personal.

"Well, this isn't D.C. Kate, why didn't you informed me of this?" Zeb said sternly.

"I'm sorry, Zeb, but I just verified it today myself. I had inklings before but couldn't prove it. In fact, we still don't know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sun Rey is Senator Russell's son. Most certainly we don't know the implications if he is."

Zeb knew Kate had no way of connecting the dots between Elaine Coburn, Senator Russell's funding of her programs and the death by own his hand of Carmelita Montouyez. The possibility was a long jail term for Zeb if the senator was using Devon to dig up whatever he could on him.

Zeb turned and walked slowly toward Devon. The new deputy stood up a little straighter. Zeb planted the tips of his shined but ancient boots on Devon's new DP Renegades. Before Devon could look down Zeb grabbed him snugly by the collar and lifted his body to the end point of its stretch. Devon looked petrified as Zeb used his open hand to draw his Randall knife.

"Wha...wha...what?" stammered Devon.

"What am I doing?"

With Zeb's hand nearly cutting off his breath, Devon could only nod ever so slightly.

"Watch and learn." said Zeb.

Towering over Devon, Zeb slipped his knife through the brim of Devon's new black cowboy hat and deftly circled his head, cutting off the brim which fell to his shoulders. Placing the knife back in its sheath, Zeb placed his hand on Devon's head and shoved him back down into his chair. Stunned, Devon stared blankly at his boss. Zeb calmly lifted his boot heel and placed it solidly in the middle of Devon's chest and pushed his chair over backward. Devon's first realization was that he was on his back. His second was that Zeb's boot was pressing firmly down on his chest.

Rambler watched intently. Jake took a fresh pinch of Red Man tobacco and slipped it between his cheek and gum. The addictive pleasure of tobacco was making its way around his mouth when Kate finally spoke.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Kate had worked with Zeb for over five years. She had heard of his periodic fit of violent temper but had never witnessed it first hand to this extent. Zeb responded by holding a single finger in her direction, a solid indication to be quiet. She obeyed the order but glanced over at Jake who was now leaning back in his chair, smiling.

"You've been here under false pretenses and spying on us the whole time," said Zeb, pushing down harder with his boot.

Devon grasped for air. "I can explain."

Zeb pressed down harder. Kate feared for Devon's life. Panic showed on her face.

"It's okay," said Jake. "It's an OJT." He whispered to Kate so Devon couldn't hear him, though in his state of panic it was unlikely he could hear anything.

"OJT?" asked Kate.

"Old Jake trick. A boot on the chest," said Jake. "It's the Graham County lie detector test."

Zeb tapped the toe of his boot against Devon's windpipe before backing off completely and helping him to his feet. To Devon's own surprise, he was on the verge of tears.

"We need to talk," said Zeb. "Take off what's left of your hat and come with me." Zeb pushed Devon ahead of him out of the office.

Rambler and Jake chuckled. Kate was unsure of what had just happened.

"We've all been there," said Rambler, looking at Jake. "Devon's damn lucky it was Zeb's foot..."

"...and not mine," added Jake.

# 24

Zeb squeezed Devon hard by the arm, briskly walked him to his truck and opened the passenger door for his deputy.

"Get in," barked Zeb.

Zeb could see the fear rushing through Devon. "Please get in."

The softening tone of Zeb's voice scared Devon even more than the boot on his chest which had nearly squeezed the life out of him.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Devon.

"Where would you like to go?" asked Zeb.

"Right now I wouldn't mind going home," replied Devon.

Zeb laughed. "Try again."

"I don't know. Where?" asked Devon, beads of sweat drenching his forehead.

"Let's go to the source of the problem. Let's go have a cup of coffee at the 322."

Devon gulped. "Shit."

"Shit what?" asked Zeb. "Shit your pants?"

"No. You know I can't talk at the 322 if Sun Rey is working."

"You know his schedule. He's not there."

"Yes. You're right. He's not there," said Devon.

"Take a guess at where he is?" said Zeb.

"I really don't know," replied Devon.

"Jesus Christ, what kind of a deputy sheriff are you? Take a stab at it."

"He's probably at the Free Bird Circus with everybody else in town, except us," replied Devon.

"That's more like it. Sheriff Hanks likes it when you think like a lawman."

Zeb drove slowly, barely breaking ten miles an hour, on the way to the 322 Coffee Bistro. He had every intention of letting Devon sweat it out. He hoped some truth might be in the beads of water that seemed to be dripping from every pore of Devon's sweat-stained shirt. Zeb pulled into the drive-through lane and ordered two cups of chamomile tea. After paying for them, he slowly drove to the Safford public cemetery. He stopped near his father's grave and turned off the truck. Zeb pointed to a small sitting bench near the grave.

"Let's get out and have a seat," said Zeb.

"Okay," stammered Devon, not having a clue what Zeb might do next.

"Believe it or not, I like you, Devon."

After what he'd just been through with Zeb the words fell strangely on Devon's ears.

"But if we are going to work together and you are going to be Governor of the great State of Arizona one day, there is going to have to be a line of absolute truth coming from your direction toward me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. Loud and clear."

"Good. Let's have a little man to man chat."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's start with our mutual person of interest, Sun Rey. We both know his background, numerous foster homes, run-ins with the law, mental illness history, etcetera, etcetera. Need I say more?"

"No, I am aware of all that."

"And you know his legal name is Clinton Russell the second?"

"Yes."

"And that he was kicked out of the University of New Mexico archeology program for allegedly stealing Native American artifacts?"

"Yes."

"So what precisely is his relationship with Senator Russell? And how do you fit into the picture?" asked Zeb.

Devon hemmed and hawed, stalling every way he could. Zeb said nothing. Instead he simply took out his Randall knife and began to clean his fingernails, slowly, one by one. Devon eyed the knife. If Zeb was willing to cut off the brim of his new hat and thump him in the chest with a boot, just what would he do with a knife this time? His tongue loosened.

"My entire life I have wanted to be Governor of Arizona. If I say anything to you that I shouldn't, tell you anything that gets back to Senator Russell or anyone in his office, I am just going to end up a nobody, with nothing," said Devon.

"That story rings a bell. It seems Sun Rey has the same issue that you do," said Zeb.

"Sheriff Hanks, this is the only break I've ever been given in my life, and I don't want to lose it."

"I'd say me not crushing your chest or throttling down on your windpipe with my boot was a pretty good break for you," said Zeb. "So let's not call your relationship with Senator Russell the only break you've ever gotten."

"You know what I mean. Look, we know what each other is capable of."

"You actually believe I killed someone in the upper echelon of the Mexican drug cartel, and you expect me to believe you killed some gangbanger who murdered your cousin?"

"The fact is that we both know the cold, hard truth," said Devon.

Zeb stopped cleaning his fingernails for a moment and studied Devon. Somewhere in there between deputy sheriff and desire to be a big-time politician lay a troubled young man who was willing to sell his soul for what he desired most. After this many years in law enforcement Zeb could smell motivation. Still, he had to know, regardless of the consequences, exactly why Devon was in Safford and what he was doing for Senator Russell as far as it concerned Sun Rey, aka Clinton Russell the second.

"Clinton Russell the second." Zeb repeated it three times. "Son of a bitch. Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell really is his father, isn't he?"

Devon nodded his head, both up and down and sideways.

"I told you everything I know," said Devon. "I'm a middle man."

"You're here to keep an eye on him so he doesn't screw up his father's political career, aren't you?"

Again with the weird head nod. Zeb took it as a yes and a no.

"You can speak," said Zeb. "I'm not recording any of this, nor will anyone know how I got the information or that I got it from you."

Devon sighed heavily, almost as deeply as he had earlier when Zeb removed the boot from his chest.

"Sun Rey is still a person of interest in the murders of Elizabeth Townes and Rainen Kayita. Nothing you say can change that," said Zeb.

"I know," said Devon.

"If I catch you tampering with evidence, you'll be an accessory to murder."

"I'm aware of how the law works, although at times it seems to work a bit differently around here," said Devon. "Depending on who you are and how you're connected."

"Knock that crap off. We follow the law. In Graham County the law is the law," said Zeb.

"No shit," said Devon.

"Back to Sun Rey. From the emails, I'd say Sun Rey wants more than his family name and the fortune that is attached to it," said Zeb.

"That is partially true, at least from my point of view. I don't think he cares as much about the money and fame as the name. It's complicated. He's complicated. His alleged father is complicated. Sun Rey grew up in foster homes with low self-esteem, all the time believing he was merely a nobody, without any family connections. When he found out he was possibly _somebody,_ I guess he wanted to be part of the family he came from. It's very understandable on that level."

"What else does he want?" asked Zeb.

"I don't know for sure. To prove himself to his father."

"You just said alleged father," said Zeb.

"Okay, alleged father. Sun Rey believes Senator Russell is his father. He will go to all ends to prove it."

"What might those ends be?"

"Like I said, to prove something to his father or do something for his father. I don't know. I don't know what he's thinking. I'm not inside his head," said Devon. Zeb knew Devon wasn't telling him everything. "It's all about his father. That's all I know."

Zeb glanced over at his father's headstone. He had spent the better part of his life not wanting to be of the flesh and blood to which he was born. Now, here, at his father's graveside, he was discussing a person who wanted precisely the opposite. The irony didn't escape him.

"It makes some sense, considering he thinks he missed out on a lot of things growing up," said Zeb. "Who knows, maybe Senator Russell would have been a lousy father. Maybe he was lucky to have missed out on being raised by him?"

Even as Zeb heard his own words, they didn't ring true. Even a father who was as much of an asshole as his own had to be better than being bounced around foster homes.

"In my opinion, when you look at Sun Rey's history—mental instability, chronic lying, wanton destruction of property, thievery, his ability to inflict harm upon others and even lewd and lascivious behavior—it tells me he is capable of doing just about anything to impress his father and get into his good graces. I really believe there are very few lines he wouldn't cross to get where he wants to be," said Devon.

"What does the Senator think of this?" asked Zeb.

"He blames himself, partially anyway. He thinks if he had intervened long ago he might have made a difference. Now he doesn't know for sure," said Devon.

"Does he plan on becoming part of Sun Rey's life in a meaningful way?" asked Zeb.

"Senator Russell wants to wait until the time is right."

Zeb was confounded as to what that might even mean. Certainly Devon wouldn't know how Senator Russell would make that decision.

"You obviously have as much background information on Sun Rey as anyone," said Zeb.

"I believe that is why Senator Russell sent me to do the job," said Devon.

"What do you think Sun Rey is ultimately going to do to get his father's attention?"

"This is where it gets tricky, maybe even a little bit frightening and totally out of my league and yours, Sheriff Hanks," said Devon. "If I tell you everything, I know I am putting your life in great danger."

"Seriously? You expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you want, but I am warning you. If I tell you what is going on, you are headed to the big leagues directly from sandlot ball," said Devon. "I don't think you want to do that. The downside risk for you is too high."

"Can it possibly help me solve the murders of Elizabeth and Rainen?"

"I suspect there may be a link. I can't prove it, but I suspect it. It's all murky and it plays out in the shadows of real life," said Devon.

"I'm game. You're going to have to tell me sooner or later anyway. You're somewhat aware of how I play ball," said Zeb, jamming the blade of his knife deeply into the wood of the bench right next to Devon's thumb. "But I promise you that you haven't seen my entire game."

Devon quickly pulled his hand away, touched his bruised chest and ran his fingers across his windpipe. At his Phoenix badass worst he was no match for Zeb Hanks. Even his D.C. political savvy was no match for the man he was sitting in a graveyard with. Zeb had him by the short hairs and they both knew it. It was time to capitulate, at least partially.

"Mind if we get up and stretch, take a little walk while I tell you a story?" asked Devon.

Zeb looked around the graveyard. It was as good a place as any to have a private conversation. Zeb suspected Devon thought that he was using a recording device of some kind. Zeb wished he had thought that far ahead. They stood up from the bench and began to walk.

"Sun Rey wants more than anything to get back into his father's legacy and have what he believes rightfully to be his name. To that end, with his unstable mind he is capable of just about anything," began Devon.

"Including murder?"

"Perhaps. I don't know. But certainly things that are as gruesome as murder," said Devon.

"This is getting interesting," said Zeb. "Please continue."

"Senator Russell attended an Ivy League school that has a secret society, a sect if you will, known as Skull and Bones."

"I've heard of it. They allegedly have Geronimo's skull, don't they?" asked Zeb.

"Not allegedly. They have it. I saw it with my own eyes when Senator Russell took me to the Skull and Bones society house," said Devon.

"How do you know it's Geronimo's skull and not just some random skull?" asked Zeb.

As Devon listened to himself explain what Senator Russell told him, he realized he had taken everything he had heard from Senator Russell at face value and had not questioned it one bit.

"I took the senator's words to be the Gospel truth when it came to the story of the skull of Geronimo. I guess there is no way I can prove it to be the truth," said Devon.

"Let's get back to the real matter at hand—Sun Rey," said Zeb.

"First let me give you a little bit of history. I want you understand where Sun Rey is coming from and the part Senator Russell plays in all of this," said Devon.

"You're beginning to sound more like a deputy sheriff than a politician," said Zeb. "Go on, I'm all ears."

"Skull and Bones is a secret society that is over 150 years old. Members are called Bonesmen. In one way the group is elite, yet oddly in another way it is not elite at all. It is true that there are numerous former members of Skull and Bones who have held high governmental positions. One former member of the group was a United States President. Many former Bonesmen are or have been senators, representatives, federal judges and even cabinet secretaries. In fact, I believe every cabinet position has been held at one time or another by a Bonesman. The truth is they get most of what they want though theft and by using the judicial system."

"What are you talking about?" asked Zeb.

"Skull and Bones members have a reputation for stealing keepsakes. They call it crooking. It's a game to them. Actually, the whole thing is not unlike a high school or college prank only on a massive and ongoing scale. Allegedly members of the group have stolen and still possess the skulls of President Martin Van Buren and Pancho Villa, as well as Geronimo among many, many others. They have been linked to groups seeking world domination. They have been directly linked to the Trilateral Commission, the Illuminati, the New World Order, and the Dark Empire of Secret Societies. In fact, some believe they are the Secret Masters of all Secret Societies."

"Devon, listen to what you are saying. Even to you this must all sound more than a little bit whacko," said Zeb.

"Okay, fine. Let's end the conversation and pretend it never happened," said Devon. "Let's just get back in your truck and go back to work and solve the murders of Elizabeth Townes and Rainen Kayita and forget the rest of this crazy nonsense."

"No. No. You've got my attention now," said Zeb. "As insanely crazy as this all sounds it might lead us somewhere."

"You're sure?" asked Devon. "You want me to continue even though it sounds like lunacy."

"Let's say it's a way for us to get to know each other better and for me to better evaluate your abilities," said Zeb.

"Senator Russell is a member of Skull and Bones. Once a member always a member. As a matter of fact, he was the head Bonesman when he was a senior in college. It's the job of the head Bonesman to complete a set of skulls by crooking.

"Crooking?" asked Zeb. "As in stealing a skull?"

"Precisely."

"Upstanding sorts, aren't they?" said Zeb.

"If for some reason a head Bonesman can't complete a set of previously crooked skulls, they are expected to start a new set of skulls. The skulls must belong to the same family. In his time as head Bonesman, Senator Russell was unable to do either. Inside the group it is considered a dark stain on his immortal soul to have failed at completing the prime directive. The only way to complete the group's mandate once you graduate is to have a legitimate heir do it for you. Since Senator Russell has no legitimate sons who could follow in his footsteps to make up for it, he carries the dark stain eternally. Because of Sun Rey's delusional behavior, Senator Russell believes Sun Rey has a goal of stepping into his shoes and succeeding where he failed. Senator Russell believes that Sun Rey thinks it will have a two-fold effect. One, it will remove the stain from Senator Russell's soul. Two, by completing the task for the senator, Sun Rey will gain the legitimacy he so desperately seeks."

"Hence his interest in archeology when he studied at the University of New Mexico," said Zeb.

"Very likely," replied Devon.

"What did he pilfer that got him kicked out of the archeology program?" asked Zeb.

"He was attempting to find the skull of Mangas Coloradas, or should I say massive skull of Mangas Coloradas, whom many believe to be the greatest Apache chief ever. Sun Rey thought that would be a spectacular new set of skulls to begin."

"He obviously didn't get the skull. Did he get close?"

"Not that Senator Russell knows of. His concern is that Sun Rey is still looking for a skull or set of skulls that will make up for Senator Russell's personal failures while he was head Bonesman. Specifically, he's worried Sun Rey is still trying to obtain the skull of Mangas Coloradas."

"It all sounds crazy," said Zeb.

"Indeed it does, but this is about his legacy, his family name and protection of a powerful secret society. People will do insane things to keep what they believe to be rightful history and tradition on track. In fact, the history of the Skull and Bones Society is why Sun Rey calls his café the 322 Coffee Bistro. 322 is the magic number of the society."

"Why?"

"Because 322 represents the year of the death date of Demosthenes, 322 B.C.E."

"And this is relevant because?"

"Demosthenes was a fourth century B.C.E. Greek orator and lawyer. With his speaking and legal abilities, he more or less controlled Greece and, therefore, the modern world in its day. One can only assume Skull and Bones has the same goals, to rule the modern world. And, as Sun Rey apparently believes, if there is a failing in the process, it must be corrected. Therefore, it is Sun Rey's destiny to correct what his father was unable to do."

"As twisted as his logic might be, it isn't that hard to follow his thinking," said Zeb.

"That is why Sun Rey feels, even though he didn't attend the right school and wasn't an actual member of the society, he can have a say in the outcome of his father's legacy," replied Devon.

"You said something about the group not necessarily being only the elite?"

"It's been said in a good year an ideal group of Bonesmen will include a swimming team captain, a foreigner, a ladies' man with two motorcycles, a drunkard with a straight A average, a drug dealer, an unknown person and a religious group leader," said Devon.

"The final two make Sun Rey, in his twisted way of thinking, a perfect candidate, even if he isn't a student at the institution."

"Exactly. You profile quickly."

"That's the legit way of profiling, not the negative one," said Zeb. "So Sun Rey as a killer is certainly a possibility."

"Yes, but there is another possibility you might not have thought of," said Devon.

"What's that?"

"There is another Bonesman living in the area. He knows Sun Rey's history and has somehow figured out that Sun Rey's father is Senator Russell. And, even more frightening, it could be that he or she wants to move up the ladder of the society."

"They allow women in the group? Boneswomen?"

"Yes, for the last twenty years. However, they are also called Bonesmen."

"Have you checked with Senator Russell to see if there are any other Bonesmen in the area?"

"Yes, I have. There are none that he knows of. There is one local guy who made contact with the organization while he was in divinity school. He was a legacy, via his great-grandfather, but for some reason didn't make the cut," said Devon.

"Who?"

"Reverend Kurker."

"Hop back in my truck, Deputy. I believe I owe you a hat. This time let's get you a real one."

# 25

"This is where you make your money, but I want this done tonight."

The man who had been handing Joaquin the cash after each of the grave robberies was serious, stern even. Joaquin looked intensely into the collector's eyes. The hair on Joaquin's arms stood erect as he recognized insanity staring back at him. He dared not hesitate. Acting indecisively could be the death of him. Digging up this final grave was not a difficult task, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him it was a very bad idea. The other digs had been easy, maybe too easy. The money had been good, maybe too good. Those unearthings had been in remote, old graveyards. This one was different. It was near a main road. The object of the dig was also not only unique, but well known. It was the skull of Geronimo's infant son, Little Robe.

"Why do you want me to do it alone?" asked Joaquin.

"You won't be doing it alone," said the collector.

"But you specifically instructed me not to hire anyone," said Joaquin.

"Because I will be with you," said the collector. "It's been too long since I've been on one of these expeditions. It's about time I partook in one again."

Joaquin didn't like the sound of that at all. Cleary the collector was crazy. He might even try to kill him when he finished digging and found the skull. Not a religious man since his early childhood, Joaquin beseeched God to hear his plea that the collector not go with him. His petition to God above fell upon deaf ears. Joaquin cursed his own shortcomings, his lack of faith and every foolish judgment he had ever made. This was going to be the end of him. He would never see his Evita. Perhaps it was God's way of taking away the woman he was falling in love with. He knew he needed to think fast.

"Do you know how to use a shovel?" asked Joaquin.

The collector laughed loudly as he imagined raising his shovel and whacking his foolish companion on the back of the head once the dig was done.

"I've been using a shovel my entire life," said the collector. "I'll bet what I am going to pay you that I can dig faster than you can. Do we have a deal?"

Joaquin rubbed his stubbly chin and thought of Evita. If he was successful, if he got away with his life, he would have the time and money to help her find her son. He put out his hand.

"Deal. Ten thousand now and ten thousand more when we have the skull of Little Robe."

The collector reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of one hundred crisp one hundred dollar bills, exactly as Joaquin had requested. Joaquin greedily took the money and shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans. As quickly as fear of the end had come to him it disappeared.

"Let's get going. The hills around the Fort Bowie Cemetery provide good shadow around sunset. I checked in the paper. A half-moon will be shining directly overhead. We don't want to use any more artificial light than we have to. Let's get on the move," said Joaquin.

"You've already got this plotted out, I see," said the collector.

"It ain't exactly my first rodeo."

But it will be your last, thought Joaquin's benefactor.

The ride to the cemetery was a quiet one. These men had only grave robbing in common. Both knew it was best not to bring up anything that might lead to an identification in case something went wrong. Joaquin pulled off the road a half mile north of the cemetery.

"Hope you're wearing your hiking shoes," said Joaquin.

He opened the back of the truck and removed two shovels. He handed the collector a pair of shower caps to cover his shoes before slipping into his own. Finally, he grabbed a small backpack to carry the skull.

"Let's go to work, boss man," said Joaquin.

The collector said nothing as they hiked on a deer trail through the scrub brush. He spoke in a hushed tone as Joaquin put his hand on the small gate in the southeast corner of the fence that surrounded Fort Bowie Cemetery.

"I have historical notes that say Little Robe was only buried three feet under the earth. It will be an easy dig and you get all the money this time," said the collector.

Little did the collector know that Joaquin always got all the money.

As the tip of the steel shovel took its first bite of the red-black earth, a scared rabbit jumped from behind the headstone of Corporal Earl Dennison whose grave etching read merely 'Marksman'. The rabbit scampered off into the darkness as a fox moved in. Seconds later the screeching caws of a dying rabbit shot across the open field. Joaquin was not superstitious by nature, but he heard the warning loud and clear. First the look in the collector's eye, now this. He continued the dig but kept his attention on the collector's every move.

Eighteen inches below the surface the hardened dirt turned to soft sand. The excited collector joined in the dig. Five minutes later the clink of metal on bone brought a smile to the collector's face. He shined a small flashlight into the hole. It landed on the brow of Little Robe's skull bone.

"That's it," said the collector. "Put Little Robe's skull in the backpack and let's get out of here."

As Joaquin bent over to pick up the child's skull, he could see the collector raising the shovel over his head. Joaquin was prepared for precisely this action. In a single movement he pivoted on his hands, swung his legs around and knocked the collector from his feet to the ground. Without missing a beat Joaquin took his shovel and smacked the collector over the head and into unconsciousness. Lights from out of nowhere, the headlights of a passing car, scanned across the graveyard. Joaquin dropped to the ground, flattening himself as much as possible. He was close enough to the collector to hear his labored breathing. Even with the dirt in his nose Joaquin could smell the collector's cologne. He wondered what Evita would think of him if he wore such a smell. Would she think he was wealthy? The collector obviously had money and he wore it.

The car sped by. Probably someone who lived nearby coming home from work or a camper returning to the nearby campground. Joaquin searched the collector for the rest of his money. In one pocket he found a roll of money held together by a thick rubber band. The outer bill was a hundred. The rest were ones. In his coat he found a .22 pistol. The pistol was loaded with a shell already in the chamber. Clearly the backup plan was to shoot Joaquin while he was counting the money.

The collector moaned as he exhaled. As Joaquin put the gun to the collector's head he heard a distinctive whoosh of flapping wings. Only feet away from where he stood an owl landed on Little Robe's headstone. There was no doubt in his mind this was strong medicine. It was a direct omen from the gods, one he could not ignore. Joaquin clunked the collector on the back of the head one more time.

Carefully Joaquin took the skull from the backpack and reburied it. He covered his work well enough so if the collector looked in the grave he would assume Joaquin had stolen the skull along with the money and gun. As he smoothed out the dirt with his hands the collector moaned lowly, seemingly in tune with the owl that had not moved one inch even though Joaquin worked only feet from him.

Joaquin grabbed his tools and the backpack. He kicked the collector where it would hurt the most and quickly bolted for his truck. It was time to make some changes in his life. He was jittery and he knew what would ease his apprehension, the lovely Evita at the Copper Dolls Cabaret.

# 26

Evita was still holding the knife in her hand when Kate arrived at the Copper Dolls Cabaret. Her assailant had long since disappeared into the night, but she knew who he was. If there was any doubt about his name, the owner had hidden security cameras that recorded everything in every whore's chambers. The loss of privacy would help solve a crime.

Kate and Zeb showed Evita their badges.

"Please put the knife down," urged Kate.

"You're sure I'm safe? What if that asshole comes busting through the door with a gun or something? He'll kill me."

"No one is going to harm you," replied Kate. "You're safe. Sheriff Hanks and I are going to make certain of that."

Zeb stood in the doorway and patted his sidearm when Evita looked his way. Kate sat next to her on the bloodstained bed.

"Zeb, please get this woman a wet towel."

Kate wanted to wipe the blood off of Evita's face and collect evidence at the same time. Zeb handed her the moistened towel. Kate gently dabbed Evita's face.

"What's your name?" asked Kate.

"Evita."

"Is that your real name?"

Evita looked around, scared. She glanced up at the camera. She had never even told the owner of the Copper Dolls her real name. No income was reported. No social security withheld. No names needed to be known in this all cash business.

"Does it matter? I was attacked and we all know who did it. What difference does my name make?" she asked.

"You can't press charges under an assumed name," explained Kate.

"Just put that asshole in jail and throw away the key. I'm not going to charge him. If I testify in court against him, he'll kill me. That man is insane. He doesn't give a damn what I say or do. He'll get, what, six months, maybe? He's got money. He'll get an attorney and maybe never serve a day in jail. I'll probably end up in jail for trying to make a living. No. I won't file any charges."

"We can't help you if you won't help us," said Zeb.

Evita began to cry. She was in pain. Her eyes were blackened. Her head was cut open. There was blood on her hands from trying to protect herself, and her arms were black and blue. She also had bruises on her stomach and legs where the man had kicked her.

"Don't you see? He's a psycho. A nut job. He'll kill me and you'll never find my body. I know it," said Evita.

"Then you're going to have to come down to the station with us," said Zeb.

Before Zeb could say anything else a man came racing through the door. He was screaming, "What the hell is happening here?"

Zeb pulled his firearm. Kate threw her body over Evita.

"Wait," screamed Evita. "That's not him. That's my friend."

Zeb held his gun on the man. Kate had pulled her weapon and also had it pointed at the man.

"Hold it right there," demanded Zeb. "Don't move an inch or it might be your last."

"He is a regular, a friend. He isn't the one who hurt me," pleaded Evita. "He is a kind man. He has never lifted his hand to me."

Zeb grabbed the man by the arm and led him out the door. Evita began crying again.

Kate eventually calmed Evita down. No matter how Kate explained it to Evita, she would not give up the name of the man who had severely beaten her. She continued to make it clear she did not want to press charges under any circumstances. Kate hoped the owner of the Copper Dolls Cabaret wouldn't demand a court order for the digital recording of Evita and the man who beat her.

Outside Zeb was prying what information he could from the man who called himself Joaquin Estrada.

"You got any ID on you?" asked Zeb.

Joaquin showed him the fake documents that matched what he told the sheriff.

"How do you know Evita?" Zeb asked.

"She is a friend. I paid for her services," said Joaquin.

"Has anyone ever beaten her before?" asked Zeb.

Joaquin shook his head. If she had been beaten, he didn't know about it. Then again, he had only known her for a short time.

Zeb noticed how dirty Joaquin's hands were. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Estrada?"

"Labor," said Joaquin.

"Is that blood on your pants?" Zeb asked.

"I wore these pants when I butchered a chicken for dinner last night," replied Joaquin.

It seemed plausible.

"Do you know who might want to hurt Evita?" asked Zeb.

"No, but he'd better hope we don't cross paths," said Joaquin.

"Are you threatening the person who did this?"

"What would you do if somebody beat your woman?" asked Joaquin.

The question silenced Zeb. He knew exactly what he would do. He had done it.

"Okay," said Zeb. "You can talk to Evita, if she's ready to talk. One more thing."

"Yah?"

"Where are you staying?"

"Red Star Motel, out on the highway toward Tucson," said Joaquin.

The Red Star was a flea bag motel where drifters found a cheap bed, a shower and, likely, roaches.

"Don't leave town without telling me," said Zeb, handing Joaquin his card.

"You'll be the first to know when I leave," said Joaquin.

Zeb knew he was lying. He also suspected his identification was fake, but he had no good reason and nothing to hold him on for now. He let him go, hoping he would stick around for Evita.

The manager of the Copper Dolls Cabaret was less than cooperative.

"If you want to look at the digital recordings of my customers, well, that is going to require a court order," said the owner.

"It's easier to cooperate," suggested Zeb. "I can probably find a lot of reasons to shut you down if you don't."

The owner laughed in Zeb's face.

"Half the politicians in the five-county area, federal judges and prominent folks of all kinds, come here to unwind and relax. You shut me down and not only will I be open within twenty-four hours, but you will have pissed off the wrong people."

"I'll be back in the morning with a court order for the recordings. I don't give a good goddamn who you know. I'll charge you with tampering with a crime scene if anything from the recording is erased," said Zeb.

In the parking lot Zeb and Kate discussed the plan of action.

"The owner is demanding a court order before we can look at the recording of what went on in the room between Evita and her customer," said Zeb.

"Let's zip the crime scene up," said Kate. "And hope that no one tampers with anything."

"I'll get the court order from Judge Frank first thing in the morning. He usually gets to his office around nine. Meet me back here at nine-thirty," said Zeb. "We'll have a look at the recording then."

# 27

Zeb was in front of Judge Frank with the request for a court order promptly at 9 a.m. The judge glanced at it, asked a couple of questions and put his signature on the legal document that gave Zeb the right to view the Copper Dolls Cabaret digital recording of Evita and her customer.

Kate was waiting for Zeb when he arrived at the Copper Dolls. Zeb handed the owner a copy of the order. He looked it over and begrudgingly let them in his office.

"So much for privacy. Okay, gimme a sec to pull up the time frame covered by the order. Here it is. Evita and her customer from the time he entered the room until he left. Exactly what your order demands," grumbled the owner.

Once the recording began to play it took less than a minute for Zeb and Kate to recognize the culprit. It was Sun Rey.

"Let me arrest that worthless son of a bitch," said Kate.

"Fine," said Zeb. "But I'm going with you. This guy is a violent nut job. I don't want to risk him hurting you."

"I think he's the one who will come out on the short end of the stick if we get into it," said Kate.

As they headed out of town toward Sun Rey's commune, Helen contacted them on the two-way radio.

"I have someone here who just turned themselves in," said Helen.

"Who is it?" asked Zeb.

"The guy that runs that fancy coffee place. He says his name is Sun Rey."

"Is anyone there with you?" asked Zeb.

"No, but I can handle this guy. He seems like a regular pussycat."

"Do you have your stun gun?"

"In my desk. It's about six inches from my hand," replied Helen.

"Put it in your hand so he can't see it, then put him in a cell," said Zeb. "Have him walk ahead of you. Be careful. He's very dangerous. Put the Taser on maximum charge, and don't hesitate for one second to put him down if you have to."

Zeb made a quick U-turn, and they headed back to the office at full speed, siren blaring.

As they raced through the door of the office, they found Helen sitting calmly at her desk. Sun Rey, sitting on a jail cell bench, looked like an innocent child. Zeb and Kate walked over to him.

"I'm not talking. I've already called my attorney. He advised me to say nothing," said Sun Rey.

"Are you sure you don't want to come clean," said Kate. "We've got you on a recording beating Evita to a pulp."

"Evita?" asked Sun Rey.

"The woman you beat all to hell at the Copper Dolls Cabaret," said Kate.

"Evita," said Sun Rey. "That's a pretty name. I guess I forgot to ask her what her name was."

"Why?" asked Zeb. "Why did you beat her?"

"No comment," said Sun Rey.

"Did it make you feel like a big man to beat a woman?" asked Kate.

"Talk to my attorney," replied Sun Rey.

"If she presses charges, you could end up in prison," said Kate. "A pretty boy like you might get beat all to hell, just like you did to Evita."

"No comment," said Sun Rey.

"You might even end up as someone's girlfriend," pressed Kate.

"Back off," said Zeb. "Let me ask him a few questions."

Before Zeb could begin his interrogation, Helen came into the jail.

"Sheriff Hanks, a call for you," said Helen.

"I'm busy," said Zeb. "Tell them I'll call them back."

"Zeb, you are going to want to take this," said Helen.

The tone of Helen's voice told him it was best to do as she asked.

"This is Sheriff Hanks."

"Sheriff Zeb Hanks, we haven't talked in over a decade. I don't suppose your recognize my voice," said the caller.

Oh, but Zeb did recognize the voice, all too clearly.

"Senator Russell, what can I do for you?" asked Zeb.

"I got a phone call an hour ago from a young man who claims to be my heir. I'm in my private jet heading for Arizona with his lawyer. I have to ask you to handle him with kid gloves. Please afford him every respect the law can offer. I should be there in a few hours. Can you do that for me, Sheriff Hanks?"

"Am I being instructed not to ask him anything?" asked Zeb.

"Would you do me this one little favor?" asked Senator Russell.

Zeb hesitated. "I don't know if I'd call this a little favor."

"I think you can do this for me, Zeb. By the way, Elaine Coburn and I just had a nice little chat," said Senator Russell.

Zeb put his hand over the receiver and cursed. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Sun Rey will be waiting for you, Senator Russell, just as you asked."

"You're a good man, Zeb. How is Devon Dawbyns working out for you?"

"My guess is that you already know the answer to that one, Senator," said Zeb.

"I guess I do," said Senator Russell. "See you soon."

Zeb walked back to the jail cell where Kate was doing her best to get Sun Rey to talk.

"Kate, we have to stop questioning him for the time being," said Zeb.

"Why?" asked Kate.

"It's complicated," replied Zeb. "But you should know Senator Russell is on his way here as we speak."

"I knew he'd come," said Sun Rey.

"If you're not going to answer our questions, keep your mouth shut," said Kate.

"There's nothing to do now, Kate, except wait," said Zeb. "Let's go back to my office and make sure we have all our ducks in a row. Senator Russell is bringing a lawyer, a heavy hitter, for Sun Rey."

"That asshole is going to walk, isn't he?" asked Kate.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see how it all plays out," replied Zeb.

Two beautiful young women wearing the uniform of the 322 Coffee Bistro strolled in the front door of the sheriff's office. They carried chamomile teas for Zeb and Helen and coffee for Kate, Jake and Sun Rey. They also had a bag of croissants.

"We thought we would brighten up everyone's day," said one of the young women.

The women set the drinks and food on Helen's desk, waved to Sun Rey and departed.

"Isn't that nice of them," said Helen. "Look, they even put our names on the cups."

Zeb grabbed the food and tossed it in the wastebasket. He took the drinks and poured them almost all the way out. He kept what remained and put it in his office.

"What was that all about?" asked Helen.

"Propofol or some other poison," said Zeb. "Our prisoner only eats or drinks what we give him. I would suggest all of you wait a while before purchasing anything from the 322."

The phone ringing disrupted Zeb's thoughts.

"Zeb, it's for you," said Helen. "It's Mrs. Melandy."

"Did she say what she wants?"

"It's about Reverend Kurker."

"Reverend Kurker?"

"That's what she said."

"Put her on. Maybe he swore in church."

"Zebulon Hanks, don't you talk about a fine man of the cloth like that," replied Helen. "She's on line one."

"This is Sheriff Hanks."

"Sheriff, this is Norma Jean Melandy."

"Good morning, Norma Jean. What can I do for you?"

"It's about Reverend Kurker. I think he's in trouble, big trouble."

"What makes you think that?" asked Zeb.

"Last night I was coming home shortly after dark. I was down visiting my grandchildren who are camping in the Chiricahuas. I was on the back road miles from much of anything when I came across Reverend Kurker walking on the side of the road. At first I thought his car must have broken down, but when I asked him if he wanted a ride, he started talking funny. It was then I saw it."

"Saw what, Norma Jean?"

"He had blood all over him."

"Maybe he had a car accident?" said Zeb.

"That's what he said, but I didn't see his car anywhere."

"It was after dark, right? Maybe he went off the road a ways," suggested Zeb.

"I think he was lying. I think someone beat him up," said Norma Jean.

"Did you take him to the emergency room?" asked Zeb.

"I tried," she said. "But Reverend Kurker said no. He got really angry when I suggested it a second time, so I took him home. I walked him into the parsonage. He thanked me and told me he would be all right."

"It's probably nothing," said Zeb. "We'll probably hear in the next few hours about a car in the ditch. These things always get reported."

"That may be," said Norma Jean. "But I just called over there and talked to his housekeeper, Margarito Lujan. She is a close friend of mine. She said there was a stack of bloody clothes in the laundry with a note to wash them immediately. She said they were also dirty and dusty."

"If he drove off into the desert, hit his head or otherwise cut himself and walked through the dirt and sand, he likely fell once or twice. It makes sense, Norma Jean," replied Zeb.

"Of course that does, but that's not all of it. Margarito said Reverend Kurker was acting very strangely."

"Strange?" asked Zeb. "In what way?"

"You know the parsonage has a large room in the basement that is used as a private study and prayer room."

"No, I didn't know that," replied Zeb.

"Margarito says he keeps it locked and never allows anyone in there."

"I guess that's his right. It sounds like a private prayer room," said Zeb.

"Yes, but this morning when she arrived at five-thirty like she always does, he was in there singing and chanting. She said it sounded more like wailing and moaning than prayer. She thought the devil was in there the way it sounded."

"Maybe he was still in pain," said Zeb.

"Margarito said it was evil sounding. She knocked on the door for ten minutes. When he finally answered her knock, he had something on his head, like a dark wig only with a ponytail. She said she thought she saw a skull on the floor too," said Norma Jean.

"I know Margarito," said Zeb. "She is superstitious and prone to telling tall tales."

"I believe her and I think she is in danger being there. Sheriff Hanks, as a citizen who has voted for you many times, I am asking you to check it out."

Zeb hesitated. He needed every vote in the last election. He would need every vote in the next one as well. She might have a legitimate worry. She might be acting irrationally out of fear. He secretly hoped someone would report finding the reverend's car out in the desert as it would provide an official reason to stop by the parsonage.

"Sheriff, are you still there?" asked Norma Jean.

"Yes. I'll send someone over to check it out," replied Zeb.

"Right now? This morning?" asked Norma Jean.

"I promise one of my deputies will check it out today," said Zeb.

"If Margarito is in trouble, it's on your head, Sheriff Hanks."

"Yes, ma'am. I promise you I will look into it today, sooner rather than later. In fact, I'll send someone over this morning."

"Thank you, Sheriff Hanks. You'll get my vote in the next election. I promise to make my husband vote for you too."

"Thank you, Norma Jean."

Zeb hung up the phone. That little man inside him said this all meant something. He didn't know what it was, but he did know that he needed to listen to what he was feeling. He buzzed Kate's office and asked her to come see him.

"I need you to head over to Reverend Kurker's house. We got a call to do a welfare check," explained Zeb.

"What do you mean, a welfare check?" asked Kate.

"Apparently the good reverend is acting strangely, and one of his parishioners is concerned."

"Okay, I'll go check it out, but I would like to meet Senator Russell, if that's possible," said Kate.

Zeb hoped she could hold back her rage about Sun Rey when talking to Senator Russell.

"I'm sure he'll have a few minutes to say hello to a voter. He's a politician after all."

# 28

Helen tapped lightly on Zeb's door before opening it slightly.

"The airport just called. Senator Russell's private plane has landed. He's on his way here to see Sun Rey and wants to talk to you."

"Thanks, Helen. Is Kate back yet?"

"Yes," said Kate from behind Helen. "I just got back."

Kate walked past Helen into Zeb's office and shut the door.

"How's the good Reverend Kurker doing?" asked Zeb.

"He looks terrible. He's cleaned up the blood, but he's got a bump on the back of his head the size of a baseball along with some facial cuts. He's limping liked someone kicked him hard," said Kate.

"Is he talking like someone with a head injury?"

"Maybe. I'm not a doctor, but I advised him to go get himself checked out. He said he had a busy schedule but that he would go see Doc Yackley today."

"So he was coherent?" asked Zeb.

"I guess so."

"Was he or wasn't he? You've seen enough people when they've been bopped on the head in a car accident to know."

"He's an odd duck," said Kate. "It was hard to tell. His mind seemed like it was elsewhere. I don't know what he was preoccupied with, but I could tell his mind was on something other than the conversation I was having with him."

"Sounds like a head injury. Let's hope he takes care of himself," said Zeb. "Did you talk to his housekeeper, Margarito?"

"Yes. Her English is poor. From what I gathered Reverend Kurker was pretty out of it when she arrived this morning. She stuck to her story about him wearing a wig with a ponytail. She altered her story about seeing a skull on the floor of the reverend's private study. She said it was dark in there with only candles burning for light. She said that maybe what she thought was a skull was a shadow."

"Do you think she's telling the truth?" asked Zeb.

"She struck me as confused and a bit superstitious. I got the impression she is somewhat afraid of Reverend Kurker," said Kate.

"Maybe she's an illegal? Maybe he's holding that over her head."

"Maybe. Unless she commits a crime or abets in one we can't really ask," said Kate. "I will say she is very demonstrative. Is she lying? I don't think so. Does she know anything? I doubt it."

"Okay. Let's leave her be for the time being. We've got other, more immediate issues at hand," said Zeb.

"When is the senator getting here?" asked Kate.

"He's on his way here now," said Zeb. "He's probably five minutes out."

"Do you think that creep in the cell is really his son?" asked Kate.

Zeb shrugged his shoulders. It would be weird if he was, but almost as weird if he wasn't. If Sun Rey wasn't his son, the senator was certainly going out of his way to check on him.

"I suspect we will know what Senator Russell is thinking very soon."

The wait wasn't long. Two minutes later, Senator Russell, Larry McIntosh, the attorney he had brought along for Sun Rey, and two aides/bodyguards who carried themselves like ex-Special Forces military men breezed through the front door of the sheriff's office. Devon Dawbyns jumped up to greet them. The senator grabbed his hand, drew him close and whispered something in his ear.

"Yes, sir. Good to see you."

"You too, Devon. I trust things are going well and that you're learning from Sheriff Hanks?"

"Yes, sir. I am learning a lot from everyone," replied Devon.

"Good. Do you still have the Governor's seat in the back of your mind?" asked Senator Russell.

"More so than ever, Senator."

"We'll talk more after I see Sun Rey," said Senator Russell.

"Yes, sir. Of course," replied Devon.

"Sheriff Hanks."

"Senator Russell."

"How long has it been? Ten years?" asked Senator Russell.

"That's about right," said Zeb.

Senator Russell pointed to Zeb's office. Zeb led the way, holding the door for the senator and Sun Rey's attorney. The two other men waited outside Zeb's office.

Inside Zeb's office Senator Russell spoke first.

"What happened with Sun Rey?"

Zeb handed the official report to the attorney.

"Sun Rey got himself into a little fracas with a prostitute last night," said Zeb.

"It's not the first time that this has happened," said Senator Russell.

"Senator Russell, be careful how much you say," advised the attorney.

"Can we speak off the record for now?" asked the senator. "Could you do that as a favor for me?"

Zeb nodded. He wasn't sure if the attorney or the senator was recording the conversation.

"Sun Rey is my son. I'm sure of it. I know the DNA tests are inconclusive because of my twin brother, but he is my son. I want what is best for him. I just don't know what that is. He is mentally ill. I won't go into the specifics, but when he goes off his medication, he can create all sorts of havoc for anyone and everyone around him."

The attorney tapped the senator on the shoulder and whispered in his ear for several minutes. The senator nodded almost continuously. The attorney pulled away from the senator and turned to Zeb.

"Is the woman who was allegedly beaten by Sun Rey planning to press charges?" asked the attorney.

"As of last night she wasn't going to. She may have changed her mind by now," answered Zeb.

"If she doesn't press charges, you're going to have to let Sun Rey go," said the attorney.

"I've got forty-eight hours," replied Zeb.

"I would like to talk with my client. Is that possible? Now?"

Zeb buzzed Helen. When she arrived, he asked her to show the attorney to the prisoner.

"I know why my son beat that unfortunate woman," said Senator Russell.

"Why is that?" asked Zeb.

"He knew getting arrested for violence was the one sure way to get me down here to see him. He is well aware that one more felony on his record and he goes to jail. He's had his last opportunity at treatment. Pulling this stunt can only mean one thing," said Senator Russell.

"And that one thing is?" asked Zeb.

"He has, or believes he has, the skull or skulls of an Apache warrior or warriors. In his delusional mind bringing me the skull of a blood relative of Cochise or the legendary Mangas Coloradas would unite he and I as family, once and for all. I know those are the two things he was looking for."

The senator buried his head deeply in his hands as he completed his thought.

"Why would he think you would want skulls, specifically those skulls" asked Zeb.

"Believe me, I don't want them. I don't want anything even vaguely related to them, but that's hardly the point. He believes I do want them. Sun Rey believes that he and I will become true father and son if he presents me with these objects. I know it sounds crazy, but there is some twisted logic to it."

"Does this have to do with a secret society you were the head of while in college?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, unfortunately it does."

"Care to explain that to a small town sheriff?" asked Zeb.

"Once again, can you keep this off the record?" asked Senator Russell.

"As long as it doesn't have anything to do with any ongoing criminal investigation," said Zeb.

"It doesn't have anything to do with what happed with the prostitute, if that's what you mean."

"That's what I mean," said Zeb.

"Sun Rey has twisted it around so much that it's crazy. He takes it all very literally. It isn't even real. It's a game. He doesn't understand that. He wants so badly for it to be real so he can please me. He has created a fantasy out of thin air."

"So you were the head Bonesman at Skull and Bones?" asked Zeb.

"Yes. I am one in a long line of many, but it's not like you assume. The Bonesmen are a club, no different than any other social organization on any college campus. It's just that our historical background has somehow jumped from the plane of mythology to the sphere of the surreal. People believe what they want to believe. My son, Sun Rey, believes that we actually collected the skulls of many famous people, including Geronimo."

"I've read that on the Internet," said Zeb.

"Be careful what you read and even more careful what you believe from the Internet. My son is obsessed with the falsehood that was permeated right here, in this part of the country. He truly believes the false reports from decades ago that the Skull and Bones Society has Geronimo's skull and remains. The story told during the initiation ritual for all new Bonesmen is much like stories told around the campfire at scout camp. The tale goes like this. This is going to sound so crazy. In 1918 Prescott Bush...."

"The father of George Bush and grandfather of George W. Bush, our forty-first and forty-third presidents? That Prescott Bush?"

"One and the same. In 1918 he supposedly dug up Geronimo's body. He, along with five other officers at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, desecrated the grave. They took the skull, elbow bones and the bridle bits and straps from Geronimo's horse. All of it is allegedly in a museum cage in the Bonesmen's clubhouse at the college. All of this is allegedly written down in the Society's log book. I assure you it is all fiction and was originally written as fiction."

"Does such a log book exist?" asked Zeb.

"Of course it does. Don't you see it further enhances the mythology? Tell a lie once and it is just a lie. Repeat that same lie a thousand times and it is taken as fact. That is precisely what has happened here. Sun Rey, misguided, mentally ill and wanting to secure my name as his own, needed to believe it in order to fulfill what he believed to be his destiny," said Senator Russell.

"Why did Sun Rey think he had the skulls of Cochise's brother and Mangas Coloradas?"

"He wrote me a letter not long ago. It stated that when I heard from him it would be big news," said Senator Russell.

"Regarding what?" asked Zeb.

"Something I never did. Something I was supposed to do when I was the head Bonesman."

"Sounds intriguing," said Zeb.

"Depends on your point of view," replied Senator Russell. "I was, if you read all the trash on the Internet, supposed to get the skull of a close blood relative of Cochise or even the skull of Cochise himself. Even more importantly, it was time for the Skull and Bones Society to get its hands on the skull of possibly the greatest Apache chief ever, Mangas Coloradas. Sun Rey's letter clearly stated that he was trying to help me fulfill my destiny. By doing so he thought he would become my true and honorable son. He's out of his mind. What can I say? Everything he believes is based on fable and legend, but he believes it with all his heart."

There was a loud knock on the door. The two men stationed outside opened it before anyone could answer. The attorney bolted through the door, having returned from talking with Sun Rey.

"Don't say anything to Sheriff Hanks," warned Attorney McIntosh. "Let me do the talking. Sheriff Hanks, do you have four unsolved murders on your hands?"

"Three known murders and a missing person," said Zeb.

"I believe you have four murders. I believe the missing person is dead," said Attorney McIntosh.

"I'm listening," said Zeb.

"In exchange for dropping the charges against Sun Rey, with the proviso that he seek treatment for his mental illness, are you interested in solving the four murders?"

Zeb glared at the coldhearted attorney. Clearly he wouldn't make such an offer unless Sun Rey knew something of the murders. Dropping the assault and battery charges was a no-brainer if it helped solve the murders, but Zeb could make no guarantees if Sun Rey had been involved in the murders. Zeb glanced into the pleading eyes of Senator Russell.

"Let me talk with Senator Russell in private," said Zeb.

"Absolutely not," said the attorney. "Senator Russell makes no deals without my being present."

"Larry."

"No, Senator Russell, I must insist on you allowing me to advise you on this matter."

"Larry, I'm a United States Senator. I've dealt with Presidents of the United States and heads of many foreign governments. I truly believe I can have a one-on-one with my old friend, Zeb Hanks, without creating any kind of trouble."

McIntosh stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Is this about my being in Mexico after the death of my wife?" said Zeb.

"What about Mexico?" asked Senator Russell. "I have no knowledge nor are there any government records that indicate you were in Mexico at any time after the death of your wife."

"And what about FBI Agent Rodriguez?" asked Zeb.

"He got his transfer papers yesterday. He's now with Homeland Security in Alaska," replied Senator Russell.

Zeb reached out his hand. Senator Russell shook it firmly.

"Deal," said Zeb.

"Deal," replied Senator Russell.

# 29

Sun Rey sat in Zeb's office staring across the table at the sheriff. Standing next to him with his hand on his shoulder was Attorney McIntosh. To the attorney's side stood Devon. Zeb leaned forward resting his elbows on his desk. He was flanked by Kate and Jake. The strain on Sun Rey's face indicated extreme agitation as he spoke to the men.

"Reverend Kurker is flipping crazy. He is a first-rate, whack job. What's to say he won't shoot me when he sees me walking toward his door? He might already know I was jailed and made a deal with you," said Sun Rey. "The man is out of his gourd but he isn't stupid."

"You want to spend the next ten years in prison?" asked Zeb.

"Hell no. That would suck big time. I'm built for a lot of things, but prison isn't one of them."

"Okay then. Play ball with me and you'll be okay. Don't worry. I've got your back. So do my deputies," said Zeb.

"I don't think you'd do so well behind bars. People like you get preyed on," said Jake.

"There's no reason to talk to my client that way," said Attorney McIntosh.

"Where's my father?" asked Sun Rey. "Why isn't he here?"

"His face is too recognizable. Kurker will know him if he sees him. He'll be waiting for you after this goes down," said Attorney McIntosh.

"Let's go over our plan one more time," said Zeb.

"For Christ's sakes, I'm not an idiot," said Sun Rey. "I know exactly what I'm supposed to do."

"Then don't act like one," said Jake. "Word for word, tell me what are you going to do?"

"I am going to go to Kurker's house. I am going to ring his doorbell. Ding dong. I am going to flash my money. I am going to ask him if he has Little Robe's skull for me. If things go as they have the past two times he sold me the skulls of Mangas Coloradas and Cochise's brother, he will invite me into the foyer. He will go to the basement. He will take a key from his pocket and unlock a private door. He will close it behind him. Once he steps inside the private room in the basement out of sight, I am to open the door slightly. That is your signal to approach the house. For God's sake don't let him see you. He doesn't waste time and will quickly return with the skull I ordered from him. "

"We won't dilly dally," assured Zeb.

"The skull will be in a box. He will open the box and show it to me. The skull will be neatly wrapped in cheesecloth and an outer covering of softer cloth, like a towel or blanket. It will take me a second to open it up and look at it. I will look at it and make some small talk, then pay him and leave."

"And?" asked Zeb.

"And I will walk briskly to my car, get in behind the driver's seat, turn on the ignition and get the hell out of there. Deputy Kate Steele will be in the back seat of my car. She will have the window open and a rifle pointed at Kurker's front door. I have come to assume that you believe he might shoot me in the back."

"Take it easy," said Zeb. "No one is going to shoot you. We are just being overly cautious. Jake, Devon and I will also have our weapons aimed at him, only we will be a little further back, behind some trees, on either side of the parsonage. We'll have you covered from every possible angle. I assure you that you will be safe. We don't think Kurker even owns a gun. He doesn't have any registered."

Sun Rey looked up at the sky and said, "It's a bad day to die."

"Don't be a damn drama queen," scoffed Jake. "It will only make you look nervous or guilty when you rap on Kurker's door."

At Zeb's insistence, Sun Rey repeated the plan one more time. Once Sun Rey showed the skull to Zeb they would have legal justification for entering his house. God only knew what they would find when they did.

"Ready to roll?" asked Zeb.

"Do I have a choice?" asked Sun Rey.

"Prison is your other option," said Zeb. "It's your call."

Sun Rey mumbled a few choice curse words under his breath in the sheriff's direction. Zeb understood the pressure Sun Rey felt and let the crude remarks fly in one ear and out the other.

With Kate cautiously lying low in the back seat of the car, Sun Rey anxiously drove up Kurker's driveway. He shifted into park not moving from his seat, frozen.

"Just stay calm. We'll handle the rest," Kate assured him.

"I can think of a shitload of things that can screw up," said Sun Rey. "Most of them end up with me having a bullet in my brain."

"That isn't going to happen. Go," said Kate. "Get this over with. Do it for your father."

Those words gave Sun Rey the impetus he needed and the will he was lacking. Yes, he could do this for his father, to gain his father's acceptance once and for all. He got out of the car and strode confidently toward the rectory of Reverend Kurker. The moment Sun Rey's hand pressed against the doorbell, Kate's two-way phone buzzed. It was Zeb.

"What is it?" whispered Kate.

"Look up by the eaves," said Zeb.

"Security cameras?" said Kate.

"Yes," replied Zeb. "And there are security cameras on his fence as well. Jake, Devon, are there cameras on your side of the fence?"

"Yes, I see them now. I missed them before," said Jake.

"Do you think he knows we're here?" asked Devon.

"I..."

"Something's gone wrong," said Kate. "Sun Rey just disappeared from view. I think he went down the stairs."

"Can you sneak up and have a look without being seen by the security cameras?" asked Zeb.

"No way," replied Kate. "Wait a second. I think there is a blind spot behind the bush just to the left of the front door. I'm going to give it a shot."

"Give us ten seconds to move closer, then go," ordered Zeb. "Jake, Devon, move now."

Fifteen seconds after the go order, Kate sneaked up behind the bush just in time to see Reverend Kurker walk up the basement stairs. He was by himself. Sun Rey was nowhere to be seen. He had to be in the basement. Very casually Reverend Kurker shut the door, but not before waving in Kate's direction.

Kate tapped the two-way to the on position and said, "Shit, we've been made."

# 30

By the time the first vestiges of consciousness crept slowly into Sun Rey's mind, he realized his head ached like someone blackjacked him, which is precisely what Kurker had done. His second awareness was blood running from his nose. The third was the taste of blood in his tape-covered mouth. Opening his eyes, Sun Rey realized he was tied to a chair, bound with layers of duct tape. A part of him scoffed at the lack of originality. Yet struggling with all his strength, he could barely budge. The room was dimly but very specifically lit. Kurker had a flare for the dramatic, as if he were recreating a movie scene.

"Relax," said Kurker. "Your friends are coming to save you. I expect the doorbell to ring any second now."

On cue it rang, ringing a musical score for thirty seconds.

"Recognize that, Sun Rey? You're an educated man," said Kurker.

Sun Rey shook his head. The act cleared his blurry vision. He could barely see in the semi-darkness, but what he could see fired the part of his brain that connected directly with primal fear.

"Don't recognize the music? It's Wagner. _The Ride of the Valkyries_. Hmm, I thought you would have. Then again, they don't play that sort of music in coffee shops or strip joints do they?"

Sun Rey was too stunned to respond. Kurker must have stalked him.

Kurker stepped behind a tabletop stove with two burners and two large pots.

"This is my workshop," said Kurker. "I built it myself."

Sun Rey eyed the two large pots of boiling water. He smelled something that reminded him of boiled meat. With a large set of tongs Kurker reached into the boiling water and pulled out a human head.

"This man worked for me. He did an excellent job and I paid him well. Actually, you paid him well. He was the man who dug up the skulls you purchased from me. His name, you'd like to know his name, wouldn't you?"

Terrified, Sun Rey could only stare at the partially boiled head.

"Joaquin Estrada. That was his name, at least that's what he told me. Probably an alias. It hardly matters now, does it?" said Kurker.

He set it back in the boiling water and removed a second head from the other large pot. This time the head, judging by the long hair covering the face, belonged to a woman. With an experienced hand he placed the woman's head back in the boiling water, making certain not to splash himself.

"This," Kurker said pointing to the man's head, "is what happens when you double-cross me. Never, ever cross me. Don't even think about it."

For a second time _The Ride of the Valkyries_ came blasting through a set of Bose speakers Kurker had hooked up to the doorbell. Kurker walked over to an elaborate sound system and turned down the volume.

"I forgot how loud that was," he said. "Tough on the ears. One should always be careful about the number of decibels one is exposed to, don't you agree?"

Sun Rey continued staring at the pots that contained the boiling heads. He could only imagine a pot of boiling water was where his head was going to end up and soon.

"Oh, I suppose you're wondering who this is?" Kurker said, once again lifting the woman's boiling head.

Sun Rey gagged. He recognized the whore he had beaten the night before. He had no recollection of her name. Calmly, Kurker pulled her hair behind her ears and then slowly lifted her eyelids. Sun Rey felt as though she were looking right at him. His terror trebled.

"She was a rather nice looking woman. A whore by profession, but then you knew that, didn't you?" asked Kurker.

Sun Rey nodded and meekly squeaked out, "Yes."

"She is what you call a victim of circumstance. I don't even know her name. Her hair was long and pretty. She happened to be associated with the man who stole from me. Actually he stole what you were going to buy tonight, the skull of Little Robe. I apologize for not delivering the product you ordered."

Kurker held up the package of money he had taken from Sun Rey's pocket and waved it in the air.

"Oh well, I got paid anyway. To the victor goes the spoils, right? Still, it makes me angry. I wanted, I mean still want, the skull of Little Robe. Oh, don't you worry, I will get it. I always get what I want. It's practically genetic with me, getting what I want that is."

The doorbell rang again, then pounding was heard. The crack of shattering glass was followed by the sound of footsteps overhead. Sun Rey felt a momentary sense of relief. His rescuers were at hand.

"They would need dynamite to get through the door of this room," said Kurker. "Just how long do you think Sheriff Zeb Hanks is going to need to get enough dynamite to blast through that door? Think he'll give me enough time to get my cooking done?"

All Sun Rey could do was shake his head and pray as tears rolled from his eyes.

# 31

"Got any ideas?" asked Jake.

"One," said Zeb.

"Don't keep me in suspense," replied Jake.

Kate and Devon stood by silently. Kate felt pangs of guilt for not acting fast enough to stop Sun Rey from being taken to the basement. God only knew what Kurker was doing to him. Devon was as nervous as a cat with a long tail in a room full of rocking chairs wondering how he was going to explain this to Senator Russell. He saw his chance at becoming governor slipping down the drain.

"Josh Diamond knows more than a little about explosives," said Zeb.

"Then let's get him the hell over here, pronto like," said Jake.

Zeb flipped open his cell phone and pressed a button. Josh answered on the first ring.

"Josh, I need your help and I need it now," said Zeb.

"What do you need?" asked Josh.

"We've got a situation here at Reverend Kurker's. I don't have time to explain, but I need something that will blow through a heavy, steel door. Got any ideas?"

Josh answered instantly.

"Emulex."

"What's that?" asked Zeb.

"An explosive powerful enough to blow right through that door of Kurker's and knock a pretty good sized hole in the walls around it, no matter how reinforced they are," said Josh.

"How quickly can you get it here?" asked Zeb.

"I'll be there in ten minutes or less. There might be one problem though," said Josh. "Depending on the force and direction of the blast, anyone on the other side of the door might get blown to bits. At the very least they will get covered with a whole lot of debris and rubble from the blowback."

"I suspect it's the best and only option we've got," said Zeb. "Get your ass over here with the Emulex."

"Yes, sir," replied Josh. "With pleasure."

# 32

Kurker flipped on the lights, illuminating the room. It took every last bit of courage Sun Rey had left to keep from vomiting into his taped mouth. His eyes darted around the room. Three of the walls were shelved from floor to ceiling. Two of the walls were jam packed with skulls. Beneath each skull was a typed card which appeared to have a name, date and location.

"Quite a nice collection, wouldn't you say? Oh, that's right, you can't talk. If I take off the tape, will you promise not to yell? I have sensitive ears, decibels and all that. I already mentioned that, didn't I? I just want to reiterate to you that when people yell or make too much noise I get disoriented. If I get disoriented, I lose control of my temper and God only knows what might happen then."

Sun Rey nodded up and down repeatedly.

"I'll take that as a yes," said Kurker. "Right? You understand not to yell, or I might end up having to boil your head after I slowly slit your throat?"

Kurker took a razor sharp knife from his pocket. He held the blade firmly against Sun Rey's cheek.

"Now remember our little agreement. No yelling. This little knife, Lillie I like to call her, has seen more than her share of use. Trust me when I tell you that she has never failed me," said Kurker.

Sun Rey squeezed out the horrifying thoughts that came rushing into his brain. He dared not imagine what that even meant. With a quick slice of the blade and a rapid tug the duct tape disappeared from his mouth. Kurker stood quietly in front of him, perhaps waiting for Sun Rey to yell. It would be the perfect excuse to slice his carotid arteries and jugular veins. Sun Rey kept his word, knowing it might be the only way he could extend any time left on this earth.

"Good boy," said Kurker. "I'm so glad you know how to follow directions. Too bad that whore in pot number two didn't follow directions, huh?"

How could Kurker have known the whore refused to do what Sun Rey had asked of her?

"That's right, she was a bad girl, but not as bad as you wanted her to be. Isn't that right? I merely finished the job you started," said Kurker.

Having his mouth free somehow seemed to allow Sun Rey to see more clearly. He moved his eyes from the boiling pots and stared straight ahead to the third wall. There he saw shelf after shelf covered in dark scalps.

"It's my family legacy," said Kurker. "But, then again, you don't have a family legacy, do you, young man? Tsk, tsk for you. That is a real, genuine tragedy. I mean having no family history. It's like you are all alone in this world. If you die, who is going to mourn for you? Hmmm?"

Sun Rey breathed a sigh of relief as Kurker put Lillie into its sheath.

"Curious about Lillie?" asked Kurker. "I noticed you were watching. The all seeing eye of a reverend and all that, you know how it goes. You have a small congregation that believes in you, right?"

Sun Rey didn't know what to say. If he said anything that set Kurker off, he would be dead in a flash.

"Well, about Lillie. She's over a hundred years old. One of my namesakes, Klaus Kurker the second, made this knife. He was responsible for scalping two hundred Indians, one hundred Mexicans and even a few soldiers all by his lonesome. I do believe he was the most prolific of my ancestors. Then again he had the most opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot the Kurkers always like to say. Did you know back in his day scalps were worth twenty five dollars in gold for any old Indian? Get a famous scalp and you could get five hundred dollars in government bounty. Klaus the second made the family fortune. I am merely its keeper."

"Perhaps we can make a deal? After all, it was I who was willing to pay for skulls. I have a ton of money stashed away. It's all yours if you let me go," begged Sun Rey.

"You may think I am as crazy as you are, young fellow, but I'm not. If I let you go, you'd tell law enforcement everything. Then if you had any sense of responsibility at all, you would come after me yourself. No, can't let you go. That's not the way this game is played."

"I can keep my mouth shut, I promise," pleaded Sun Rey. "Whatever you say, whatever you ask of me, I'll do it. I promise."

Kurker moved to the wall of scalps. He pulled one off the shelf and placed it on Sun Rey's head. Folding his arms, he stood back and stared at Sun Rey.

"Hmm, I am looking for an heir as I am the last in the line of Kurkers. No, that wouldn't do. You are not from the right blood line."

"Who's to know? I could be your illegitimate son. Yes, that would work. No one would know. We could work together. I can help you. I can work with you," said Sun Rey, suddenly hopeful.

"Oh, but you already have, my son. Hmmm, perhaps. Son. It sort of has a ring to it."

"Yes, and I've already helped you," said Sun Rey.

Suddenly the demeanor on Kurker's face turned to rage. He grabbed Lillie and charged toward Sun Rey. He held the tip of the knife in Sun Rey's nose. With a quick tug he sliced through the flesh.

"Okay, son. How have you helped me? How have you worked with me?" asked Kurker. "Think of this as your final examination."

Sun Rey knew his life depended on his answer. Sweat mixed with his blood as he searched the far reaches of his mind for something, anything. Then it dawned on him.

"Coffee...espresso...it hid the smell of the Propofol," said Sun Rey.

"You are a smart one, aren't you...son? You got part one correct," said Kurker.

"Part one? What are you talking about?"

"Didn't I tell you that it was a two part quiz?"

Sun Rey didn't have a clue what this mad man was thinking. Kurker walked over to the far wall and tapped on a large glass case. His pointer finger caressed the container which held the mummified head of a Native American, complete with skin and a long braided ponytail. Like all of the others, it was marked with a name, place and date. However, it was too far away for Sun Rey to read what was written. Carefully, Kurker reached up to remove it from the shelf. As he did, Sun Rey noticed a .45 tucked into his belt. Kurker grunted loudly as he stood on his tiptoes, seizing the prize piece of his collection. When it was firmly in his hands, Kurker turned to Sun Rey and began to speak to him from across the room. Sun Rey only heard the words "this is" when a thunderous explosion filled the room.

The force of the blast knocked Sun Rey to the floor and covered him with wallboard, skulls and scalps. The private chamber filled with dust. Darkness pervaded every inch of the room. Shots fired. More shots answered. More shots fired. Someone, a man, cussed. "Goddamn it." The room swirled with dust and debris. Sun Rey's ears reverberated from the loudness of the explosion. He thought of Kurker's sensitive hearing. In the midst of the dust and panic he chuckled, hoping the bastard was suffering mightily.

"Someone shine a flashlight over here," shouted Zeb.

Jake grabbed his own flashlight and shined it on his right foot. It was bleeding. Just as he suspected, he had taken a bullet in the arch of his right foot.

"Goddamn it all," said Jake. "Not in the foot. I'll probably limp the rest of my frickin' life."

"Over here," yelled Kate.

Devon and Josh helped her uncover Sun Rey, alive but bleeding from multiple locations on the head, neck and face. His alertness returned as Josh dabbed the bleeding spots with his handkerchief.

"He's all right. The cuts are just superficial," said Josh. "He might have some broken bones though. That Emulex is some powerful stuff."

"Where's Kurker?" shouted Zeb.

"Over there," said Sun Rey with a tip of his head.

Josh quickly cut him loose from the tape as the others began pulling back rubble. It was dark and slow going. After several minutes of searching it was apparent that neither the body nor remains of Kurker were in the room.

"Are you sure he was standing right here?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, right in the middle of that wall. He had just taken a skull off of the top shelf. He was bragging and about to tell me who it was when you guys blasted through," said Sun Rey. "Thank you, by the way, for saving my ass."

"I took a bullet for you, you little shit," said Jake.

"Everyone, shine your lights over here," ordered Zeb.

Zeb pushed against the wall. Something moved ever so slightly. Kate, Josh and Devon moved closer to Zeb.

"What the hell is going on?" yelled Jake from his spot on the floor.

Zeb pushed again. Something budged again.

"Josh, lean into this with me," said Zeb.

Together the men drove their shoulders into the wall. Their collective power drove them right through a false panel. Kurker had planned for this exact situation. Zeb shined a light down a tunnel that led to an old root cellar he knew existed in the backyard. The cellar was tucked between the parsonage and the garage where Kurker parked his van. The vehicle was gone. The floor of the tunnel was covered with blood. Either Kurker had been shot or injured in the blast. Either way, he was losing blood and lots of it quickly.

"Jake, you stay here and keep an eye on Sun Rey," said Zeb. "From the amount of blood I see, Kurker might be dying from the wounds he sustained in the blast. I have an idea where he's headed."

"To hell?" said Jake.

"To the graveyard. He knows that's where he's going to end up," said Zeb. "Kate, go with Josh. Devon come with me. Devon and I will come in the back way and you and Josh go through the main gate of the graveyard. No lights. No sirens. Two-ways on buzzer. Got it?"

"Got it," replied Kate.

# 33

Zeb had guessed right. Parked on the street near the gate in the fence that surrounded the graveyard was a van with the vanity plates, Rev K 5. Zeb called Kate on the two-way.

"He's in there. I just spotted his van. He's likely armed, wounded and trapped. Be very careful," said Zeb. "Shoot him if you have to."

Zeb and Devon entered through the same entrance Kurker had. Blood marks spotted the gate handle. Devon and Zeb shined their lights on the ground. The most inexperienced of trackers could follow this trail. Zeb pointed to the east. Devon nodded as he saw Kate and Josh moving low through the headstones. Zeb then pointed south in the direction of the bloody trail.

"If he shoots at you, he's trying to kill you," whispered Zeb. "If you have a clear shot, shoot back."

Devon nervously took his gun off of safety. He wondered if he was going to have to put an evangelistic reverend in the grave. His grandmother would never forgive him.

Zeb and Devon crept slowly forward, using headstones as cover. Two hundred feet away they could see Josh and Kate moving away from them. Suddenly a shot ricocheted off a marble marker twenty feet away. Zeb and Devon hugged the ground. Josh and Kate circled around toward where they had seen a muzzle flash from a fired gun.

"He either can't see us, or he's so badly injured he can't aim his shot," said Zeb. "Let's see if we can figure out exactly where he is."

The men crawled slowly in the direction from which the shot was fired. Another shot rang out. This one, from the sound of a dull thud, hit a tree.

"He's shooting blindly," said Zeb.

Devon and Zeb continued crawling closer to where they perceived Kurker to be. They listened for heavy breathing and heard nothing. Zeb signaled Devon to move to the right of a large family mausoleum, the largest in the cemetery. Zeb knew it well. It was the crypt of one of Safford's founding families. More than that, it was very close to Doreen's grave marker.

"Stay low. Don't do anything stupid. Be as quiet as you can," whispered Zeb.

The men split up. In the distance, with a low rising moon, Zeb could see Josh and Kate moving together. He saw no sign of Kurker. Another shot rang out. This one landed closer to Zeb. The flash from the tip of the gun barrel made it appear to be coming from inside the founding family's vault. Zeb cursed under his breath. Kurker probably had the key to the crypt and, therefore, he had cover.

Zeb tossed a pebble in Devon's direction. To both their surprises it hit him on the nose. Zeb signaled toward the vault. It was less than fifty feet away. The men began to crawl slowly toward the crypt. Forty feet away. Thirty feet away. Twenty feet away. Fifteen feet. Zeb could hear heavy breathing, the distressed gasping of an injured man. Kate and Josh were one hundred feet on the opposite side of the tomb but had homed in on it as well.

"I see you, Sheriff Hanks. I think my last act on this earth might just be putting a hole through your skull," said Kurker.

"Surrender," shouted Zeb, "and you live."

"Nobody makes it out of here alive. I think my time has come," replied Kurker. "But I'd like you to join me. You've got to answer to God, just like all of us, don't you, Sheriff Hanks?"

"Throw out your gun," said Zeb.

"I don't think so," said Kurker. "How about you throw down your gun?"

"Ain't gonna happen, Reverend. "Come out now or stay in there and bleed to death."

"That thought doesn't bother me in the least. I watched Elizabeth Townes and Rainen Kayita bleed to death. It looked rather peaceful."

"While you're confessing, what did you do with Frederick Bingham's body? I'd like to give his mother some peace of mind and a body to bury," said Zeb.

Kurker fired again. It zinged over Zeb's head.

"Better keep your head down, Sheriff Hanks. I got a bead on you," said Kurker.

"Frederick Bingham's body?" asked Zeb.

"Burned in the desert, a hundred feet off the road by the first mile marker past Tanque heading south," said Kurker. "Tell his momma. Make her last days easy on her. We all got mommas."

"Why did you take his body from the funeral home?" asked Zeb.

Kurker coughed. He sounded like a man wheezing up blood. Zeb figured he had been shot somewhere in the chest. Since he was still upright, the bullet must have missed the major arteries or Kurker was superhuman. Kurker fired again. This time he hit the marker Devon was using as cover.

"Who's your pal?" asked Kurker.

"New deputy, Dawbyns is his name. He's going to be Governor of Arizona one day. He might be your best bet to stay off of death row," said Zeb.

"Dawbyns, you going to pardon me when I'm on death row?"

"Give up and I'll see what I can do," said Devon.

"Liar," said Kurker, firing again and landing a bullet in the dirt two feet from Deputy Dawbyns.

"Frederick Bingham. Why did you take his body and burn it?" asked Zeb.

"That dumbass Joaquin who was digging up the skulls for me to sell to Sun Rey must have formed some kind of buddy-buddy relationship with him. I saw Joaquin drop the body off at the funeral home. I couldn't risk having someone like you put one and one together and figure out Bingham was working for Joaquin and Joaquin was working for me. Too risky," said Kurker.

"Makes sense," said Zeb. "But why kill Elizabeth and Rainen?"

"I had to."

"Why?"

"I'd been getting Indian body parts from Elizabeth for years. She was a great supplier of skulls, long bones and hair, plus she had historical knowledge of where Native Americans were buried. My problem boiled down to Nations. I was certain she was going to let him in on our business dealings. Call it a gut instinct. I knew Rainen would be there. He had to die in case he was in on my deal with Elizabeth. I don't think he was, but I couldn't take the chance."

Another shot rang out in the darkness. This time it was from Devon's gun. The door to the vault creaked open. Kurker's head smacked against the marble steps. Devon had painted a bulls-eye on the middle of the dead man's forehead.

Zeb and his three deputies cautiously approached the body.

"Been practicing on the shooting range, Governor?" asked Zeb.

"Just a lucky shot," replied Deputy Dawbyns.

"But exactly the kind of shot that might just make you a hero and get you elected Governor of Arizona one day," said Zeb.

"If only it were that easy," replied Devon.

"Nothing is that easy, but removing Kurker's particular brand of evil from the face of the earth won't hurt you. For now we've got work to do. We've got to seal off the crime scene for starters," said Zeb.

"And make sure the right thing gets done with the skulls and scalps in Kurker's basement," said Kate.

By the time the parsonage had been marked as a crime scene, surrounded by yellow police tape and the house sealed up, it was the middle of the night.

"We could all use a little shut eye after this," Zeb said to Kate, Jake, Devon and Josh. "Why don't we all meet at the office at eight-thirty tomorrow morning, and we can talk about how we're going to proceed."

Zeb was formulating a plan that just might get the skulls and bones back where they belonged.

# 34

Eight-thirty rolled around early. Jake, not much of a sleeper, arrived first. Zeb arrived next with coffee and donuts for everyone and tea for himself. The others followed within minutes.

"We've got a lot of ground to cover this morning," said Zeb. "We all need to be on the same page."

It was a point everyone already knew, yet Zeb needed to say it. He knew that they sensed he was going to ask them to act outside of the law.

"Thought you might have invited the senator to join us," said Kate.

"He went back to D.C." said Devon. "I'm sure you all understand the political expediency of that. He doesn't want his name or the name of his son involved with the killing of a minister."

"If you master the law as well as you have mastered politics, you might just make a decent deputy sheriff someday," said Jake.

"I have only one goal. I think you know that," replied Devon.

"What's your plan, Zeb?" asked Kate.

"Let's get things out in the open. People are going to be asking a lot of questions. We need to be on the same page with our answers," said Zeb.

"And stay under the radar as much as possible," added Jake.

"Those skulls, those bones and those scalps rightfully belong to the Apache Nation," said Zeb.

Heads nodded in unison.

"But they've been in the hands of the Kurker family since before Arizona became a state," said Zeb. "Many were legally obtained."

"How are we going to get around that?" asked Jake.

"In about ten minutes Rambler, Song Bird and Nations are going to be walking through the front door. I am hoping they can help us out of this little jam we're in."

"What jam?" asked Kate. "Everything has to go through the court system."

"That would take decades," said Jake.

"Right," said Devon. "And in the meantime everything would have to be catalogued and stored. My experience tells me that the bureaucrats in D.C. will bungle that up so badly we may never find the items again."

'You're brighter than I thought," said Jake.

"We have to follow the law," stressed Kate.

"We have to follow the intent of the law," said Jake, "not necessarily the letter of the law."

"What exactly do you have in mind?" asked Kate.

"I'm not one hundred percent certain. There's too much I don't know or understand about Apache culture. That's why I asked Song Bird, Rambler and Nations to join us," said Zeb.

"Are they going to trust us?" asked Devon.

"We are going to have to rely on them," said Zeb.

Song Bird, carrying a large leather pouch, led Rambler and Nations into the sheriff's office.

"Dow'den," said Song Bird, greeting the officers

"Dagot'ee," replied Zeb for the group. He handed each of them a coffee.

"Is this coffee or just dark water?" asked Song Bird.

"It's all we have," said Zeb. "Want me to put some mud in yours to make it black enough for you?" Zeb's remarks brought a round of chuckles.

Song Bird opened a pouch and poured some herbs into his coffee, stirred it with his finger, took a sip and smiled.

"We need your help. We need all of you to help us," said Zeb.

"Those skulls, bones and scalps are the heritage of the Apache nation. They must be returned to whom they rightfully belong," said Song Bird. "There can be no other way."

"Agreed," said Zeb. "But we need a plan. You can bet someone from the church or the town will be snooping around things.

"We've already formulated a plan," said Nations.

"Let's hear it," said Zeb.

"These are holy matters of the highest degree," said Song Bird. "The remains of our people need to be spiritually cleansed so they can rest with their ancestors."

"We need to move the bones in a timely manner. They need to be returned to the reservation, to their rightful place. We need to move them with the utmost caution and care," said Nations. "These are our people, our ancestral heritage. We must do this with every dignity possible."

"We have to do all of this in such a manner that the townspeople don't make too much of a fuss," said Rambler. "And we must do it as legally as possible."

"To that end, we need to use the tunnel behind the parsonage. Most people will be passing by the front of the parsonage, not the back," said Song Bird. "They will never see us."

"That can be done," said Zeb.

"We need to return the remains of these human beings to their roots, back home where they belong," said Song Bird.

"Agreed," said Zeb. "My deputies and I will do everything possible to make this happen. How long will this take?"

"Thirty days or less, if all goes well," said Song Bird.

"Good," said Zeb. "Make it happen."

"Is Senator Russell going to raise a stink?" asked Rambler.

"Let's just say he owes me one," said Zeb.

"We shall do this and speak of it no more forever," said Song Bird.

Everyone solemnly agreed, shook hands and finished their coffee. Song Bird and Zeb walked out of the office into the morning sun.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Zeb.

"Every day is a beautiful day. Every day is filled with magic and wonder," replied Song Bird. "This morning I awoke to the morning star. It is the Apache symbol of hope and guidance. All will be well."

* * *

**THE END**

# Free Book from Mark Reps

I hope you enjoyed this novel in the Zeb Hanks Mystery Series. If you liked NATIVE BONES, you'll love NATIVE ROOTS, a prequel to the Zeb Hanks Series. This two-part novella explores Zeb's roots as a young man and his early law enforcement career as a border patrol agent and Tucson policeman. Click here to get NATIVE ROOTS for FREE.

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# Also by Mark Reps

**ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES**

NATIVE BLOOD

HOLES IN THE SKY

ADIÓS ÁNGEL

NATIVE JUSTICE

NATIVE BONES

NATIVE WARRIOR

NATIVE EARTH

NATIVE DESTINY

NATIVE TROUBLE

NATIVE ROOTS (PREQUEL NOVELLA)

THE ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES 1-3

**AUDIOBOOK**

NATIVE BLOOD

HOLES IN THE SKY

ADIÓS ÁNGEL

**OTHER BOOKS**

BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI CHOMNAK)

HEARTLAND HEROES

# About the Author

Mark Reps has been a writer and storyteller his whole life. Born in small-town southeastern Minnesota, he trained as a mathematician and chiropractor but never lost his love of telling or writing 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. A chance meeting with an old time colorful sheriff led him to develop the Zeb Hanks character and the world that surrounds him.

To learn more, check out his website www.markreps.com, his AllAuthor profile, or any of the profiles below. To join his mailing list for new release information and more click here.

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# NATIVE WARRIOR - Chapter 1

**H** elen didn't even bother to look up as the wind jostled the front door of the sheriff's office. The slightest wind blowing down the hallway of the old building created a recognizable creaking sound a dozen times a day. As she turned to grab a freshly sharpened pencil, her elbow caught the heavy duty Swingline stapler sitting on the edge of her desk. In a fraction of a second the stapler hit the floor, burst open and sent staples flying in all directions.

"Dang it all." Helen spoke aloud even though no one was in the vicinity.

Those words were as close as she would ever come to swearing. She bent to her side, swept the staples onto a piece of paper and grabbed the Swingline with her other hand. As she lifted the mess back onto her desk, from behind and out of nowhere a latex gloved hand compressed itself over her mouth. Across from her desk in the mirror she could see a person in a mask standing behind her. The left hand of the intruder covered her mouth. The right hand held a gun directly against her temple. An ominous warning followed.

"Be completely quiet or something very bad is going to happen. If you make any noise, you're going to have a dead sheriff on your hands, and you won't be doing so well yourself. For good measure I'll kill anyone else who walks through the door. Everybody's' lives depend on you, Helen. Think hard about that."

The person, whom she automatically assumed to be a man, called Helen by name. He had a high pitched voice and, more importantly, knew who she was. Her heart began to quake and tremble. She tried to take a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. No luck. She fought with every prayer she could muster to quell a rising panic attack, a panic attack that could kill her and others.

"Where's Sheriff Hanks?"

Helen chose to try and stonewall her captor by offering no reply. If she was going to meet her maker, she wasn't going to allow some fool with a gun pointed at her head to take anyone else along, at least not on her account.

"Where is he? I won't ask again. I want you to think of what might happen to your grandchildren if you don't tell me the whole truth and tell me right now."

Panic raced between her heart and her brain. How could anyone even think such thoughts? She was dealing with the devil himself.

"I'm going to count to three..."

The devil reached into his pocket and twisted what Helen suspected to be a silencer onto the end of the handgun. He spoke methodically like he had done this before.

"...then I am going to pull the trigger. This bullet will make a small hole in one side of your head and a rather large one on the other side. It will look really ugly at your funeral, especially for your family. Oh how they will feel your suffering. So, for one last time, exactly where is Sheriff Hanks?"

Facing certain death if she said nothing, Helen spoke. Her voice was but a fear-filled cracked whisper.

"He's in the bathroom."

"I know," replied the high-pitched voice. "I was just checking to see what sort of value you put on your own life. You passed the first test with flying colors."

In a flash the masked intruder taped her mouth shut. She counted. He wound the tape around her head three times. Then, calmly, the devil walked in front of Helen and made another command.

"Clasp your fingers together and push your wrists tightly against each other."

Almost instantly handcuffs bound her at the wrists and hands. She recognized them as Monadnock double cuffs. They were identical to the ones she had ordered for the office many times.

"On the ground."

Helen was confused. What did that mean?

Before she could decide what it meant, a hand underneath each armpit lifted her to the hardwood floor. Surprisingly, she was lowered gently. Nevertheless, her panic converted itself to anger. This time her ankles were bound in cuffs. She was trussed and hogtied like a farm animal ready for the slaughter. No decent human being deserved this sort of treatment. Helen felt her cheeks glowing with the fire of infuriation. For the first time in her life she felt as though, given the opportunity, she could hurt someone and hurt them badly. The evil one offered her some advice.

"Stay calm, Helen. Take it easy if you want to live and keep others among the living."

Helen looked at the eyes behind the mask. They were dark. That was all she could tell. She searched them for reason or meaning but found none. She studied her vile interloper. The long sleeve shirt was partially untucked and not buttoned at the wrists. The pants were work style khakis, pressed with a perfectly straight line. The boots were sand colored, military style. The tops went three or four inches above the ankles. They were like those sometimes worn by the young men and women coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. The laces were double knotted. Her neck began to ache. Helen turned her head and spotted a second pair of shoes. These she could see only from the ankles down. They were red with a circular logo at the anklebone. They were classic Keds. Her own children had worn them faithfully for years. They were well worn but in great condition. A vaguely familiar voice came from above the red Keds, a second voice, different from the person who held the gun to her head.

"Is all the office information from the criminal files on your computer?"

With her mouth taped shut, Helen couldn't reply. The man with the high pitched voice leaned closer to her ear. Helen smelled something on his breath. Was it sulfur? She knew that to be the smell of the devil? Maybe it was bad breath from a rotten tooth? Was it the foul odor of an ulcer? She remembered the stench of Zeb's ulcer breath. Something else too stirred her nostrils. Sage? A dark whisper interrupted her thoughts.

"You are exactly two seconds away from having that hole I was talking about blown through your brains." She felt the barrel of the gun in her ear. "If I kill you, I am going to have to kill your sheriff."

The voice was muffled by the stocking mask, but she clearly understood every word. Helen made direct eye contact. She nodded her head, indicating the information was on the computer. She didn't want to die and she didn't want Zeb to die.

Helen rolled her head in despair. With her ear pressed against the floor, suddenly her faith was renewed. She could hear the pipes from the bathroom rattle. Zeb had just flushed the toilet. Now he would be washing his hands. In vain, Helen scraped her shoes across the old oaken planks of the flooring. Hoping against hope, she was praying Zeb would hear the scrapes. She hadn't moved them six inches when a hand grabbed them, holding them in place.

"Bad idea to warn Sheriff Hanks. It might buy him a bullet."

Helen looked up at the eyes behind the mask. She saw only evil. Glancing toward her desk, she saw the red Keds reaching to her computer. She noticed he also wore latex gloves. His hand pulled a green flash drive from her computer. Helen quickly considered how long the flash drive might have been downloading information. It had probably been five or six minutes. Ample time to get what they needed if they knew what they were doing, and it appeared they did.

The intruders pulled Helen out of sight, on the side of her desk. Red Keds hid behind a half wall. The larger invader stood behind a half opened door with his gun held professionally in his hand, waiting for Sheriff Hanks.

* * *

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