Mojo and the Pickle Jar Page 3

  “Damn!” Mojo picked himself up from the floorboard. He was holding his head with one hand. The other hand was empty. “Watch it!” he warned Juanita.

  Juanita reached over and switched off the headlights.

  “Come on.” Juanita opened her door and slid out of the front seat and into the night.

  “Hey! Where’re you going?”

  “Come on. Come on if you don’t want to die,” she told him.

  Mojo definitely did not want to die. He opened the passenger door and slipped out of the Cadillac. The car was parked in the middle of the road at the bottom of a shallow arroyo. The road entered the arroyo from a steep bank just behind Mojo, ran across the arroyo’s bottom, then exited up another, more gradual bank across from him. The bottom of the arroyo was hard-pack, dirt and rock, as flat and unyielding as a board. He could smell gasoline along with burning rubber.

  “This way!” Juanita was running away from him up the shallow draw. Mojo looked up to the sandy rim where the road dropped down into the arroyo. The rim was glowing with a light that was too bright to be moonlight.

  Mojo turned and ran after Juanita.

  Mojo had run no more than thirty or forty yards when the Suburban flew over the lip of the arroyo, hurtled down the bank, and crashed into the rear end of the Cadillac. There was the sound of metal ripping metal, followed by a huge orange fireball that lit the sky, followed by the sound of a thunderous explosion, followed by a blast of hot wind and sand that stung Mojo’s face and burned his eyes.

  Mojo turned away from the burning wind. Juanita was just ahead of him, cringing in the orange light. He ran to her.

  Mojo took Juanita by the arm. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he gasped. Moonlight shone on his face, flickering orange fire on hers. “They probably saw that all the way over to Van Horn. The law’ll be here soon. The … ah … the…”

  It was a flash that caught Mojo’s eye, a wink of sudden and intensely blue light from deep within the jar Juanita was cradling. Mojo stared into the jar. The wink came again. Even brighter this time. Even bluer this time.

  Then faded like a spent match.

  “The what?” Juanita asked impatiently.

  Mojo shook his head, irritated. A reflection. Of course. Had to be. Just a reflection of the explosion. Of the moon … of something.

  “The what? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. I…”

  A police siren swept across the desert and down into the arroyo, an angry swarming hum. The siren was far away but closing. Coming on.

  “Let’s go.” Juanita yanked her arm away from Mojo and turned up the arroyo. “I think maybe you’re right. I think maybe we’d better get out of here before the law shows up.”

  3

  R. K. Narn was the law.

  R. K. Narn was a Texas Ranger.

  R. K. Narn looked like a Texas Ranger should look. He wore a white Stetson. He wore black boots. He wore a white western yoked shirt with the collar open and tan slacks with a military crease. He had a hard, determined mouth. He had pale blue eyes that watered in bright sunlight and white, bushy eyebrows that turned down when he was angry. He wore a broad leather belt with a silver buckle in its middle and an ivory-handled pistol in a black leather holster on his hip.

  R. K. Narn was a big man. He stood six-foot-three without his boots, six-six with them. When he added his Stetson, he brushed the tops of doorways. His shoulders were as broad and square as a filing cabinet. His hands were as hard and flat and worn as railroad chisels. He was sixty-four years old. It was said of Narn that he could track down a fart in a glue factory.

  * * *

  Narn walked slowly up the arroyo, heading west. He flicked on his flashlight and played it over the ground. The footprints were vague and indistinct on the hard-pack: a scuff mark here, a pebble kicked loose there, nothing that actually looked like a footprint, nothing that the men of the Culberson County Sheriff’s Department had actually recognized as a footprint earlier.

  Narn followed the footprints almost a hundred yards to where the hardpack bottom changed to sand. He stopped and knelt down, examining the footprints more closely. Even here it was difficult to read too much, the soft sand leaving only shallow depressions, but it was enough for Narn: two people, a man and a woman, both average size, wearing athletic shoes, walking fast, heading west.

  Narn stood after a few minutes and walked briskly back to where he had parked his Bronco. The two suspects had a three- or four-hour head start, but that was okay. They were on foot, and he was not. He estimated he would have them by sunrise at the latest.

  * * *

  It was still a few hours before sunrise. The sky was still bright with moonlight and a few thousand stars.

  “We’re in luck,” Mojo whispered to Juanita. “Just look over there.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there. Just to the right of that big yucca.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  They were crouched behind a mesquite bush in front of a dilapidated shack built of discarded scraps of lumber, tin, and broken drywall. The shack sat alone in the middle of the desert with no road leading up to it other than a two-rutted track. The shack’s roof was sagging. It had no yard and no garage. The outhouse had fallen down.

  Mojo pulled on his ear and considered. The shack looked abandoned. Probably was. Its windows were dark. There were no sounds coming from inside. There were no smells. It was probably filled with dust and shadows and rats and rattlesnakes.

  Or so Mojo hoped.

  Then again, you never knew out here in the middle of nowhere. The shack might be filled with sleeping wetbacks or smugglers or bikers or fence riders, all fully armed and ready to charge out and shoot Mojo for attempting to steal their car.

  “There’s a car?”

  “You can just see it there, just to the right of that woodpile.”

  Juanita peered into the darkness. “I see it. But it looks like it’s on blocks.”

  “No, I can see one of the front tires. It’s on the ground.”

  “Probably a junker, then.”

  “No, looks pretty good. Tires aren’t even flat.”

  “Hmmm.” Juanita peered into the darkness. “You think it might run?”

  “Might. It’s worth a shot.”

  “How’ll you start it?”

  “Hot-wire it. I can hot-wire anything. Come on.” Mojo took Juanita’s hand. He led her through the tall weeds in front of the shack and around the side to where the car was parked.

  * * *

  The car was an old Chevrolet Impala. Mojo had been right. The tires were good. The rest didn’t look too bad either.

  “I still can’t believe you left the stuff in the car.” Juanita shook her head. She was keeping watch as Mojo worked on the ignition switch.

  “Me?” Mojo’s voice was muffled, his head crammed underneath the dashboard. “What about you? After all, it was your basket.”

  “It may have been my basket, but it was on your side of the seat.” Juanita sighed. “At least I’ve got my demon.”

  “Yeah, well, it just wasn’t the sort of situation where you check to make sure you’ve got everything before you get out.”

  “Still…” She let it hang.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get some cash. We can sell this car over in Juárez for a few hundred easy. Then we can fly down to your relatives’ house in Sonora. Or maybe even over to Cancún.”

  “Cancún?”

  “Why not? I figure as long as we’re gonna be fugitives, we might as well as be fugitives someplace nice.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Don’t worry about the police; the police aren’t gonna catch us. Not once I have this sucker started. We’ll drive straight to the border, and that’ll be that. They won’t have any idea where we’ve gone.”

  Juanita nodded, but she wasn’t that sure.

  * * *

  Narn eased the Bronco forward, his spotlight trained on the dim trail of f
ootprints leading westward across the desert floor. The Bronco crunched down a draw and over a mesquite bush and up a rocky ridge, a cinnamon toothpick jiggling between Narn’s lips; then across the ridge and down a gentle slope thick with ocotillo. Beyond the slope the ground flattened and Narn was able to pick up a little speed. He hummed to himself as he drove, a wordless murmur that was a mixture of Willie Nelson and the yipping and yapping of some coyotes to the south.

  * * *

  The old woman’s white hair shone in the moonlight. Her hair was festooned with streamers that stood straight on end as if she had either just gotten out of bed or been electrocuted.

  “Come out of there,” the old woman ordered Mojo, pointing a shotgun at his head so he could see that she was serious about it.

  “I’m coming.” Mojo sat up straight in the front seat of the Impala and held his hands out. “I’m coming right now. Just be careful with that thing.”

  “Hurry it up. And don’t try to pick up a gun or anything, because if you do I’ll shoot the both of you.”

  “I don’t have a gun. I don’t have anything. I promise.” Mojo opened the door of the Impala and slipped out beside Juanita. He exhibited his empty hands again. “See? Nothing.”

  “Move over there.” The old woman gestured with the gun. “Over there by the hood … That’s it.” The shotgun was too big for her. Too heavy. It shook in her hands. The barrel wavered. The shaking shotgun made Mojo nervous. He was afraid it might go off accidentally and kill someone. Someone like Juanita or himself.

  “Listen. Why don’t you point that thing down at the ground?” Mojo suggested to the old woman. “It’s not safe to point loaded guns at people.”

  “You should have thought of that before you came sneaking around here trying to steal my car.” The old woman’s Spanish had a strange accent Mojo was not familiar with. He had to listen carefully to follow what she was saying.

  “Trying is right,” Juanita muttered.

  “What? What was that?” The old woman switched the gun to Juanita.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, you said something. What was it? Are you plotting against me?” The old woman raised the shotgun threateningly.

  Juanita didn’t flinch. She looked the wild-haired woman straight in the eye. “Listen, old woman, you can’t frighten me with that thing. I’ve got protection. I’ve got a demon who protects me, and if you try and shoot me he’ll turn you into a frog or a stone or maybe even something worse.”

  “A demon?” The old woman peered quizzically down the shotgun at Juanita.

  “That’s right. A demon. I’ve got him right here in my purse.” She patted it. “And if you don’t watch your step, I’ll let him loose on you.”

  The old woman stared at Juanita.

  “Ah, this isn’t exactly how it looks.” Mojo jumped in hurriedly before the old woman decided they were maniacs as well as thieves. “We weren’t really going to steal your car. We were just gonna borrow it for a little while is all. Just so we could go to the police in Van Horn. We’re being chased by a gang of dope dealers, you see. We took some of their drugs accidentally, and we were just on our—”

  “You really have a demon?” the old woman asked Juanita, interrupting Mojo.

  “I said I did, didn’t I?” Juanita snapped.

  “Then it’s no coincidence that you’ve come to me,” the old woman said solemnly, lowering the shotgun. “No, no coincidence at all. This has obviously been planned by a higher hand than any of ours. Someone greater than any of us has sent you here with this demon.”

  “What do you mean: sent me here?” Juanita wrinkled her nose suspiciously.

  “I mean it can be no coincidence that you, who possess a demon, have arrived on the doorstep of the greatest single authority on demons in all the world.”

  “You’re an authority on demons?” Juanita peered doubtfully at the old woman.

  “The greatest authority,” the old woman corrected her. “Yes. Those who know, those who possess the power, consider Grandmother to be the greatest single authority on demons who has ever lived.”

  * * *

  “I see…” Grandmother turned the pickle jar with a liver-spotted hand. The jar sparkled in the light from the kerosene lantern above the table. The dead-white thing in the jar turned with it. “I see now … yes … very, very interesting…” The old woman looked up. “And you say that the woman who sold you this demon claimed to be the very same witch who caught it?”

  “That’s right,” Juanita said.

  Grandmother shook her head ruefully. “Child, child, that is almost certainly not true. Any witch fortunate enough to imprison a demon would never sell it. Not for all the gold in the world. There’s not a more powerful servant in this world than a demon. A real witch would never sell a real demon. No. Never.”

  “Well, this one did,” Juanita said defiantly.

  Mojo took another Oreo from the package Grandmother had set out for them, leaned back in his chair, and crunched it. The shack was surprisingly comfortable inside. Far cleaner and warmer than he had expected. The furniture was old and worn but sturdy enough. There was only a slight breeze blowing through the chinks in the walls.

  “No.” Grandmother shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve been cheated. The thing in this jar is almost certainly not a demon.”

  “It almost certainly is,” Juanita shot back. “I should know. It saved my life twice. I should know whether it’s real or not.”

  Mojo noticed the walls of the room were covered with pieces of paper. Colored pictures. At first he assumed they had been pinned up for their insulation value, but then realized the pictures were all of saints: white-faced saints, dark-faced saints, bright, halo-faced saints; young, old, and in-between saints. He peered at the pictures behind the kitchen table where he was sitting. One was of a child in a floppy hat. “Child of Atocha” was printed beneath it. Another was of a strangely dark Christ with Indian eyes: “Our Lord of Izmiquilpan” was his name. Beside him was a similiar, yet slightly different Christ figure entitled “Mystic Visage of Our Lord of Amecameca.” Just to the right of the two Lords was a Madonna with a brightly painted heart and black eyes and the caption “Our Lady of Zapopan.”

  Mojo frowned. Izmiquilpan? Zapopan? He had been forced by his aunt to learn most of the saints, but he’d never heard of any with names like these. On top of that, they didn’t look like regular saints. They looked Mexican.

  “The fact that this precious object saved your life doesn’t make it a demon,” Grandmother told Juanita. “In fact, it argues against it. A demon must be coerced into aiding its master. A demon would never do such a thing voluntarily. No, this” —she tapped the jar with a skeletal finger— “is no demon.”

  Juanita gave Grandmother a puzzled look. “Precious object?”

  “Of course it’s precious,” Grandmother said firmly. “That’s obvious.”

  “But you don’t believe it’s a demon?”

  “No. I’m certain this is no demon. Not only doesn’t it act like a demon, it doesn’t look like one either. Every demon I have ever seen was red or orange in color while this one is white. It also lacks claws and teeth.”

  “Well, what could it be, then? If it’s not a demon. I mean, what else could have magical powers?”

  The old woman leaned across the table towards Juanita. Her dark eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “A most precious and rare thing, my child,” she said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “What you have here in this jar is as rare in this world of sorrows as a soul without blemish. What you have here is a sacred heart.”

  Mojo squinted at the jar. Thought about it. It did look something like a heart. Sort of. If you were to take a heart and leave it out in the sun and let it shrivel up and then maybe kick it around and after you were finished pop it into a jar full of alcohol, then it might look like the thing in Juanita’s pickle jar. Might. Then again …

  “Bullshit.” Juanita’s eyes w
ere cold. “I’m not buying this heart crap. A heart couldn’t have stopped bullets. A plain old heart, sacred or not, couldn’t have shown me that side road off the interstate. No way. You’re just jealous that I have a demon and you don’t. That’s all.”

  Grandmother shook her head. “Oh, no, my child. Not a plain heart. Not at all. You see, I would trade a hundred demons for what you have in this jar. For this heart. For this is no ordinary heart. Oh my, no. Not at all. This is a special heart, a sacred heart, an ancient heart. This, my dear, is the perfectly preserved heart of an ancient saint. And as such, it has the power to perform miracles. Incredible miracles. Saving you was nothing compared to the miracles this heart is capable of performing. Oh, yes. No demon could ever even begin to match the miracles this heart can perform.”

  “Miracles?” Juanita frowned. “Really? Real honest-to-God miracles?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Greater miracles than a demon?”

  “Oh, yes. As I said, this heart is far, far more powerful than any mere demon. Far, far more powerful!”

  “More powerful … I see…” Juanita leaned forward on her elbows. She peered into the jar. She studied the thing floating in the liquid … “Yes,” she said slowly after a time, “I think I can see what you mean. Now that I know what to look for. It does look like a heart, doesn’t it? You know, I think maybe you’re right, Grandmother. I think maybe this is the sacred heart of a very powerful saint and not just a plain old demon after all.”

  Juanita smiled at Grandmother.

  Grandmother smiled back.

  “Wait a second.” Mojo couldn’t let this pass. “If this thing is a saint’s heart, why would it help people like Juanita and me? I mean, we weren’t exactly on a mission from God when those guys in the Suburban were chasing us. Why would it help us?”

  “It helped you because you were thwarting the will of Satan. That’s obvious,” Grandmother told him.

  “It is?”

  “Of course. Satan is the evil force behind drugs and drug dealers. You thwarted his will when you took the cocaine. It was his henchmen who pursued you. That’s why the heart protected you.”