Mojo and the Pickle Jar Read online

  “Satan is behind cocaine smuggling?” This was news to Mojo.

  “Of course. Who else?”

  “Well … I’ve always heard it was the Colombians. Or maybe even Machete Ray Castillo over in El Paso.”

  Grandmother sighed. Grandmother shook her head scornfully at Mojo’s abysmal ignorance. “You’re like so many in the world today,” Grandmother told Mojo. “You’re blind. You can’t see past the small evils to the greater evil that stands behind them. You can’t see through the illusions to the true source of the evil.”

  Mojo shrugged. He supposed that might be true. She might be right. He might not be seeing through illusions. After all, he hadn’t even known there were any illusions to see through before now.

  “But if this is a heart, then whose heart is it? You said it was the heart of a saint. Which saint?” Juanita asked.

  “That,” Grandmother said, “is a very good question. And one we must answer before we can utilize the heart’s full powers. Come with me.” She took Juanita’s hand, leading her towards a small shrine in the corner of the room. “We’ll light candles and pray to the Dark Lady for her guidance in this matter.”

  * * *

  While Grandmother and Juanita prayed, Mojo passed the time by reading a yellowed newspaper he picked off a stack underneath the table. The headline in the paper was “Dead Man Fathers Child.” Beneath the headline was a grainy black-and-white photograph of a smiling woman dressed in a mu-mu. The woman looked foreign. She had a mole on her chin. She was built like a washing machine. A caption below the woman read, “I Dug Him Up and Did It, Mom-to-Be Says.”

  Mojo yawned. Glanced over to the far corner of the shack. Grandmother and Juanita were still there, still busily praying at the small, candlelit shrine.

  Mojo turned back to his paper. He finished a short article on how to lose weight by eating nothing but candy and ice cream and became bored. Stared off into space. After a time he stood up, pushed his chair back, and stretched. A bone in his shoulder popped. He turned around. Juanita was sitting down on a packing crate that served as an end table for Grandmother’s bed. Apparently she had either lost her fervor for praying or was taking a break from it. Mojo walked over and sat down beside her.

  “Fun place, huh? How’d you like to live out here full-time with no TV, no movies, nothing?” Mojo asked Juanita. “I don’t see how she stands it.”

  Juanita shrugged. “She’s old.”

  “Nobody’s that old.” He kicked at a splinter that was protruding from the wooden floor. “What’s taking so long, anyway? She’s been over there for nearly an hour.”

  “These things take time.”

  “Yeah? How much time? Have you forgotten about all that dope we left back in the car? The cops are bound to have the car by now. Or what’s left of it anyway.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “And Grandmother promised to drive us to El Paso. It’s just that we have to find out whose heart is in the jar first.”

  “Why? You didn’t even know it was a heart before. How come you suddenly can’t go anywhere until you find out its name?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right there. Come on,” Mojo pleaded. “We’ve got to get going. We can’t just sit around here waiting on that crazy old woman forever.”

  A clap of distant thunder.

  “Listen.” Juanita looked up towards the sagging ceiling.

  The thunder came again. Closer this time.

  “I hear it. Rain’s coming. And how do you think we’re going to get out of here after a rain? That isn’t exactly a paved road out there, you know. Hell, it’s not even a dirt road. And that Impala has street tires. If it rains, we’re going to be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere; I can promise you that.”

  Thunder exploded nearby. The sound was almost as loud as the explosion of the Cadillac had been earlier. The sound struck the shack like a hard wind. The walls quivered. The old, brittle wood creaked. The iron stove rattled. Dust and small pieces of debris fell from the ceiling, drifting down onto Mojo’s shoulders as softly as a light snow.

  “Damn!” Mojo jumped up from the packing crate. “The roof’s gonna go!”

  But even as Mojo raised himself onto the balls of his feet, poised to make a run for it, the thunder faded. The walls stopped quivering. The stove stopped rattling. The ceiling stopped raining debris. The quiet returned as quickly as it had left.

  “A sign!” Grandmother called from the shrine, rising unsteadily from her knees. She turned towards Mojo and Juanita, her face bright with triumph and candlelight. “It’s a sign! A special sign from Our Dark Lady! From the most holy Virgin of Guadalupe herself!”

  “A sign of what?” Mojo asked shakily. Mojo brushed some of the dust off of his shoulders. Tried to recompose himself.

  “A sign of her favor. A sign she has heard my prayers.”

  “Does that mean we can go now?” Mojo wondered.

  Some of the brightness left Grandmother. “No. Not just yet.”

  “No?! Not even after she sent you this special sign?”

  “A sign is not an answer. We must be patient. I’m certain we will hear her answer shortly.”

  “I’ll bet,” Mojo snorted.

  The sky fell in.

  The previous clap of thunder was a firecracker compared to this new one. This new clap of thunder was a bomb. The bomb went off right above the shack. The bomb rolled down from the sky and into the shack and struck Mojo. Mojo felt like he was standing inside an iron church bell that was being pummeled by a gang of hunchbacks armed with mallets.

  Mojo ducked his head. He threw his hands over his ears. It didn’t do any good. His ears still rang. No matter how hard he pressed his hands against his ears, he could still hear the thunder. Feel it.

  After a second or two Mojo gave up and raised his head. The wall next to him was shivering. The pictures of the saints were flapping in an unseen wind, their halos bobbing. He glanced at Juanita. Juanita’s mouth was open and she appeared to be screaming, though he couldn’t hear her, nothing but the thunder. He realized his mouth was open too. The floor began dancing, nails creaking and boards flapping. Blue lights flashed on the far wall. Mojo turned towards the lights.

  The iron stove on the other side of the room was crawling with tiny blue snakes. Mojo watched as the blue snakes slithered down the metal roof flue and leaped off onto the hot plates. The snakes popped and leaped and hissed as they cavorted over the stove, their heads forking into miniature lightning bolts that popped like bacon. One of the forked bolts dove off the stove and into the floor near Mojo’s foot. A whiff of white smoke marked its passing.

  Mojo felt something new shake and looked up. The ceiling above him was quivering like a wet dog. A ten-foot beam swung out and dropped several feet before stopping just above Mojo’s head. The beam teetered for a second, then—to Mojo’s immense relief—swung back up.

  Mojo ducked his head. He had seen enough. It was time to go.

  Mojo grabbed Juanita’s arm. Yelled “Come on!” even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t hear him, and headed for the front door.

  There were blue snakes coiled around the doorknob, but Mojo didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the knob—his hand tingling like he had stuck it in ice water, blue snakes swimming up the hairs on his forearms—and yanked the door open. He pushed Juanita through, then followed her out into the weed patch that served as the shack’s front yard.

  Mojo and Juanita ran a good thirty feet before they finally stopped. The thunder was still ringing. Mojo couldn’t even hear his own breathing. He paused to catch his breath, then looked over to make sure Juanita was okay. Juanita seemed okay. She was staring up into the sky with her mouth still open. Mojo stared with her. The moon sat in the center of the sky. The moon was surrounded by billions of stars. The stars were surrounded by billions of miles of clear black nothingness. There were no clouds over the moon. There were no clouds over the stars or sky. There were no clouds or r
ain anywhere. There were no bolts of lightning. There was no storm.

  The ringing faded from Mojo’s ears. He frowned with puzzlement.

  * * *

  “Come see, come see,” Grandmother called as Juanita and Mojo trooped back through the open door. “A miracle! The Dark Lady has granted us a miracle!”

  Mojo followed Juanita over to where Grandmother was standing beside the pickle jar. “See it? The heart has been touched by the Dark Lady! The heart has the fire of life!”

  Mojo had to lean close to see it, but there really was light if not fire. A dim blue light was flickering on the surface of the ghastly white thing Grandmother claimed was a human heart.

  “A blessing! A sign!” Grandmother proclaimed. “A sign that this is indeed the heart of a blessed saint!”

  “Static electricity,” Mojo suggested. He thumped the jar lightly with his forefinger and the blue light danced. Bubbles rose in a small cloud. He could smell ozone.

  “This is the most wondrous thing in the world! The most fabulous miracle of our age! A living saint’s heart!”

  “Living? Let’s not get carried away here,” Mojo cautioned her. “Just because it’s got a blue glow doesn’t mean it’s alive. You could zap a piece of baloney with a bolt of lightning and it would glow.”

  “And it beats!” Grandmother went on, ignoring him. “It’s still weak yet, but there’s no question. The heart is beating!”

  “Let me see.” Juanita pushed Mojo aside and leaned over the table, pressing her face so close to the jar that blue reflections flickered on her cheeks.

  Mojo sighed and moved away. Shook his head. Mojo was just about to suggest that they could play with the heart later but now it was time to get the show on the road when he heard something.

  Mojo walked quickly to the shack’s single window and looked out. The desert was still in the moonlight. Nothing moved. He couldn’t hear anything. The sound—if there had been a sound—had stopped.

  Then he heard it again. Very faint and far away. Muted and indistinct. The sound faded out. In. Out. Mojo waited. The sound came again, a little clearer this time, a little stronger. It had a rising, falling quality. An animal of some kind? An animal howling? No, not howling … That wasn’t it. It was … deeper than howling, more like … baying. Like a dog. Like a pack of dogs. Like …

  “Bloodhounds!” Mojo whirled around. “It’s bloodhounds!”

  * * *

  “It moved! I saw it! It moved! It really did!” Juanita could hardly contain herself. “It was like a … a fluttering, you know? Just a little flutter along its side. Not more than a twitch. But I saw it! I really did! You’re right, Grandmother! It’s beating! My magic heart is really beating!”

  Juanita turned to the old woman and hugged her. Her eyes were shining. “This is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me!” Juanita bubbled. “The most wonderful thing in my whole life! A living heart! Just think! A real living heart! And it’s mine!”

  This about Juanita Vásquez: She was missing something.

  At first Juanita believed what she was missing was the right shade of skin. This was when she was growing up dirt poor in Presidio, Texas, watching her mother and father scratch out a living picking cantaloupes. She felt then if only she had the right shade of skin—and the language to go with it—she wouldn’t be missing anything. That she would be complete.

  But later—after she had seen a little more of the world—Juanita decided it wasn’t skin color she was missing after all, but money. It was because she believed it was money she was missing that she went to work for Nuncio smuggling drugs across the Rio Grande.

  But now Juanita wasn’t so sure about skin color or money, either one. It had come to her as she stood at Grandmother’s rickety kitchen table holding the pickle jar in her hands that maybe what she was missing was something she had never even thought of before. Not until now. Something more precious than skin or money. Something so rare that it had never even occurred to her that she was missing it: significance.

  Mojo hurried back. “We’ve gotta get out of here fast,” he announced breathlessly.

  Grandmother frowned. “Wait. I hear something.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I think maybe it’s bloodhounds. I think maybe it’s the law.”

  “Bloodhounds?” Juanita turned towards Mojo. “You think you hear bloodhounds? Out here?” She peered disbelievingly at him.

  Grandmother raised her hand. “Be quiet for a minute and listen.”

  “Stray dogs,” Juanita said after a time, giving Mojo a contemptuous look. “Sounds like a pack of stray dogs to me.”

  “No.” Grandmother shook her head. “Not dogs. The coyotes eat any stray dogs. Not coyotes either.”

  The baying sound came again. More clearly this time. Deep and throaty.

  “See? It is bloodhounds. And they’re coming this way.”

  “No.” Grandmother shook her head firmly. “Not bloodhounds. No. These are the cries of … something else.”

  “Something else?” Mojo wondered.

  “I think … it could be … yes … it must be. Hellhounds.”

  “Hellhounds?” Mojo frowned. “What in the world are hellhounds?”

  “Demons from the deepest depths of Hell,” Grandmother said serenely. “Terrible, black twisted creatures with teeth like daggers. They come up in packs when the moon rises to roam the earth and rip out the souls of those who oppose the Great Deceiver. These must have been attracted by the beating of our blessed heart.”

  The baying came again. Stronger. Closer. Winding upwards into an angry, piercing scream.

  Even Juanita’s eyes grew a little larger.

  Mojo grabbed Grandmother’s car keys off the table and Juanita by the arm.

  “Let’s motor!” Mojo said.

  4

  Narn stopped the Bronco on the crest of a low hill and got out. He leaned across the roof on his elbows. The desert stretched away before him, a flat sea frozen by moonlight. He waited, idly twirling his cinnamon toothpick with his lips. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The baying rose from the mountains to the north, the Sierra Diablo, and floated across the broad plain. The sound was eerily hollow, remote as a freight train. Narn listened for a long minute, then measured the distance by sighting along his thumb. Five miles at least, he estimated. A long way for a sound to carry, even across flat land.

  The baying fell.

  Rose again.

  Narn frowned. It was obviously an animal, but what kind of animal he couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t wolves or a mountain lion or anything else that could have wandered up from Mexico or down from the Rockies. It wasn’t any animal he was familiar with, and Narn was familiar with most every kind of animal.

  Narn rolled his toothpick with his tongue and thought about it. Whatever it was, it was a hunter. A hunter following a scent, moving fast.

  Too fast.

  Narn scowled. Something was wrong here. He marked a line on the Bronco’s dusty top between himself and the animal. He waited a minute by the luminous dial on his wristwatch, then marked a new line. He estimated the distance and computed the speed of the creature from triangulation. His scowl deepened. He did another triangulation. Then another. He computed the creature’s speed yet again and still wasn’t satisfied. Something was off.

  Narn spit the toothpick out and crawled back inside the Bronco. He switched on the ignition and pulled out. No animal could move that fast. No animal on the face of the earth. None.

  Narn eased the Bronco forward and resumed tracking the footprints. The creature was west and north of him, heading southwest. If the footprints continued due west, he was bound to cross its trail somewhere ahead.

  Narn picked up as much speed as he dared.

  The eastern horizon was turning to ash grey.

  * * *

  Mojo’s hands were white on the steering wheel. He had a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mojo felt like a man driving a Yugo down a one-lan
e street who has just looked in the rearview mirror and seen a runaway cement truck bearing down on him.

  “Slow down!” Juanita ordered as the Impala bounced out of the rutted track and then back into it. Mojo fought to hold the wheel straight. The sound of brush breaking against the undercarriage was a constant roar.

  “I said, slow down!” Juanita repeated angrily. “Are you trying to kill us?!”

  “Is something wrong?” Grandmother wondered from the back seat.

  Mojo peered into the rearview mirror. The shadow was still there. Still behind them. Still coming on. The shadow topped a distant rise and for an instant Mojo could see long galloping legs. Then the huge shadow was gone, merged back into the predawn murk. Mojo turned back to the road. No question about it. It was gaining.

  Mojo pressed the accelerator down as far as he dared. His hands were shaking almost as badly as the Impala.

  “What’s wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?” Juanita glared at him.

  “There’s something back there. Following us,” Mojo told her grimly, fighting the wheel as the Impala jolted across a chuckhole. “Something big.”

  Juanita peered over the seatback. “I don’t see anything.” Then: “Are you sure you aren’t imagining things?”

  “There’s something there. Believe me.”

  Juanita squinted into the shadows. “Well, I sure don’t see it.”

  The sun rose. A paper-thin sliver of light peeking over the edge of the flat plain to the east. The sunlight glinted off the Impala’s windshield. Off the gypsum topsoil. Off the silver creosote and slick mesquite thorns. Something screamed.

  The scream rose with the sun. It was long and terrible and very close, not more than a few hundred yards behind them. Mojo’s hands jerked involuntarily on the wheel.

  “My God!” Juanita’s head whipped around. “What was that?!”

  “Holy Mother protect us!” Grandmother crossed herself.

  Mojo peered into the mirror. The edge of sunlight was sweeping across the desert, a blazing broom incinerating the darkness as it passed. The light intensified. Mojo searched the road behind them, but the shadow was gone. There was nothing behind them now but brush and sky and vast flat emptiness.