Mojo and the Pickle Jar Read online

  Mojo sighed with relief and let up on the gas.

  The Impala slowed with a bump.

  The rest of the sun came boiling up over the horizon.

  * * *

  By the time Narn had finished searching the shack the sun was already halfway up the eastern sky and the temperature approaching ninety.

  Narn wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stepped from the shack’s front door. He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses. Sniffed the air. He could still smell ozone.

  Narn tossed his flashlight onto the front seat of the Bronco and paused to urinate into a clump of tall weeds. He returned to the doorway of the shack and examined a maze of footprints in the dust there.

  Narn located the most recent set of footprints and followed them around the corner of the shack. The footprints led to a two-rutted track along the side of the house. There were tire tracks in the ruts. Narn followed the ruts. Found an oil spot where a car had been parked. The footprints ended beside the oil spot.

  Narn pulled a notepad from his pocket and made a quick sketch of the tire tracks, using his ballpoint pen to measure tread depth. He replaced the notepad and followed the tire tracks out past the rear of the shack and into the desert. He followed the tracks until he was certain that the car that had made them was heading due south, towards the interstate.

  Narn had turned back and was on his way to the Bronco when he noticed a second set of tracks. He stepped over a hedge of creosote to examine them. At first he thought the tracks had been made by a piece of heavy equipment, but the more he looked at them the more unlikely that seemed. There was no piece of equipment that made a perfectly round six-inch depression every six to seven feet. Certainly no animal.

  Narn squatted down and poked a finger into one of the depressions and dug out some soil from the bottom. He compared it to some soil from nearer the surface. Damper. The tracks were new, then. Like the tire tracks, they had probably been made earlier this morning. Had yet to spend a day under the Texas sun.

  Narn stood up. He turned in a circle, searching the wide horizons. There was nothing to be seen. Nothing to be heard. Nothing moving, even though he could see for miles.

  Narn followed the tracks.

  He followed the tracks to where they ended on a piece of open ground some fifty feet to the south. The tracks did not turn aside or double back. They just stopped. The tracks stopped as though whatever had made them had vanished into thin air.

  Narn kicked at the barren ground where the tracks ended. The ground crumbled easily beneath his boot toe. He squinted and shook his head and then kicked the ground again. He stood quietly for a moment, then began walking in a circle around the spot. Narn walked around the tracks once, then stepped out five long strides and began a new circle. He continued walking in ever-widening circles until he had covered all the ground for over a hundred feet in every direction.

  He found nothing.

  Narn returned to the strange tracks and sighted the line they made across the desert. The tracks led back towards the northeast. Back towards the Sierra Diablo. They were distinct, easy to follow, two rows of deep, widely spaced, and perfectly round depressions.

  Narn stared at the tracks for a while longer, then gave up with a shrug and started back. He shook his head. He popped a new toothpick into his mouth and chewed on it as he walked.

  It made no sense.

  Narn reached into his pocket and pulled out a white business card he had found stuck inside the freezer compartment of the otherwise empty refrigerator. His only lead.

  Narn read the card again. The card was from the Social Services Office of the Archdiocese of El Paso. A priest’s name was printed in the lower right corner: Father Jeffrey Huerta.

  5

  Father Jeffrey Huerta was a chubby little man with rosy cheeks, a stubby nose, and a condescending manner. He reminded Mojo more of a postal clerk than a priest.

  “… and that’s why I can only suggest that you take this, ah, ah, thing”—Father Jeff shot a withering glance at the pickle jar sitting in the center of his desk—“over to the biology department at the university. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you what it is.”

  “Oh, but we already know what it is. It’s a heart,” Grandmother said. “What we need to find out is whose. Whose heart is it?”

  “Whose. I see…” Father Jeff tried to look down his nose at Grandmother, but, not having much of a nose to work with, he did a rather poor job of it. Grandmother never noticed.

  “That’s right.” Juanita nodded eagerly. “We’ve got to find out whose heart it is so we can pray to it.”

  “Pray to it?” Father Jeff rocked back in his chair. His lips puckered in disapproval. He scowled at Juanita. “Now, see here,” he said sternly. “I know you two ladies mean well, but I must warn you. The Church has some very strict rules concerning—”

  “Don’t you have any books on the saints around here?” Juanita interrupted. “If we had a book on the saints, we could just look through it until we found whichever ones had their hearts cut out and work from there.”

  “Now, that’s a good idea.” Grandmother nodded to Juanita. “That way we wouldn’t have to bother Father Huerta.” She paused for a moment. Then brightly: “I know. There were lots of books out there by the desk of that nice lady who showed us in. The saint we’re seeking is probably in one of those books. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we looked through them. In fact, I think I’ll go ask her right now.”

  Grandmother pushed her chair back.

  Father Jeff blanched. “Wait!” Father Jeff held up a warning hand. It was obvious to Mojo that Father Jeff was not thrilled at the thought of Grandmother and Juanita and their heart hanging around his office all day and reading his books.

  “Yes?” Grandmother paused halfway out of her chair.

  “I just remembered something. I mean, I think I may have an even better idea.”

  “Oh?” Grandmother sat back down.

  “Yes, I don’t think my books would be of any help. Not at all,” Father Jeff said quickly. “And besides, there is a priest up in New Mexico—an old classmate of mine, actually—who’s quite an authority on these, ah, these things. Now, let me look. I know I have his address somewhere…” He pulled open a desk drawer and began to rummage through it.

  “I don’t know about this.” Juanita turned to Grandmother. “If this priest here doesn’t know about the heart, then why would another one who went to the same school know any more? I think maybe we should look in those books anyway.”

  “Don’t worry,” Grandmother said reassuringly. “Father Jeff is a wonderful priest, a true man of God. He comes to my home to make sure that I’m in good health and to bring me the Holy Sacrament at least once every four or five years. If he says this other priest can tell us about the heart, then I’m confident he can.”

  “Here it is,” Father Jeff announced. He had an open address book in his hand. “Simon Fitz. Brother Simon Fitz. He’s a monk in the Franciscan Monastery west of Socorro. I only have a P.O. box number for him, but I’m sure someone in Socorro will be able to tell you how to find the monastery.”

  “And you’re positive this guy knows about saints’ hearts?” Juanita asked, her nose wrinkling with mistrust.

  “Oh, absolutely!” Father Jeff said. “Brother Simon is an authority on religious relics. He’s even written a book on pieces of the true cross. Why, you could travel the world over and not find a better man than Brother Simon to show your, er, heart to!”

  “He’s written a book, huh?” Juanita asked, impressed.

  “Yes, indeed. Brother Simon is a noted author.”

  “Ummh.” Juanita thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe—if he’s really an expert—maybe we ought to forget the books for a while and go see him first,” she said slowly to Grandmother.

  “Oh, yes, you should,” Father Jeff said, leaning across his desk to add weight to his words. “There’s no question, but you should.”

  “Then we’ll
do it!” Grandmother said eagerly. “We’ll go to New Mexico right away!”

  Mojo rolled his eyes, but he went along with it.

  This about Joseph “Mojo” Birdsong: He could have cut out. He had opportunity. He had the car keys in his pocket. He could have slipped away from Grandmother and Juanita on the way out of the Archdiocese of El Paso building. He could have said to hell with hearts in pickle jars and monks in New Mexico and stolen Grandmother’s old Impala from the lot where it was parked. He could have driven the Impala across the border to Juárez and sold it even without a title. He could have taken the money and bought a bus ticket to Cancún or Las Vegas or Cleveland and been long gone from West Texas and Machete Ray Castillo and his Uncle Ort and all the others who were on his tail.

  He could have.

  But he didn’t.

  And it wasn’t because the thought didn’t cross Mojo’s mind, because it did. And it wasn’t because he was afraid, because he wasn’t. And it wasn’t because he believed the thing in the pickle jar was a demon or a heart, because he didn’t.

  It was because of Juanita.

  Imagine that.

  Mojo stopped at a pay phone in the lobby of the archdiocese on their way out.

  The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

  “Hello?… Hello?…” There was a long pause. Then: “Is there anybody there?”

  It was Uncle Ort. He was okay.

  “… Mojo? Is that you, Mojo?… It is, isn’t it?! It is you, you thievin’ little ingrate!” Uncle Ort sputtered. “You won’t get away with it, boy! No, sir! I’ve sworn out an arrest warrant on your sorry butt, Mr. Serpent’s Tooth! The cops are gonna stomp you flatter than a dead cat in a loading zone, Mr. Doper Dealer! They’re gonna throw your scumbucket ass so far back into prison that you’ll have to buy a ticket to see the sun! They’re gonna—”

  Mojo hung the pay phone up.

  Mojo whistled as he strolled across the lobby to where Grandmother and Juanita were waiting. He was broke, busted, and on the lam, but at least he wasn’t a murderer. Not unless you counted the two creeps in the Suburban.

  * * *

  “You’re sure you won’t change your mind about this? I’d feel a whole lot safer in Mexico,” Mojo said, wheeling the Impala past an El Paso city limits sign followed quickly by a green and white I-25 marker. They were moving through the outskirts of the city now, past the last few hamburger/burrito stands and struggling subdivisions, heading north up the valley of the Rio Grande towards New Mexico.

  “No. We have to go to this monastery first. To find out about the heart,” Juanita told him firmly.

  “Later, then? After you talk to this monk guy?” Mojo pressed.

  “Later. Sure. We’ll definitely go to Mexico later.” She gave him a reassuring smile.

  Mojo nodded, but he wasn’t all that reassured. He was nervous about this whole deal. He figured New Mexico wasn’t much better than West Texas as far as avoiding Ray Castillo was concerned. In fact, New Mexico might even be worse since it was where Poteet had wanted the stuff delivered. There might be even more dopers working for Castillo in New Mexico than in Texas.

  Mojo sighed. Maybe he should have stolen the Impala after all.

  The last houses fell behind them and they sped through an empty desert bordered by rock-faced mountains on the east and the silver, snaking river on the west.

  Grandmother began to snore softly in the back seat.

  El Paso passed into New Mexico into a hot, dusty afternoon.

  * * *

  They spent forty-five minutes in Socorro before finding an old woman behind the counter of a 7-Eleven who said she’d heard of a monastery in the mountains west of there and directed them onto the Magdalena Highway.

  * * *

  The sun was low in the west when they passed through the village of Datil and took a left onto a two-lane blacktop that led them up a steep climb across the Continental Divide and into the towering pines of the Gila National Forest.

  * * *

  The sun was just setting into the woods on the crest of a high ridge, feathering the green tops with red and gold and orange, when they pulled off the blacktop and rolled into the gravel parking lot of the Tres Cruces Franciscan Monastery.

  6

  The Tres Cruces Franciscan Monastery was a large, colonial-style building set well back in the pines. The entry hall, tiled in worn linoleum, reminded Mojo of a county hospital, the kind of big-city welfare hospital with asylum-green walls, scuff-brown doors, and dim, go-blind yellow lighting that no one went to unless desperate, destitute, or within five minutes of death.

  The only things in the hallway hinting that this was a monastery were the santos. The hall was lined with wooden statues: dozens of stern saints, anguished Christs, and sorrowing Madonnas staring down at Mojo through icy marble eyes. Almost as many as in Grandmother’s pictures. Most of the santos were of the fair-haired, white-skinned European variety, but more than a few were decidedly Mexican-looking: dark, Indian-faced saints, most of them pierced by thorns and daggers and nails and spears and dripping with bright-painted blood.

  It was not the sort of decor to put Mojo at ease.

  * * *

  They had been waiting in the entry hall for only a short while when Brother Simon came. The monk was not so old and certainly not so cold as Mojo had expected. He was, in fact, a rather ordinary-looking middle-aged man with thinning hair and a studious look. When Grandmother explained about the heart and how Father Huerta had sent them, Brother Simon invited them into the monastery’s library.

  * * *

  “Interesting.” Brother Simon turned the jar. He had large, inquisitive eyes. “You know, it does look something like a heart.”

  “It’s sorta tricky. You have to watch it close,” Juanita advised him. “It doesn’t exactly beat, more like flutters. And it only does that every once in a while.”

  “I see…”

  “The blue light is the sign of its beatification,” Grandmother volunteered.

  “Yes…”

  They gave him a few moments more to examine the heart. Then Grandmother asked: “Can you tell us whose it is? Which saint?”

  “Saint?” Brother Simon looked up at her, the thick glasses perched on the end of his long nose, giving him a scholarly look. “What makes you think it’s a saint’s heart?”

  “Because it is,” Grandmother told him simply.

  This about Grandmother: She had no doubts. The Virgin, the saints, God Himself, were as real to her as the movie stars on cable TV were to Mojo, as California was to Juanita. Grandmother did not believe. There was no need for that. She knew.

  “Yes … well … you’re positive you saw it move?” Brother Simon asked with a frown. “It wasn’t just the liquid sloshing?”

  “Oh, no. This heart definitely beats,” Grandmother said. “Look closer.”

  “Closer … I see…” Brother Simon sounded doubtful but he bent down and studied the jar anyway. After a long moment he shrugged. Was just opening his mouth when suddenly he froze.

  “What is it?” Juanita asked. “Did you see it?”

  “I saw something,” Brother Simon said without lifting his head. Then: “There! Like you said! A flutter! A ripple, really. It was subtle, but I’m fairly certain it wasn’t caused by wave action.” He sounded surprised. Borderline amazed.

  “You see?” Grandmother smiled broadly. “I told you. It does beat.”

  “It does?” Mojo was taken aback. In spite of being a monk, Brother Simon had seemed like a reasonable person. Surely he had made a mistake here. Surely he—

  “There!” Brother Simon exclaimed. “Again! A full contraction this time! It’s true!” Suddenly the monk was as impassioned as a Baptist preacher passing the hat.

  Mojo leaned closer. He felt like a fool since he was pretty certain the thing in the pickle jar was only a piece of salt pork some old woman had conned Juanita into believing was a demon. He eyed the thing. The white lump still had the blue flickeri
ng light on its surface which he had to admit was pretty strange since he had once seen a telephone pole struck by lightning and it had quit glowing after only a few seconds. Still, who knew with salt pork or whatever the hell the thing was? Maybe it really was an old dried-up heart, and maybe old dried-up hearts could hold an electrical charge for a long time. Days even. Who knew? Certainly not Mojo. Still, it was crazy, he thought. Just crazy to even consider that—

  “Did you see that?!” Brother Simon jerked his head up. His eyes were blazing, his glasses threatening to fall off the end of his nose. “That was even stronger than the last one! And there it goes again!”

  “It’s beating!” Juanita was thrilled. “It’s not just fluttering! It’s really, actually beating!”

  What the—?! Mojo’s eyes widened. He had seen it too. He could hardly believe it, but he had. The thing had contracted! And now it was doing it again! It was getting stronger too. It didn’t even looked like a stewed prune anymore.

  Mojo rocked back in his chair, amazed. He wasn’t sure how Brother Simon had done it, but apparently the monk had flipped the thing’s switch.

  Juanita threw her arms around Mojo and kissed him. Hard. On the mouth.

  Mojo’s amazement grew.

  “Oh, Mojo,” Juanita breathed, pulling back only slightly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Mojo gazed into her eyes. He had to agree that it certainly was.

  * * *

  Once the excitement had worn down, Brother Simon told grandmother he wanted them to stay overnight so he could consult the library’s books for references to miraculous hearts. His eyes were bright as he spoke. His cheeks were flushed. He kept rubbing his hands together. He assured them finding rooms was no problem since there were far more rooms than monks, the monastery having been built in a time when monkdom was more appealing than the present.

  Grandmother was agreeable. She told Brother Simon that she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before due to being pursued by hellhounds and that they would accept his offer gladly.

  Another monk came, a small but thickset man with a stiff walk, runny eyes, and red hair. He introduced himself to them as the abbot of Tres Cruces. Then led them to a set of three empty rooms near the front entry. The room Mojo was given was small but clean, with a single bed, an ancient two-drawer chest, and a screened window that opened over a narrow walled garden running the length of the building.