Mojo and the Pickle Jar Read online

  “Well … yes. But it works both ways. If a prayer is answered, the beneficiary will often bring the santo flowers or maybe even have a retablo, a small painting, done in his honor. Reward him for his generosity.”

  Mojo shook his head. Being a saint in Mexico was apparently a tough business. He resolved he would pick flowers in the morning and take them to the santo of Saint Francis. It was the least he could do.

  “You’re all up! Good! Good!” Brother Simon came bounding up the hall towards them. He was smiling. “I have something interesting. I think I may have found a reference to your heart!”

  7

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to tell you. They left early this morning,” Brother Simon told Narn.

  “They didn’t say where they were headed?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “The abbot said they asked to see you. That you met with them,” Narn persisted.

  “Yes. That’s right. It concerned a religious matter.”

  “A religious matter?”

  The monk met Narn’s level gaze. “That’s confidential, of course. Privileged information. A matter between a member of the faithful and a priest.”

  “You’re not a priest. You’re a monk,” Narn countered.

  “Believe me, the relationship is the same. Besides, even if it wasn’t, I don’t have to tell you anything, do I? The Texas Rangers don’t have any legal jurisdiction in New Mexico, do they?”

  Narn sighed. He had him there.

  “That’s true,” Narn admitted.

  “Then I think you’d better leave.” Brother Simon stood up. “As I said before, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

  “All right.” Narn rose slowly to his feet. His Stetson was in his hands. He put it on his head and started for the library door.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Of course.” Brother Simon watched him go.

  “Oh.” Narn paused at the door. “If you happen to hear from them, just call the number I left on the table and leave a message.”

  Brother Simon nodded.

  Narn was under no illusion he would do it.

  * * *

  The morning was bright outside the monastery. The sky above a deep, cloudless blue. Narn stopped on the front steps and slipped on his aviator’s sunglasses. He walked briskly across the graveled lot towards his Bronco, parked under the shade of a cottonwood.

  He passed a small vegetable garden off to the side of the lot. The garden was bordered by a low chicken-wire fence and filled with tall tomato plants tied to stakes. There were some tracks clearly visible in the soft earth beside the fence. Narn went over to examine them.

  Narn knelt beside the chicken-wire. Two rows of perfectly round, widely spaced depressions led across one corner of the vegetable garden. It only took him a few seconds to confirm what he had already guessed. The tracks were the same as those at the old Montoya woman’s place.

  Narn stood up. Brushed the earth from his pants. He followed the tracks with his eye. The tracks ended on the hard surface of the parking lot, but there was no question where they were going: straight for the monastery.

  There was a monk working in the garden. He was carrying a tin pail half full of red ripe tomatoes.

  “Morning,” Narn called.

  The monk look up. Peered at Narn from under his cowl. “Good morning.”

  “I wonder if you could help me. Did you hear any peculiar sounds last night? Woulda sounded like a big hound baying?”

  The monk approached cautiously. He was thin with sunken cheeks and grey lips. He had a large wart on the back of his left hand with a hair growing out of it. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Narn frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I heard some noises, but I don’t know whether it was a hound that made them. It could have been.”

  “What’d they sound like?”

  The monk shrugged.

  “Well, did anybody else hear them?”

  “Sure. Everybody.” He paused a second. “Brother Timothy thought it might have been a mountain lion, but then he’s got an active imagination.”

  Narn eyed the monk. The monk had a cold, pinched face like he had spent time in the catacombs of some government agency or behind the counter of a complaints desk. Not the sort to tell you anything more than he had to, Narn figured. Not unless there was a pressing reason. Narn rubbed his chin. Decided to give him a reason. “Listen, Brother, I’m a Texas Ranger assigned to the El Paso Emergency Medical Agency, and I’m here on an important mission,” Narn said. “I’m looking for a Mrs. Ernesto Montoya. I believe she spent the night here last night?”

  “Well, we had several guests who stayed over last night. I’m not sure about the names…”

  “One of them was this Montoya woman. I’ve already talked to Brother Simon about her.” Narn nodded confidently as if he and Brother Simon were the best of friends. “Anyway, we—the Emergency Medical Agency, that is—gave this Mrs. Montoya some heart medicine yesterday, and it wasn’t until after she’d already left the building that somebody noticed she’d been given the wrong bottle. The wrong medicine.”

  “The wrong medicine? Can’t that be dangerous?”

  “That’s right. Very dangerous. Especially in this case. That’s why I was sent up here. To find her and give her the right bottle. And I gotta tell you, all the doctors are really worried. They think she may die if I don’t find her quick.”

  “Die?”

  “That’s right. That’s why I’m asking around to see if any of you people might have heard her or the people she was with mention where they were going this morning.”

  “Well, I did overhear them say something about Punta de Tierra at breakfast,” the monk said thoughtfully.

  “Punta de Tierra? Is that in New Mexico?”

  “I think so. I’ve never been there, but I believe it is.”

  “Great.” Narn allowed himself a smile. “You’ve been a big help, Brother. A very big help. I appreciate it.”

  “That’s all right. I’m always glad to help. I just hope you can find her in time.”

  “Oh, I will,” Narn assured him. “I’ll find them. I always do.”

  * * *

  They found Punta de Tierra without any trouble. The trouble was, there was nothing there.

  “This is it? This is Punta de Tierra?” Mojo wondered. He pulled the Impala off the blacktop onto a dirt shoulder. They were in a small mountain valley hemmed in by piñon-covered hills. A small stream gurgled down the center of the valley, bordering the road.

  “That’s what the sign said.” Juanita motioned back over her shoulder at a metal highway sign.

  “But there’s no town. No nothing.”

  “Look. Look back there under those trees.” Juanita pointed. “See those old walls? There was a town here. Once.”

  Mojo put the Impala in park. Off to the right was a flat area overgrown with cottonwoods and brush. Back beneath the trees were several crumbling adobe walls. One with a charred roof beam still mounted over it. “Chuy + Lupe” was spray-painted across its face.

  “It’s a ghost town,” Mojo said. “Nothing left but ruins. We drove all the way from Socorro, and there’s nothing here.” He turned to Grandmother. “I thought that book Brother Simon gave you said there was a famous church in Punta de Tierra?”

  “Yes, but the book is very old. The book says hundreds of pilgrims once came here to seek the sacred heart. But that was back in the seventeenth century. I imagine things have changed in the last three hundred years.”

  “Yeah,” Mojo said, peering at the crumbling walls. “I’d say they’d changed, all right.”

  “Maybe there’re some people up in the woods,” Juanita suggested. “Up that road.”

  “What road?” Mojo craned his neck.

  “There. Between those two big trees.”

  “You call that a road?” Mojo wondered. “Nothing there but two ruts. And check those weeds. They’r
e waist-high. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been up it in years.”

  “We’ll see,” Grandmother said decisively. “We’ll go up and see if anyone still lives in Punta de Tierra.”

  * * *

  No one did.

  The ruts ran for only a few hundred feet through the shadowy cottonwoods before dead-ending at a dilapidated old church. There were no houses or people or fields or livestock visible anywhere.

  Mojo parked the Impala in front of the church. The church was built of adobe. Its walls were pitted and worn by water erosion. Bird nests protruded from under its eaves. The cross on its steeple had one arm broken. One of the entry doors was hanging open from a broken, rusted hinge.

  “Well, this must be it.” Mojo turned to Grandmother, who was getting out of the car on the other side. “This must be the famous church of Punta de Tierra, New Mexico, the home of miracles.”

  Juanita, who was already out, gave him a dirty look.

  Grandmother stood up beside the car and gazed around. “Yes.” She nodded serenely after a moment. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? A beautiful place to build a church.”

  “What next?” Mojo leaned his hip against the Impala. “Back to the monastery? Santa Fe?”

  “Not yet. I want to go into the church and pray first. Perhaps if we pray here, we’ll be given guidance.”

  This sounded pretty dubious to Mojo. He doubted they would be given anything more miraculous than bug bites in the abandoned church.

  “Read that passage about the heart again,” he said to Juanita. “Maybe we missed something.”

  “Okay.” She pulled an old leather-bound book from the front seat of the car. Opened it to a page marked by a strip of red ribbon. She moved her finger down the page until she found the line she was looking for.

  “And in the mountains north of Santa Fe, in the Sangre de Cristo,” Juanita read, “there is a small mission called San Diego de Punta de Tierra. In this remote place yet another wonderful gift has been given the Church, a sacred heart that cures all the ailments and afflictions of those who earnestly call upon Our Lady. Hundreds of pilgrims are said to come to the mission each year seeking this heart, and many souls are said to be saved because of it.

  “The roads being unsafe, I myself was unable to visit the mission, but an old Indian man whom I met in Santa Fe assured me that the heart exists and that it cured his youngest daughter of a colic that brought her close to death. Also, Father Flavio Esquivel, a brother Franciscan, has assured me that the heart exists and that it is truly a blessing from Our Mother that can cure and heal.”

  Juanita looked up. “That’s all. After that he starts in about some party he went to at the Governor’s Palace.”

  “And when was this written? The seventeen hundreds?”

  “Seventeenth century. The date on the letter is 1672.”

  “Well, there you go. It’s probably another heart altogether. I mean, ours sure doesn’t look over three hundred years old, does it?”

  “The same heart or not, this heart of San Diego de Punta de Tierra is important. I feel certain of it,” Grandmother said firmly. “Let’s go into the church. Perhaps the Virgin will give us a sign there.”

  “I’ll bring the heart.” Juanita reached back inside the Impala and exchanged the book for her purse.

  * * *

  The church was dark. Filled with shadows. The only windows were small and square and set high in the walls. Bird nests blocked most of the light.

  Mojo trailed behind Juanita and Grandmother up the center aisle towards the altar. Most of the rough wood pews had been ripped out and the ones that remained were cracked and splintered by age and the dry climate. Other than the few scattered pews the big room was empty. Their footsteps echoed hollowly. It seemed more like an abandoned warehouse than an abandoned church. Several names—including Chuy and Lupe again—had been carved into the soft adobe beside the broken entry door but the interior walls were unmarked. The flagstone floor was streaked with purplish droppings. Bat droppings, Mojo realized with a start.

  Mojo hurried after Grandmother and Juanita.

  The altar table was chiseled stone and still intact. It was set on a low dais. Grandmother spread her long skirts over the steps and was just about to settle down when a thin voice spoke: “You! You … have it!”

  Mojo glanced quickly around. It took him a second to realize the voice had come from just in front of them. From behind the altar table.

  “You have the heart!”

  It was an old man, barely visible in the dim shadows. He came forward. “You!” He pointed a finger at Juanita. “You’re the one!”

  Mojo gaped. To say the old man was old was an understatement. He was ancient. Almost mummified, like he’d been stored in an attic. Mojo expected dust to puff from him with every step. His face was gaunt, skull-like, with spotted skin stretched tight over the bones. He looked brittle, as though he might fall apart at the slightest touch. And his eyes … Mojo started as the old man stepped onto the altar steps beside them. The old man’s eyes were solid white. Eyes like songbird eggs.

  “You … you there! You have it! I can feel it! You have the heart!” The old man wagged his finger at Juanita.

  Juanita placed a protective hand on her purse. She eyed the old man suspiciously. “Maybe.”

  “Yes! Yes, you do! I can’t believe it! After all these years! Come on, give it to me!”

  Juanita didn’t move.

  “Come on, I said! Give me the heart!”

  “It’s my heart. I’m not giving it to you or anyone else,” Juanita said coldly.

  “You know about the heart?” Grandmother said, stepping forward eagerly.

  The old man ignored Grandmother and remained facing Juanita, his trembling arm outstretched towards her, his hand open. Juanita didn’t move.

  “You won’t even let me hold it?” he asked Juanita plaintively. “An old man? You won’t even let me touch it?”

  “Tell us about it. Tell us about the heart,” Grandmother said, laying a hand on his arm. “We came all the way from Socorro to learn about the heart.”

  The old man turned his dead white eyes towards Grandmother’s voice. Dropped his arm. “Socorro?”

  “Yes. We want to hear everything you know about the heart.”

  “You don’t know about the heart?” He sounded surprised.

  “No. Only that it is a miracle. Nothing else.”

  The old man considered.

  “Well … perhaps I do know something,” he said after a time, his voice as dry as his colorless lips. “I do know some things that might interest you, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s become foggy lately. Too many years. I can’t remember much. Of course, I might if I had something to help remind me. Something real. Something I could touch. Something I could hold on to. Something—”

  “Forget it, Jack,” Juanita cut him off.

  “Oh, come on, Juanita,” Mojo said. “Let him hold it for a minute. I mean, what could he do? He’s old and blind and we’re standing right here beside him.”

  “What could he do? He could hex it! He could put a curse on it! He could ruin it forever!”

  “I think it will be all right,” Grandmother said gently. “I think maybe this man values the heart as much as we do.”

  “Oh … all right!” Juanita withdrew the pickle jar from her purse. “I’ll let him hold it, then. But just for a minute!”

  Juanita thrust the jar into the old man’s eager hands. He grabbed it and hugged it to his chest. Tucked it up under his chin and cradled it. His narrow, cracked face was tinted blue by the heart’s glow. Slowly his white eyes closed. He began to rock slowly, his breath coming in soft, rhythmic wheezes, almost a croon.

  Grandmother squeezed the old man’s arm. “Now you must tell us everything you know about the heart. Will you do that?”

  “Of course,” the old man said without opening his eyes. “Of course, I’ll tell you everything. I have to, you see. I need your help. I need your hel
p to lift the curse.”

  “The curse?”

  “Let me begin at the beginning.” The old man continued to rock. “It’s always the best place to start.”

  8

  “It was a long time ago. In the early months of 1599. Soon after New Mexico was established as a Spanish colony,” the old man began.

  “Some soldiers had been murdered that past winter by the Indians of the Acoma Pueblo, and the governor of the colony, a man named De Onate, sent an expedition against them. After a short but bloody battle, the Indians were defeated. The survivors were rounded up and paraded back to the pueblo of Santo Domingo to be tried by Governor De Onate.

  The trial was short. The only witnesses were Spanish. The Indians were all found guilty of rebellion against the Crown. The governor passed sentence on them. They were all condemned—every man, woman, and child of them—to give twenty years of personal service. This was the term De Onate used: ‘personal service.’ The Spanish preferred it to ‘slavery’ since the Church forbids slavery, but there was no question about what it meant.

  In addition to being enslaved, all men over the age of twenty-five were to have one foot cut off. This accomplished two things: It sent a message to the other Indians who were resisting the governor’s rule, and it made escape very difficult since it’s hard to run on only one foot.”

  The old man paused. He hugged the jar even tighter against his chest.

  “Once the sentence was read, the Indian men were lined up in chains in the pueblo’s plaza. At the head of the line was a blacksmith armed with a short axe and hot tar. Soldiers stood by with cocked firearms and swords. The mutilations began. There was a lot of wailing and sobbing and—from those in the blacksmith’s hands—screaming.

  At this same time a mule train which had just arrived from Mexico was being unloaded in the plaza. One of the items on the train was a beautiful santo of the Madonna. This santo had come all the way from Spain. She was life-sized, carved from oak, and brightly painted. She had brillant blue eyes and a ruby-red heart. She was a special present to the Franciscan friars from the King of Spain himself.

  As the line of condemned Indians moved slowly forward across the plaza, the Madonna was taken from her wagon, unwrapped, and set aside prior to being carried inside the church. No sooner had the Madonna touched ground, however, than one of the Indians jumped out of line and threw himself into the dust at the Madonna’s feet. He wrapped his arms around her. He began crying to her to save him.