J.J. Jones and the Hawk: A Fantastical Tale of Old Arizona

By J.D. Herman

J.J. Jones and the Hawk is a flamboyant fantasy adventure in the tradition of the 1930s pulps. When J.J.'s father is shot in a mine in Jerome, Arizona, J.J. must use her supernatural powers as a medium and clairvoyant to find his attacker. She only later comes to realize that she might just be saving the world in the bargain. In the course of her investigation, she teams up with Winston Churchill, Babe Ruth, Satchel Paige, and her spirit mentor, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. She also teams up with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, the barnstorming pilot, Lindy McCall, a man Sir Arthur despises. Together, they solve a mystery that extends from the bowels of the earth to Nazi Germany to a faraway planet in another galaxy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626758315

J.D. Herman

J.D. Herman has enjoyed writing for both children and adults. When not busy writing, his business adventures and family indentures take up most of his time. A devout follower of the “Big Picture” club, he relies heavily on his degree from the “school of hard knocks” to sustain his entrepreneurial spirit. He is oftentimes seen taking notes for the seemingly endless refinement of ideas, stories, and poetry for both young and old.

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Chapter 1

Jerome, Arizona, September 25, 1938

The unlikely three entered the main elevator of the Little Daisy copper mine on a Sunday morning. The elevator car sank grudgingly toward a lateral shaft almost a mile down—the very bottom of the mine. The pulley squeaked and groaned monotonously as if about to give way. The shortest of the three, a stocky man with a craggy face and graying brown hair, looked anxiously at his pocket watch—it was 9:30 a.m.—then stuffed it back into his khaki trousers. He wore a battered cowboy hat and a badge that identified him as John J. Jones, Chief of Police of Jerome, Arizona.

Twenty minutes passed with hardly a word spoken before the elevator came to a shrill halt and the three shuffled out, accustoming themselves to the shadowy channels in the mine’s depths. The tallest, a clumsy man who looked out of place in his suit vest and hard hat, forged ahead as if wanting to get the ordeal over with. A tense half-smile seemed pasted on his otherwise smooth face. The third man, a pot-bellied old miner, wore dirty gray work clothes and brought up the rear, occasionally seeming to lag, then, as if coming to some new resolution, herding the others forward with his coughing, sweaty exertion.

A lot of damn foolishness, said the tall young man in the vest, his voice echoing through the tunnel. Here I am, Laurence K. Dolan, General Manager and Chief Engineer, up to my navel in problems, and you two get me off on this goose chase. My God, I’ve got the weight of this whole operation on me right now. Our shareholders meet on Thursday. They may just close up this mine unless I can give ‘em a reason not to.

I don’t want to be here neither, griped the Chief. Hell, I got a scandal brewing in my police force that could cost me my job.

Alright, I’m to blame, said the old miner, disgustedly. I brung you two because you’re the most important mucky mucks around here. I can’t just take anybody into this.

I don’t see why not, said the Chief with exasperation. You been yappin’ about this thing to everyone an’ his uncle. Hell, I’m surprised you ain’t called President Roosevelt.

Don’t think I didn’t consider it, answered the miner, his words coming in nervous, staccato bursts. This ain’t like nothin’ I ever come across. I left it where I found it after I chipped it part way outta the bedrock. Been sneakin’ in that shaft for more ‘n a month now, studyin’ it—it’s the damnedest thing I ever seen.

I’d imagine so, chimed in the tall young man again. A talking ghost globe—is that how you describe it?

Somepin’ like, answered the miner. "But it don’t talk, least not the same as you and me. I knew you wasn’t gonna believe me—that’s why I brung ya. No sir, it don’t talk—it reads your mind. I can’t explain it, but it’s been tellin’ me things. I mean things that’d send the shivers down ya, ‘cept I ain’t too sure I understand it."

I ain’t too sure I understand neither, said the Chief under his breath. Tom, I’m doin’ this because I told ya I would. But if we don’t find nothin’, I’m gonna have to send you down to the asylum in Phoenix. That don’t mean you have to stay there permanent, but a visit with the doctors might do ya some good.

We’re not questioning your veracity, Tom, continued Dolan in an unctuous tone, but you’ve seen what happens to men who stay underground too long. Sometimes noxious gases make men hallucinate. Sometimes it doesn’t even take that. Men start imagining things when they’re down here too long.

I ain’t crazy, responded the miner tartly, you wait and see.

A watchman waved them on as they followed the narrow gauge rails over which the ore cars travelled to bring copper-bearing rock up from the bowels of the earth. After another hundred yards or so, they came to a fork in the tunnel where the tracks split off into an even dimmer shaft. They proceeded for several minutes down this new shaft, finally halting at an entrance to a side shaft where the lights ended.

This here’s the place, grunted the miner, wiping gritty sweat from his brow. The threesome neither moved nor talked for several seconds, when the Chief spoke mockingly.

Nobody’s holdin’ you back, Tom. Lead the way. When the miner failed to move, the Chief stepped into the shaft himself.

Haven’t got all day, damn it. Got work to do when this foolishness is over.

The others followed, each feeling the moist darkness closing around them. Their footsteps reverberated through the shaft, stirring up a smoky dust that added to the gloom. Row upon row of untended timbers—their surfaces rotted into ghoulish shapes—held back the earth overhead. Twice the men scrambled over piles of dirt and rock where the shaft had caved in. All three wore masks of glossy sweat.

The Chief fell down once, causing him to drop his flashlight. He picked it up, cursing, then stood up again, aiming the beam at the far end of the tunnel. The light bounced off a dead end wall of jumbled rocks and debris.

Guess this is what we come for, he said sarcastically. That pile of rocks is sure ghostly, ain’t it? Then he added, accusingly, if you really been communicatin’ with somethin’ down here it was probably this. He bent to pick up an empty whiskey bottle from the floor of the shaft and handed it to the old miner. Reckon I seen enough here. Let’s go back up.

Just you wait, Chief, the miner cut him off before he could move. I may a took a nip or two, God knows I needed it. But I seen what I seen and heard what I heard. It’s here alright; I covered it up to keep it hid. Now turn that beam off. At the same time he began to pull large rocks away from the jumble before them. The Chief flicked off the light and the three were engulfed in pitch black. As their eyes slowly adjusted, they detected a pale, silver glow emanating from the rocks. After a minute or so, they stood awestruck as the light became bright enough for them to make out the details of the shaft.

That ghostly enough for you? asked the miner as he picked up a shovel and scooped up the smaller bits of rubble. Come over here closer, he said, catching his breath. See this? Do you both see this?!

The Chief and Dolan leaned forward as the old miner brushed the last dirt from a softly glowing globe of light about the size of a bowling ball. It was wedged firmly into the wall and refused to budge as the miner tugged at it.

These is the people I told you about, he said to the globe. We can trust ‘em.

Who are you talkin’ to? asked the Chief.

The ghost globe, responded the miner. Talk to us, he added inanely as he bent down over the globe. Then he rubbed his hand back and forth across the globe’s surface, stroking it as he would a dog or cat. When still nothing happened he grew angry and pulled at the globe with all his strength, swearing and dripping sweat.

My God, look at your hand! exclaimed Dolan. Both he and the chief stood amazed as they witnessed the miner’s hand became a skeletal claw, stripped of flesh, revealing bones, tendons, and veins. Slowly the miner pulled his hand away from the thing and the flesh reappeared, undamaged.

You see, he shouted, you see now don’t you! It ain’t my imagination. This ain’t somepin’ I made up.

Jesus, muttered Dolan, the damned thing’s real—it’s real!

But it ain’t no ghost, protested the Chief.

Whatever it is, said Dolan, it’s been here a hell of a long time. This is the bottom of the mine. The stratum here goes back two billion years.

Just then the miner stepped impetuously around Dolan and began pushing away more rocks.

More here than just that globe, he said deliberately as he worked. There’s this here box, and the globe fits into it—see how it fits right here? Look at the damned thing—it pulses, like it’s buildin’ up strength.

Then the miner reached into the dirt and extracted a small metallic wedge. I ain’t sure what this does, but it goes into a little slot here next to the globe. He bent to push the wedge into the box, then stood with his hands on his hips. Then he bent again and attempted to extricate the globe. To his surprise, it came out easily. It dimmed a little as he moved away from the cradle. He experimented by moving further and further away, watching the glow diminish. Then he cautiously returned and the glow grew bright.

That box must be its power source, blurted Dolan. It’s some sort of matrix. But Jesus, maybe it’s radioactive. You gentlemen must have heard of Madame Curie … that French scientist who died from radiation poisoning a few years back. You can’t see the stuff but it’s deadly.

No it ain’t gonna kill no one, retorted the miner. Here, take it. Maybe it’ll talk to you. He handed the globe to Dolan, then turned back to the box and discreetly removed the wedge that he’d inserted.

Dolan carefully turned the globe in his hands, noting its heft and its coldness. Like a round block of ice! he exclaimed.

Abruptly he fell silent when he heard pebbles falling in the opening to the blind shaft. The Chief swiveled and stared into the vacuum. At first he could see could see only blackness; then he was blinded by a bright blue flash as a gunshot rang out, deafening them as it reverberated off the walls. A small landslide at the back of the shaft covered the matrix.

That was to get your attention, said a curt voice issuing from the blackness. This is quite a scene; I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t walked in on this.

The Chief could make out a dim shape carrying a gun and thought he recognized the voice. I know you, he mumbled, so low that he barely heard himself. Why, hell, I can’t believe … you son of a bitch! What in the hell?

Now you know why I’ve been hanging around this godforsaken town, Chief, answered the intruder, even if I’m not welcomed. He waved his revolver back and forth, finally aiming at Dolan, who stood holding the globe with skeleton hands.

Dolan stepped forward a short distance and placed the globe on the ground. Take it. You don’t need to shoot anyone.

The globe dimmed as the intruder came forward to claim it, a faint smile on his face.

Then the blue light was switched on again as the newcomer fired a second shot, piercing Dolan’s heart. Blood spurted into the air as Dolan fell backwards. The intruder fired again, hitting the wall and causing debris from the ceiling and walls to cover them with gravel and dirt.

The gunman was distracted long enough for the miner to swing his shovel with a mighty whoosh, just missing its target. Another blue flash. The miner fell, a bullet in his head. The gunman fired again, hitting the Chief in the ribcage as he fumbled with his sidearm. Unable to see his target in the darkness, the Chief fired a round but missed badly. The man with the globe ran toward the main shaft, splashing loudly as his boots shattered small puddles of rancid mine water.

Struggling after him came the Chief, wheezing from exertion and pain. A hundred feet ahead the gunman tumbled over a pile of rubble, his face smashing against a rock. Instantly he leaped to his feet, still clutching the globe. The Chief fired again and again, but his shots skirted their target like crooked darts, ricocheting through the tunnel. When he had expended his bullets he dropped his Colt and continued the pursuit, nearly tripping over the strangled body of the watchman who had ushered the threesome down the tributary shaft half an hour earlier. The Chief took the guard’s snub-nosed revolver and headed for the elevator. He had to reach it before the gunman could fasten the door and switch on the generator.

As he came closer, he heard the straining elevator car already lifting its load, squeaking its protests every inch of the way. Too late, he murmured, too damn late. The elevator continued to strain upward, out of sight in the blackness. The Chief hesitantly fired a round up the shaft, then another; the bullets sparkled as they hit the shaft’s rock walls far above. The last bullet skidded against the wall and then thudded; after a fraction of a second, a shower of melon-sized rocks rumbled down the elevator shaft, one of which glanced off the Chief’s shoulder, snapping his collarbone. He had little time to worry about the injury. A second rock struck his forehead and knocked him unconscious.

Chapter 2

San Francisco, September 26, 1938

J.J. stepped into her office at 7:00 AM, annoyed that the phone was already ringing insistently. She toyed with not answering, but thought better of it: it might be a client. As she had expected, there was nothing but silence on the other line—no doubt another of Sir Arthur’s scare tactics. He was still angry for being shut out of her last case.

J.J. was frustrated. She couldn’t help it that her father was a hard-nosed lawman from Arizona who considered Sir Arthur a joke. She didn’t blame Sir Arthur for being offended, but his reaction was overblown. After all, she’d had no choice but to assist in her dad’s investigation, and its success was undeniable. The German embezzler they had tracked all the way from Jerome, Arizona, was about to get his day in court—at least until he had escaped again. But that wasn’t their fault.

Of course, Sir Arthur was rubbing it in. If you’d let me help you, the escape never would have happened, he had said. From now on you’re on your own. No more assistance from me! He could be so petty.

That was two months ago, and she hadn’t been able to contact him since. To add insult to injury, he was harassing her with silent phone calls. She was sure of it. Suddenly J.J. called out to Sir Arthur as if he could hear.

"You’re the most arrogant being I’ve ever channeled! Think what I’ve done for you. I took you in when nobody else would. They shut you out as if you didn’t even exist. You know that! Just look at you. If you were ever a doctor—which I doubt—you can’t practice now. You can’t write books anymore, either, not unless I type them for you. And that walrus mustache still makes you look ridiculous!"

Her speech broke off as she caught sight of her reflection in the darkened window. She turned to get a better look at herself, irked that Sir Arthur could so easily provoke her to anger. Without the scowl, mused J.J., she was rather pretty, though not in any classical sense. She had elegant cheekbones and long, straight tresses of raven-black hair. Perhaps her nose was a trifle big, she reflected, but she was attractive. People were drawn to her, not just because of her looks, but because of her powers.

Sir Arthur was constantly trying to make her feel inadequate, but she wasn’t. She was one of the best investigators in the business. She could do what no other investigator could do. Her associates were some of the finest minds in the world … or rather, the finest minds of the next world. She was no amateur, however much Sir Arthur tried to belittle her. And besides, she was pretty. She was gifted and pretty—or at least she thought for the moment—and Sir Arthur could go to hell.

Feeling somewhat appeased, she felt her scowl disappear. Just as she began to relax, however, came an urgent rapping at the door.

Sweet Jesus, she said sulkily, thinking Sir Arthur was playing more games. Just come in, you old crab—I’m sick of you!

The door opened and a young man in a Western Union uniform stood there. No crabs, ma’am, just a telegram, he said.

Oh, I’m sorry, she replied. I thought it was someone else.

He handed her the brown envelope and hesitated, hoping for a tip. When J.J. showed no such inclination, he departed with a frown.

The message was short and frightening:

Chief Jones in coma. Three others killed in mine ambush. Come now!

- Nelson Tewa, Jerome Police Dept.

It took her a few moments to process it. Her father, in a coma? If this was another of Sir Arthur’s tricks, it wasn’t funny. It was downright cruel. But what possible motive would he have to scare her like this? No, she thought, Sir Arthur wouldn’t go that far. He could be annoying, yes, but cruel? Not likely.

Feeling