by Sylvia Nobel
She shrank under my incriminating glare. “I’ve already said more’n I’m supposed to. You know I’d tell you if I could, but this time I just can’t. I promised her….”
“You promised who?”
In pure Ginger fashion, she dramatically clapped both hands over her mouth and backed away shaking her head. Then she turned and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her. For a minute, I just sat there in a trance-like state with the engine idling, trying to make some sense of this whole disastrous evening. I toyed with the idea of pounding on her front door and demanding that she explain her cryptic statement, but one glance at the clock on the dashboard made my decision. I was leaving town in eight short hours.
I don’t even remember driving through the downtown area and I was, as my grandma used to say, ‘riding the pity train’, as I turned onto Lost Canyon Road for the second time that day. The giddy elation I'd felt this afternoon was a distant memory in the wake of the unsettling confrontations with my two favorite people. Under normal circumstances, I would have savored the vinegary creosote-scented breeze blowing in the open window and been transfixed by the splendor of the moon-splashed landscape. But not tonight. What a difference a few hours can make. I eased into the carport and trudged up the brick walkway. Inside, I listlessly flipped on lights and then made a beeline for the answering machine, energized with anticipation. Would there be a message from Tally assuring me that he wasn’t angry and that everything would be all right? Nope. My already low spirits nose-dived. How on earth had I managed to complicate my life in such a short period of time? Strange. We were all prisoners of our promises.
I wouldn’t have thought I’d be able to eat, considering my morose disposition. However, since I’d never had dinner, I raided the refrigerator. Three pieces of cold pizza and an entire pint of chunky chocolate chip ice cream later, I was if not satisfied, at least replete.
In my bedroom, as I stuffed clothing into my bag, the phrase ‘shit list’ came to mind and it drew a wry smile. How ironic. I was most certainly on Tally’s, Ginger was on mine, temporarily anyway, and if I backed out on Lupe I’d be on hers. But if I did nothing at all I’d be on my own.
It was a long mostly sleepless night spent listening to the far-off hoot of owls and the mournful wail of coyotes as my thoughts meandered from one puzzling issue to the next. Why was Ginger, of all people, being so obtuse? How was it that she and some other unnamed woman were privy to information affecting me and Tally? Why wouldn’t she tell me?
That thought dovetailed into my impending journey and his reaction to it. Okay, I’d be the first to admit that I’d gotten myself into a few jams in the past. Remembering my smug assurance that this time would be different sent a little ripple of doubt through me. How could I know that? Would the day ever come when I would react to a situation with cool detachment using my head instead of leaping blindly into the unknown? The outcome of my two previous assignments had been nothing less than astounding, but the premise of this one was downright spooky. UFO abductions? It seemed preposterous, but logic dictated that there might be some connection between the bizarre story relayed by the Mexican national in Walter’s story and this young boy. Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence to think otherwise?
I thumped my pillow and turned over, my mind swimming with last minute details. I must not forget to take my notebook computer and the charger for my cellular phone. Should I bother packing a jacket? And what if Sister Goldenrod had no room for us? What then? I really was flying by the seat of my pants and I might have to suffer the consequences of my rash decision. I sat up and clasped my knees, watching the scarlet numbers on the digital clock turn over 5 a.m.—ridiculous. I threw off the covers, showered, and then dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, brewed coffee in the kitchen. After the second cup, it occurred to me that the person I really should talk to before embarking on this trip was Walter Zipp. He had personal knowledge of the area and could clue me in on the data he’d gathered for his UFO story. The hour hand on the clock nudged six. It was too early to call him now, so I’d contact him later from the road.
I finished the laundry, washed the dishes, swept the floor and then lugged the bags to the front door. The moment I stepped outside, a rash of goose bumps chased up my arms. Wow. For the first time since I’d been in Arizona, I felt a definite chill in the air. The jacket was a good decision. After I’d loaded the trunk, I paused for a moment, savoring the supreme serenity of dawn, my favorite time of day. Not that I didn’t relish the drama of the brilliant sunsets too, who wouldn’t? Perhaps it was because all the day’s events were behind me whereas there was something exhilarating about starting fresh each morning, waiting for new adventures to unfold.
The autumn sun had taken on a different character from the fiery beginnings of a summer day when it rose harsh and bold to claim skies of flawless blue. Now it was more subtle, softer, the opaque light slowly transforming the horizon to pale turquoise. Above the towering spires of Castle Rock, feathery jet contrails shocked a brilliant white by the eminent sunrise, fanned out like silvery bicycle spokes.
Reluctantly, I pulled my gaze away and returned to lock the front door, mindful that the sounds of the desert had also changed—the subdued, repetitious cooing of the mourning doves having been replaced by the cheerful racket of the incoming winter birds.
As I backed the car out and headed down the road, mentally primed for a new challenge, there was only one thing wrong. The familiar burn of excited anticipation in my stomach was tempered by the heaviness in my heart. As much as I wanted to ignore it, I really hated to allow the cavernous rift between Tally and me to stand unresolved for three days. I reached for the cell phone and then pulled my hand away, setting my jaw. Why should I be the one to give in? For once, I’d wait until he called first. I battled with myself for another five miles or so before I felt my resistance crumbling. I grabbed the phone. “O’Dell, you’re a wuss!”
I knew from experience that the whole Talverson clan rose before dawn, so I had no qualms about dialing his number. It rang five or six times before I heard a woman’s voice say dully, “Hullo.”
Crap. Double crap. Why did it have to be his mother? I swallowed my resentment, saying sweetly, “Good morning, Ruth. Sorry to call so early, but I really need to speak to Tally.”
There was a momentary silence before she said, “Who is this?”
I did a slow burn. She knew damned well who it was. This was another one of her silly games. Anything to put a rift between me and Tally. Not for one second did I buy into the supposition that she was still suffering from the severe depression following the death of Tally’s father—a depression supposedly spawned by the reprehensible actions of Tally’s former wife. Was it my fault that I bore such an uncanny resemblance to the late Stephanie Talverson? Why couldn’t Tally acknowledge that his mother’s ceaseless hatred for the woman spilled over onto me?
To myself, I fumed, ‘Get over it, lady’, but I managed to keep my voice even, controlled. “It’s Kendall.”
“Hmmph. Hold on, let me see if I can find him.” I heard her put the phone down and then nothing for a long time. Had I lost the signal? I pulled the phone away from my ear and watched the little ‘in service’ message pulsating. No problem on my end. I pressed it against my ear again, and then I heard noises. It sounded like pots and pans clanging. Cupboards being opened and shut. Silverware clattering. The innocent sounds of breakfast preparations.
My face flamed. The old witch! She must have set the phone down and gone on about her business, never even telling him I’d called. I fought the urge to turn the car around, drive to the ranch and confront her. I couldn’t. It was almost seven o’clock.
I punched the END button and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. By the time I pulled in front of Lupe’s trailer, my heart rate had slowed to a dull roar, but the beginnings of a headache tapped at my temples. Okay, one thing at a time, I would have to deal with Tally’
s mother later.
I took a few slow breaths and got out just as the trailer door swung open. “Hi,” Lupe called out, as she shouldered a stained nylon overnight bag and kicked the metal door shut behind her. I could tell by the dusky smudges beneath her eyes that she’d probably slept as poorly as I had. We took a few minutes to work out the logistics of the trip. Since she didn’t have a cell phone, we settled on a series of hand signals to communicate and then, with the map spread out on the hood of her car, we studied the various routes and decided to stay on the Interstate for the majority of the trip. I agreed to follow her and we made plans to stop somewhere in Tucson for an early lunch.
The hour’s drive to Phoenix flew by and as we merged into the heavy traffic on I-10, I congratulated myself again on my decision to stay in Castle Valley and not take the job I’d been offered at the Phoenix newspaper. I had to admit it. I was spoiled now. Spoiled by the exquisite isolation, the friendly down-home people, unobstructed views of the mountains, fresh unpolluted air. After years of living in what seemed like little more than a furnished closet in Philadelphia, my little desert town seemed like a haven from the rush and crush of people and traffic always associated with large cities. And Phoenix was no exception. As we headed south, on the now familiar route to Tucson, I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally got beyond the miles of lookalike shopping centers, industrial parks and the endless sea of tan and pink stucco townhouses capped with red-tile roofs. Cookie cutter housing developments, which seemed to have sprung up overnight, were gobbling up the vacant desert land at an astounding rate.
Lupe’s car seemed to be straining to maintain freeway speeds. Clouds of blue-black smoke poured from her rear exhaust pipe and it appeared that any moment it might burst into flames. I was beginning to have serious doubts as to whether she would even make it as far as Tucson, so I pulled up even with her in the middle lane and gestured a questioning thumbs up while mouthing, ‘Is everything okay?’
She returned my signal with a self-assured smile so I dropped back behind her. Apparently she had more confidence in her old car than I did. It was approaching nine o’clock, so I dialed Walter’s number, hoping I’d given him enough time to sleep off what was probably a doozy of a hangover.
The line rang and I couldn’t help grinning. Was this great or what? I was flying down the Interstate at 65 miles per hour, in the middle of nowhere and was able to conduct business. How had I ever managed without this little marvel of technology?
“Yellow?” came a sleepy voice.
“Walter?”
“Last time I looked.”
“Hey, it’s Kendall. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
Big yawn. “Well, sorta, but that’s okay. Guess it’s time to haul my butt out of bed. What’s up?”
“I’m on the road heading down to your old neck of the woods for a couple of days to help out a friend, and I was thinking that if I have some time left over I might follow up on that story you were working on.”
A lot of throat clearing and then, “Which one?”
“The one about the UFO sighting.” He’d find out soon enough from Ginger that the friend was Lupe, but I’d honor my promise as long as I could.
Extended silence, then a gruff, “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The premise intrigues me.”
A short hesitation. “Where’d you say you’re going again?”
“Arivaca and Sasabe.”
“I hope you realize that you’re driving right into a powder keg that could explode at any minute.” His tone sounded ominous.
“What do you mean?”
“The Knights of Right are planning a series of protest rallies in that area this weekend.”
“I gather they are one of the White power groups you mentioned?” I asked, tightening my hold on the steering wheel as a strong gust of wind buffeted the car.
“Yep.”
“What are they protesting?”
“A couple of things. For starters, two years ago, the Feds nabbed their leader in a sting operation. I think the guy’s name is Arthur Lane, or Andrew, I forget, anyway last week he was sentenced to eight years in prison.”
“For what?”
“Other members of the group swear it was a trumped up charge of setting fire to a Hispanic church. Because it was labeled a hate crime, the Feds got involved. They videotaped a bunch of these guys practicing field maneuvers out in the desert, innocent stuff in my book, but they swooped in and arrested all of them on weapons charges, acting on a tip that the group was training to carry out some terrorist plot someplace.”
“And?”
“They couldn’t make that one stick.”
“And the second thing?”
“The ranching community is up in arms because one of their own is in trouble for flashing a phony badge and then allegedly drawing a gun on a couple of immigrants he caught cutting up some of his irrigation line. Now one of those bleeding heart liberal humanitarian groups has hired an attorney to represent the illegals in a lawsuit. Can you believe that? Man, I’m telling you, everything is upside down.”
“Sounds like a great human interest story to me.”
“Yeah, well, trust me, that whole situation’s going to get a lot dicier before it gets better.”
“So I’m gathering, but back to my original question. Got any suggestions on who I should talk to regarding our supposed extraterrestrial visitors?”
Rather than trying to give me all the particulars at that moment, he suggested that I read some of the articles he’d written that were posted on his former newspaper’s website. Awkwardly, I shouldered the phone and jotted down the web address on the pad beside me while keeping a wary eye on the road. Both lanes were choked with aggressive truck drivers that passed us like jets and bore down on the proliferation of hapless out-of-state visitors like a fleet of destroyers. It made for ticklish driving conditions and it wasn’t lost on me how dangerous it was to try and simulate an office situation while hurtling down the highway.
“If you’re going to talk to anyone though,” Walter droned on, “you’ll want to get hold of a gal in Arivaca by the name of Mazzie La Casse.”
“Mmmmm. Who’s she?” His response was drowned out by the roar of a diesel truck charging past. “What was that again, Walter?”
“I said she presents herself as a psychotherapist as well as a UFOlogist. She facilitates one of those encounter groups for people who claim they’ve been space-napped. I think they meet every now and then at the New Life Community Church in Arivaca.”
“Super. Anyone else?”
“Oh, man, I can’t remember the names of all the wackos I talked to, but some of them are mentioned in the articles. You also might want to read about the corresponding piece I was working on right before that one.”
He sounded so wistful I decided to follow a hunch. “Walter, level with me. You’re too good of a reporter to have just abandoned stories this compelling in midstream. Are you sure Lavelle’s ailing aunt is the only reason you left Sierra Vista?”
His hesitation answered my query. “It wasn’t my idea to leave things hanging, but…well, things were getting too hairy and way too close to home, so we packed it in.”
“So, what’s the scoop?” I asked, downshifting as Lupe slowed behind an old panel truck hauling a load of poorly tied together hay bales.
“Hold on a minute, I’ve got another call,” Walter said, clicking off.
While I waited impatiently for him to return to the line, I took the opportunity to take in the ever-changing vista of the Sonoran desert. On either side of the highway, irrigated farms burgeoning with lettuce and other crops I couldn’t identify, temporarily checkerboarded the parched landscape in varying shades of green. In fallow fields, tractors churned up clouds of dust that whirled away towards rock formations so devoid of vegetation that they looked like piles of crumpled-up paper bags. But even though the terrain differed greatly from the lush gr
eenery of Pennsylvania, it seemed everywhere I traveled in Arizona was like driving into a calendar picture. I loved every inch of this sun-scorched state and the expectation of exploring new territory had my stomach tingling with anticipation. Or was it hunger? Probably both.
“Okay, I’m back. Listen, I’d rather you didn’t spread this around or Lavelle will have my hide.”
Oh great. Another secret. Another promise to keep. “I’m all ears.”
“Back in July, the 14th to be exact, do you remember hearing the story of a Border Patrol agent by the name of Bob Shirley?”
I searched my memory but came up empty. “No, what about him?”
“He was found shot in the temple inside his truck on the reservation not too far away from that old mining town I was telling you about last night.”
“You mean Morita?”
“Yeah,” he said with a despondent sigh. “It was a real shocker. He was a helluva nice guy and a dedicated agent.”
“Sorry to hear that, Walter, but why is telling me this going to upset Lavelle?”
“Because he was her cousin, her favorite cousin since she was a kid.”
“I see. I gather there’s a lot more to this story.”
“Yep. For Lavelle, his death piled onto all the other problems we’d been struggling with. The last year down there we were besieged by the humongous increase of illegals tramping through our property at all hours of the day and night. They wore a goddamn path through the yard! Our place was broken into twice, once when she was home alone, and it scared the ever-living crap out of her. And then, after what happened with Bob…well, she just couldn’t handle the strain of living there anymore.”
The phone hummed loudly, obliterating some of his answer. Damn, was I going to lose the signal? I pulled the antenna up. “Sorry, Walter, can you repeat that?”
“…authorities are calling it suicide, but a lot of folks in that area aren’t buying the official explanation.”
“What about you?”
“I wish I knew for sure.”
