by Sylvia Nobel
Froggy’s truck was still parked beside the garage, but there was no sign of either him or Sister G. The lights in the mission were dark. Perhaps they’d returned to the kitchen.
Back in the living room once more, I hooked into the phone line and accessed the Internet address Walter had given me earlier. I scrolled through the options, finally finding his byline. As I read each article, waves of uneasiness chilled me. The description of the alleged ‘abduction’ related by the Mexican national sounded eerily like Javier’s improbable story, including the description of bright, pulsating lights and extraterrestrial creatures with bulging eyes. The man also provided the startling information that they appeared to have a tiny slit for a mouth or no mouth at all. According to Walter’s account, the terrified man had actually wept with relief when Agent Bob Shirley had arrived in Morita to arrest him for illegal entry. Prior to being transported back to Mexico, he’d been held for three hours in the detention center at Border Patrol Headquarters, where he’d been photographed, fingerprinted and given something to eat and drink. During that time, he had repeated the bizarre story of his encounter, telling authorities that he’d actually witnessed people being led into the dark entrance of an alien spacecraft. He claimed that two of the creatures had pursued him on foot until he’d eluded them by accidentally falling into a ravine, where he’d cowered beneath a rocky overhang frozen with fear for hours until dawn broke. Even in daylight, he’d not felt safe and had wandered aimlessly for hours before he’d found a hiding place in Morita. I looked up from the screen, frowning. Why would aliens give chase on foot? Why not beam him up to their space ship?
“Oh, come on,” I whispered under my breath. Real or not, this was spooky stuff. But that wasn’t all. Walter had written several other pieces that involved the disturbing discovery of butchered cattle and horses found on some nearby ranches, which imitated exactly a rash of mutilations on Texas and New Mexico ranches several years earlier. My pulse picked up a beat or two when the article identified one of the ranches as the Beaumont spread. Did Tally know about this? If so, he’d never mentioned a word of it to me.
A group of Arivaca teenagers, allegedly involved in the practice of witchcraft, had been arrested earlier on charges of animal cruelty involving dogs and cats and were considered prime suspects. They, however, claimed innocence and pointed fingers of blame at a local recluse by the name of Russell Greene, who lived within several miles of the mutilations. But, psychotherapist and UFOlogist Mazzie La Casse was quoted as saying, “I don’t believe for a second that these kids or any other resident of this planet is responsible. The recent sightings of UFOs in this area and northern Mexico, combined with the advanced level of surgical precision required for such expert removal of body parts from these animals, is ample evidence to me that the authorities should not jump to conclusions, but try to keep their minds open to the idea that there may be a connection. The majority of abductees report that specific medical experiments were performed on them by highly skilled beings. I believe this to be the work of extraterrestrials.”
Was this woman serious? She was someone I definitely needed to speak with. And soon. But before I contacted her, I decided to see what other information I could find on the Internet regarding the UFO phenomenon. To my surprise, the subject of UFO sightings, landings, abductions and alien contact was more widespread than I imagined. Site after site directed me to yet another site. There was a ton of information on the 1948 Roswell, New Mexico crash landing of a ‘manned’ alien spacecraft and the subsequent cover-up by the U.S. Government. Many people believed the closely-guarded Area 51 in Nevada was part of a secret government experiment involving some type of collusion between the military and the extraterrestrials. Apparently the intergalactic visitors were providing advanced technology to produce new types of aircraft. What, conspiracy theorists wanted to know, were the space aliens receiving from our government in exchange for their expertise? It all made for fascinating reading, but it was getting late. Reluctantly, I returned to the Sierra Vista site and continued to scroll through the remaining articles Walter had written concerning Bob Shirley’s death. There wasn’t too much more than what he’d told me earlier except for the fact that, because he’d died on the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation (which I learned meant ‘people of the desert’), there was some finger pointing among the various agencies regarding the initial investigation. The FBI claimed that the tribal police had contaminated the crime scene, making it difficult for them to gather evidence, the lack of which forced their conclusion of suicide. The tribal police claimed it was the fault of Border Patrol agents, who had arrived first, along with county sheriff’s deputies. Bob Shirley’s distraught wife blamed all of them for bungling the investigation.
Scrolling back several pages, I found links to other articles featuring border problems and several of them centered on the thankless job confronting many of the agents. It seemed the greatest irony that, on the one hand, these well-trained men and women were charged with protecting the borders of the United States from illegal immigrants, and on the other were increasingly called upon to rescue these same people. Scores of human rights organizations bemoaned the number of deaths that had occurred during the hottest part of last summer, eighty-five fatalities in all, and placed the blame squarely on the Border Patrol. In response to criticism, and at taxpayer expense, specially trained agents of the Border Patrol Search, Trauma and Rescue team, or BORSTAR, were routinely dispatched to patrol the deserts and waterways, such as the Rio Grande, in search of injured or dying border crossers. On the flip side, the government employed the latest sophisticated tracking and surveillance equipment and even arranged for sting operations to intercept groups of aliens entering with cunning smugglers. There were several telling quotes from one agent who agreed to be interviewed only if he remained anonymous. He revealed only that he was thirty-two, married with children and that he’d been with the agency five years. “I think I’m getting jaded and frankly, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to want to do this. This whole thing has become a public relations nightmare. Think about it. After 20 weeks of intense training at the academy and for twenty-eight thousand lousy bucks a year to start, most of the time we sit on our butts for eight hours staring at jackrabbits. But then if things do get hot, we’re the bad guys for doing our job when we do capture these jumpers crossing our borders. Countless hours are spent filling out forms before driving them back to the border, and then we’re processing the same SOBs later the same day! We’re constantly tested for firearms proficiency, but you better not draw your weapon on José or your own government will come down on your head with a vengeance. The whole mess is completely nuts.”
I shook my head. It didn’t sound like a vocation I’d be interested in. Yawning, I stretched and hit the exit key before beginning my search for a phone book. After a couple of minutes, I located a frayed copy wedged beneath a scarred end table. I looked up numbers for both Mazzie La Casse and Loydeen Shirley. Both resided in Arivaca.
I dialed the UFOlogist first and a woman picked up on the second ring. I identified myself and asked if we could meet the following morning for an interview. Also, could she arrange for me to sit in on one of the support groups she led for those suffering from the alien abduction phenomenon? I hoped I was maintaining a professional tone, but it wasn’t easy to discuss such an outlandish topic without a trace of skepticism creeping into my voice.
“I can inquire,” she replied, sounding dubious, “but I wouldn’t count on it. For the uninformed, I know this is an implausible subject, but I take their stories very seriously. Frankly, I can’t imagine any of them being amenable to discussing their very personal, very disturbing experiences in front of a reporter. For the record, Ms. O’Dell, these are not uneducated people. Many of my clients are highly educated professionals like doctors, lawyers, teachers and even law enforcement officials, not a bunch of crazies as you might think.”
“I never said they were. If it will help
though, I can assure them of anonymity.”
“We’ll have to see,” she replied, her tone still wary.
I decided not to push further on the phone. “I’d be glad to buy you breakfast. Any suggestions on where?”
Her high-pitched laugh had a nasally quality. “There aren’t a lot of choices. How about I meet you at La Gitana. There’s a small café there, besides the saloon. Do you know where it is?”
“I do. What time?”
“Nine-thirty would be most convenient for me.”
“See you then.” Next, I dialed the number for Loydeen Shirley. There was no answer, no answering machine message, no voice mail. Okay. Perhaps a personal visit tomorrow after breakfast was in order.
I cradled the phone, glancing at my watch. Lordy, I’d tied up the phone line for almost three hours. I closed the lid and with computer in hand, retraced my steps towards Javier’s room to find Lupe. The soft clink of flatware and the murmur of voices from the kitchen stopped me. I stuck my head around the corner, and even though I’d been expecting it, a shock of surprise zigzagged through me. The room was overflowing with people of all ages, and not just Mexicans. Among the tables of copper-skinned people sat a family of Orientals as well as swarthy Mediterranean types and one White family with young children. Considering that there must have been forty people in the room, it was relatively quiet. I wondered how they had all arrived without me being aware of it. A few looked up and stared at me with apprehension, but most kept their eyes averted or concentrated on their meal. The odor of sweaty, unwashed bodies almost usurped the aroma of food.
“Hi,” said a sweet-faced blonde girl of perhaps four seated alongside a younger boy at the table closest to me. A weary-eyed woman with an acne-splotched complexion, who couldn’t have been much older than me, cradled a baby in her arms. On second thought, she may have been younger than twenty-nine, and that gave me pause.
“Hi, yourself,” I said, returning the child’s friendly grin. “Getting enough to eat?”
“I yike cownbwead,” she said, stuffing a much too large piece in her mouth, leaving a trail of yellow crumbs down her arm and onto the floor.
“Darla,” her mother scolded, slapping specks from the child’s lap. “Mind your manners.”
Across from them, a bearded guy with long stringy hair, wearing torn jeans and a soiled T-shirt, looked up at me, his inquisitive eyes reflecting my own curious appraisal. I probably didn’t look like I belonged here. He did. ‘Do you come here often?’ sounded like a really lame question, so I substituted, “Sister Goldenrod sure knows how to whip up a fine meal.”
The woman crossed herself and hugged the sleeping baby to her breast. “Amen,” she agreed, nodding. “I don’t know how we’d have managed these past few months without her help. There just ain’t been a lot of good-paying jobs to be got around here lately.”
I wondered why they would choose to live in such a remote place that offered few employment opportunities in the first place. My gaze traveled around the room. I knew why the others were here. They probably hadn’t eaten a square meal in days, maybe weeks, maybe never. But the woman’s husband, if he was that, looked able-bodied. His thin lips stretched into a sardonic gap-toothed grin making me think of Sister Goldenrod and Froggy. People around here were in serious need of dental work.
He crooked his finger at me, so I leaned down. “You wanna know why there ain’t much work around these parts anymore?”
I already knew, but asked, “And why is that?”
“Because these goddamn border-jumping assholes will work for fly shit and that leaves nothin’ for the rest of us,” he whispered, his face reddening with anger.
I drew back. Interesting vocabulary and really bad breath. Boozy breath, which would help explain his belligerent attitude. I looked around to see if anyone else had overheard his remark, but it didn’t matter. It was doubtful that anyone in the room spoke English.
But in a sudden about-face, his expression altered. “Evening, Sister Goldenrod,” he crooned, staring over my shoulder, looking downright angelic. “Mavis an’ me and the kids sure do thank you for sharing what little you have with us and may the Lord reward you for your kindness.”
“Thank you, Tom,” she replied, reaching out to ruffle the little boy’s hair. “I certainly hope so.” She waddled over to the stove to converse with Celia in Spanish while another heavy-set Hispanic woman, whom I had not seen before, began clearing the tables. I was anxious to ask Sister G some pointed questions about how she justified harboring illegals on American soil, but this was not the time or place.
I returned the young girl’s goodbye wave and started down the hall again to resume my search for Lupe. She’d been in with Javier an awfully long time and I wondered why. When I entered the room, my question was answered. Sprawled fully clothed on the cot, she lay sound asleep. When I eased the closet door open, I saw Javier’s small form huddled under a thin blanket, his thumb firmly tucked in his mouth. At least now, he looked to be at peace. Would he sleep the innocent sleep that a child should, or would nightmares of his recent ordeal bring him screaming to consciousness? I hoped not.
I pulled a threadbare quilt over Lupe and tiptoed out. Hitting the sack sounded pretty good to me too. I’d slept very little the previous night and it had been a tiring, stress-filled day.
I stopped by the kitchen again to ask where I’d be sleeping and noticed that the family with the children was gone and only one other table was still occupied. Sister G was nowhere in sight. I did my best to communicate my question to Celia and she pointed towards the side door. I needed to get my things from the car anyway.
The dim yellow glow from one bug-encrusted light fixture did little to penetrate the thick gloom. I closed my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dark. Shouldn’t the moon be up by now? Groping my way to where I’d left my car, I realized that a dense blanket of clouds had rolled in, obscuring the ever-brilliant starlight that usually dominated the Arizona night sky. The wind had picked up again.
The dark outline of my Volvo was only a few yards ahead of me when I stumbled over something. Gasping with surprise, my car keys clutched in one hand, the computer in the other, I had only a fraction of a second to react. Rather than drop the precious laptop, I raised my right hand to catch myself. I slammed into the car window and the keys went flying. “Damn.” Fighting off the sense of disorientation, I set the computer case on the ground. Where was the moonlight when I needed it? And, of course, my flashlight was inside the locked car.
“What else could possibly happen today?” I fumed, wondering what I’d tripped over. With a groan of frustration, I dropped to my hands and knees and began patting the ground. This latest mishap might have been comical except it hadn’t exactly been a red-letter day so far. And it was no one’s fault but mine. In my search, I encountered something round, about the size of a baseball. It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was an orange, no doubt dropped during Froggy’s produce delivery earlier. Cripes, I could have broken my neck.
Flat on my belly, my head and shoulders underneath the car, my fingers finally closed around the elusive bunch of keys. “Thank God,” I muttered with relief, pushing to my knees. But before I could get to my feet, the crunch of footsteps in the gravel froze my movements. The clamor of angry voices coming at me out of the darkness reversed the heavy silence. Instinctively, I stayed down out of sight.
“Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m running this place on a wing and a prayer, trying my best to redeem myself and do something useful with the rest of my life. Why can’t you do the same?”
“Give me a frickin’ break. Try and remember who you’re talking to. You mess with the Frogman and you’re gonna be real sorry, Sister Madam Reverend Goldenrod. Christ Almighty, where’d you come up with such a corny name anyway?” The raspy voice ripe with sarcasm belonged to Froggy McQueen and I wasn’t surprised when I heard Sister G seethe, “Goldenrods just happen to be my favorite flow
er, as if it’s any of your business, and what gives you the right to speak to me like that, you cretin?”
“Oh, please. Get down off your pious sanctimonious horse. You might be able to fool other people, but that high and mighty shit won’t work on me.”
She let out a squeak of anguish. “Look, I can’t pay you the full amount right now, you’re gonna have to give me more time.”
“Yeah, right. Like you ain’t got additional sources of income.”
“What are you getting at? You mean the pittance I get from those lousy donation letters? Not hardly.”
“Froggy’s running out of patience.”
“Listen to me. I’m expecting Sister Agatha and some of the other big shot church elders from Tucson to be here sometime next week. If everything goes as planned, if somebody doesn’t open his big yap and mess things up, there should be a sizable contribution to the mission.”
“That would be mighty fine indeed. You just remember our agreement.”
“I’m sure you won’t let me forget.”
“Hey, I don’t expect any more than what’s due me.”
“What’s due you? This is nothing more than goddamned blackmail.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” he whined. “I been doing my best to help you out around here and my silence on this particular matter simply means a small supplement to my living expenses. Just consider it a deposit to the National Bank of Froggy.”
“It’s blackmail, you…you miserable drunken….”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupted, his tone hardening. “Let’s not say anything we’ll be sorry for.”
Sister G could only splutter as he strolled into the dim circle of light wearing a smug look of triumph. He banged through the side door, so I edged my head high enough to make out Sister G’s lumpy silhouette shuffling off in the direction of the little wooden shacks behind the church.
