by Sylvia Nobel
Blink. Blink. Blink. I glared at the cell phone. There had to be some way to get hold of that little sucker. And I had to do it before nightfall. Returning to the junk pile beneath the window, I began to sort through it again. Nothing sturdy enough. Nothing long enough. I wracked my brain. What if I rolled newspapers into tight cylinders? That would give me the length I needed, but what would I use as a hook? I searched every square inch of the cell, but could find nothing useful. Fighting despair, I set about rolling the pages of paper into tubes and then inserting the ends into each other until I had a paper wand about four feet long. Then, with cautious expectancy, I fished it through the bars. It reached the phone, but its weight buckled the paper time and again until my arm ached with exertion. This wasn’t working. “Crap!” I yanked the tube back into the cell and in a fit of fury, grabbed it in both hands and swatted it against the bars until it was torn to shreds. As I watched the pieces waft slowly downward, I slid into a crumpled heap and sobbed into my hands. My little tantrum had solved nothing except to make me feel even more miserable. Relying on the miniscule part of my feverish brain that was still able to function rationally, I gathered some of the newspapers and, in the fading light of dusk, spread them on the cold, hard floor forming a makeshift bed. The remaining ones I tucked over and around me like a blanket. I also used several pieces to blow my nose. “See,” I blabbered to the empty room, “newspapers can be useful for some things.”
Huddled beneath the paper, burning up one minute and quaking with chills the next, I took tiny sips of my precious water, keenly aware that dehydration was a real possibility. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to get hold of those apples still inside the cooler in my car and the extra water. Feeling supremely sorry for myself, I drifted in and out of restive sleep packed with nonsensical, irritating dreams until I was awakened by a brilliant ray of blue light shining in my eyes. Groggy, I propped myself up on one elbow and peered out the window, thinking it must be the moon, but when the beam disappeared I blinked in confusion and rubbed my eyes, not really sure I was awake. I stared between the bars for a long time before slipping back into a deep sleep.
A strange humming intruded into my nightmarish dreams. But when I opened my eyes, I couldn’t see because of the damned blue light again. Almost blinded by its intensity, I sat up, jumping at the crackle of the newspapers falling away from me. What the hell was that? It couldn’t be the moon unless it had changed orbit while I slept and was now setting in the south. Weak and disoriented, I stumbled to the window, stretching as high as I could. My heart rate shot through the roof at the sight of something, I don’t know what, hovering just to the left of the sandstone pillars of rock. Pulsing eerily, the incandescent light brightened, turning green, orange and yellow before it zoomed upward and vanished. I should have been scared out of my wits, but instead, and perhaps it was due to my foggy-headedness, I just stared mesmerized at the indigo sky until my trembling legs refused to support me any longer. I fell away from the ledge and the sudden head rush sent me lurching back to my newspaper bed where I hunched on the chilly floor, shivering. What I had just witnessed defied logic. Either I was hallucinating or I’d just seen an honest to God unidentified flying object. Could a manmade aircraft move that fast? I acknowledged for the first time that Javier and the migrant’s bizarre stories just might be true. But what was I going to tell Lupe if I ever got out of here? Sorry, looks like your brother and uncle really were abducted by extraterrestrials. Just thinking it made me cringe. Did I dare even tell a soul what I’d seen? Everyone I knew would think I’d slipped off the deep end. Or not. Mazzie La Casse didn’t seem like a crackpot and neither did Payton Kleinwort. What about the thousands of other people all over the world who’d witnessed UFO sightings?
I tried to stop the next thought from even entering my conscious mind, but it was there front and center. Would the space creatures be coming for me now? They obviously knew I was here. Resting my forehead in my hand, I croaked, “Come and get me, you ugly bug-eyed bastards! At least that’s one way I can get the hell out of this dungeon.”
Okay, obviously I was losing it. I felt around for my water bottle and it was a real test of strength to keep from downing the entire thing. The rest of the night plodded along as slowly as a desert tortoise. The predicted rain I’d been anticipating finally arrived about three o’clock, accompanied by thunder, lightning and gale-force winds. It poured non-stop for about two hours. Ordinarily I would have relished the fresh-scented spray blowing through the narrow opening, but it only served to make matters worse by dampening my newspaper blanket. Great. I’d be lucky not to come down with pneumonia. Huddled beneath the soggy mass, rehashing what I’d just seen, I couldn’t decide whether the strange lights had been real or a product of my fever-induced imagination.
Extreme relief poured through me when the first silvery rays of dawn seeped through the bars, ending one of the longest nights of my life. But my relief didn’t last long. The pain of a thousand harpoons punctured my heart when I pictured Tally loading the horses into the trailers, checking his watch again and again and wondering where in the hell I was. Would he worry about me or harden his heart and continue the trip as planned, interpreting my absence as a sign that I no longer cared about him? Hot tears flooded my eyes. I wept until I wasn’t sure I had enough strength to sit up. Eventually, however, I did. Somehow, I had to figure a way out of here so I could explain what happened. And pray he would forgive me.
At least the maddening whine of the wind had stopped, so maybe Russell Greene would hear my calls for help. One of the worst moments of my life occurred next. When I tried to shout, nothing came out but a faint crackling honk. I bowed my head in surrender. Oh, mercy. How was I going to get myself out of this one?
The morning hours crawled by and at noon I tried yelling again, but my swollen throat would not cooperate. My water bottle was almost empty. Damn, I’d been locked away for almost twenty-four hours. Why hadn’t anyone come looking for me? Of course, everyone at the office thought I was happily on my way to California with Tally. But, what about Ginger? Wasn’t she wondering why I hadn’t come by and dropped off my new pet? Had my prior conduct convinced her that I’d become so obsessed with Lupe’s problem that I’d decided to forgo my trip so I could stay and pursue the story? No wonder I wasn’t missed. My reputation preceded me.
Mentally sucking my thumb, I languidly gazed at my phone. It was still blinking, but I knew the battery wouldn’t last much longer. My hands were so weak I could hardly roll the newspaper cylinders a second time and as I looked around the cell searching for any useful object I may have overlooked, my gaze locked onto the old mattress springs. Hey! Some of the coils in the middle were rusted and so brittle I was able to break off an entire section. By hooking the coils into one another I created a crude circle. Padding my hands with newspaper again, I wound sharp pieces of metal around my paper pole and then attached my homemade ‘net’ to the end of it after bolstering it with metal bands fashioned from the springs.
Flat on my belly, I carefully fished the paper rod through the bars in the door along the floor until I reached my target. Tensing, I lifted one corner of the coils and netted the phone. Well done, O’Dell! Basking in jubilation, I pulled the phone towards me only to hear a sound that made my insides shrink. The low battery signal was bleating. Oh, no! Not now! Pulse thundering, I reeled in my prize. Half-laughing, half-crying, I hurriedly dialed 911. Beep! Beep!
“What is your emergency?” a monotone voice answered.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out but a tiny hissing squeak.
“Yes? What is your emergency?” the female voice repeated.
“Help,” I whispered, just as the battery went dead. Staring at the phone in disbelief, my last hope shattered, I was all set to give in to total panic again when I heard a dog barking. Stilled by indecision, it occurred to me that I’d finally found a use for my worthless cell phone. With fiendish delight, I whacked it agai
nst the bars as loud as I could. Bang! Clang! Bang! The barking grew closer, rising to a wild crescendo and at last I heard a voice calling, “Attila! Good boy! Did you find that son-of-a bitchin’ skunk?”
I continued my frantic clanging and was praising God in a hundred ways when I heard the door being wrestled open. Light poured in as a big black Doberman charged inside and headed straight for me, white teeth snapping, its unholy howl filling the cramped interior. The silhouette of a tall, gangly man filled the doorway, blotting out the daylight. “Take ‘er easy, boy…I’m going shoot that bas…” Seeing me, his voice trailed off and as he moved out of the shadows, I was actually thankful at that moment that I had no voice, or I’d have surely screamed. Instead, I gaped in wide-eyed astonishment as he stared back at me from an unspeakably ravaged face that was more alien in appearance than human. The skin on the man’s face was puckered and discolored, his nose a small protrusion with two cavernous holes, and what remained of his lips barely covered his teeth. A broad-brimmed hat topping shaggy gray hair completed the disquieting picture. This had to be Russell Greene. Mazzie’s account of his ordeal in the snow rushed to mind and I could only assume that his facial disfigurement was the result of frostbite.
“Attila!” he roared. “Leave it.” The dog immediately withdrew. “Well, who the hell are you,” he growled, “and how the hell did you get in here?”
Reverting to sign language, I shook the bars and motioned for him to come closer. “Door locked,” I whispered. “Can’t get out.”
His brows plunged in disbelief, but when he reached for the door and yanked, a look of uncertainty glazed his dark eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned. How long have you been here?”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out, so I held up a finger.
“One day?” Appearing puzzled, he asked, “Where’s the key?”
All I could do was shrug.
“I didn’t think this thing would lock without the key,” he continued as if his statement somehow nullified my predicament. Turning, he reached high on the wall and came away with something in his hand, which he inserted in the lock and magically the door swung open.
My God. The key had been on the wall hook the entire time. I stumbled past him as quickly as my spongy legs would permit, unable to get outside fast enough. When the sunlight struck my face, all I wanted to do was keep running, but suddenly the dog was right in front of me, blocking my escape.
“Hold your horses a minute,” he demanded, waving his rifle. “You’ve got some explaining to do. I could have you arrested for trespassing you know. Didn’t you see the signs on the gate?” His penetrating, yet quizzical stare made me feel as if I was the one who looked out of the ordinary. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve seen you before. You were out in front of the saloon the other day talking with the lady space cadet.”
I nodded, thinking how miffed Mazzie would be by his description.
His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “So, that means you probably heard all the juicy stories about me.”
Averting my eyes, I shrugged. What rotten luck. Having no voice was definitely going to put a crimp in my plans to interview him. Pointing to my throat, I felt like a kid in a school play pantomiming my need to eat, drink, and have something to write on, until his puzzlement turned to understanding. “I don’t know what the hell you’re up to but come on,” he said abruptly, inclining his head towards the white house that looked to be at least ten miles away. Overcome by dizziness, I had to stop once or twice to rest. Finally, he swung around, asking, “What’s the matter, are you hurt?”
I held my throat and head, whispering that I was sick. When he slowed his pace, gratitude swept through me. It occurred to me at that moment that no matter how awful my overnight ordeal was, it certainly couldn’t compare to the torment this man had suffered. Weak as a kitten doesn’t come close to describing how I felt when we finally reached the cottage. After ordering the dog to stay outside, he unlocked the door and stood aside. “You’re welcome to come in…that is, if you’re not afraid.” The suggestion of bitterness in his soft tone, coupled with the defiant gleam in his dark eyes, made me hesitate. Being alone with any strange man in such an isolated setting would be cause for alarm, let alone one with such a disturbing background. But for some unexplainable reason, I felt no fear of him and could only hope my feminine instincts were correct as I boldly stepped inside the small kitchen. Though sparsely furnished with only a scarred card table, two chairs, an ancient-looking stove and refrigerator, the kerosene lamps adorning both the table and countertops gave the room a cozy effect.
“Do you have a phone I could use?” I whispered, indicating that mine didn’t work.”
“Nope.”
Of course not. “Water?” I croaked, waving my empty bottle.
He plucked a paper cup from a nearby stack and nodded towards a rusty sink. While I stood there drinking, refilling it four times, he popped open a can of soup and emptied it into a saucepan. He caught me sneaking glances at his horribly disfigured face and wordlessly pointed to another door before turning his back to me. Apparently conversation was not his strong suit, but then at that moment it wasn’t mine either.
The cramped bathroom, surprisingly clean considering a single guy lived here, was certainly one of the more welcome places I could remember visiting in a long time. One glance at my reflection in the mirror made it apparent why Russell Greene had been gawking at me as though I were a freak. My hair looked like a crimson explosion and my face was smeared with dried blood and black newsprint. The effect was so startling, so clownish, that I could not control the whispery yelps of laughter that resembled someone squeezing a squeaky toy. I clamped my hands over my mouth and giggled until tears forged white trails down my sooty cheeks. Thank God no one I knew was here to see me.
Using paper towels and soap, I washed up as best I could, smoothing the tangles in my hair and blotting at the stains on my jacket before I felt reasonably presentable again. On my return trip to the kitchen, I noticed that the bedroom, equally Spartan but neat, contained a narrow bed, throw rug and chest of drawers. On a battered desk in the corner sat a short wave radio, apparently his only contact with the outside world. Devoid of the usual amenities, like curtains, flowers and wall decorations, the house seemed kind of drab, but he’d obviously made a conscious choice to live hidden away from the prying eyes and cruelly wagging tongues of civilization.
Still standing with his back to me at the stove, he said, “Have a seat.”
I knew my resistance was at a low point when the sight of the little table already set with a spoon, bowl, water, a bottle of aspirin, pen and paper, spawned such a rush of emotion I had to hold my breath to keep from bursting into tears. When he turned with the soup pan in hand, I experienced almost as great a shock as when I’d first seen him. A piece of burlap sacking now covered the lower portion of his damaged face. As he poured out the hot soup, our eyes met briefly and I was mesmerized by the expression of profound anguish that seemed to emanate from the depths of his soul.
I wrote on the paper. You don’t have to wear that for my sake.
He eyed my message with wary disbelief. “Then you would be unlike most other people.” He pulled the second chair around backwards and straddled it. “Eat. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.”
He sounded gruff but I felt it was a cover. Men are so terrible at expressing deep emotion. His reticence reminded me a little of Tally. I’m sure the vegetable soup was good, I just couldn’t taste it, but the warmth soothed my throat and restored a modicum of energy. He waited until I’d taken the aspirin and finished half the soup before asking, “So, who are you and what are you doing here?”
All I really wanted to do was get in my car and go, but there was no urgency to leave now. Tally had left hours ago so I decided to take the opportunity at hand. “Kendall O’Dell. I’m a reporter,” I whispered. “I came here to talk to you about the Mexican national you found here last summer.”
&nb
sp; One brow edged higher. “Which one?”
I pulled the paper towards me and, without divulging any names, wrote a short account of Lupe’s dilemma, Javier’s nightmarish experience and the possible link to the man he’d turned over to Bob Shirley last June. Could he tell me exactly what the illegal immigrant said, and if he, himself, had ever witnessed anything that would shed light on the story of supposed UFO abductions in the area? Since he didn’t have a phone, how had he contacted the Border Patrol that day?
After reading the questions, he raised now guarded eyes to me. “I don’t know what he said because I don’t speak Spanish. I found him, or I should say Attila found him, just like he found you today, hiding in one of the hoist shacks. When he saw me…saw my face that is, he started yelling and kicking like a maniac, so I locked his ass inside and flagged Bob Shirley down about two miles east of here. Luckily, his partner was Hispanic and he was able to translate what the guy was saying.” His eyes flashed with self-deprecating humor. “Guess he thought I was one of the bogey men coming to get him.” He glanced at the sheet again, adding, “I don’t know anything about the alien abduction story. Trust me, I see lots of aliens around here but they’re not from outer space and they usually leave a very human trail of garbage behind for me to clean up.”
“Did you know Agent Shirley personally?” I murmured.
“Not really. Just enough to say hello. He patrolled this area all the time.”
I scribbled quickly on the sheet asking him if he’d talked to Bob Shirley again afterwards. Had he acted any differently? Did he know that the agent had died only three weeks after the incident?
