Dark Moon Crossing (10 page)

“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.