Dark Moon Crossing (24 page)

Never taking their eyes off me, they slammed out the
doors and strode in my direction. I drew myself up to my full height and
returned their hostile glares. “Something I can help you boys with?‌”

Jason’s nostrils flared. “You headin’ out of town
now?‌”

Even though my heart was throwing itself painfully
against my ribs, I answered coolly, “I can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Cutter an’ me think it is.”

“Cutter, huh?‌” I glanced at his companion, aptly
named I thought as he scraped the tip of a knife blade beneath one fingernail.
His menacing stare wilted my insides, but I stood my ground. “It’s surprising
to know you two actually
can
think.”

They exchanged a viperous look and moved closer.
Backed against the car, I hastily looked around for a witness. Of course, not
a soul was in sight.

Jason’s lip curled up on one side. “My folks might
think you’re hot shit, but the rest of us don’t want a wetback-loving reporter
snooping around sticking her pointed nose in places it don’t belong.” I took
offense at the pointed nose remark. “So, you better be careful,” he continued,
baring his teeth, “or it might get cut clean off.” Cutter’s guttural laugh was
chilling as he swiped the knife in front of his nose.

These guys had seen way too many cop movies. I
narrowed my eyes at Jason. “Don’t threaten me, you little punk.”

Still smirking, he slapped his buddy on the back and
they sauntered towards the saloon entrance. When he reached the archway he
swung back, very deliberately aimed his index finger at me and then depressed
his thumb as if he were firing a gun.

The pea soup I’d hoped would make me feel better
congealed in my belly like a cold lake as I cruised towards Sasabe, still
shaking with anxiety-charged fury. My face burned and my arms felt boneless as
yet another megadose of adrenaline drained from my system. Should I turn
around and drive to the nearest sheriff’s office and report the incident?‌ But
what had they really implied?‌ Would the authorities accept the word of a
stranger against one of their own or dismiss their actions as youthful fun?‌
But these weren’t just overgrown boys playing schoolyard bullies. Like the
first time Jason and his cohorts surrounded my car, I’d sensed tangible danger
behind their eyes.

The consternation swirling inside me rivaled the wind
buffeting my car. Walter’s instincts concerning his wife’s late cousin might
just prove to be true. It wasn’t lost on me that this latest altercation had
something to do with my visit to the Shirley household. Cutter had scurried to
rat on me to Jason. Did his involvement mean that the rumor linking Bob
Shirley to a White power group was true?‌ And if so, what were Jason and Cutter
afraid that I might have discovered?‌ The chilly sensation lodged in my gut
gave credence to the intuitive feeling that I’d accidentally backed into something
far bigger than Lupe’s story. Even though I’d apparently struck out on her
behalf, my scheduled trip to Morita had suddenly taken on significance beyond
that which affected Lupe. Would the elusive caretaker be able to shed any new
light on the Mexican immigrant’s tale of alien abductions?‌ Would Morita hold
the key connecting Javier’s story to Lupe’s missing relatives?‌ And if it did,
what had frightened Bob Shirley so much that he refused to discuss the incident
ever again?‌ Frustration piled onto my feelings of defeat. This was a story I
ached to follow up on, but my time to bring home any significant information
was running out. And I had to be honest with myself. As much as the whole
situation intrigued me, did I really want to return here and embroil myself in
what could prove to be another dangerous assignment?‌ And in light of Lupe’s
deception concerning her illegal status, did I really want to take that risk
for her?‌ No, I convinced myself, the trip to Morita was now more for my own
curiosity.

The tiny community of Sasabe was just that. Tiny.
And it was for sale. A prominent sign offered it for three million dollars.
Cruising along the peaceful street devoid of traffic, I noticed that a
renovation effort was underway in an attempt to spruce up some of the old adobe
houses and buildings. Some sported fresh pink and turquoise paint. A few
parked cars and two elderly Mexican women sitting on a bench in front of the
Post Office adjacent to a general store were the only signs of life. I
couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live here unless it was to enjoy
total silence. The road curved sharply right, dipping down past a small house
surrounded by a sturdy fence topped with concertina wire, guarded by two wildly
barking dogs and a scowling gray-haired woman who never took her eyes off me.
When I reached the top of the incline, a large red brick facility with a white
gabled roof came into view. A large sign announced that I’d reached the U.S.
Port of Entry and another in English and Spanish, welcomed me to Mexico, where
the pavement abruptly ended. A wide dusty road continued southward towards the
twin village of Sasabe, Sonora. I drove back and waved at the bored-looking
U.S. Customs official in the guard station as I passed by. There wasn’t
another car or truck in sight. The formidable white barrier separating the two
countries snaked along the rough terrain until it dissolved into nothing more
than a puny range fence. Easy entry into the country just a few hundred yards
away from the official crossing. What a joke. I shook my head. Unless enough
agents could be hired to stand shoulder to shoulder, forming a human shield
extending along the entire two thousand mile border, there was no way on earth
there could be enough manpower to stop the tide of illegal aliens.

I backtracked through town and moments later turned
onto a dirt lane and bounced along, heading west. Noting the herds of cattle
munching on the grassy hillsides, I presumed that I had re-entered the Beaumont
property. After traveling only half a mile, I drove past a square, windowless
building topped with a windsock, blowing straight out in the strong
southwesterly wind. At the tip of a tiny airstrip that had been carved out of
the desert floor, sat a faded red and white plane that I assumed belonged to
Champ. I had a quick flashback to life in my cramped apartment in Philadelphia
this time last year and found myself in awe of someone owning so much property
that he had to use an airplane just to visit the boundaries.

When I glanced again at the open map on the passenger
seat, a little jolt of surprise nudged me as I realized that the ghost town of
Morita lay nestled in the shadows of the crooked stack of wind-sculpted rocks
known as Wolf’s Head. I wondered why Payton had never mentioned that fact.
But, of course, I’d never asked him.

After another mile or so, I buzzed over a cattle guard
and passed an overgrown track to my right. Holding the steering wheel in one
hand, I studied the map again. That should take me back to Dean’s place. Even
though it seemed much further away, Morita was actually less than three miles
from his ranch house.

A hazy rooster tail of dust ahead signaled another
vehicle coming my way. Since the road was narrow, I pulled over to the right
to allow what I could now identify as a Border Patrol SUV to pass. A little
ripple of uneasiness skimmed along my spine when I recognized the driver. Hank
Breslow. He stopped and signaled for me to roll down my window. “Are you
lost?‌”

“No.”

A prolonged hesitation then, “Where are you headed?‌”

I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was because
of the way he’d treated Lupe or perhaps it was the glint of circumspection in
his eyes. Whatever, I didn’t really want to tell him. But, he could easily
follow me and find out. “Morita.”

“Why are you going out there?‌”

“I need to get a few shots of the area for my
article.”

Appearing skeptical, he advised, “I’d be real careful
if I were you. There are a lot of open mine shafts around and I don’t think I
need to mention that a woman as attractive as you in such a desolate area along
the border could be inviting trouble in more ways than one.”

I don’t know why, but I sensed that he didn’t want me
going to Morita. “I appreciate your concern. I’ll be extra careful.”

He didn’t look thrilled with my answer. When he
didn’t move I waved farewell, put my car in gear and drove on half expecting
him to follow. Several glances in the rearview mirror confirmed that he
hadn’t. Very strange guy. Or was I just overly suspicious?‌

If I hadn’t been traveling so slowly, searching for
the cutoff to Morita, I wouldn’t have seen the brilliant flash of red out of
the corner of my eye. I braked and backed up, staring at the vibrant clusters
of scarlet tucked away beneath the grove of cottonwood trees to my left. It
was too late in the season for desert flowers. Curious, I pulled the car to
the side of the road and got out.

A sense of wonderment engulfed me as I encountered an
unexpected carpet of green grass encircled by manicured shrubs and clay pots
brimming with flowers. Above my head, the soft whisper of leaves added to the
feeling of total serenity. What was this place hidden away in the middle of
nowhere?‌ My question was soon answered when I spotted a stone marker decorated
with elaborately carved angels. Two large plastic vases filled with fresh
roses stood to either side. Intrigued, I sat down on the little wooden bench
opposite it and read the inscription.
Sleep at last in blissful peace,
darling Laura. In death lies the promise of new life.

How touching that Payton had gone to all this trouble
to commemorate the place where his sister’s ashes had been scattered.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t deny feeling a slight sense of uneasiness when I
recalled Bethany’s cryptic assertion that Payton suffered from an obsession
regarding his sister. I shrugged it off. Obsession might be too strong of a
word. Deep devotion might be a better description. But as I again viewed the
flowered oasis, the word shrine seemed more and more appropriate. Okay, I
admitted to myself, maybe he was just a little obsessed. I left with a cold
knot in my belly, not knowing quite what to think.

Behind the wheel again, the winding road became
rougher, narrower, and suddenly dipped into a deep rocky arroyo. By the time I
climbed back up to the other side, the crumbling remains of several structures
crouching on the grassy slopes beneath the massive overhang of rocks caught my
attention. The road curved ahead, vanishing into the distant hills, so I took
the next cutoff and traveled south perhaps a quarter of a mile until the road
finally dead-ended. All right! I’d finally made it to Morita.

One house, perched at the top of a small rise looked
livable, so I surmised that it was probably the caretaker’s residence. I
pulled up to the gate and stared at the sign posted prominently in large
letters. KEEP OUT!! A second one warned NO TRESPASSING UNLESS YOU CAN CROSS
THIS PROPERTY IN TEN SECONDS. MY DOBERMAN CAN DO IT IN NINE. Well, that
wasn’t much of a welcome. Yet another less intimidating sign invited me to
honk my horn and wait. Good plan. However when I honked, no one appeared. I
leaned on my horn again. Still no response. Was the brisk wind carrying the
sound away?‌

The heavy padlock on the gate latch guaranteed no
entry. I sat for a moment debating. I didn’t want to trespass, but I wasn’t
about to turn around and go home empty-handed after coming all the way out
here. My gaze followed the fence line. It would be an easy enough task to
climb through the barbed wire and walk to the house, which looked to be no more
than a quarter of a mile away. On a whim, I powered on my cell phone, and then
gawked in disbelief. Out here, literally in the middle of nowhere, the roam
signal pulsed back at me. That knowledge made me feel a lot more secure as I
parked the car beside a Mexican blue oak not far from the gate. I clipped the
phone to my waistband and grabbed my jacket and a bottle of water from the back
seat.

Opening my car door against the force of the wind
roaring down the slope through the gaps in the canyon walls presented somewhat
of a challenge. Man. It had to be blowing thirty or forty miles per hour and
the mournful keening increased the sense of utter desolation. Russell Greene
must be a real recluse to live voluntarily in such an isolated spot. But,
conjuring up the story of his gruesome survival experience, along with having
witnessed his cruel treatment by the boys in Arivaca, made such a decision
understandable.

There were no signs of life. Just to be safe
though, I locked my purse, camera and laptop computer in the trunk with my
overnight bag before setting out. I searched along the fence until I found a
section where the wire strands were a little further apart. Even so, I still
managed to tear a hole in my jacket and the thigh of my jeans when I squeezed
between them. “Crap,” I muttered, pushing uselessly at the frayed material.

As I trudged towards the white clapboard house, I
couldn’t stop staring at the dramatic backdrop of sheer rock looming tall over
the last vestiges of this once flourishing mining town. Like a lot of the old
ghost towns in Arizona I’d visited with Tally, this place had a palpable
haunted feel to it. Was it because the decaying ruins created a somber
atmosphere, reflecting the disappointments and shattered dreams of the people
who’d once lived here?‌ The wind was making my nose run and I sneezed violently
a few times as I scaled the hill and marched up disintegrating stone steps to
knock on the front door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. My spirits
plummeted, acknowledging this was my last opportunity to bring home at least a
shred of hope for Lupe. I walked around the side of the house and stopped in
my tracks at the sight of the gun-metal gray pickup parked in a garage with
only half the roof remaining. If he was home, why wasn’t he answering?‌ I
pounded on the back door, calling, “Mr. Greene?‌ Are you there?‌ I’d need to
speak with you for a few minutes. It’s important.”

The silence was deafening. I backed away. There were
no power or phone wires connected to the house, but a propane tank stood nearby
and, on closer inspection, a small electric generator sat inside a small
covered enclosure that was probably used to run a well pump located just yards
from the house.

To my right, higher on the slope, I could see the dark
cavity of the old Yellow Jacket Mine flanked by a tangle of rusting equipment.
Eight or ten dilapidated houses snuggled below in the small valley, but on the
opposite knoll stood several intriguing-looking adobe buildings, some with
graceful arches associated with early Spanish architecture. I glanced at my
watch, noting that I still had a half an hour to kill. Might as well look
around a little bit. I wished I had brought my camera because the lighting was
spectacular. Amber shafts of sunlight streaming through cracks in the ruptured
rock face, contrasted with the violet shadows cast by the amazing jumble of
volcanic formations. I craned my head trying to make out the particular
configuration Payton had mentioned that gave the place its name, but guessed
that I wasn’t standing at the correct angle to see it.

Returning to the bottom of the hill, I poked around a
couple of the shacks, amazed that the remains of frayed curtains fluttered at
some of their windows. Inside them, I found bits and pieces of splintered
furniture and rusting appliances. The corrugated tin roofs, rattling and
banging in the wind, provided an off-key symphony. Like most of the other
played-out mining towns in this state, Morita’s remaining structures would one
day be only a memory, swallowed up by erosion. But maybe not. If Walter was
correct, and mining interests were investing the capital needed to reopen the
mine, Morita might have a second chance at life. Starting up the other hill,
my goal was a sturdy-looking sandstone building a few hundred yards away. At
the top of the embankment, a savage gust of wind almost knocked me off my
feet. I arched a look at the darkening band of clouds rising up over the
western horizon. Some pretty serious weather must be blowing in. “Way to go,
Grandma,” I muttered, thinking that her ‘red in the morning’ proverb might
prove to be correct after all. I’d check the forecast when I returned to the
car.