Dark Moon Crossing (5 page)

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 greenery 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 14
^th
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.”

The note of glum skepticism in his voice kicked my pulse up a notch.
“What makes you say that?‌”

“I don’t know. There’s just something fishy about the whole thing.”
He sounded grumpy.

“Like what?‌”

“Like, what in the name of glory was he doing out there on the Indian
reservation so many hours after his shift change?‌”

“So, he was officially off-duty. Who found him?‌”

“One of the tribal police. He was parked on a really rough, isolated
stretch of dirt road that runs past Morita and comes out near Newfield not far
from the San Miguel Gate. It had been dragged just a few hours earlier and….”

I interjected, “What do you mean dragged?‌”
“Border Patrol vernacular. The agents drag tires behind the
vehicles to blot out footprints and such. That way when they’re looking for
signs of jumpers, they can tell approximately when the last group crossed and
how many. Although, according to the stories Bob told us, these people are
wising up.”

“How so?‌”

“He filled me in on some of their tricks. Smugglers especially, employ
some pretty crafty maneuvers like gluing scraps of carpet to the bottoms of
their boots. The tribal police call ‘em carpet walkers,” he added as an aside,
“but now these people are getting really inventive and using the same type of
boots as the Border Patrol to throw agents off the track. One resourceful guy
even carved cow prints on the soles of his boots.”

“Wily coyotes,” I murmured, “but getting back to the situation with
your wife’s cousin, were any footprints found near his truck?‌”

“Oh yeah, a bunch. It could be that a group of crossers mistook him
for their ride, rushed the truck and who knows what happened from there. But
the locals think he was most likely ambushed by drug traffickers.”