by Sylvia Nobel
His bushy brows collided. “Yeah, I heard. I think maybe I saw him once or twice, but it was just a ‘hi, how are you’ kind of thing.” The repetitious drumming of his fingers on the back of the chair was the only indication that he might be growing agitated and the careful design of his answers revealed nothing relevant. Intuitively, I knew he was hiding something. I pulled the sheet back and scrawled, who is your employer?
Hesitating, his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. “Why do you need to know that?”
I watched his eyes carefully and wrote, I heard the mine was privately owned and it might be reopened soon.
The fact that he appeared to be debating as to whether to answer sharpened my suspicions. “I’ve never met the owner in person.”
“How is that possible?” I croaked.
He shrugged. “Simple. I answered an ad in the paper, talked to him by phone a couple of times and that’s about it. He pays me real well to keep greenhorns like you from wandering around his property getting hurt or falling down mineshafts. So, if you’re here hoping for a sensational story, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Undeterred, I wrote: then what’s with the yellow caution tape near the jail?
“That’s easy. My dog got bitten by a rabid skunk and had to be quarantined for six weeks.” He jerked to his feet and picked up the dishes. “Look, I don’t feel like answering any more questions. What I do or don’t do is nobody’s business. I don’t bother anybody and I don’t like people pestering me.” He clanged the dishes into the sink and then turned around and set my refilled water bottle in front of me. “It’s time for you to go.”
His sudden change of tone took me by surprise. I stood on wobbly legs and waited for the woozy spell to pass before heading to the door. Grabbing his rifle from the corner, he escorted me out, whistled for the dog and carefully locked the door behind him. In silence, he accompanied me to the gate and after he’d closed and re-attached the padlock, I smiled at him, whispering, “Thank you so much for your help. You’re very kind.”
He stared at me a few seconds with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Be smart. Don’t come back here again.”
19
Not sure whether his final statement had been a threat or a warning, I watched him and the sleek Doberman tramp up the hill in the direction of the old mine. In seconds they were lost from sight in the dense underbrush. All my instincts as a reporter were on full alert. There was definitely something odd going on here, but whatever it was would have to wait until another time. I needed to lie down. Fast. Turning, I headed for my car, only to stop in gut-chilling, mind-bending disbelief. It was gone. Impossible! Searching frantically in all directions, an air of unreality settled around me as I circled the empty spot. Was I hallucinating? No matter how I tried to will it into being, my little blue Volvo was simply not there. Panic clutched me as I sifted through the inventory of my personal belongings stashed in the trunk—purse, including wallet, credit cards and driver’s license, camera, tape recorder, spanking new laptop computer, my overnight bag, and Lupe’s. It was an effort to not dissolve into tears. What else could possibly happen to top off this most wretched weekend of my life? With dismal certainty, the knowledge that my car had most likely been stolen and driven across the border by now slowly seeped in. Who would believe it? I, too, had become an unwilling victim of the illegal immigration quagmire. A hard knot of rage burned in my belly along with renewed empathy for Champ and all the other innocent people embroiled in the ongoing, unsolvable mess.
Now what? I toyed with the idea of returning to Russell Greene’s place, but remembered that he’d locked the door. He might be gone for hours. So, what would I do? Lie at his doorstep waiting until he came back? How ironic. I was free to go and yet still a prisoner. The distant roar of a car engine grabbed my attention and I willed my unsteady legs to carry me towards the main road. Come on, come on. Where was that adrenaline kick when I needed it? Waving my arms above my head, I arrived at the mouth of the drive in time to catch a glimpse of Froggy in his pickup as it sped past. He was singing at the top of his lungs in accompaniment to the loud music blaring from the open driver’s side window. Come back! I shouted in a whisper, watching in dismay as he vanished around the bend. How strange. From what I could remember from the map, there was nothing west of Wolf’s Head but miles of desolate desert encompassing the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation bordering Mexico. What the hell was he going to do out there in the middle of nowhere anyway? Something clicked in my head. Was this the same road Walter had mentioned, the same lonesome road where Bob Shirley’s body had been found? And if that was so, what business could Froggy have out there? To barter with the Indians for fruit and vegetables? Not likely. I stared at the dissipating cloud of dust, straining to make any kind of a connection, but I couldn’t come up with a single thing that made sense. Frustrated, I turned and set out along the road in the opposite direction, with no alternative before me other than to suck it up and hike the three miles to the Pierce Ranch. Avoiding a puddle, it struck me that only in Arizona could there be mud and dust on a road at the same instant. Trudging along at a snail’s pace, I heatedly berated myself for my string of piss-poor decisions. Single handedly, I’d managed to lose my car and belongings, wreck my vacation, expose myself to the flu, fail miserably as a reporter, tank my relationship with Tally, not to mention that Dean Pierce probably thought I was the biggest flake on earth for not showing up to claim the poor injured kitten. I couldn’t help but ponder the similarities. Last night Marmalade had huddled injured and alone in her cage, while I’d lain ill and solitary in mine. “O’Dell, you’re hopeless,” I whispered, taking a swig of lukewarm water.
On the bright side, the weather was just what I’d been waiting for. In contrast to the white-hot skies of summer, it was sheer joy to walk beneath the infinite dome of rich azure blue and feel warm fingers of sunlight massage my aching back while at the same instant a cool breeze caressed my feverish cheeks. To take my mind off my dilemma and the miles I had to cover, I concentrated on the mesquite-covered hills, savoring the striking beauty of the distant mountain ranges all decked out in afternoon shades of lavender and coral accented with purple shadows taking up temporary residence in the deep ravines. A half hour later, my knees the consistency of overcooked vegetables, I panted up the far side of the rocky arroyo feeling like I’d trekked halfway across the state. In reality, I’d probably covered no more than two miles when I heard the roar of a car engine coming from behind. I swung around expecting to see Froggy’s truck but instead, felt a thrill of relief at the sight of Payton Kleinwort’s familiar bronze pickup. Waving frantically, I watched his blank expression turn to eye-popping disbelief as he pulled up beside me. “Kendall!” he shouted out the window. “What…what in the world are you doing out here?”
I rushed up to the mud-splattered truck, whispering, “Car stolen.”
He leaned out further. “What?”
Oh, man. What a bummer trying to communicate. I held my throat and motioned for him to switch off the engine, which he promptly did before jumping out to join me. Not unlike my own, his clothes looked soiled and rumpled as if he’d slept in them all night. Ruefully, I imagined he probably had. “What happened to you?” he exclaimed, looking me up and down. “I thought you said you were going home yesterday?”
Whispering and using sign language, I was able to convey my plight. He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Oh, my God. No doubt a bunch of dirt bag Mexicans took it.” He paused, seeming to search for self control before saying, “What a shitty thing to happen. Listen, I’d call the sheriff for you right now, but my cell phone is back in my room sitting on the charger. Sorry.”
Thick-headed and feeling worse by the moment, I squeaked, “Could you please take me to Dean’s place?”
Appearing uncertain, he hesitated several seconds, his eyes straying to his watch. “Um…sure, but first I’ve got to drop this last shipment off at t
he airstrip. My pilot is waiting to take these slippery little guys to Tucson. It’s not far, just a couple of miles down the road. Do you mind?”
Couldn’t the stupid snakes wait? I sighed deeply. Beggars certainly couldn’t be choosers and a few more minutes really didn’t make much difference at this point. Mustering an acquiescent smile, I allowed him to assist me into the cab. “I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he assured, his tone solicitous. He rushed around to the driver’s side and we were on our way within seconds. I could tell by his curious glances that he was dying to know where I’d been and what I’d been doing since yesterday. But being the considerate man that he was, he respected my obvious inability to talk and said nothing.
Keenly aware that the coolers behind me in the camper, thumping against the plastic window, were packed with live rattlesnakes, I was just a tad uneasy. But by the same token, that seemed a trivial worry compared to what I’d just been through. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the seat, thinking about the three vital phone calls I needed to make. First, I’d contact the hotel in California and leave a message for Tally, who was no doubt at the horse show by now. I could only pray that he would accept my explanation. Next, I’d report my stolen car to the sheriff. Now that would prove to be a challenge. I could just imagine someone at the other end trying to interpret my squeaky whispers. I’d have to impose on Payton to handle that for me, but he’d need the particulars. Lastly, I’d need to contact Ginger, ask her to go to my house, find the records of my credit cards and cancel them pronto. Whoever had my car was probably out on a major shopping spree right now. And with my driver’s license gone, maybe my identity would be stolen as well. Thinking about the hassle of phone calls, and paperwork awaiting me to sort out the mess, sent my spirits tumbling to even lower levels.
As we approached the little airstrip I’d passed yesterday afternoon, I spotted a spiffy-looking white two-engine plane waiting on the runway. It was larger and newer-looking than Champ’s faded one tethered near the shack. A fresh-faced guy who didn’t look like he was even old enough to pilot a plane was leaning against the side of it smoking. He threw his cigarette down and opened the plane’s rear door as we pulled up. “I won’t be long,” Payton said, reaching for the door handle. “Will you be okay for a couple of minutes?”
I nodded, whispering, “Do you have something I can write on?”
“Sure.” He slid out and rummaged around behind his seat, finally pulling out a white tablet. “I always keep paper around for Brett. He loves to draw.”
I mouthed ‘thank you’ and watched him run over to speak to the pilot. After a short conversation, they began unloading the coolers from the back of the camper and shoving them inside the plane. A glow of admiration warmed me, knowing that Payton’s altruistic pursuits would provide the critical antidote needed to help snakebite victims all over the country. At that moment, the tender memorial to his sister seemed quite in keeping with his personality.
While they worked, I jotted down a short version of yesterday’s events, omitting the UFO sighting, but including all the statistics on my car and Ginger’s home number. Following another brief conversation and a quick handshake, the young man climbed into the cockpit and Payton trotted back to the truck. I handed the pad to him and watched his eyes widen as he read. “You were shut in the old jail at Morita all night? What an awful thing for you to have to experience,” he commiserated with a sympathetic shake of his head, reading on. “Oh, man. If I’d known you were planning to go there I’d have warned you about Russell. It’s a bit shocking if you’re not prepared for...well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I gave him a tired nod and whispered, “Do you know much about him?”
He hesitated. “His family owned the ranch adjacent to ours. We palled around as kids, but he was always a loner and ever since his accident he keeps pretty much to himself for obvious reasons.”
Recalling his final words of warning to stay away from Morita, I reminded myself that I still needed to find out who his employer was. A sudden attack of sneezing overtook me and Payton cast me a sympathetic look as he handed me his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry you’ve had such a rotten time during your stay here. You’ll probably never want to come back this way again, huh?”
“Not likely,” I croaked.
“Well, I can’t blame you,” he said, shifting into gear. He eyed me curiously several times before saying, “Boy, that was some storm last night. I thought I was going to get washed away a couple of times. It was actually lucky for you that you were inside the jail. That’s one of the few places left with an intact roof.”
I nodded agreement and my mind slipped back to Froggy flying past me in his truck. “What’s beyond the road after the turnoff to Morita?” I murmured.
Payton frowned. “What do you mean?”
The pain of swallowing made my eyes water, so I held my throat for a moment before answering. “Is there a town?”
“Not for a long way. San Miguel is the closest, I think.” He glanced at me again. “Why?”
I grabbed the notepad again and then handed it to him. He balanced it on the steering wheel and read as he drove. “How on earth did you meet Froggy McQueen?” he asked, question marks shimmering in his sea-green eyes.
“It’s a long story,” I whispered back.
He shot me a fleeting look, but didn’t press me to continue.
By the time we reached the main dirt road, the plane was in the air. Sunlight flashed off the fuselage as it banked to the right and headed in a southerly direction. Odd. Tucson was north. But then, didn’t planes always take off into the wind?
Moments later, Payton swung onto the narrow lane leading to Dean’s ranch. “I’m assuming your insurance will provide for a rental car until…or, and I hate to say this, if yours is ever located,” he remarked, catching my eye. “I was planning to pick up Brett at the Sundog and spend the afternoon with him, but I can change my plans and drive you to Tucson so you’ll have a car to get home today.”
I wasn’t sure I could even rent a car without a driver’s license or proof of insurance. The grim reality was that without all those little pieces of paper and plastic, I was essentially a non-person. I beamed him an appreciative smile anyway, whispering, “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
He grinned. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
His selfless offer cheered me, and when Dean’s ranch house came into view, my morale improved even more. Soon this dreadful chapter of my life would be a distant memory. Eager to get to a phone, get my cat and go, I pushed my steps faster to keep up with Payton’s as he strolled to the front door and knocked. Almost immediately, Inez swung it open, then put out a hand when he stepped forward. “Meester Dean is not here. His sister calls from the big house and he goes in a hurry, saying there is much trouble.”
“Trouble?” Payton parroted. “What kind of trouble?”
She hitched her wide shoulders. “Somebody is shot.”
“Shot?” He turned to me, paling with alarm. “Oh, my God! Brett! Come on.” He grabbed my hand and yanked me back to the truck so fast I almost lost my footing several times. Spewing gravel behind us, he rocketed down the road, taking the curves so rapidly I feared we’d roll over. When we reached the cutoff, he jammed on the brakes and we both watched in astonishment as an ambulance, lights pulsing, barreled past towards the main road.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he whispered, gunning the truck towards the Sundog. Rounding the corner that led into the wide parking area, we both gasped aloud. I could hardly believe my eyes. Replacing the tranquility I’d left only yesterday morning was the unexpected sight of four Pima County sheriff’s patrol cars with lights ablaze. A white television van was parked at the mouth of the drive along with two Border Patrol vehicles, Dean’s pickup and a shiny black Lincoln. “What the hell…” Payton’s voice trailed off as he skidded to a stop. We both jumped from the truck and ran towards the group of
people gathered at one corner of the clearing.
Following on his heels, I can only describe the scene as surreal. Tinny squawking emitted by the radios in the patrol cars rose over the emotion-charged clamor of anxious tourists gathered near the white fence where the horses had been tethered during my first visit. In the center of the clearing, two uniformed Border Patrol agents, clipboards in hand, were questioning a ragtag group of eight somber-faced Mexicans sitting in a circle on the ground. A few of them drank from gallon water jugs while others smoked and talked amongst themselves.
Rob, the young cowboy I’d met on Sunday, and still wearing a BEAUMONT RANCH PATROL sweatshirt, stood nearby conversing with several other scowling ranch hands. He turned and glared at the group, his eyes burning with a look of such fierce retribution it took my breath away. His words, ‘believe me they’ll pay a price for this’ resounded in my ears. Briefly, his eyes met mine before he turned and stomped away, swatting his hat against his thigh. I couldn’t wait to find out what had happened.
On the front steps of the house, Dean Pierce, his face flushed with anger, and a petite gray-haired woman I assumed was his wife, Henrietta, physically restrained a distraught Twyla, as two burly sheriff’s deputies pushed a defiant Jason Beaumont into the rear of a patrol car. “No!” she screamed, “you can’t do this! How about a little compassion for us! How about a little consideration for our rights as American citizens?” Little shock waves rattled around inside me when I spied Champ hunched in the back of a second vehicle. Within earshot, a camera technician was focusing on a flustered-looking television reporter interviewing a slender Hispanic woman of perhaps thirty-five who bore a striking resemblance to Lupe. Well-dressed in a smartly tailored navy suit, she smoothed her slightly disheveled hair and clothing as she spoke passionately into the camera. “That’s right, Tom, Mr. Beaumont’s brutal response to my inquiries is typical of the White ranchers in this region and illustrates the violence directed towards Hispanic people, especially unarmed migrants who are simply crossing to find honest work. This racist hatred is also fueled by the government’s on-going lethal border policy. Operation Gatekeeper is a major factor. The unfair buildup of agents at the legal entry points is responsible for funneling innocent men, women and children into these deadly regions where as many as one thousand have died of dehydration and exposure in the past four years alone. Frankly, we’re sick and tired of the Border Patrol and local law enforcement agencies looking the other way when ranchers employ these vigilante tactics and commit all manner of heinous crimes against humanity….”