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?
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?
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