Devouring Moon

Farrell had known Loy Voirin since infancy. How much hell had they raised? Both men shared a disruptive track until high school graduation. Seeing Voirin Farrell recognized what an alternate life would've bestowed. He wondered whether Voirin saw same.

For the first time since returning above the equator Farrell entered the United States. He met Voirin in T-Town, a southern Arizona city midway between Solipaz and their hometown of Mallet. Two differing impetuses carried them from Mallet. Farrell's ultimately left him a rarely returning visitor, while Voirin's lured him back and seized him.

Unlike Farrell's parents who stressed escaping Mallet and its mines, Voirin's people preferred itinerant existences. Whereas Farrell exhausted his rowdy phase and advanced, the Voirins used theirs as platforms into further shiftlessness. Eventually few Voirin males hadn't wound up in county lockup or state prison. Rarer was the Voirin woman who escaped slatternly designation.

Loy Voirin barely sidestepped the complete expected because the judge presiding over his B&E case extended a choice: a three year commitment or five in Florence, the main Arizona penitentiary. Only basic math diverted and spared that skinny Voirin.

Honorably discharged and possessing usable skills, he sunk back into Mallet. There, across the last three decades, Voirin married, raised children, toiled head down.

Until the first West Coast Baby Boomers sought relief from lives of their own indulgences, Mallet retained core small-town values. The kind pandering politicians love lionizing. Mallet was as hinterland America is often wont, stale, sour, and regularly unsavory. As Farrell well remembered. Voirin reflected all that and only smiled after effort.

Unremitting Arizona sun hadn't just painted his face, but had thumbed in its harshest results. Where Farrell's face had character or worry lines, Voirin's dealt with seams which threatened becoming crevices. His blue eyes had dimmed so that new acquaintances could nearly mistake them for gray.

Broke as Voirin's face was, his body showed worse. Resist as he tried, the Mallet resident stooped. He gestured carefully. Strides stuttered into shuffles.

Voirin's early ravages horrified Farrell. Side by side it would've been hard believing these two were contemporaries. Peers for awhile. Farrell hid his surprise well. Or accustomed to astonishing, Voirin was practiced at ignoring it.

After catching up -- Farrell's years purposely abridged -- they got down to the nitty-gritty. Voirin operated an auto salvage yard. Farrell required a trustworthy wheelman driving beaner-type wheels in Mexico. Risk was slight. However should matters fuck up, his accomplice also needed south of the border smarts as well as a vehicle whose abandonment wouldn't pain him. Several thousand cash dollars sweetened Farrell's offer. The money merely solidified a foregone conclusion.

Voirin conjured the primer-swathed piece of shit that ferried Maria. Afterwards he was to park nearby, keeping ears pricked for Farrell's walkie-talkie summons. Despite Farrell's utmost confidence, he loaned Voirin his backup piece. A simple precaution because after all they rolled in Mexico.

Maria scuffed onwards. Farrell followed her invisible progress until distance hushed her tracks.

Had one minute or many passed when Maria's rescue whistle shrilled? Farrell launched himself into the street and ran towards clean noise. He clicked on his flashlight and squawk box then freed the gun against his lower spine. A knowing thumb released the weapon's safety.

Quickly he trained his wavering beam on two people. Maria, who continued blowing lungs through the whistle, and her assailant. The second woman was short, her face wizened and sun-burnt, clothed in dirt-crusted rags. She also stood stock-still, befuddled and grasping a blood-smeared boning knife.

Farrell yelled Maria's name. Her whistle bounced on the ground.

By the amount of blood drenching Maria's anterior, she should've been quite dead when Farrell arrived. Instead a thick leather-backed membrane pooled with sangre de la carnicería circled her tiny neck. Another larger piece of tough leather fashioned into a vest defended her torso.

In Spanish he ordered the attacker to drop her knife. Likely confused, no, incredulous, the woman blinked between reprieved victim and armed rescuer. She also held onto the knife. Farrell didn't repeat himself. He aimed low and shot.

Piercing as the whistle had been, his gun was solid thunder. The woman buckled from the bullet and her knife clattered away. Farrell shone his light on dancing metal. He ordered Maria to stand over it. She dumbly complied. That done he refocused on their prisoner. Wound shock immobilized her. Feeling safe, Farrell tucked the flashlight under an arm, unhitched his walkie-talkie and summoned Voirin.

No chatter, just "Roger!" from the driver. Re-hitching the device, Farrell swung light on Maria. Her shock had deepened. She shivered. He flashed back on the prostrate woman. The stain on her calf-length skirt hadn't spread much. Twiggy as she seemed Farrell couldn't imagine the lucky shot that singed muscle and missed bone. It was better this way. Fewer possible complications like her dying on the ride towards Solipaz' hospital.

Curtailing other two-legged complications, Farrell shot twice into night sky. His first discharge surely roused the barrio's curious. His next two ought discourage them until morning. If not forever.

Headlights kicking up dust approached. Voirin's pickup truck lamps disclosed an unusual tableau. Blood-splashed Maria numbly stood off in a corner, an ancient deflated woman sprawled at black looming Farrell's boots. What this weird desert scene lacked was Inez there to photograph then tweak it into art. Too bad.

The pickup stopped rattling. Voirin cut the motor but kept the headlights on.

He asked, "Did I hear some shooting?"

"Sure did," Farrell said. "Cans."

The driver laughed and almost stepped out. Farrell froze him in the cab by asking whether his beaner wagon contained any paper bags. Voirin rummaged, found one. Farrell instructed he walk towards Maria. Using finger and thumb pinch the knife at her feet by its butt end then drop it in the bag. Afterwards escort shaken Maria into the truck cab.

"But first toss me your rope out of the bed," Farrell said.

Voirin's boots finally hit dirt. He underhanded a coil of rope and followed earlier commands. While Voirin retrieved weapon and woman, Farrell gave Maria's assailant one fast frisk. Satisfied her threadbare tunic and skirt held nothing more lethal than vermin, he twisted the woman on her stomach and commenced tying. He left generous slack between tightly bound wrists and ankles. He ignored her whimpering. She was a light bundle. One he dumped in the truck bed. Finished, Farrell sat inside with Maria and Voirin.

On the quaking return to Solipaz Voirin offered Farrell a beer. He'd squirreled a six beneath the bench. Four cans of which remained.

Farrell should've admonished his friend. The beer, no, drinking beer while waiting, could've jeopardized this evening. It was a bonehead play Voirin ought have outgrown. ... But Maria came out unscathed. Someone dangerous had been thwarted and captured. So why not a cerveza or two towards the hospital? Probably his night's sole reward.

"Say, Bryce, you can pass me one too," Voirin said. "Be much obliged. As usual."

They parked just beyond the hospital emergency room entrance. Noisy as their arrival was, it attracted no attention. While Voirin aided Maria, Farrell slung her attacker over a shoulder and lugged inside.

They proceeded past a thin, mild, balding priest. One apparently lost in contemplating another's eternity. He smoked a cigarette oblivious to their short caravan. By his somberness, the raiment covering his clerical black, Farrell assumed he'd recently finished giving last rites.

The night admitting nurse shook off tired disinterest when she saw Maria. Under fluorescence their bait resembled a cheesy horror movie's fatal victim. The nurse, whose name tag read "Vega," hardly noticed the skirt and huaraches dangling over Farrell's chest.

He rapidly explained zombie-like Maria only suffered shock; that the bundle he hefted required urgent care. Sister Vega ultimately grasped a human filled those rags. She directed Farrell to a gurney where he unloaded her face down. Voirin helped Maria settle onto an unoccupied cot.

While Sister Vega paged a "Doctor Bernal," Farrell untied Maria's attacker then flipped her face up. Beneath stringy white hair dried tears had etched tracks on her dusty cheeks. Hateful black eyes stared murder at him. Farrell almost wished he'd aimed higher. Like right between those pinpricks.

The doctor appeared. He absorbed the scene and demanded a fuller explanation. Farrell replied tersely. Compact and freshly shaven, Doctor Bernal wasted no time on Maria. He simply told Sister Vega to sedate her.

With the attacker Bernal skimped bedside manner. He attended her briskly. No one spoke. His treatment reminded Farrell of military sawbones weeding malingerers during sick calls.

Farrell's shot perforated her thigh. In spite of the caliber, his bullet surprisingly didn't leave a catastrophic exit wound. Even if it had, Farrell doubted Bernal would've done any more than poke, swab and bandage. All without anesthesia. Done, he angrily ripped off his gloves. At the basin, washing hands, he spoke bitterly.

"If she is who you claim, you should've killed the witch. I performed some of the postmortems. Then I had the professional misfortune of consoling distraught relatives, friends. People who identified their sisters or daughters or close acquaintances. A mangled body of someone you know is an unpleasant thing to see, eh."

Bernal dried his hands with no less vigor than he'd scrubbed them. He continued. "I must report her to the police. After all your beast is a criminal. Maybe on the way to jail she'll try escaping. That'll settle everything once and for all. Allow the living and dead to go on in peace."

Leaving them, Bernal ignored his patient. Farrell followed him outside though not for more conversation. The night's fortune held. The priest still thoughtfully drew on his cigarettes. Emphasizing urgency, Farrell accosted the smoker. He introduced himself to Father Campos. In merciless terms he summarized years of ritual murder ending in that night's capture. Assuming the woman driven by irrational religious belief, Campos' proximity while he, Farrell, quizzed her just might smooth his interrogation.

"Local police won't bother with any real investigation, padre. They'll do enough so that it will justify how she mysteriously dies. We both know how they operate."

Campos demurred. "I can't coerce a confession. She must release her conscience voluntarily."

Farrell wondered 'Where's fucking Pat O'Brien or fucking Barry Fitzgerald when you fucking need them!?' He checked his temper.

"Padre ..." Time was short. Farrell decided to transform this ecclesiastic exercise into a business transaction. He dug into a pocket, withdrew his street wad, and began peeling hundreds. The crisp lucre dazzled Campos. Detaching 10 bills, Farrell crushed them into the priest's soft hands.

"Surely, padre, there must be something at your parish requiring financial intervention."

Conflicted as he maybe hoped to have been, those large denominations vanquished Campos' reservations. So much so Farrell profanely thought another 10 and this holy messenger wouldn't hesitate to dye his remaining hair red and offer to sit on Jesus' left side.

Campos sighed convincingly. "What will you have me do?"

"Just stand there and look stern. As if you personally know God won't forgive."

Grimacing, Campos trailed Farrell into the emergency room. Their two-man procession crowded Maria's attacker. Voirin hovered close. Even Sister Vega moved within good eavesdropping range.

Spying Father Campos revived Maria's assailant. She began mumbling prayers. Farrell cut her salvation.

"You haven't got long," he intoned. "It's time for you to speak. Unless you tell us everything, your pitiful self will be here alone long after we're dust and forgotten. You'll wander forever restless as the wind. We need to know."

Maria's attacker looked at Campos. His face granted no refuge. Trapped, frightened, she fixed beaten eyes on Farrell. Her voice seemed that of a particularly indulgent grandmother.

Like many of her victims she too had migrated from Mexico's south. There weren't any factories lining the border 40 years ago. Just dirt. Solipaz should've been the last pause on the obstacle course into El Norte. Ambitious, having bravely trekked half the country, she still exhibited country-girl naivety. She'd hoped crossing with a group into America. Timing collapsed. Penniless, without prospects, the missed chance rendered her distraught.

Some American soldiers on furlough from Fort Huachuca recognized her plight and the opportunity presented. They exploited the moment. She shyly admitted to having been pretty then. Nor had any man had touched her "there" yet. Those two statements delineated her life's "before" and "after."

The soldiers beguiled her under the disguise of consolation. They plied her with alcohol while promising to help devise a way into America.

Soon this group found itself removed from Solipaz' busier districts. Cracked pavement had become brittle fields under her their feet. Where neon once colored only distant headlights flared through moonless night.

Easily overpowered, the Americans took their time taking turns. Blessed numbness eventually ceased her conscious agony.

When she awoke it was morning. The soldiers had abandoned her in that field. She moved with painful effort, the secret between her thighs raw. Dried blood streaked her legs. Shit flecked her ass. Nonetheless loss of dignity wasn't the worst.

Suffering gang rape had marooned her in Solipaz. Aspire as she intended, she couldn't achieve America. Nor could she retreat home. Solipaz now held her fast. There would be no release.

Where she'd previously guiltily enjoyed men's attentions, their post-assault nearness intimidated her. Her withdrawal to society's margins was a short walk. A move either instinctive or ordained.

Years later during Mexico's presidential election season pandering she availed herself to a mobile clinic's free services. Her body frequently rebelled in those years following that night. Tests revealed one or each attacker had left a strain of rugged venereal disease. Intense antibiotics reduced the scourge's more debilitating effects. However lengthy neglect had left her barren. Should she ever find a man to trust, she could never bear his children.

For a Mexican woman that proved more devastating than death. Though faultless, seen through her own and society's eyes, she'd become useless.

What might've remained unexpressed openly festered when American manufacturers sought and exploited cheaper locations manned by more docile employees. Paid coolie wages by gringo standards, amounts Mexicans saw as minor fortunes, lured young, healthy, vulnerable women to the border.

The one-time victim regarded present-day women's grasps for emancipation as dangerous. Her own striving for better decades ago, its calamitous result, had run rotting loops through her mind. She acted to prevent as many as possible from sharing her misery.

Farrell regretted his understanding of her trauma. Committing these acts on new moon nights recreated and expiated her own violation. He likened it to cleansing with dirty water.

In the perfect clarity of insanity this woman reasoned she'd spare her successors by killing them. Dead none could endure rape. Therefore no shame or communal irrelevancy.

Sister Vega spoke for them all when she said, "Shit! Now I've heard it all!"

She left the emergency room and resumed her post at admittance. Campos moved closer to the gurney. Vocal salve poured from his mouth. That spiritually damaged woman absorbed his reassurance faster than water into parched earth.

Farrell had caught a vicious yet well-meaning killer. Which was how he summed up his Mexican task to Roderick Quinn.

Late next afternoon on a conference call inside Grady's office, Quinn received an oral report. Although written description would've delivered greater detail, when possible he preferred succinctness. Having often sat in Quinn's west and south facing 53rd floor office, Farrell envisioned him sitting behind his polished acre of ebony. While high and blazing still in Mexico, setting sun at Quinn's back steeped New Jersey orange; midtown lights would be winking awake through dusk.

"Mex cops raided her shack," Farrell continued. "Ragpickers who knew her from the dump sent them there."

A speakerphone transmitted Quinn's. "What? She worked at the dump?"

Farrell cleared his throat then answered. "No. Not work. She'd been leading a substance into subsistence life. Recyclables for a few pennies, meals from food scraps."

After a decent interval, Farrell said, "Cops found indisputable proof linking her. Hers was the blade, all right."

"As opposed to the usual local killers," Grady interjected.

"Like what?" Quinn said. "What'd they find that makes hatchet granny a lead pipe cinch?"

Grady and Farrell cut eyes at each other. Grady's twitching mouth must've matched the bile taste filling Farrell's own.

Again clearing his throat, Farrell said, "They collected mummified and mummifying body parts from scores of victims. Female parts she'd removed and taken home."

Quinn's East Coast silence sounded uncomfortable. Grady increased the revelation's awkwardness.

"The air is extremely dry down here, Mr. Quinn. Between that and the heat those things wouldn't retain moisture long enough to really rot or get maggoty."

"Grady," Quinn said, "do you mean putrefaction? ... She did this because? Souvenir hunting? She was more nuts than nuts?"

Grady warmed to his enlightenment. "Think more along relics. You know like Middle Age pilgrims hunting saints' remnants. She'd turned her shack into an absurd reliquary of, um, ambitious girls."

Quinn sighed. "That's wonderful, Grady. I'm still trying to get over her killing them in order to save them, much less her worshipping their distinctions. ... This is fucked up! Any idea about the trial, Bryce?"

Flatly, Farrell said, "Won't be any trial. Plenty of her victims were strangers, but more than enough were local girls. Some had cop relatives or were badge bunnies. With that I know personally how her case will be resolved. Arid conditions or not, after those boys settle 'honor' you can be sure she'll be fertilizing an untended patch somewhere."

More disturbed silence from Quinn's end. His long arriving conclusion sounded ambivalent.

"Uh-huh. It is a Mexican affair after all. I suppose they know their side of the line best."

-30-