Estrella and Arthur Reynolds were up early, eager to start their reconnaissance mission. The night before they had discussed the helicopter that park ranger Chris Zapata had seen landing and taking off in the Rincons. Both had agreed the presence of the craft might have had something to do with Estrella’s jaguar—and not in a good way.
“I’ve learned to be suspicious of coincidences,” Arthur had said.
Now Estrella hurried outside to toss out hay for the two burros that lived in a back pasture. Arthur bustled about the kitchen, packing a lunch for them and dog snacks for Dragon, their old black lab they’d rescued years ago from the shoulder of the I-19 freeway south of Tubac.
They set out in their vintage four-wheel-drive wagon, down Old Spanish Trail, Pistol Hill Road and Colossal Cave Road to eastbound I-10.
“Should we ask around in Benson?” Estrella suggested.
“Let’s try some back roads first. More chance someone out there would notice a helicopter. Plus I love exploring those old dirt tracks. You can imagine what life was like in old Arizona.” Arthur adjusted a baseball cap with a small embroidered javelina.
“Fine with me.” Estrella leafed through a road atlas. They detoured off the freeway onto bumpy Marsh Station Road and turned onto a nameless dirt track that petered out at the boundary of the Rincon Mountain Wilderness.
Arthur wheeled the vehicle around. “End of the line. We don’t want to wind up in the back of beyond and break an axle.”
Back on the I-10, they continued a short distance to Mescal Road, which soon turned to dirt as they headed toward the Rincons. Miles later, Arthur said he couldn’t take any more of the harsh washboard surface. “I still think we’re not far enough east.”
“There’s a municipal airport just off the freeway in Benson, by Ocotillo Road, which goes north toward the Rincons.” Estrella squinted at the map.
“An airport. Let’s go ask how many choppers have landed recently.” Eager to play detective, Arthur pushed the wagon past his customary limit of sixty miles an hour.
The Benson Municipal Airport lacked a control tower but sold aviation fuel and offered repair services for small planes. They parked near a row of portable buildings. Estrella took Dragon for a stroll while Arthur used his cane to amble toward what appeared to be an office. He found no one inside and exited a back door. On the tarmac nearby, a man inspected a small fixed-wing aircraft.
“Any chance a helicopter came in yesterday, maybe needing fuel?” Outgoing by nature, Arthur usually managed to get people talking.
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t here.” The man wiped greasy hands on a shop rag and cocked his head toward a pair of Quonset huts and a fuel pump. “Luis over there worked yesterday.” He turned back to perusing the plane.
Arthur sighed. It would take him a while to limp over to find Luis. He started off, hoping it would be worth his while.
As he reached the huts, Arthur heard someone banging around inside. “Hello,” he called out.
A dark-haired man in jeans and flannel jacket stuck his head out a doorway. “Help you?”
Arthur repeated his question about a helicopter, fully expecting to be disappointed.
Luis took a moment to collect his thoughts. “We had a couple of copters in yesterday. A realtor showing his clients around. Money types wanting to start up another vineyard around Sonoita. The folks in the other one were in a big hurry to fuel up and get going. The pilot didn’t want to wait for the Cessna in line before him.”
Arthur perked up. “What did this impatient guy look like? And did the helicopter have registration numbers on it?”
“Not my job to look for tail numbers. I just pump the fuel. The pilot was Latino, shaved head, tattoos on his neck. You a cop?” Luis gave Arthur a steely look.
“No, but I know some park rangers who might want to talk to you. How did this guy pay for fuel?”
“Cash, which is unusual. Most people use a credit card.” The air field worker looked curious. “Why are you asking?”
“Where was he headed?” Arthur worried Luis would stop talking at some point.
“To the northeast, from what I could tell.” Luis edged away, glancing at his co-worker watching from the office door. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Arthur said thanks and hurried back through the office. “Get what you wanted?” the first man asked.
“Appreciate it.” Arthur avoided the man’s gaze and hoofed it back to the wagon as fast as he could.
“So? What’d you find out?” Estrella was anxious to hear.
Arthur got behind the wheel and told her about the edgy copter pilot. “Of course, being impatient isn’t a crime.”
“Sounds fishy.” Estrella knitted her brows and spread out the map.
Arthur headed back toward Ocotillo Road. “Where to next?”
“Turn left out of the airport. Maybe someone out there saw something. If not, we can have our picnic and head for Benson.”
They left the airport and headed north on Ocotillo Road. The pavement soon ended and they rattled over sharp washboard ridges, a funnel of dust trailing in their wake. The road was bordered by hillsides peppered with saguaro positioned like sentinels.
“Look at that.” Arthur slowed and pointed. A sign hung from a ten-foot steel contrivance with barbed wire hair, a barrel lid head, a Volkswagen Bug hood as a torso, and rusty pipes for arms. “ Funky artwork way out here.”
He turned down a bumpy driveway and parked by an antique Ford truck. “Let’s play tourist.”
A large outbuilding across from an old farm house had been repurposed as a gallery, spruced up outside with a flagstone patio, potted plants, wooden chairs, and a garden umbrella.
They left Dragon in the four by four with the windows cracked. As they entered the gallery, they immediately shielded their eyes. Sparks scattered as a hooded welder tacked sections of plating onto a creature made of machine parts.
A pair of Miniature Schnauzers barked and raced over to them as the welder set down a torch and pushed up his hood.
“Hey, folks.” The man headed their way.
“Nice place you have here.” Arthur took in the numerous Southwest landscape paintings and whimsical sculptures. “We were surprised to find a gallery way out here.”
“I’m Gary Marbel. This is how my partner Aida Zinfield and I keep out of trouble in our retirement. She paints, I weld. We’re a little off the beaten path. You sightseeing, or just lost?”
“A little of both. Nice to meet you.” Estrella introduced herself and Arthur. “We heard about a helicopter landing in and taking off from the Rincons. A day ago.”
That got Gary’s attention. “Funny you should ask. Aida and I saw one yesterday out that way. We took a long walk in the late afternoon along Ocotillo Road and heard it. Only it didn’t land. It dropped low and hovered by a van parked a ways down the road. There must have been some kind of big animal inside a wooden crate suspended from the chopper. The crate was lowered to the ground, and three rough-looking guys wrestled it into the van. It sounded like they had a mountain lion in there, all this awful roaring and crashing around inside. It was a bizarre scene. Aida went up and asked what was going on. One guy gave her the evil eye and told her to beat it. The roaring died down after we left. The copter flew off soon after that.”
“Jaguars are the only big cats in the Americas that roar. Mountain lions scream. Did you call anyone about it?” Estrella’s dark eyes were intense.
“Aida called 911 and talked to a sheriff’s dispatcher. I don’t know if they did anything. They never called us back. Do you know what it was about?”
“We think they trapped a jaguar in the Rincons,” Arthur said. “My wife hikes up there and had has seen it several times.”
Gary’s jaw dropped. “I heard about one up in the Santa Ritas, but I didn’t know there was a jaguar in the Rincons. You really saw one? Were you scared?”
“I was in awe, not fearful.” Estrella’s mouth drooped. “But I think someone shot or captured it.”
“Did you see any name or numbers on the helicopter?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing,” Gary said. “They were most unfriendly. I had a sense they were doing something illegal, and we were lucky to get away alive.”