Steven Havill - Scavengers

“That one,” Estelle said.

“Old Reuben, he was a one, that’s for sure. He died, no?”

“Yes, he did. About five years ago.”

“Too bad. I liked him.” Comprehension turned up her smile another watt. “I read about you in the paper, that’s where.”

“You might have.”

“You’re sheriff now.”

Estelle nodded, impressed. “Undersheriff, Mrs. Madrid. Bob Torrez is sheriff.”

Lucy looked toward the door. “So where’s Bobby?”

“He’s in Virginia, ma’am.” No doubt, Robert Torrez and Lucy Madrid shared family ties, however distant. Estelle saw a flicker of puzzlement flit across Lucy’s broad face. Virginia was too much of a leap, and she changed course. “You’re this one’s husband, then,” she said to Francis.

“For sure,” Francis said. “And my wife would like a cup of tea, if you have it?”

“Hot or cold?”

“Hot, please.”

“I got that. And that’s it?”

“I’d like a Dr Pepper,” Francis said. He slid the menu card back behind the salt and pepper shakers.

“I don’t got that stuff. I don’t like it. You want a Coke?”

Francis grinned. “That’ll be fine.”

She nodded and turned away from the table. “I close at two, you know.” Without waiting for a response, she added, “That Bobby…he ought to come down this way more often. All we get are those federal mierdas …” She waved a hand in dismissal.

Estelle watched the woman waddle off. “I think she’s talking about the Border Patrol,” she said to Francis. “I would imagine that they find this little place pretty interesting.”

“I bet they do.” He looked out the window at the dusty street. “How far is it to the border fence from here?”

“A hundred yards behind the saloon…at the most,” Estelle said. She rested her chin in one hand, elbow on the varnished table. “I was surprised to see you riding with Alan.”

“We were right in the middle of a planning session when the call came in,” Francis said, and shrugged. “So I came along.” He reached across the narrow table and took hold of Estelle’s wrist just below where her hand supported her chin. He shook her arm gently, just enough to joggle her head. “I was a little bit worried about you.”

“I’m okay. Just tired.”

“So…can you go home now? I mean, after your gourmet tea?”

“Sure. Jackie is doing just fine. There’s just one or two things…”

Francis leaned back, his mouth opening in a wide, silent laugh.

“What?”

He bent forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Always one or two more little things…that’s what they’re going to carve on your tombstone, cariño .”

“Well,” Estelle said, “when I’m staring something interesting right in the face, I can’t just ignore it.” She closed one eye. “You can’t either, you know.”

“So…what’s staring at you now?”

She frowned as Lucy Madrid approached, a heavy porcelain mug in one hand, a can of Coke in the other.

“Let me get you a glass,” she said. “You want ice?”

“That would be nice, thanks,” Francis said.

Estelle reached over and moved the napkin dispenser slightly. A small poster sat on the windowsill, facing J Street where both pedestrians would see it. She reached out and lifted it off the sill, turning it just enough to see what it advertised. La Iglesia de Santa Lucia was hosting a yard sale. No doubt Lucy Madrid felt a kinship with her matron saint. She arrived and slid the glass with two small ice cubes in front of Francis.

“Thank you,” he said. “And?” Francis prompted Estelle after Lucy had moved on.

“Digging a grave takes time.”

“Sure. Even a shallow one, when the soil is so full of rocks.”

“Here’s what makes sense to me,” Estelle said, and encircled the mug with both hands. “John Doe was being chased. He was running west.”

“John’s the first victim that you found, right? The one that the dentist saw?”

She nodded.

“So what makes you think that he was running?”

“Suppose,” Estelle said slowly, “that John and Juan Doe were together somehow. Maybe they’re even related.”

“Odds are,” Francis agreed.

“It’s too bizarre a place for them to be separate incidents. The tracks are circumstantial right now, but they make sense. But imagine this,”-she straightened up and held out her hands-“suppose John Doe had the shovel in his hand. He’s either digging the grave, or helping, or something like that. The killer shoots Juan, and he either falls into the grave, or is dumped into it. John sees his chance, and hits the killer.” She swung her arms in a short, choppy baseball bat stroke.

“That would explain the blood on the shovel,” Francis said. “But we don’t know about a match to either victim yet.”

“No, but we will,” Estelle murmured.

“So you think John Doe takes a swat with the shovel, and gives himself a few minutes head start. He turns to run, and after a few steps, realizes he’s still holding the shovel, and tosses it into the bushes. And he runs away from the road, in a panic, knowing that he’s next on the hit list.”

“That would make sense.”

“And after he recovers a little, the killer staggers to his truck, or his car, or whatever, and chases John Doe across the open prairie.”

“He could have done that,” Estelle said. “That would account for the tire tracks. And he caught up with him after a thousand yards or so.”

“And because John tossed the shovel, he doesn’t have anything to defend himself with. There’s nowhere out there for anyone to hide. He’s winded from running.”

Estelle shrugged. “I think it’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible. Why didn’t John just take the vehicle after hitting the killer?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the keys were in the killer’s pocket.”

“Why didn’t he make sure the killer was out cold? Hit him again. Take the gun. Take the keys.”

“Panic,” Estelle said. “A basic instinct is to run. Fight or flight. If he’s not a fighter, if he’s scared to death, he’s going to run. For one thing, if Perry MacInerny heard the shots, we know it was dark when this all happened.”

“So the poor guy thinks he can get away in the dark.”

Estelle nodded. “But that makes it hard to run.”

“Hard to shoot, too.”

“If the killer drove after him, he had his headlights. Enough for a quick shot or two.”

Francis poured the remains of his soda into the glass, watching the two ice cubes drift in the current. “I suppose. The killer gets close enough for a head shot. John Doe is tired of running, staggering, out of breath. He turns to face him. Boom.”

“I can understand the facial trauma, then,” Estelle said. “The killer is in a rage. The head shot isn’t enough, and he makes sure with a rock. When he’s finished, he’s probably in such a lather that he doesn’t even realize that he doesn’t have the shovel-even if he had the inclination to bury the second victim. He’s confident that identification is going to be next to impossible, on the off chance that someone discovers the body.”

“Interesting scenario,” Francis said. “John Doe would have been the one with the shovel, too.”

Estelle nodded. “Even if Juan dug his own grave, someone had to cover him up. The killer has the gun, John gets the shovel. And somewhere along the line, he sees his chance.”

Francis looked over the top of his glass at his wife. “And if we’re wrong?”

Estelle smiled. “Then we’re no further away from an answer than we are right now.”

“If you’re right, you’re looking for a man with head trauma. That shovel would have made a nasty cut.” Draining the last of the soda into the glass, Francis squeezed the empty can neatly in half, set it on the table, and nudged it to rocking. “And now?” He watched his wife’s face. Two sips of tea and a few quiet moments hadn’t erased the dark circles under her eyes.