Steven Havill: Scavengers

“I could go,” Francisco said. “You could take me to Padrino ’s.”

“Not today, hijo ,” she said and kissed him in the middle of the forehead as her husband held him up against the door. She glanced at Francis and held up her hands in surrender. “I know the look,” she said, and grinned at her husband’s scrutiny. “I’m fine. Really. And this will only take a minute.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding skeptical.

“And Alan said he’d probably want to talk to you this afternoon when he’s ready to do the prelim on the body.”

“How come Padrino isn’t coming today?” Francisco asked, and Estelle looked down at him.

“When we’re all better, Francisco. He doesn’t want to see a bunch of stinkies.”

“Carlos is a stinky,” he said. “I’m not.”

Dr. Guzman laughed and stepped back with his hands locked under the little boy’s armpits as Estelle pulled the Expedition into reverse. “Hurry back,” he said.

Estelle drove north on County Road 43, then west on the state highway that ran past the airport at the base of Cat Mesa. As she turned into the airport parking lot, she saw the small white-and-blue Cessna parked on the painted doughnut around the fuel pumps. Jim Bergin, the airport manager, was standing on a short aluminum ladder, topping off the left wing fuel tank.

He glanced around when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. By the time Estelle had left the truck and walked across the tarmac to the pumps, Bergin had tapped the last drops of gasoline from the nozzle, screwed on the cap, and stepped down.

“Hey there,” he said. With a deft pull, he activated the recoil, and fed the hose back onto the spool. His motions were economical, almost graceful. With his leathery, wrinkled face, perpetual careless facial stubble, and ice-blue eyes, Estelle could picture him in a movie about World War I aces, wrapped in leathers and flying a Spad. “Did you find it all right?” He didn’t elaborate what the it was.

“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Jackie said that you flew the young lady out there to spot for her.”

“Yep.”

“Thanks for taking the time to do that.”

“You’re entirely welcome. One of my great pleasures in life is watching the county commissioners blanch when they get my bill for flying county charters.” He grinned at Estelle, showing a mouthful of colorful teeth that had seen better days. They both knew that the “blanching commissioners” was wishful thinking. Jim Bergin rarely billed the Sheriff’s Department for anything.

“Have at it,” she said. “Is this her plane?”

Bergin rubbed a smudge from the Cessna’s white propeller spinner. “Yep. She’s inside, talking with Flight Service.” At that moment, the door of the mobile home that served as Bergin’s FBO office and the airport terminal opened. The young woman who stepped out looked as if she’d be more at home on the ski slopes-long blond hair in a single Heidi braid down her back, bulky white Scandinavian sweater with blue reindeer cavorting across the shapely chest, tight black nylon stretch pants, and flashy multicolored jogging shoes-the expensive kind.

With her logbook in one hand and dark glasses in the other, she strode across the apron toward them.

“Terri Keenan,” Bergin said, “This is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman.”

“Hi,” the girl said. Her smile was a tribute to either the right genes or an orthodontist’s skill. She extended her hand, and her grip was brisk. “You’re not exactly what I expected when they said that the undersheriff wanted to talk to me.” Her smile widened and her green eyes flicked over Estelle’s tan pantsuit. “I met Deputy Taber earlier. Are all the officers in your department women?”

“You just happened to hit us on a good day,” Estelle replied.

“Sixty-seven fifty-five,” Bergin said. He took the credit card that Keenan extended to him. “And by the way, you two are welcome to use my office if you need it.”

Estelle shook her head. “The sun feels good.”

“Suit yourself.” He waved the card. “I’ll go write this up.”

Estelle watched him stride toward the office. Terri Keenan opened the passenger-side door of the Cessna and put her logbook on the seat, snugging it down behind a leather camera bag.

“I left Las Cruces this morning at six o’clock,” she said, and slammed the door. She ducked out from under the wing. “I was supposed to fly nonstop to Lordsburg. That was the plan, anyway.” She grimaced.

“How did you happen to catch sight of the body?”

“I…uh…” She glanced toward the FBO’s office, then smiled conspiratorially, moving a step closer to Estelle and dropping her voice. “I probably wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing.”

“And what was that?”

The woman rested a well-manicured hand on the engine cowling. “There was this eagle? I saw him soaring just about the same altitude I was flying at? And I thought how neat it would be to take a picture of him. In flight, you know?” She shrugged. “I mean, the air was like silk. How dangerous can it be?”

“That would be spectacular.”

“Well, it didn’t work out. I tried circling around him, you know? Trying to match my speed in a bigger orbit, outside of his and stuff? I closed to about fifty yards once, and zoom! He just turned a feather and shot straight up, way out of range.”

“Wonderful.”

“And basically, that’s what happened. I was turning to head toward Posadas, and I saw the ravens down below. I still had the camera out, and the thought crossed my mind that a flock of them might make a picture too. Then something spooked them, and they all kind of took off and started milling. That’s when I saw the body.”

“How high above the ground were you?”

“About fifteen hundred feet. Maybe a little more or less. When I saw what I thought might be a body, I spiraled down some. Probably lower than I should have been.”

Estelle’s gaze turned to the airplane, a small two-seater that looked like the aircraft version of a tiny economy car. “You’re a student pilot?”

Terri Keenan nodded. “I’m getting ready to take my flight test next week.” She watched as the undersheriff stepped close to the window on the pilot’s side and peered inside.

“It must be something of a challenge to fly and take pictures at the same time.”

“I think it’s easy,” Keenan replied. “My instructor would have a cow, naturally. I don’t see why, really. I mean, it’s easy to feel what the airplane is doing and stuff. And my camera only requires one hand.”

Estelle smiled and stepped away from the airplane. “Did you happen to take any photos of the body?”

The young woman hesitated. “Yeah, I guess I did. It was too far away to see any detail, though. It must have been at least a thousand feet. Even with the telephoto, that’s too far. Just a dot, maybe. Basically, it was a waste of film.” She held up her hands, rethinking the framing of the photo. “Some nice shadows, though. Early morning is really neat, you know? The sun’s all at an angle on the grass and stuff.”

“I’d like to see them, Terri. Sometimes, a photo shows something that the eye doesn’t catch.”

“Sure. The only other thing on that roll are a few pictures I took at the Las Cruces airport this morning. The sun wasn’t really up yet, even. There was an old C-Forty-seven there. I think it lives over at Mesilla.” She opened the passenger-side door and lifted the camera out of the bag. “It had been to some big air show out in California. I forget where. One of the engines was blowing smoke when they flew in a few days ago, and they had it all torn apart. Beautiful old thing.”

She started to rewind the film but stopped, fingers poised on the crank. “Do you want me to have them developed and send them to you, or…”