Steven Havill - Scavengers

Naranjo sat in a heavily carved rocker, a monstrous chair that rested on its own rug to protect the Saltillo tile underneath. His left leg from toes to midcalf was encased in a black plastic orthopedic boot. “It is nothing,” was the sum total of information he dispensed about his injury. He waved off any sympathy with an impatient shrug of dismissal, but when Marta Diaz moved a leather ottoman within range, he accepted it.

Mateo had shown him a collection of small wood carvings, and Naranjo looked at each carefully, handing some back to Mateo, setting others on the floor next to his chair. From time to time, as he sipped from his wine glass, his eyes met Estelle’s and a ghost of a smile would touch his face.

“Now, you must tell me,” Roman said for the umpteenth time that afternoon, “what of the clinic? Is it true that your husband is to open a medical clinic in Posadas?”

“That’s true,” Estelle said. “We hope that ground breaking is within the month.”

“Ah,” Roman said. “That is wonderful news. You have acquired the land and all, then.”

“Yes. Almost five acres from Padrino .”

“He’s well? We don’t see as much of him as we used to.”

Estelle nodded. “Busier than ever. He’s working for the New Mexico Livestock Board now as one of their inspectors. He enjoys it.”

Roman scrunched up his face in doubt. “I was a little bit worried about him when he retired, you know. So many years, and then…” He ended Bill Gastner’s law enforcement career with a slight chop of the hand. “But I’m pleased to hear that he’s staying busy. This one over here,” and he nodded toward Tomás Naranjo, “he stays busy too, even with his misfortune.”

Naranjo grinned and shrugged. Roman Diaz carefully set his empty plate on a small table whose top was a fine mosaic of ceramic tile. “I know that you two need to speak in private.” He flashed a smile at Estelle.

With a grace that belied his injury, Naranjo eased himself out of the chair, at the same time placing the small wooden horse he had been holding with his earlier selections. “My wife’s shop will be graced by these,” he said to Mateo. “As always.” He turned toward Estelle. “Suppose we take a stroll around the grounds?”

Roman began a protest, but Naranjo waved it aside. “It’s a sprain. A simple sprain during an unguarded clumsy moment. This magic boot allows me to walk with no discomfort at all, and the physician tells me that the more I make use of it, the faster I’ll heal. So”-he held out a hand toward Estelle-“may we speak for a few moments?”

“Business, business, business,” Teresa Reyes said from across the room. “The affairs of the world.”

“We’ll be but a moment,” Naranjo replied, and Teresa glowered at him with half-serious impatience.

“We have much to talk about as well,” Teresa said, including the ebb and flow of Diaz family in a graceful sweep of her hand. “But remember, Estelita . We’re expected home at five.”

Somehow, Naranjo managed with only a slight limp as he and Estelle strolled outside to the parked vehicles. “Your mother is a remarkable woman,” he said, switching to English. “I’m sorry to see the oxygen bottle.”

“Getting her to use it is a challenge,” Estelle replied.

“We can all hope to be so acute at that age,” Naranjo said. He leaned against the tan Toyota, arms folded across his chest, regarding Estelle. “You’re looking well,” he said. “No harm done during the visit to the north country.”

“An interesting experience,” she said.

“The same could be said of camping on an iceberg floating in the North Atlantic.”

Estelle laughed. “I suppose.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“Thank you.”

Naranjo shifted his gaze to a point near one of the mines on the far hillside. “I confess that it took me by surprise when I heard that Sheriff Torrez had named you as undersheriff.” He looked back at her. “A tribute to his good sense. But it’s a post you’ve held before, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, I did. And for that go-around, it was for the grand total of one week.”

Naranjo laughed and pushed away from the vehicle. He turned in place, scanning the countryside. “I’m sure you’ll find happiness now. This is such a picturesque place,” he said. “Your mother was an institution here.” Estelle remained silent. Naranjo smiled. “And your great-uncle, of course. But that was another time.” He sighed. “And now I understand you have something of a mess on your hands.”

“I have some photos in the car that I’d like to show you,” she said. “It’ll take me just a moment.”

“The stroll will do me good,” Naranjo said. “But before I forget…” He turned, opened the door of the Toyota, and retrieved a brown envelope. As they walked toward the Guzman vehicle parked in front of Teresa Reyes’ house, he extracted a photo, glanced at it, slid it back in, and pulled out another. He handed it to Estelle. The photograph was of professional quality, and bore a gold sticker on the back announcing El Estudio de Gutierrez in Asunción. It showed a large wedding party gathered on the front steps of the church. In center front, the bride and groom were radiant, the train of her dress arranged so that it swept down the remaining steps in front of her.

“This man right here,” and Naranjo reached over as Estelle stopped. He pointed at the figure standing immediately behind the bride, a large, robust man obviously delighted with his daughter’s match. “Is Juan Carlos Osuna. He is a building contractor in Ganos, a man of some distinction. As a matter of fact, the beautiful facade of this church that you see behind him? That is a restoration job completed only last year by Mr. Osuna’s company. The church stands at the head of the square in Asunción. Beautiful, no?”

“Surely.”

Naranjo took the photograph in exchange for two others. “And that,” he said, “is what Mr. Osuna looked like three weeks ago.” In the first photo, a man’s body was sprawled on barren desert, one boot in the shade of a runty acacia bush. The corpse lay on its face, both arms spread as if the man had been flung to the ground and skidded to a stop on his stomach. A blue cap lay several feet away. The second photo was a close-up, and Estelle winced.

“It appears that the first shot grazed the left side of his neck from the rear,” Naranjo said. “Perhaps not even enough to knock him down. The second round struck him in the back of the head, as you can see, and exited out the front.”

“And not from particularly close range, either,” Estelle said.

“Indeed. Such a blast from close range would have left residue, would have parted the hair-all those kinds of things.” He touched the photo with a careful finger as if the image might smudge. “The blood on the left hand is interesting. It’s Mr. Osuna’s own. It’s almost as if, upon feeling the first grazing wound that he slapped his left hand to his neck, so.” Naranjo brought his own hand up quickly to his own neck. “In other photos, you can quite clearly see that the blood ran profusely onto his hand, and down his wrist, as we would expect if he were standing so, with his left hand pressed to his injured neck.”

“And then the second round hit him in the back of the skull.”

“That’s what I think happened, yes.”

“Where did this happen?”

Naranjo accepted the two photos and slid them back into the envelope. “There is a small road that lies between Ganos and Asunción. The country is as you saw in the photograph-bleak and desolate. The body was discovered less than a hundred meters from the road, less than ten kilometers from Asunción.”

Estelle resumed her walk to her car, head down, her hands clasped behind her back. “Motive?”