Steven Havill - Scavengers

“That very well could be.” She didn’t bother to add for the high-octane Collins’ benefit that persistent, dogged diligence sometimes uncovered things missed in the first, quick pass. “Who else did you talk to?”

“Ah, nobody, yet. I was kinda going on what Enriquez said.”

“That’s okay, but you need to make a quick run down the list of agents in Posadas, Lordsburg, and Deming,” Estelle said. “Find out if Eleanor Pope was a customer. She might have been doing business with somebody else, and just didn’t want to have to explain to Enriquez. And when you find out what bank she used, have a chat with them, too.”

“All right.”

“And then get together with Jackie to see about payments. Not very many people pay things like their monthly bills with cash. She would have been writing checks if she had insurance.”

Collins grunted something Estelle didn’t catch, then added, “I don’t know about that…Tom Pasquale sure does. Cash or money orders.”

Estelle laughed. “But that’s Tom,” she said. “If the whole world operated the way he does, the global financial system would be in chaos. You need to check with the other agencies.”

“Will do. Everybody’s closed now, though, so I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”

“There’s always…” Estelle stopped herself, the memory of a casual comment flooding back into her mind. “Have you talked to Linda Real about this?”

“Why her?” Collins asked.

“She mentioned that she’d talked to Eleanor Pope while they were sitting in the insurance office. Maybe she said something in that conversation that would be useful to us.”

“I think she went home for a while.”

She had been about to remind Collins that even after hours, there were home phones to contact, but she thought better of it. She knew that several of the deputies-herself included-didn’t bother documenting overtime. Others-Dennis Collins included-turned in every minute over the standard forty hours, perhaps on the not uncommon assumption that they had a life, and the county’s intrusion into that life was going to be a commensurate cost to taxpayers. She made a mental note to talk with Linda herself as soon as she had the chance.

“We’ll see what develops,” she said instead. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Collins replied.

She switched off the phone and glanced at her mother.

“You know, my mother remembered Pancho Villa,” Teresa said. “She met him once, less than a week before he was killed.”

“I would have liked to have been there.”

“Just another bandito , my mother said. Nothing more.”

“History has given him some stature, then,” Estelle said.

Teresa nodded. “These men you chase,” she said. “The ones who left the two boys out on the desert to die. No such stature in them, is there.”

Estelle looked back at her mother with surprise. It was easy to assume that an elderly woman, dozing in a rocking chair, wouldn’t hear the conversations around her, or if she did, might not understand them or ruminate on them. “What do you think about it all, Mamá ? Why would they do such a thing?”

“Because they have nothing else,” Teresa said. “Tomorrow holds nothing for them. It is only what they can gain today that counts. Nothing else. And they are young, and that makes them dangerous. No wisdom.” She grimaced and shook her head. “They are young devils, Estelita . They don’t know anything about tomorrow. And that makes them dangerous.” She took a deep breath through her nose, drawing in the oxygen. “As long as they don’t know that you’re coming up behind them, you’ll be okay,” she said.

The new telephone line ran through the tree limbs along the river, then looped over one of the Villa stump’s broken stubs before stretching across the open space to the house. The Diaz family waited outside in a neat queue along with a dozen strangers, all eager to go in the house and try Teresa Reyes’ new telephone. Despite the hot sun, everyone waited patiently for the district telephone people to find the correct adapter to mate Mexican wiring to the telephone Teresa had brought with her from Posadas.

“Who was it?”

Estelle heard her husband’s quiet voice, and Tres Santos sunshine gave way to the confusion of darkness. She didn’t reply for a moment, letting the faint trickle of illumination from the hallway nightlight outline first the doorway and then, as her eyes adjusted and consciousness took over from sleep, the other familiar objects in the room.

“Who was what?” she said, and only as she started to turn toward Francis did she notice that the small telephone was lying beside her pillow.

“On the phone,” Francis prompted.

Estelle levered herself up onto her elbows and stretched across to turn on the bedside light. “The phone rang, and you answered it,” Francis said. He lay on his back, arm thrown across his eyes.

Estelle turned and looked at him, brows furrowed, phone in hand. “And what did I say?”

“‘Uh-huh. Okay. Uh-uh. Right.’” He lifted his arm and squinted at her. “Those were your exact words. A deep, meaningful conversation if there ever was one. What time is it, anyway?” He lifted his head, looked at the clock, and expelled a loud sigh as the digits clicked over to 4:12 AM.

“Tell me that didn’t really happen.”

“All right. It didn’t happen.” He reached and gently disengaged the phone from her hand. “If we’re going to start having conversations in our sleep, we need one of those phones with caller ID and all that fancy stuff.”

She shifted her weight to one elbow and reached for the phone again. “Let me call the SO. It was probably them.”

“Or-” Francis was interrupted as the telephone once more came to life, its ring startlingly loud. “Whoever it was didn’t believe you,” he added.

“Guzman,” Estelle said into the phone.

“Uh-huh, okay, uh-huh, right,” Francis mimicked softly, and Estelle kneed him.

“This is Sutherland, ma’am,” the voice on the telephone said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but did you copy that message a minute ago?”

“No, I didn’t,” Estelle replied. She sat up on the side of the bed. “Thanks for calling back.”

“No problem,” Brent Sutherland said. “I didn’t think you sounded awake.”

“What’s up?”

“We received a report of an unidentified male subject with unspecified injuries down on State 61, about three miles east of Maria. A trucker called in after stopping to render assistance. Deputy Taber is headed down that way and she wanted me to give you a call.”

“Do you have an ambulance en route?”

“One is on standby. They haven’t rolled yet. I was waiting until we had something a little more concrete to go on.”

“No, no, don’t do that. Go ahead and have them respond. Truckers aren’t wrong very often. This isn’t an MVA?”

“Apparently not. Unless it’s a pedestrian involved with a hit-and-run.”

“The trucker is still on the scene?”

“He said that he’d stand by until someone got there.”

“The victim is alive?”

“The trucker thinks so, but he’s kinda shook. He didn’t sound like he was too sure about anything…kind of panicky.”

“Where’s Jackie now?”

Sutherland hesitated, and Estelle could picture him turning to look at the patrol log. “Ah, she was just taking a swing through Regál when I got ahold of her.”

“How long ago did the trucker call in?”

“It’s been about three minutes now.”

“Okay. I’m en route. Are you still in contact with the trucker?”