Steven Havill - Scavengers

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got him on line three.”

“Good. Tell him we’re on the way. And you might give State Police dispatch a buzz and see if they have a man closer. Or the Border Patrol. Either one.”

“I’ve done that. The closest trooper is in Lordsburg at the moment. The Border Patrol has a unit headed out east from Deming, but that’s going to take a while.”

“Okay, I’m on my way. And be sure that ambulance is rolling.”

Estelle swung up and out of bed, tossing the phone to Francis.

“Alive or dead?” he asked.

“Don’t know. But it’s down by Maria, and we haven’t been having much luck down that way recently.”

Francis grimaced. “How many?”

“One.”

“So far,” he added, but he was already talking to Estelle’s back.

In less than five minutes, Estelle was out of the house and swinging the unmarked patrol car eastbound on Bustos Avenue. She turned the radio up and dropped the mike in her lap as she powered through the intersection with Grande and headed south. Jackie Taber was driving one of the older Broncos, and even flailing the old thing for all it was worth, she would still be the better part of ten miles out on State 56. Because of the bulwark of the San Cristóbal mountains, the deputy would essentially have to drive all the way back to Posadas to reach the intersection with State 61 toward Maria.

Estelle keyed the mike. “PCS, this is three ten.”

“Go ahead, three ten.”

“What’s the trucker’s twenty?”

“He says that he can see mile marker one-oh-six just to the east of where he’s parked. And the ambulance is en route.”

“Ten-four. I see it.” Ahead, the winking lights of the ambulance grew out of the darkness, and she snapped on her own grill lights as she overtook the slower unit. Ahead lay sixteen miles of empty road. As she accelerated, Estelle turned on the spotlight, letting the pencil beam lance out along the side of the road, giving her a small edge over the desert creatures that might be ambling out onto the tarmac.

Finally, she could see the sodium vapor light in the distance that hung in front of Wally Madrid’s gas station, a single beacon in the otherwise blank, black canvas. As she slowed for the village of Maria, she heard Jackie Taber announce that the deputy was turning southbound on 61, sixteen miles behind her.

The unmarked car flashed through Maria in the span of two heartbeats. Estelle leaned forward, eyes straining to see beyond the walls of the light tunnel through which her car flashed. The highway swept up through a series of graceful chicanes, cutting through the first limestone hint of the San Cristóbals and then, after crossing a rumpled section of prairie cut by a dozen small arroyos, shot straight east. As her car crested a rise, she could see the running lights of the big rig’s trailer along the south side of the highway.

Estelle slowed, planting the car dead-center on the dotted line. As she approached, she saw a single figure silhouetted by the rig’s headlights. He stepped out and walked the length of the truck to meet her as she pulled in behind it.

“He’s right over there by the fence,” he said. The trucker looked too small for his rig-almost frail in build with the light breeze plastering his T-shirt against washboard ribs as he shrugged into a down jacket. The bulk of the truck’s trailer blocked Estelle’s view, and she pulled the car in reverse until the spotlight beam blanketed the shapeless lump by the highway right-of-way fence off to the right. “I seen him, and hit the brakes,” the man said. “Then I backed up here on the shoulder so I could keep him in my lights.”

“Okay,” Estelle said, and picked up the mike. “PCS, three ten is ten-ninety-seven.”

“Ten-four, three ten.”

“Three ten,” Deputy Taber’s voice announced, “three oh nine copies. ETA about ten minutes.”

Estelle clicked the mike twice, collected her flashlight, and swung out of the car. The trucker turned slightly sideways as she approached, stepping back toward his rig.

“I’m Undersheriff Guzman,” Estelle said. “What’s your name, sir?”

He fell in step beside her as she walked the length of the truck. “Noel Jones,” he said. “I’m out of Emmetsburg, Texas.”

They rounded the cab of the big truck. Its engine idled gently, a deep, guttural pulse.

“Would you shut down your truck, sir? It’s difficult to hear over it.”

“I guess I can do that.”

“Thank you. And then I’d appreciate it if you’d remain here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Estelle waited a moment as the man climbed back inside the unit. In a moment, the engine died. “Ya’all want me to leave the lights on for a minute?”

“Yes.”

The man added something about his batteries, but Estelle was no longer listening to him. She walked along the shoulder of the road, flashlight illuminating the ground. The light from her patrol car’s spotlight forced harsh shadows behind each clump of grass. At a spot directly opposite the lump of rags, she turned toward the fence. The four strands of barbed wire were tight, rigidly braced every eight feet with vertical stays. The fence was strung tightly enough that a man could clamber over it while the wires supported his weight.

As Estelle drew near, she saw a hand lift ever so slightly, the arm thrust under the fence but caught on the bottom wire. The man, barefoot but wearing a denim work shirt and blue jeans, was lying on his back. His eyes were closed, mere slits in a face puffed and swollen nearly round.

“We’re here,” Estelle said as she knelt down beside Eurelio Saenz. “Don’t move anymore.” She could see that the wire had torn the young man’s arm in a dozen places, and then, moving the flashlight quickly to assess his injuries, saw that he was a mass of blood, flecked from head to toe. The front of his shirt was torn and blood-soaked. A groan of agony escaped his lips and his head jerked to the right. She saw that the gold ear stud in his left ear had ripped free. His hair, no longer shiny and well-oiled, was encrusted with the desert across which he’d crawled.

Taking his hand, she pulled the wire barbs out of his forearm to release him from the fence, and each touch brought another moan. He tried to flex one leg at the knee, but even that motion was impossible. The light caught the back of his hand, and Estelle saw the long cactus barbs embedded in his skin. She moved the beam and felt a swell of nausea as she saw that the young man’s entire body appeared to be an enormous welter of cactus spines, as if he’d rolled through a patch, unable to stop until every inch of his skin had been stabbed and pinned.

“Oh my God,” he managed through swollen lips, and one leg kicked feebly.

“Just lie still,” Estelle said. “We’ll get you out of here.” She pulled the handheld radio off her belt. “PCS, three ten. We have one subject down, unknown multiple injuries. Expedite that ambulance.”

“Ten-four, three ten.”

Estelle turned and looked back toward the rig. “Sir! I need you over here.”

He approached none too eagerly, stopping a dozen feet away.

“I need to get fencing pliers to cut these wires. Stay with him for a minute.” The man hesitated. “Just for a minute. Talk to him. Tell him who you are.” Before the man had a chance to protest, Estelle sprinted past him. At the county car, she scrabbled for the electric trunk release. In the trunk’s cavernous interior, she found the canvas roll, flipped it open and pulled out the heavy fencing pliers.

With that and the large first-aid kit, she raced back. The trucker was bent over, hands on his knees. He straightened back up immediately and stepped away. “Here,” Estelle said, forcing the fencing pliers at him. “You can do this ten times faster than I can. I need all four wires cut. Right at the post here. Then roll the strands way back out of the way.”