Steven Havill - Scavengers

There was just the hint of hesitation. “With all my heart that’s what I hope, Estelle.”

Estelle closed her eyes and imagined herself in the backseat of Lucy Madrid’s Chrysler as it headed south on New Mexico 61. Isidro would be sitting hunched forward with his face nearly against the dashboard, his pockets bursting with more cash than he’d managed to assemble during the previous twenty-six years of his life, his eyes searching for the first errant wisp of dust or glint of chrome that smelled of trap.

What did a mother and son talk about at a time like that? Was Lucy Madrid counting down the miles until she’d be rid of her two troublesome boys? When she’d turned over her life’s savings to them, had she also given her best advice about which way to run? As she drove away from Posadas, did Lucy glance across the car at Isidro, see him sitting there with his fingers itching on the trigger of his rifle, and wonder what she had contributed to the creation of this monster?

Estelle shook her head to snap the webs. She opened her eyes and looked across the silent patio to the highway, and beyond that to the dirt lane that led past the café. Benny Madrid was safely trussed up inside the small restroom, no doubt struggling against the steel cuffs, the nylon ankle ties, and the duct tape that kept him quiet and trussed to the water pipes so he couldn’t kick the door. Benny didn’t think of himself as safe, Estelle was sure of that. She glanced down at the Beretta in her hand. She popped out the clip, studied the stacked pack of thirteen shiny rounds. “Ay,” she said quietly, and took a deep breath, driving the clip back into the weapon.

From somewhere inside the house, she heard a hollow thump. Tomás Naranjo was finding himself a good vantage point in the shadows behind the small window. Estelle felt the warmth of morning sun touch her head, and she moved another step back to pull her shadow into hiding. At the same time, she heard the howl of tires on pavement from the east, and then the muttering rattle of a jake brake slowing the tractor trailer.

She lifted the radio off the tiles. “Bobby?”

“Go ahead.”

“Traffic from the east. I thought Adams was going to block the highway?”

As she spoke, the huge truck rolled past, a polished stainless steel tanker with FRESH MILK in foot-high letters near the top access hatch.

“I told him to let the guy through. He’s nonstop, and it’ll look good for Isidro to see some normal traffic coming his way. If it’s too quiet, he might get edgy.”

“Where are they now?”

“Pasquale says that they’re about six miles out. She’s driving right at fifty-five. Pasquale’s hanging a mile back. I told him to fade back a little more to give them some time. They’ll be here in about six minutes.”

“Okay. I’m in the patio. Naranjo is in the house. He’s got a back window view.”

“Ten-four,” Torrez said. He sounded as excited as someone browsing through a library book sale.

Estelle placed the radio in a niche in the stack of tiles in front of her, transferred the Beretta to her left hand and flexed the fingers of her right, surprised at how tightly she’d been gripping the weapon. She looked at the welt left by one of the cactus spines in the back of her hand and grimaced. She could picture Eurelio Saenz lying under the flood of lights at Posadas General Hospital, the attending physicians wondering where to start.

She shifted her weight, transferring the Beretta back to her right hand. As she did so, the distant sound of an approaching vehicle reached her at the same time as Torrez’s voice said quietly over the radio, “They’re coming in.”

Sheriff Robert Torrez wasn’t often wrong. He had bet that Lucy Madrid would drive up J Street to the café. Isidro and Benny would leave the café together…after who knew what kind of farewell they had planned.

Lucy didn’t do that. Estelle heard the vehicle slow, then heard the crunch of tires as the car pulled off the highway just west of the Taberna Azul, out of Estelle’s line of sight.

“They’ve stopped west of the saloon,” she whispered into the radio. “I don’t know what they’re doing.”

She waited, head turned so that her peripheral vision would pick up motion approaching the rear patio gate, now ajar an inch or two, at the same time as she watched the highway and the front patio entrance. In a moment she heard the gravel crunch again, and the Chrysler appeared out front, turning up the lane toward the café. Lucy Madrid was driving, and she was alone.

Moving in slow motion, Estelle reached forward and turned the radio’s volume knob to zero so that a random burst of squelch wouldn’t tip off her position. She transferred both hands to the Beretta. Isidro Madrid was treading light, and she saw him before she heard him, his figure a shadow through the thin cracks between the boards of the patio gate. He walked quickly to the station wagon and reached for the door.

“ Que chingado, ” Estelle heard him mutter in irritation that his brother had been so stupid as to lock the car. The rattle of keys followed, and then silence. Estelle shifted position just enough that she could see through the slit of the door. Isidro was standing motionless beside the car, keys in hand. After a moment, he jabbed the key into the lock and wrenched the door open. He held the short rifle in his left hand, and she could see a semiautomatic pistol in his belt. He slid into the car. Estelle heard the metallic clack of electric door locks.

Isidro leaned back as he passed the rifle across to the passenger side. His hands reappeared on the wheel, and Estelle shifted again. The rifle was no doubt resting on the passenger seat, its butt perhaps on the floor mat. His other weapon was still in his waistband. She could see his left hand on the steering wheel, and his head ducked as he shoved the key in the ignition. She waited, forcing herself to be patient. Even though both of his hands were occupied and she might be able to take him by surprise, Isidro was protected by the bulk of the station wagon and the ten yards that separated them.

The starter engaged, cranking the enormous old V-8. Isidro let it crank for three or four seconds, switched off, and tried again. Estelle saw the shadow of a frown cross his forehead. As if not believing his sudden turn of luck, he cranked the car over and over again until the battery started to fail.

After a final effort he slapped the steering wheel with a quiet oath. Twisting around, he looked out through the back windows, then relaxed in the seat. For a moment he was looking directly at Estelle, and she held her breath. Isidro would see the gap in the gate, but he wouldn’t be able to see through the shadows beyond.

On the highway, a car roared past. Estelle didn’t risk turning her head to look, but knew it would be Deputy Tom Pasquale. Isidro’s head swung to follow the sound. Pasquale stuck to the original plan and drove rapidly through the village, the sound of his car tires fading quickly to the east.

It took another full minute for Isidro Madrid to make up his mind. Estelle heard him say something to himself as he wrenched open the door and got out of the car. He was a slightly built man, an inch or so shorter than Estelle. The large automatic was in his right hand. He stood motionless beside the car, pistol held high, its muzzle almost touching his cheek. Estelle could see that his eyes were closed as he listened. She held her breath, hoping that Tomás Naranjo had a clear view and that he wouldn’t choose this moment to shift position.

Apparently satisfied, Isidro Madrid edged to his right, around the back of the station wagon. As he moved, he never took his eyes off the building. Once around the tailgate, he moved quickly to the front passenger door. The hinge groaned as he opened it, and Isidro gritted his teeth. Then he ducked down and came out with a short duffle bag and the rifle. Looping the straps of the bag around his left shoulder, he turned away from the car, not bothering to close the door.