Steven Havill: Scavengers

Estelle frowned, eyes still closed, picturing the empty sweep of eastern Posadas County. “What roadway, though?”

“There’s a power company service road that follows the main transmission lines north-south. That’s about, what, two miles east of the gravel pit, give or take? That’s where the tracks lead. Linda and I went down to Maria to catch the service road where it leaves the state highway. We followed it north to see if we could find where the tracks join up, if they do. And sure enough the sand is soft along there, and they’re pretty clear. Linda took shots using a flash, but she’s almost certain that won’t show much of anything. We need the strong morning light.” Jackie took a deep breath, as if she’d caught herself being uncharacteristically blabby and needed to decide whether to confide more information. “And in one or two spots,” she added, “the tracks in the sand are clear enough that we might make a casting work.”

“You’re sure it’s the same tracks that extend all the way west to the body?” Estelle asked.

“We can overlay the photo on a map, and extend the tracks to see if they intersect with the road. I’m pretty sure that they will. That’s what Linda’s working on now, I think. She was going to print the photo so that its scale matches a map she ran off the computer’s topo program. A more or less match, anyway. Then she’ll burn a transparency on the copier.”

“When you say a double set of tracks, what are you talking about? Two vehicles, or one coming and going?”

“Well, the photograph just shows traces, you know. Unless we find something at the west end-maybe evidence of a turnaround-we might not be able to tell. Two cars? One car? I just don’t know. Another thing that’s interesting is that one set goes in a pretty straight line. The other wanders a bit more. Maybe dodging terrain, or maybe one of the drivers was a little stoned. But they both sure enough go from somewhere over by the power lines to about fifty yards from where we found the body. They end just over a slight rise from that spot. If we had walked a bit farther east, I think we would have seen them.”

“You said that Linda was able to take pictures of the tracks, though?”

“She thinks that she got something, but we were running out of light. She wants to be out here first thing in the morning, when the angle of the sun is real low. She thinks that she can pick up some contrast that way.”

“Okay. She’s not still out there, is she?”

“No, no. She wanted to work on the photo blowups. I go back on for graveyard, and wanted to catch some sleep before the shift starts. I wanted to ask if we could have Tom Pasquale sit the spot for a while between now and then, just to make sure nothing is disturbed.”

“Of course. Mears is on tonight to cover, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am. And it’s been quiet.”

“Who’s on graveyard with you? Sutherland?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’ll be fine, then. Make sure that he knows when you go out there, Jackie.”

“And there’s always the possibility that the tracks don’t have anything to do with John Doe, either,” Jackie said. “We haven’t hiked along the tracks from the power line road to where we found Mr. Doe. They might not even connect.”

“There’s always that,” Estelle replied, knowing that it was a distant possibility at best. “You guys be careful.”

She switched off the phone and sat quietly for a moment, her mind out on the empty prairie. The various scenarios were intriguing, including something as simple as Perry MacInerny lying to Deputy Collins. But if John Doe had run afoul of one or both of the MacInerny brothers, why would they bother to lug the corpse-or march the still living John Doe at gunpoint-a thousand yards from the yawning gravel pit, when the pit itself offered ample and permanent burial space? One dip of the MacInernys’ enormous power shovel would scoop out a grave big and deep enough for a dozen John Does, and no one would be the wiser.

Estelle closed her eyes. The very spot chosen for the victim’s disposal was interesting. If the tracks that the deputies had discovered were in fact related to John Doe’s death and final resting place on the open prairie, the likelihood was great that the killer was no stranger to Posadas County. A killer didn’t stumble onto a spot like that just by passing through.

The transmission line ran into the county from the east, passing just north of the tiny village of Maria. Maria itself was basically on the road to nowhere, snuggled up against the U.S.-Mexico border fence without a crossing station. From Maria, the line swept northward until, after twenty miles, it crossed the interstate and shed a few watts in the direction of the village of Posadas before angling out through the northwest corner of the county. Anyone living in Maria would know how to access the service road that followed the power line-a road in name only. And anyone who had bumped along that path would know that the transmission line passed through the most desolate acreage in the county.

Estelle could visualize the massive two-legged giants lugging their copper cables across the prairie, wind singing through the latticework of steel braces, just the hint of a road brushing their legs where once or twice a year a power company truck would jounce past.

She opened her eyes and smiled. On the short list of people who might know that country, two names came to mind. One was Sheriff Robert Torrez, who hunted every square inch of the county on a regular basis. The open reaches of eastern Posadas would be home to a few wandering antelope, certainly, and maybe even los jabalíes . It wouldn’t have surprised Estelle if, at some time or other, Bob Torrez had walked across the very piece of prairie that had become John Doe’s final resting place. But the Sheriff wasn’t going to be of any help. Sworn into office less than a month before, he was stewing in Virginia.

She turned the phone over, switched it on, and dialed. It rang six times before the former sheriff of Posadas County picked it up.

“Gastner…goddamn it…” A clatter followed, along with another curse. Estelle waited until the ruckus died down. “Gastner,” he said again.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Well, it was. Now I’ve got pieces of coffee cup and spilled coffee all over my kitchen floor.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Normal folks can manage a goddamn telephone and a cup of coffee at the same time. That’s why we have two hands. But something about that skill escapes me.” William Gastner chuckled. “Ah, well. I was about to go out to eat. I got stiffed today on a dinner invitation, and I’m starving. What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting in a rocking chair, thinking.”

“That sounds productive. How’s your mother?”

“Better, I think. And Carlos is having a bedtime story finished up for him by Irma, so he’s feeling better, too.”

“He still into the three javelinas?”

“Same story.”

“Christ, he ought to know it by heart by now. I read it to the two of them last week, myself. And I know they’ve heard it fifty times before that.”

Estelle grinned at the memory of the howls of laughter as the boys’ padrino tried to wrap his hopelessly Anglo tongue around the Spanish words, simple as they were. Francisco had laughed himself into a bout of hiccups that lasted the rest of the evening.

“At least fifty times. By the way, when I stopped by the office, I saw your note about needing to speak with Linda,” Estelle said. “Did she call you yet?”

“Nope. But I could use a good hand with a camera-either Linda or you. I got me a nasty little deal going on with Eleanor Pope. You remember her?”