Scavengers (8 page)
State 61 plunged south from Posadas and passed through Maria as the highway wound along the state’s southern border toward El Paso and Juarez to the east. The State Highway Department had recognized the tiny community’s existence by hammering in a sign at each end of the village pleading for forty-five miles an hour. Wary of radar and the threat of languishing in a redneck jail cell, only tourists bothered to lift their foot.
Locals took potshots at the signs, most often when they wandered out of la Taberna Azul, the small saloon owned by Paulita Saenz. Bullet holes punctured the reflective surface of the sign and paint from bumpers and fenders scarred and bent the supports below.
Most of the paint had long since worn off the sign swinging from the two-by-four support nailed to the porch of la Taberna Azul. When locals mentioned the place, years of comfortable usage had worn down the name, too. Estelle could remember her Uncle Reuben referring to the Blue Tavern in Maria simply as
la Barra
.
Paulita Saenz walked to work each day from her square adobe house just east of the saloon. Her thirty-five- or forty-step journey crossed a stretch of worn bricks. The idea at one time had been to construct a neat patio between home and saloon, creating a sheltered spot for outdoor tables. Over the years, the bricked yard had become a convenient spot to stash those items not urgently needed in either building. Paulita’s walkway had been forced to meander as the space filled with worn-out plumbing fixtures, great mounds of cans and bottles that were always going to the recycler next week, and a jumbled collection of various bargains in roofing materials.
Diagonally across the street from
la Barra
, Wally Madrid’s dingy gas station and convenience store dominated the north side of the intersection of State 61 and J Street, J being the only cross-street in the village. No one in Maria recalled how the dirt lane had come by its cryptic name.
Wally was Paulita’s first cousin. He resented that fate had allowed Paulita possession of a liquor license, and hadn’t spoken directly to her in more than a decade.
Wally’s store carried so few items that
convenience
was pure euphemism. By pricing his gasoline well over the sensible limit and keeping his store inventory down, Wally had found that he could avoid most things that reminded him of work. The west-facing window that would have looked out on J Street was covered with various posters and advertisements, bleached nearly printless by the sun. That was also a comfort to Wally. Had the window been clear of trash, he would have been able to glance out and see la Comida de Lucy, his wife’s diner, and the third and final commercial establishment in Maria.
Lucy Madrid and Paulita Saenz were also first cousins, and enjoyed a common contempt for Wally. The Madrids were no longer on speaking terms either—a relationship that took considerable evasive skill in such a tiny community.
Should a famished tourist stop at the gas station to inquire about a place to buy lunch, Wally would point at the rack holding the slender choice of Doritos, but he would never recommend Comida de Lucy. And, on the rare occasions that Lucy filled the gas tank of her ’eighty-one Chrysler New Yorker, it wasn’t at Wally’s pump. Each Madrid found peace by pretending that the other didn’t exist.
Lucy’s diner was a plump, tidy adobe house with what passed for a commercial kitchen in one room, a single bathroom with all kinds of interesting messages on the walls that spanned generations, and enough space left over for a small counter that seated three, the customers’ backs to the four tables that filled the dining room.
Lucy Madrid had long since given up worrying about whether her
comida
was good…or even edible. The same few people who lived in the environs of Maria bought the same items off the breakfast and lunch menu according to their own predictable schedules. Occasionally tourists chanced Lucy’s. Had the tiny diner actually fronted on the state highway, Lucy’s business might have overflowed the four tables. But being half a block off the main flow, traffic tended to pass the place by.
Tourists occasionally drove up J Street beyond the café, and saw that Maria boasted four or five more dwellings, clumped haphazardly around the little wart of a mission, la Iglesia de Santa Lucia.
Estelle Reyes-Guzman opened Lucy’s front door and paused. A single fluorescent light unit hung by tenuous grip from the ceiling, the Sheetrock sagging from repeated roof leaks. An old man sat by himself at one of the tables, hands folded, a cigarette lodged between two gnarled fingers. He appeared to be meditating—or counting the tiny bubbles that might have been detergent dancing on the surface of his coffee.
“How about by the window?” Estelle said, and Francis nodded.
“A view of the surf,” he sighed. They sat down and Estelle bent forward as if she were going to rest her forehead on the table, stopping with eyes closed just short of contact. “Too long a day for you,
querida
,” Francis said.
“
Sí.
”
He pulled the menu out from behind the empty napkin holder. “You actually want something to eat here?”
“No thanks.” Estelle ignored the menu. “If she has tea, that would be nice.” She lifted her head and smiled at her husband. “Tea’s safe, no?”
Francis shrugged as he surveyed the laminated menu card. “That depends on where the water comes from,
querida
. ”
Lucy Madrid appeared from the kitchen, a square, generously padded woman. “I thought I heard somebody,” she said, doing her best imitation of a good-humored bustle to their table. She stopped short, eyebrows knit together in concentration, staring at Estelle. “You’re on that show,” she blurted.
“That show?”
“I’ve seen you on the TV.” She cradled one hand in the other and looked up at the ceiling. “Now what’s the name of that…”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Madrid,” Estelle said. “Thanks for the compliment, though.”
“I know you from somewhere, then. I know I do.”
“My Uncle Reuben used to come down here a lot,” Estelle said. “Reuben Fuentes?”
Lucy Madrid beamed, her teeth twinkling. “Thaaaaat’s it. You’re that girl.”
“That one,” Estelle said.
“Old Reuben, he was a one, that’s for sure. He died, no?”
“Yes, he did. About five years ago.”
“Too bad. I liked him.” Comprehension turned up her smile another watt. “I read about you in the paper, that’s where.”
“You might have.”
“You’re sheriff now.”
Estelle nodded, impressed. “Undersheriff, Mrs. Madrid. Bob Torrez is sheriff.”
Lucy looked toward the door. “So where’s Bobby?”
“He’s in Virginia, ma’am.” No doubt, Robert Torrez and Lucy Madrid shared family ties, however distant. Estelle saw a flicker of puzzlement flit across Lucy’s broad face. Virginia was too much of a leap, and she changed course. “You’re this one’s husband, then,” she said to Francis.
“For sure,” Francis said. “And my wife would like a cup of tea, if you have it?”
“Hot or cold?”
“Hot, please.”
“I got that. And that’s it?”
“I’d like a Dr Pepper,” Francis said. He slid the menu card back behind the salt and pepper shakers.
“I don’t got that stuff. I don’t like it. You want a Coke?”
Francis grinned. “That’ll be fine.”
She nodded and turned away from the table. “I close at two, you know.” Without waiting for a response, she added, “That Bobby…he ought to come down this way more often. All we get are those federal
mierdas
…” She waved a hand in dismissal.
Estelle watched the woman waddle off. “I think she’s talking about the Border Patrol,” she said to Francis. “I would imagine that they find this little place pretty interesting.”
“I bet they do.” He looked out the window at the dusty street. “How far is it to the border fence from here?”
“A hundred yards behind the saloon…at the most,” Estelle said. She rested her chin in one hand, elbow on the varnished table. “I was surprised to see you riding with Alan.”
“We were right in the middle of a planning session when the call came in,” Francis said, and shrugged. “So I came along.” He reached across the narrow table and took hold of Estelle’s wrist just below where her hand supported her chin. He shook her arm gently, just enough to joggle her head. “I was a little bit worried about you.”
“I’m okay. Just tired.”
“So…can you go home now? I mean, after your gourmet tea?”
“Sure. Jackie is doing just fine. There’s just one or two things…”
Francis leaned back, his mouth opening in a wide, silent laugh.
“What?”
He bent forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Always one or two more little things…that’s what they’re going to carve on your tombstone,
cariño
.”
“Well,” Estelle said, “when I’m staring something interesting right in the face, I can’t just ignore it.” She closed one eye. “You can’t either, you know.”
“So…what’s staring at you now?”
She frowned as Lucy Madrid approached, a heavy porcelain mug in one hand, a can of Coke in the other.
“Let me get you a glass,” she said. “You want ice?”
“That would be nice, thanks,” Francis said.
Estelle reached over and moved the napkin dispenser slightly. A small poster sat on the windowsill, facing J Street where both pedestrians would see it. She reached out and lifted it off the sill, turning it just enough to see what it advertised. La Iglesia de Santa Lucia was hosting a yard sale. No doubt Lucy Madrid felt a kinship with her matron saint. She arrived and slid the glass with two small ice cubes in front of Francis.
“Thank you,” he said. “And?” Francis prompted Estelle after Lucy had moved on.
“Digging a grave takes time.”
“Sure. Even a shallow one, when the soil is so full of rocks.”
“Here’s what makes sense to me,” Estelle said, and encircled the mug with both hands. “John Doe was being chased. He was running west.”
“John’s the first victim that you found, right? The one that the dentist saw?”
She nodded.
“So what makes you think that he was running?”
“Suppose,” Estelle said slowly, “that John and Juan Doe were together somehow. Maybe they’re even related.”
“Odds are,” Francis agreed.
“It’s too bizarre a place for them to be separate incidents. The tracks are circumstantial right now, but they make sense. But imagine this,”—she straightened up and held out her hands—“suppose John Doe had the shovel in his hand. He’s either digging the grave, or helping, or something like that. The killer shoots Juan, and he either falls into the grave, or is dumped into it. John sees his chance, and hits the killer.” She swung her arms in a short, choppy baseball bat stroke.
“That would explain the blood on the shovel,” Francis said. “But we don’t know about a match to either victim yet.”
“No, but we will,” Estelle murmured.
“So you think John Doe takes a swat with the shovel, and gives himself a few minutes head start. He turns to run, and after a few steps, realizes he’s still holding the shovel, and tosses it into the bushes. And he runs away from the road, in a panic, knowing that he’s next on the hit list.”
“That would make sense.”
“And after he recovers a little, the killer staggers to his truck, or his car, or whatever, and chases John Doe across the open prairie.”
“He could have done that,” Estelle said. “That would account for the tire tracks. And he caught up with him after a thousand yards or so.”
“And because John tossed the shovel, he doesn’t have anything to defend himself with. There’s nowhere out there for anyone to hide. He’s winded from running.”
Estelle shrugged. “I think it’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Why didn’t John just take the vehicle after hitting the killer?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the keys were in the killer’s pocket.”
“Why didn’t he make sure the killer was out cold? Hit him again. Take the gun. Take the keys.”
“Panic,” Estelle said. “A basic instinct is to run. Fight or flight. If he’s not a fighter, if he’s scared to death, he’s going to run. For one thing, if Perry MacInerny heard the shots, we know it was dark when this all happened.”
“So the poor guy thinks he can get away in the dark.”
Estelle nodded. “But that makes it hard to run.”
“Hard to shoot, too.”
“If the killer drove after him, he had his headlights. Enough for a quick shot or two.”
Francis poured the remains of his soda into the glass, watching the two ice cubes drift in the current. “I suppose. The killer gets close enough for a head shot. John Doe is tired of running, staggering, out of breath. He turns to face him. Boom.”
“I can understand the facial trauma, then,” Estelle said. “The killer is in a rage. The head shot isn’t enough, and he makes sure with a rock. When he’s finished, he’s probably in such a lather that he doesn’t even realize that he doesn’t have the shovel—even if he had the inclination to bury the second victim. He’s confident that identification is going to be next to impossible, on the off chance that someone discovers the body.”
“Interesting scenario,” Francis said. “John Doe would have been the one with the shovel, too.”
Estelle nodded. “Even if Juan dug his own grave, someone had to cover him up. The killer has the gun, John gets the shovel. And somewhere along the line, he sees his chance.”
Francis looked over the top of his glass at his wife. “And if we’re wrong?”
Estelle smiled. “Then we’re no further away from an answer than we are right now.”
“If you’re right, you’re looking for a man with head trauma. That shovel would have made a nasty cut.” Draining the last of the soda into the glass, Francis squeezed the empty can neatly in half, set it on the table, and nudged it to rocking. “And now?” He watched his wife’s face. Two sips of tea and a few quiet moments hadn’t erased the dark circles under her eyes.
Estelle cradled her head again, gently shaking it back and forth. “I don’t know.” She lowered her voice even more. “I wonder about Eurelio.”
“Who’s that?”
“The young guy who was riding with Marvin Hudson today, from the electric company. He’s Paulita Saenz’s son.”