Scavengers by Steven F. Havill

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