Steven Havill: Red, Green, or Murder

“Let’s put him in the back of my rig,” I said. “Don’t move that leg, and find something to use as padding.” I didn’t give Herb any time to discuss it, but set off at my own version of a jog. I hadn’t driven the veteran state truck that day, leaving it in the shop to have all four wheels toed around to point in the same direction. That left me driving my own late model Chevy SUV. I huffed inside, and as I set about swinging it around to drive to the arena, I found the cell phone in the clutter of the center console and thumbed the auto dial for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department.

Dispatcher Gayle Torrez picked up on the second ring, and I could hear radio traffic in the background.

“Gayle, this is Gastner,” I said. “Look, I’m out at the Torrance ranch. Dale Torrance just busted his knee with a nasty fracture. I need an ambulance to meet us on 56.”

“You’re not going to bring him all the way in?”

“I can do that, but the sooner he has an I.V. running the better. This is a bad break, Gayle. Lots of bone chips and bleeding.”

“Ten-four.”

“I’m in my red SUV. I’ll keep an eye out for the ambulance and flag him down. Tell the driver to pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

There are some perks that come with being a has-been. When the has-been’s life includes thirty-five years as deputy, undersheriff, and finally sheriff of Posadas County, some of the county doors remain open, ready to expedite favors.

By the time I’d brought the Trail Blazer over to the arena, opened the back and flopped down the seats, they’d come up with a couple of saddle blankets and three pillows from Dale’s own mobile home across the paddock.

Dale’s mother, Annie Torrance, had bustled out from the house, her face grim and white but her nerves like tempered steel. She directed the operation as Herb, Pat, and I lifted Dale into the SUV. It would have been easier for Dale if he’d managed to faint, but he was a tough kid, with a string of curses colorful enough that they surprised even me. Annie Torrance was tougher yet. She didn’t bat an eye.

“I have an ambulance on the way,” I said. “They’ll meet us down on 56. Faster that way. Herb, one of you needs to ride in back with him.”

“You bring the car,” Annie Torrance said to her husband. “I’ll ride with Dale.”

“You can finish up here?” Herb asked Pat Gabaldon, and the young man nodded.

In another minute, we were southbound on the washboards and potholes of County Road 14, the wandering dirt by-way that ran down the western side of Posadas County. Any other time, I would be ambling along on CR 14, windows rolled down, marveling at the country-the broad sweep of the dry short bunch-grass prairie, rugged mesas with rims crumpling, arroyos so deep you could effortlessly hide a herd of cattle or a tractor trailer with license plates issued in Chihuahua.

This time, I paid attention to my driving, but for every thump and bump that I avoided, three more pummeled the Chevy’s stiff suspension. The cries and gasps from the back made me feel like a card-carrying member of the Inquisition. Annie did what she could, but a few hundred CC’s of morphine would have been just the ticket. Behind us, Herb kept the Chrysler just far enough back that our dust cloud had time to drift off the road. In seven miles-an agonizing twenty minutes-we reached the last cattle guard that crossed CR14, and I slowed the SUV to a walk as we waddled across the steel girders. Just beyond was the intersection with New Mexico 56, and pulling onto the pavement of the state highway never felt so smooth.

“You doing okay back there?” My passengers had been too quiet.

“He’s passed out,” Annie said. She stroked Dale’s forehead. “I guess that’s the best thing.” She was all scrunched up, not an easy ride for her sixty-year-old bones.

“Hang in there,” I said. “We have an ambulance coming.”

Just beyond the intersection, the Broken Spur Saloon marked the only pocket of civilization in the thirty-five miles between the village of Posadas at the north end and the Mexican border and the tiny hamlet of Regál down south. Traffic was nonexistent, and for three miles, we had clear sailing. Herb apparently thought that the posted fifty-five was as fast as his old Chrysler would go, and he dropped far behind as my speedometer touched eighty-five.

I felt confident enough to glance at my call record, and recognized George Payton’s phone number. My Thursday lunch date was with the irascible old retired gun dealer, and I knew that he didn’t call just to chit-chat. I pushed the dial option and in four or five rings, his sunshine-filled voice greeted me.

“Yeh-low?”

George and I tried to celebrate our stay on the planet over a luncheon burrito once in a while, and in the past year, we’d eaten take-out at George’s place more often than not. He needed a walker to get around and refused to be seen in public with it. We missed our lunch date now and then, almost always my fault, but both of us looked forward to an occasional hour of good food and lies. We’d settled on this day, a Thursday with no particular complications on the horizon. Until the Styrofoam cup.

“George, I’m going to be late,” I said, able to predict what his reaction would be. “We got a little issue going on.”

“Huh,” he grunted, his curiosity underwhelming. “Some other time, then. I’ll have the Mexican send over something for me. He’ll do that, all right.” The “Mexican” was Fernando Aragon, owner of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant, and of course the Mexican would be delighted.

“Can you give me an hour?” I said. “I was going to pick up some wine.”

“Nah, you say an hour, that means two,” he countered. I knew that arguing was a waste of breath. George Payton didn’t do casual in his daily schedules, even though he had nowhere special to go, nothing special to do. In his world, lunch was noon, straight up. Predictable and comforting. “Look, I don’t feel all that great anyway. And you got things to do, Billy,” George said, the only human being on the planet who could get away with calling me that. “Catch you next time around.”

“Your call,” I said.

“You be careful,” he said, his habitual parting shot.

The next time I glanced in the rear-view mirror, I saw sunshine wink on chrome. I paid attention to the highway as we hit the curve leading to the concrete bridge across the Rio Guigarro, a gravel arroyo that tasted running water maybe once a season. In another minute, the vehicle had caught us-and sure enough, the light bar blossomed on the roof of the sedan. I didn’t slow, but reached for the phone. I think dispatcher Gayle Torrez was expecting my call. The first ring hadn’t finished when she picked up.

“Hey, sweetheart. This is Gastner again. We’re north on 56, looking for the ambulance, and I’ve managed to collect one of your young hot rods. You want to fill him in? He needs to leave us alone.”

“The EMT’s are on the way, sir,” Gayle laughed, and in a couple of seconds the red lights went out behind us. The Crown Victoria backed off my bumper a discreet distance. “Deputy Collins wants to know if you need an escort.”

“I’m sure he has better things to do, thanks. Oh, and there’s a blue Chrysler on the way as well. That’s Herb Torrance. He’s coming in to the hospital with us.”

“Can you hang on a second, sir?”

“Sure.”

I heard radio traffic in the background, and in a moment Gayle came back on the phone. “The ambulance is just coming up on Moore, sir.” The remains of that little ghost town lay eight miles ahead, and at the rate the ambulance was closing with us, we’d meet in less than four minutes.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”