Steven Havill: Final Payment

“No…I don’t think I need to.” She took another photo, this time zooming in on the blood smear down below as closely as the camera allowed, then zooming back for a panorama.

Eleven miles to the southeast, she could see the village of Posadas where the cyclists had set out on their practice ride as they prepared for the race coming up that weekend. The asphalt ribbon of County Road 43 that wound up the foot of the mesa, first passing the landfill and then the abandoned Consolidated Copper Mine, was the easiest portion of the route. After reaching the old quarry, the race route turned first onto steep Forest Service roads for the ascent up Cat Mesa. Beyond that, it was rough two-tracks, footpaths, streambeds, and worse.

“The Blood and Broken Bones One Hundred,” Estelle said, then pointed. The sudden motion made Leona flinch. “You can see more riders coming up the hill.”

A handful of specks moved on the paved road, more cyclists taking a final afternoon training ride. No doubt in an hour or so they would stop at this very spot, marveling at their comrade’s attempt at unpowered flight.

The undersheriff reached out a hand and rested her palm on the sharp limestone. The gray rock was warm, and with one finger she traced the shape where one of the cyclist’s pedal cranks had caught just before he’d launched.

“My, oh my,” the Posadas County manager whispered, drawing closer to see the scar on the rock.

“Don’t step too close to the edge,” Estelle reminded her again. “Some of the rocks are loose,” She could imagine the blond, Heidi-braided Brunhilde taking flight, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Okay, let’s do it,” one of the EMTs said, and they picked up the gurney as if the battered and fractured cyclist were weightless. The girl started to get up, but Matty reached out and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“No, no,” she said. “You don’t walk. They’ll be back in just a minute with your ride. Just kick back and relax.”

“I think I can make it,” the girl said.

“I’m sure you can. But you’re not going to.”

“What about the bikes?” the girl said.

“We’ll manage those,” Matty said. “Sheriff, can you fit them in your unit?”

“You bet,” Estelle said. She knelt by the girl. “They’ll be at the sheriff’s office on Bustos Avenue in Posadas when you’re ready to pick them up, okay? Right now, we need to make sure that Terry’s going to be all right.”

“We’re going to want to X-ray that knee, too,” the EMT said. “We’ll take care of you guys, then there’ll be plenty of time to square things away.”

The girl nodded and leaned back against the tree, grateful that she didn’t have to move. In a moment, two of the EMTs returned with a second gurney, and the girl was strapped in for her ambulance ride back to Posadas.

Estelle picked up the spectacularly crumpled bike and was immediately surprised at how light it was. The bicycle that Francisco, her seven-year-old son, had just inherited when a neighbor outgrew it weighed more than this one. She looped the shattered helmet’s chinstrap around one of the brake levers.

“Let me give you a hand,” Leona said. She walked to where the second machine was lying and picked it up, crooking her arm and hoisting the bike to her shoulder for easy walking.

“Do you need any more pictures before we go back?” Estelle asked.

“I don’t think so,” Leona said. “What we need is a bulldozer to close off this trail so that this doesn’t happen again. I can just imagine how much Mr. Iron Man would sue us for if he went off here.”

Estelle laughed. She knew “Mr. Iron Man” only by name and reputation. Former lieutenant governor Chet Hansen loved bi-, tri-, quad-, or any other flavor of athlons, the more challenging the better. His was the only name on the entry roster that she had recognized, other than a handful of local competitors. The race had attracted a peletón from twelve states and three foreign countries.

“A dozer shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe you have some folks who still owe you favors,” she said, referring to Leona’s former life as an engineer with the state highway department.

“Oh, many, many,” the county manager said. “But the Forest Service needs to bring theirs in. They’re over at Sparkman’s Wells, cutting a livestock tank. That’s only a mile or two.” She shrugged the bike more securely on her shoulder, keeping the oily chain away from her suit. “I’ll give them a call when we get back.”

It didn’t surprise Estelle that the efficient Leona knew exactly where available machinery was working…and the undersheriff was confident that, when the cyclo-cross race burst through this section of the course on the weekend, a fresh berm of dirt would block the rim trail.

In a few minutes, and with some finagling and the removal of front wheels, both bikes were stowed in the back of the Sheriff’s Department Expedition.

“How do people manage such things?” Leona said. “For heaven’s sakes, when he saw the edge, why didn’t he just stop? ”

“As a dear friend of mine is fond of saying,” Estelle said, shifting the bikes for a better fit, “‘Events conspire.’”

Leona shivered dramatically. “Is this going to be a problem for us this weekend? Should I be asking that? Do I want to know? Should I worry?”

“You already are worrying, Leona,” Estelle said. “The race organizers promised that they’ll have officials all along the route, and that it’ll be prominently marked. Practice sessions are always more dangerous, anyway.”

“ Prominently marked,” Leona repeated with emphasis. “ Verrrry prominently. Otherwise, our first Posadas One Hundred bike race is going to be our last, with a hundred corpses littered about the base of Cat Mesa. What grand publicity for us, especially with the big-city media in town.”

“I hope it won’t be that bad,” Estelle said. “This is just one of those freak things.” She knew the race would generate a small splash in the media, perhaps a color photo on page 47 of the Albuquerque Journal -and then only because of the former lieutenant governor’s efforts. Former was usually the first step toward anonymity, amplifying Hansen’s term as a lieutenant governor-an invisible position to begin with. But Chet Hansen had managed to bike, swim, run, sail, even shoot his way into the press with some regularity.

“Actually, Tomás says that the worst part of the course is further on, where they get into rocks on the west flank of the mesa. The trail that cuts down the west end of the mesa and rejoins the Forest Service road is good for hiking-I can’t imagine bikes on it.”

Deputy Tom Pasquale, an avid cyclist himself, had ridden the full hundred-mile course half a dozen times during the past year, and parts of it many more times than that. During the early spring, he had played an active role in the race’s organization, and his name was included in the list of entrants.

“But he says it’s a perfect course,” Estelle added. “It’s so rugged that in some places the riders have to dismount and carry the bikes.” She grimaced. “Apparently that’s what makes it perfect. He suggested I take the two boys to see part of the race over on the west side, where all the action will be.”

Five-year-old Carlos and his older brother, Francisco, were well beyond training wheels themselves, but their eyes went saucers whenever they saw Tom Pasquale’s fancy titanium bike.

“What an odd definition of ‘perfect,’” Leona said. “But that’s Tomás, of course,” she added. “I think I shall take the weekend to go visit my aunt in Kansas City. Let me know when this is all over.” She pulled a dainty hanky from her pocket and dabbed her forehead. “And I would, too…but that would mean I’d miss your son’s piano recital Saturday night. And my, oh my, I can’t wait. How wonderful that’s going to be.”