Steven Havill: Final Payment

Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s passenger leaned forward, enormous blue eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

“Oh my, isn’t this something,” County Manager Leona Spears whispered. The “something” was a spot where the U.S. Forest Service’s two-track meandered close to the formidable, crumbling rim of Cat Mesa. For a few yards, no trees blocked the panoramic view of Posadas County, from the flat, barren reaches of the eastern prairie to the San Cristóbal Mountains to the south and west. The mountains formed a natural barrier with neighboring Mexico. From this spot, Undersheriff Guzman could see the entire southern half of Posadas County, including the village of Posadas, which nestled on the mesa’s flank below them.

The road ducked back into the trees again, away from the mesa rim, and almost immediately they saw the flashing lights of the large boxy EMT rescue unit a hundred yards ahead. The ambulance was parked just off the narrow lane, and Estelle pulled her county SUV to a halt a dozen yards behind it.

“And this is only practice,” she said. The comment elicited a groan from the county manager. Despite her best efforts, they both knew that there was no way to guarantee safety in a hundred-mile bicycle race through the county’s roughest back-country. To the competitors, of course, that was the attraction.

In this instance, the emergency came two days before the race itself, during a casual practice ride.

Estelle could see activity fifty yards ahead through the trees, and she glanced across at the county manager. Leona, with her frilly white blouse, neatly tailored business suit, and stylish low-heeled shoes, was not dressed for the boonies. As if reading the undersheriff’s mind, the large woman waved a hand. “You go ahead. I’ll wait.” That brought a smile from Estelle, who knew Leona’s insatiable curiosity.

I’ll give you thirty seconds, she thought.

Even as she stepped out and closed the door of the Expedition, Estelle could see the bicycle tracks cut in the dirt. How the injured rider had come to drift so far from the marked race route was still a mystery, unless it was the obvious lure of a “shortcut.”

In a moment, as she emerged through the last clump of oak brush, the undersheriff saw that the unlucky cyclist had already been splinted, bandaged, and IV’d, then strapped to a gurney and hoisted to safety. Now, a dozen feet from the mesa edge, three EMTs worked over their patient, ignoring the spectacular abyss behind them. Estelle slipped the small digital camera out of her pocket and took several photos before approaching any closer.

A girl in rainbow-colored spandex, her face pasty white with short red hair plastered to her forehead where her helmet had pressed, sat at the base of a sturdy piñon while a fourth EMT bandaged the girl’s bloody knee.

“Hey there, sheriff,” the EMT working on the knee said. She had glanced up when she heard the camera. “Not your usual kind of MVA we got this time. What brings you up here?”

“My number came up,” Estelle replied cheerfully. The injured girl opened her eyes as Estelle knelt beside her. “What happened?”

“It was his big idea,” the girl said, and gulped air. “He said this trail was a shortcut that no one else knew about.” She closed her eyes.

“Glad no one else did,” EMT Matty Finnegan said sympathetically. She made a diving motion with one hand. “Right over there, Estelle. Looks like he tried to stop when the trail made a turn, but he got crossed up somehow. About a fifteen-foot drop.”

“Ay,” Estelle said. She touched the girl lightly on the arm. “What’s your partner’s name?”

The girl grimaced as the EMT snugged the bandage. “Terry Gutierrez. We’re from Socorro. I think that dumb butt was looking over his shoulder, to see if I was behind him. Then he didn’t have time to stop.”

“And your name?”

“April Pritt,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Shit, that hurts.”

The EMT nodded. “You’re a lucky girl, Miss April. Other than the knee,” she said to Estelle, “April is okay, sheriff. A nasty laceration. Pretty brave, too. She climbed down over the cliff there to help her friend.”

“I lost my balance,” April said.

“You sure did. But no fractures.” Matty reached out and gently patted the side of her patient’s bandaged knee. “No stitches, if she’s lucky.” She looked critically at one knee, then the other. “Just another scar to keep all the others company.”

“How’s he?” Estelle turned and watched as one of the EMTs adjusted the huge cervical collar on the injured rider. The young man’s eyes were closed, his jaw slack under the oxygen mask.

“Not so lucky,” Matty said. “But I think he’ll be okay. We’ll just have to see. I tell you what, though…thank God for small favors like cell phones.”

Stepping so carefully that she appeared to be stalking wild game, the county manager appeared from the oak brush. “Oh my,” Leona said, hesitating well back from the mesa edge. The county manager had her own small camera in hand, and Estelle turned to make sure that the enormous woman wasn’t planning to step near the rim.

“A bad fall,” the undersheriff said to her to make sure she had Leona’s attention. “Two competitors from Socorro.” The girl with the battered knee looked up at Leona apologetically, even though she had no idea who the enormous woman might be.

“Oh my,” Leona said again. She took a reflexive step back when she saw Estelle walk over and stand near the edge of a large block of limestone. The view of the county was spectacular, but Estelle’s attention was drawn to the broken juniper limbs below, and the blood swashes on the gray boulders. It made a grim photograph.

As she knelt at the mesa’s edge on that warm May afternoon, Estelle leaned forward just enough to trace in her mind’s eye the arc of the cyclist’s free fall, to imagine the short burst of panic as he realized his mistake. The bicyclist had plunged over the mesa rim, arms flailing, his cry of panic echoing through the canyons. His trajectory ended with a fifteen-foot free flight that smacked into a jumble of jagged boulders capping the long talus slope that formed the mesa’s apron. He had hit so hard that his helmet broke open like a coconut shell. The helmet lay next to the mangled bike, and Estelle walked over and picked it up. One deep gash had torn the helmet’s brightly colored plastic just above the temple. She grimaced and held it up for Leona to see.

“He’s lucky,” Leona said.

“We hope so,” Estelle replied. The blood on the helmet indicated otherwise. She placed the shattered helmet carefully on the frame of the bike and turned back to the girl.

“You climbed down?” Estelle asked.

“Sort of,” April said through clenched teeth. “Not the most graceful thing I’ve ever done. Is he going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Estelle said. She regarded the spot where the eighteen-year-old girl had stopped her bike shy of disaster. No doubt she had seen her boyfriend below, so battered, broken, and lacerated that all he could do was lie in a growing puddle of blood and whimper. There was no easy route down, and her good judgment had been clouded by panic. “You called us from down there?”

“No. I didn’t know what to do, so I called 911 first. But then I saw all the blood, and I knew I couldn’t wait.”

“Brave girl,” Estelle said. She turned away from the rim. “Just a wrong turn on an unfamiliar shortcut,” Estelle said to Leona. “As simple as that. No shortcuts allowed in the actual race.”

“Mercy, I should hope not. You’re not climbing down there, are you?”