Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

After the turmoil of Christmas Eve and the tense moments of early morning, Estelle savored the peace and quiet of Christmas afternoon. The skies were clear and the sun almost hot, toasting the dormant sage and yarrow underfoot as she sauntered along the narrow trail that ran along the rim of Escudero Arroyo west of Twelfth Street. She strolled with her arm linked through Sofía Tournál’s. They had no particular destination, no particular agenda. Every moment that the telephone in her jacket pocket didn’t ring, or the pager didn’t chirp, or the hand-held two-way radio clipped to her belt at the small of her back didn’t squawk, Estelle counted as a victory.

Dr. Francis Guzman had called to report that the sheriff was resting comfortably, although practicing a charming combination of groggy and cranky. The air ambulance was scheduled to return to Las Cruces that evening, and would swing by Posadas to bring Dr. Guzman home.

Word was less promising from Posadas General Hospital, where Eduardo Martinez still remained in a coma.

As Estelle and Sofía strolled and talked, the two children scampered here and there in general orbit around them, chattering like squirrels.

Teresa Reyes had suggested the walk, and Estelle knew why. Not only would the fresh, cool air be a balm for Estelle’s own nerves, but it would leave the house quiet and peaceful for a while…her mother’s nap time.

For a brief season, the desert was relatively safe for the two boys, the risks limited to being spiked occasionally by a withered cactus or snagged by the amazing thorns of the stunted acacia. Nights were cold enough that the various fanged creatures, or even the scuttling stinging ones, were holed up, well out of reach of curious little fingers until spring. Estelle found herself watching the children, comparing their mannerisms and interests.

Carlos spent much of his time squatting on his haunches, examining the fine details of the treasures he found. He seemed particularly intrigued with the stink beetles that he uncovered. He would have loved to have brought home a pocketful, but accepted with sober resignation the logic that the little beetles were happier remaining in their own homes.

Francisco seemed to enjoy the roll and sweep of the lay of the land itself. Perhaps because he knew it made his mother nervous, he skirted the very edge of the arroyo, defying the precarious, sandy overhangs that could so easily collapse under his feet. Once in a while, Sofía would gasp as the boy came too close to disaster, but Estelle remained philosophically quiet. She saw that the six-year-old had brought his music with him, the sounds inside his head providing a framework for what he saw out on the prairie.

“This is nice,” Estelle sighed at one point, and Sofía glanced at her with amusement. Estelle had stopped, and was watching Francisco, who had found an old cattle path that cut the rim. He didn’t race to the bottom twelve feet below. Rather, he stepped down the trail just enough so that his head was level with the rim. The grass-high view provided an interesting perspective of the arroyo as it swept away, cutting through the flat of the prairie.

Estelle watched as her son stood still and raised his arms for a moment, like Moses parting the waters, and she saw his head bob.

“We let ourselves become so busy that we forget what we’re missing,” Sofía said. The sound of a snarling motorcycle blossomed behind them, and Estelle turned to watch its approach up the arroyo from the southwest.

“Hijo,” she called to Francisco, and he retreated up the cow path toward them.

“That’s Butch,” he shouted. Fresh paint winking in the late afternoon sun, trailing a plume of blue smoke from its wailing two-stroke engine, the dirt bike catapulted up the narrow arroyo bottom, the rider fighting the loose sand.

As the biker flashed by, he attempted a wheelie, but the traction wasn’t there and he executed a wild fishtail instead, then raised a hand in greeting. The two boys waved back frantically, but the rider didn’t stop.

“Their time isn’t far off,” Sofía said, watching the bike disappear up the arroyo.

“Oh, yes it is,” Estelle replied quickly, and she laughed. “I’m going to be the original ogre mom when it comes to motorcycles.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“Oh, sí . I have a short list, you see. And motorcycles are right up there at the top.”

She watched Butch Romero careen northward, the new Christmas bike freshly shed of its red ribbons and already ingesting sand and dust. The Romero family lived two doors down the street from the Guzmans, and the parade of go-carts, old trucks, and tiny, dilapidated import cars trying to impersonate street rods were a constant source of entertainment for Francisco and Carlos.

“You may change your mind as he grows older,” Sofía said.

“Por supuesto,” Estelle replied. “I’m sure I will. When he’s forty-five, he can buy anything he wants, even a motorcycle.”

They walked for another ten minutes in companionable silence. The sun was still warm, but as it sank toward the San Cristóbal Mountains, the shadows jumped out in stark relief around each clump of prairie vegetation, creating a blanket of geometric patterns.

When he’s forty-five , Estelle thought. Thirty-nine more years. What a career that might be. And in thirty-nine years, she’d be seventy-seven. Her mother would be long gone-Sofía, too. Estelle glanced at her husband’s aunt with affection. Then again, maybe not. Sofía, a mere seventy-one, was the same age as Bill Gastner. Estelle could picture the boys’ Padrino and Sofía at age 108, trading barbs. She shook her head, derailing that train of thought.

The yowl of the motorcycle drifted back to them, and out of habit, Estelle glanced up to make sure that Francisco wasn’t standing in the middle of the arroyo bottom, blithely waiting for Butch Romero and his dirt bike to crash into him. After a moment, Estelle stopped and turned, cocking her head to listen. On his trip north, the teenager had obviously finished his familiarization run with the new bike. Now, he was flogging it for all it was worth, the pitch of the two-stroke strained and angry.

He appeared suddenly a thousand yards away, vaulting the bright yellow bike up and out of the arroyo as he followed a cattle trail, one that would bring him to the same rim path along which Estelle, Sofía, and the two boys walked. The arroyo curved in a long loop toward the east, and the bike hurtled along the trail toward them, dodging clumps of acacia and cholla.

Fifty yards away, he backed off and headed directly toward them, and Estelle stepped off the trail, Carlos now content to have his hand locked in hers. Butch rolled the bike to a stop, balancing on his right foot, and killed the engine.

“That’s quite a bike,” Estelle said. “Merry Christmas, Butch.”

Romero pushed up his face shield, then tore at the helmet’s chin strap. He pulled the helmet off, his hair caked from sweat, his narrow face flushed. It wasn’t exhilaration on his face, though.

“Sheriff-” he turned and pointed north “-there’s somebody back up there.” He almost lost his balance, and twisted the handlebars sharply to catch himself. “I hit her, I think.” Romero was breathing so hard it looked as if he might pass out.

Estelle stepped forward and rested a steadying hand on the boy’s left forearm. “A person hurt, you mean?”

Butch Romero nodded and blinked rapidly. “She’s dead, I think.”

“Tell me exactly where.”

The teenager turned and looked back up the arroyo. “See that grove of trees way up there?”

“I see the desert-willow clump right on the rim,” Estelle said. “Where you came up out of the arroyo. Beyond that?”