Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Be careful,” I tried to say. I pushed the oxygen mask away. “Be careful,” I said again, and this time I think he understood me.

“Looks like a head injury on this one,” he said. Hands far more expert than mine cradled Estelle Reye’s head-her hair now gray from ash, the strands caked and thick like fresh cement. She was lifted from the pool and placed on the backboard.

Someone wiped my face and with the curtain of ash removed I recognized faces. Sheriff Pat Tate was kneeling in the goddamned pool of water. A shout from up-canyon pulled him to his feet before I had a chance to say a word.

“Just take it easy,” Tate said to me, and he charged away. I turned in panic. Estelle Reyes was already gone, her stretcher headed downhill. I flailed wildly, and what seemed like half a dozen hands provided support.

“I can stand,” I croaked, knowing damn well that I couldn’t. It must have been a hell of a sight as a gray ash-man rose from the pool. The EMTs weren’t much interested in what I had to say about my own rescue. Someone messed with my right shoulder even as other hands arranged my bulk on the backboard.

I was strapped down like a crazy man trussed in a strait-jacket. I couldn’t do anything but relax and enjoy the trip. That gave me some time to think, to try to put some of the pieces together.

The helicopter rested at the east end of the parking lot, a stone’s throw from the highway. My nerves tensed. The canyon was narrow and the air currents would be squirrelly.

“Maybe just a ride to town in an ambulance would be safer,” I muttered, but no one listened to me. My stretcher was secured in the Jet Ranger even as the turbines increased their whine and the rotors flashed.

Estelle’s stretcher was on the opposite side of the machine, and I wanted the damn mask off so I could ask about her.

I tensed as the helicopter lifted, ducked its nose, rotated in place, and then sped south, thumping up and out of the canyon. I caught a glimpse of the pall of smoke that hung on the southwest side of Quebrada Mesa and extended up the face of the mountain to the north.

It banked smoothly away from the valley. We had already gained enough altitude to establish a direct course to Albuquerque, skimming the mesas and foothills.

I shifted position, trying to see who else was in the helicopter with us. It was impossible to see, impossible to hear or even sit up. I settled back, wondering if Francis Guzman was with Estelle. I was going to have a hell of a time trying to explain this mess to him.

“How are we?” the nurse asked. I’d been staring at the ceiling of the ICU recovery room and hadn’t heard her pad in. She smiled at me, a little bit predatory.

I cleared my throat. “We’re okay,” I said. “What time is it?”

She glanced at her watch. “A little after eight.”

There were no tubes stuck in me, no clicking machines. That was a plus. “In the morning?”

“Yes,” the nurse said. She was maybe forty-five, plain as a post, and looked like she had more important things to do elsewhere.

I raised a hand and rubbed my face. My skin felt thin and fragile. “I need to know about the injured deputy who came in on the same helicopter as me.” I was about to give her the name, and my mind went blank. “Christ,” I muttered and rubbed my eyes again. “Estelle,” I said suddenly. “Estelle Reyes.” I looked at the nurse. I couldn’t read her name tag. “I need to know. I’d appreciate anything you can do.”

She nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She left the room, and I twisted in bed just a little. My right shoulder felt heavy and dull, but when I bent the arm at the elbow everything worked. I looked at my fingers. Other than some minor nicks and cuts, every finger was in place and worked on command. Hell, this wasn’t too bad, then.

I flexed my right leg. I couldn’t see it over my belly, but it felt like all parts were in place. My right ankle twanged a bolt of lightning when I tried to point my toes.

In a few minutes the nurse returned. “The young lady is still in surgery,” she said without preamble. My spirits sank.

“Is Dr. Francis Guzman in the building?”

“He may be in surgery, sir.”

“I need to see him as soon as he’s free.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She left again. The room was insulated from the normal sounds of the hospital, and I had only my thoughts for company. The door of the recovery room opened, and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy poked his head in.

“Come on in.”

“You’re awake,” he said. I saw by his uniform that he was one of Pat Tate’s troops.

“I think so,” I said.

“I’ve been assigned down here,” he said, not altogether happy about it. “Sheriff Tate said that if there was anything you needed to let me know.”

“There’s a whole list of things I need,” I said, eager to rejoin the world. “What’s your name, Officer?”

“Perry Olguin, sir.” He hadn’t crossed thirty yet and was shorter than the nurse-slender, dark-skinned, and hawk-featured. He was cultivating a pencil-line mustache that looked ridiculous.

“Perry, catch me up. What the hell is happening up in San Estevan?”

Olguin frowned. “It’s a mess, sir.”

“Did they get Finn?”

“No, sir.”

I took a deep breath. “So what happened? What about Al Martinez?”

“All I heard was that Finn took Al’s car.”

“Took his car? What about Al?”

“He’ll be all right. His room’s just down the hall. Finn somehow got the drop on him and shot him point-blank five times.”

“And he’s all right?”

“Well, he’s sure sore. He had on his vest and I guess Finn didn’t notice…or see it. Al’s bruised up pretty bad. He can’t breathe so good. He’s lucky.”

“Christ. Did he manage to get a radio call off?”

Olguin nodded. “He radioed in that shots were fired. He told me a few minutes ago that it sounded like a damn war.”

“Worse,” I said flatly. “Does Tate know what direction Finn went? How he went?”

Olguin frowned again. Maybe he had to do that in order to think. “They got a roadblock on State 46, sir. They’re sure he didn’t make it that far.”

“What makes them think he’s going to drive right down the state highway for Christ’s sake?”

“Well…they’ve got every other road blocked, too. And the last word I had was that they were using two helicopters. It’s kind of tough working north and east, though, because of the fire.”

“He’s not going north or east,” I said. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did it take after Martinez’ call before the next officers arrived?”

“Just a few minutes…maybe forty or so. Deputy Polk was at the southern end of State 46. He sailed on up there pretty fast. And he didn’t see any southbound traffic.”

And after the deputy went through it was an open road until they knew what the hell was going on and set up the roadblock. Whatever the screwup had been, it was more our fault than Tate’s.

“And he switched cars, so he’s not going to outrun anybody.”

“They found Martinez’ patrol car, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was it? Where’d he dump it?”

Olguin paused and frowned even deeper. “They didn’t say, sir. They’re not talkin’ about that on the radio.”

“Shit,” I said. It was after eight. In three or four hours Finn could easily be out of the state if he headed west or swung back around north. Or he could follow the labyrinth of dirt roads, gradually working his way south toward the Mexican border. “And Estelle Reyes is still in surgery?”

“Yes, sir.”