The two boys didn’t often have the opportunity to enjoy a full day with their father, and Estelle decided Francis might well make productive use of the occasion—especially with Francisco, now experiencing his own seven-year-old version of woman trouble.
The undersheriff drove west on the state highway, eight miles beyond the municipal airport to where a cluster of race officials’ vehicles was parked at the intersection of the state highway and Forest Road 26. None of the riders had reached that checkpoint yet. When they finally hit the prairie after four or five hours on the mesa and in the backcountry, the remaining three hours into town would be a relief.
She slowed the Expedition to a stop as Howie Gutierrez, stopwatches hanging from his neck, rose from the tailgate of the pickup.
“Hey, sheriff,” he greeted, and flashed a smile at Leona. “All the top brass out today, huh. What’s goin’ on down at the gas company? I heard they found some bodies out there?”
“Apparently so,” Estelle said. Gutierrez worked as a salesman at Chavez Chevy-Olds, and once again, Estelle marveled at the efficiency of the grapevine. “How long will it be before we see the first rider down off the mesa?”
Gutierrez checked his board. “I would guess an hour, maybe? Once they’re down here, it’s pretty clear sailing. A spot or two on Fourteen headed south, but nothing like up there.” He glanced “up there” almost with reverence. “You headed up?”
“I thought I would. Maybe as far as the Wells.”
“Okay.” He pushed himself away from the truck and put on his official face, looking at his watch at the same time. “I think you have just about enough time to get to the Wells before race traffic does. But keep an eye out. Remember they’re going to be comin’ down fast, and you’ll be swimming upstream if you don’t get out of the way.”
“You bet. Thanks.”
“Leona, you enjoy yourself,” Gutierrez said, and Estelle wondered if the salesman was working on the county manager to replace her aging, colorful Volkswagen Vanagon with something that moved.
For the first mile, the forest road was smooth sand, but then the terrain angled up sharply. Leona grabbed for the panic handle as the Expedition lurched sharply, its fat tires walking over the rocky stairsteps that cut across the two-track.
“If you see any riders, let me know so we can pull off.”
“But he said we had an hour.”
“Unless a few of them are faster than everyone thinks.”
Another two miles on, they reached Jackman’s Wells, where not enough remained to qualify for ghost town status. A scatter of broken bricks, a few rusted pieces of metal roofing, a trash pile of busted bottles and corroded tin cans were all that marked Martin Jackman’s dream of wealth and seclusion near the spot where a spring had once bubbled out of the mesa flank. As if in retaliation to Jackman’s insulting clutter of trash, the spring had dried up. So had Martin Jackman’s life as a prospector.
Any semblance of a road vanished as the trail headed up the mesa, switchbacking through the rocks.
Estelle reflected that, if there needed to be one at all, the bike race was the perfect use for this battered mesa. Every scar, every blemish became a potential and treasured racetrack feature for what Sheriff Bobby Torrez was fond of referring to as the “spandex crowd.” It might be argued that, for a bunch of enthusiastic amateurs, the mesa portion of the race was far too difficult—too “technical,” as Tom Pasquale was fond of saying. The terrain was rough, and there weren’t enough spotters. The route was so rugged that even the motorcycle chase vehicles had to slow to an awkward pace no faster than a walk. But that was the lure of the challenge.
Estelle saw three other vehicles parked in various spots near the worn Forest Service sign that announced Jackman’s Wells. One of the vehicles sported a race official’s placard on the door. Half a dozen people stood near the trucks, two with clipboards and stopwatches.
She pulled the truck well away from the narrow two-track and backed it under a gnarled piñon. Movement up on the mesa face caught her eye.
“What am I seeing?” Leona asked, leaning forward as Estelle pointed.
“Just above the slag pile,” Estelle said. “I saw a flash of color.”
And sure enough, an instant later a lone cyclist appeared, his bike thrust forward with his weight over the back tire. He sailed down a particularly steep section of trail, deftly avoiding the strewn rocks and limb wood. A hundred yards behind him, three other riders formed a pack, locked in the chase.
“Well, we timed that just right, didn’t we, dear?” Leona said. “I’m glad to be out of their way. And look at that. They started a minute apart, and still collect in bunches.” She pulled out a glossy race program, ready to match numbers with names. “Who are you rooting for? Thomas?”
“That would be good,” Estelle said. She leaned over and looked at the proffered roster. Thomas Pasquale carried number 58, just about halfway through the field. She’d seen the list before, recognizing only a handful of names. Number 8 had been reserved for Terry Gutierrez, the young rider from Socorro who had sailed off the cliff during a practice circuit. Terry’s girlfriend, April Pritt, would have raced with number 121 on her back had the lacerated knee not ended her chances.
“Oh my,” Leona said, beaming. “This is fun. What absolutely marvelous timing.” Camera in one hand, race program in the other, she bundled out of the truck, then turned to rummage her floppy safari hat out of a voluminous handbag.
The cyclist, face gaunt with effort, shot by without a glance at them or a nod to the other spectators, despite their encouraging cheers.
“Number 18,” Leona announced. “That’s somebody something from Belen…I can’t read this without my glasses.” She extended the program toward Estelle, who waved it off good-naturedly. “Wow. That means that he’s passed the first seventeen riders!” the county manager chortled as she watched the cyclist disappear into the trees.
Seconds later, the chasing pack shot by, and it became even more apparent that, with the race now three hours old, the starting order had little to do with placement. Number 6, a chubby young man in bright yellow with thighs so thunderous that they threatened the integrity of his spandex, led numbers 37 and 78, and Estelle was impressed that the third member of the trio sported silver gray hair sprouting out from under his blue plastic helmet.
“He started almost an hour and a half behind the leader,” she said. “And still caught him.”
Both Estelle and Leona leaned against the warm grill of the Expedition, and as the trio of bikers raced away down the mesa, the mountainside near Jackman’s Wells grew silent, even the piñon jays puzzled mute. After a moment, she heard voices high above near the mesa rim, too far away to distinguish what was said. The metallic sounds of jounced bikes drifted through the trees.
Each time she saw a cyclist plunge into sight, Estelle held her breath, searching for the husky figure of Tom Pasquale, riding under number 58. She knew that expecting a top finish was wishful thinking. Tom was no pro rider. The young deputy had taken up bicycle riding less than two years before as a way to shed some weight and counter the cumulative effects of eight-hour shifts spent on his butt in a patrol car. A powerful young man, true enough. But the kind of endurance needed for this race was new to him, tempered by only a few practice sessions on the mesa when he could steal the time.
Forty-five minutes later, she watched with mounting apprehension as number 115, a girl with a bloody right elbow, trotted down the trail, her bike jangling along beside her. “Ouch,” Leona remarked. “We should be seeing young Thomas pretty soon now.”
“Long ago,” Estelle said. The girl stopped by the small cluster of race officials and spectators. One of them took her bike to examine the front wheel while another tended to the elbow, and in that space of time, half a dozen more riders clattered down the trail, far off the pace and content to enjoy the bike ride.
“In a minute,” Estelle said to Leona, and she walked over to the group, one of whom she r
ecognized as Richard Overmeyer, the new principal at the middle school. He glanced up and greeted her.
“Sheriff,” he said. “Amazing event, huh?”
“Yes it is. How many more to go?”
Overmeyer had a clipboard with roster, and it appeared that he had checked off the riders as they passed. He consulted his list. “We’ve seen about a third of ’em,” he said. “Race radio says there’s a big crowd just coming off the rim.” He flashed a smile. “This is a tough course.”
“How about number 58?”
“That’s…” And he scanned the numbers. “Pasquale. One of you guys. He hasn’t come through yet.”
“Can you check up the hill?”
“Sure.” He pulled the small race radio out of the pocket of his jacket. “Benny,” he said, “status check.”
“Go ahead,” a disembodied voice replied.
“Number 58. That’s five eight.”
“Copy. Just a sec.”
“If he abandoned up near the top, it’d be quicker just to hook a ride back down to town on the east side,” Overmeyer said. “A lot of riders will do that. It’s a nice ride up from the village, but once you go by the halfway mark, there ain’t no easy return.” He grinned. “Although I don’t guess I need to tell you that. You guys know this mountain as well as anybody.” He rested the clipboard on the hood of his pickup. “How’s that boy of yours doing?”
“That’s 58,” Estelle said, and Overmeyer shook his head.
“No, I meant your little boy. What, he’s in second grade now?”
“The boys are fine,” Estelle said, wondering in what context news of her son, or sons, had reached the middle school already. “I think they’re up the hill watching the race with their father.”
“Dick, you there?” the voice asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Fifty-eight went through check station three about fifty minutes ago, and through station four at eleven thirty-two.” Estelle glanced at her own watch. At twenty-five minutes after noon, Tom Pasquale should have roared down the hill long ago, becoming a checkmark on the Jackman’s Wells list just ten minutes or so after passing station four. Timers at that point were perched on the rim of the mesa, just before the road started its torturous route down the west mesa face.
She easily pictured half a hundred ways that the young man could have vaulted off into space somewhere, dashing his fancy plastic helmet against the rocks.
“Dick?” the voice asked.
“Go ahead.”
“We just had the last rider check through on stage one,” the voice said, referring to the first mesa check station where paved road turned to dirt. It had taken that competitor three hours just to pedal from downtown Posadas up the paved road to the turnoff, a distance of only twelve miles. “That’s number 111, and he’s abandoning. We’ll clear out here in a bit. You counted 58 yet?”
“Not yet.”
“They’ll be along. We’re hearing that a couple of ’em are working on flat tires. Just a sec.”
They waited patiently, and then the disembodied voice said, “Yeah. Fifty-eight is headed down now. He and a couple others got tangled with some rocks and had to change a front tire. That ravine just below the rim is a real bitch.”
“Ten-four.”
Richard Overmeyer consulted his list again as a rider shot by. “About half of them are going to end up walking down,” he said. “That will take some time.” Estelle couldn’t imagine Tom Pasquale walking. Crawling if he had to, but not walking.
Overmeyer read the touch of concern on Estelle’s face correctly. “We got about eight guys riding down on sweep when it’s all over,” he said. “Nobody’s going to be left up there.”
“I’m sure not,” Estelle said. She turned and looked up the mesa. “How far is it from checkpoint four to here?” Estelle asked.
Overmeyer didn’t need to consult his race literature. “Six point two K,” he said. “That’s a little under four miles.”
That was an easy hour’s walk, absent broken bones.
“And I tell you, Sheriff, there aren’t very many spots where we don’t have somebody within eyeball distance. One or two spots, maybe. At the most. And we’d know if there’s a problem. He’ll get that tire sorted out. Probably half of ’em have flats before they’re done.”
Every time a rider went by—and in one instance, fourteen riders formed a cluster that hooted and laughed its way down the mesa, in no hurry to record a competitive time—Estelle searched the colorful jerseys for number 58.
“Does he have his phone with him?” Leona asked.
“I think so. But that’s the last thing he needs.” She envisioned Tom trying to talk on a cell phone while he negotiated the difficult trail. The undersheriff waited as one more group jangled by, this time five riders, all high-numbered late starters. In just a few minutes, the last competitor would have passed through the upper checkpoints.
Just as she spoke, three riders appeared, two close together and the familiar figure of Tom Pasquale fifty yards to the rear.
“Ah,” Estelle breathed. Number 132, the last to start, was a rangy young man whose left arm was now bloody from shoulder to elbow. Jaw set in ferocious determination, he led number 109, former lieutenant governor Chet Hansen, by a bike length. Hansen, a small-framed man sporting a ponytail that was a recent addition after leaving the formality of state government, rode slack-jawed, his breath wheezing in high-pitched gasps. One knee was bloody.
As he passed, Tom Pasquale sat back, making use of the only smooth patch of ground, and lifted both arms in salute. He grinned, dropped his hands to the handlebars, and shrugged.
“Better than last,” he shouted as he shot by.
“He’ll surely gain ground down below,” Leona said, taking video clips with her small camera as Pasquale vanished around the turn. Another noisy group appeared above them, and Estelle glanced at the time.
“If we wait about half an hour, we can slip out of here without running over anyone,” she said.
“Well, don’t rush on my account,” Leona warbled. “This is heaven for me, believe me. Sunshine, excitement…I only wish I’d remembered to bring a nice bottle of wine, some cheese, and some crackers. Wouldn’t that be elegant?”
“That’s all I’d need,” Estelle said. Now that the apprehension of waiting for Tom Pasquale had been released, the long hours settled heavily on her eyelids. The drive back to town, lulled by the sweet smells of the desert, was going to be a challenge.
Chapter Twenty-five
Now that Tom Pasquale and the other riders had survived the mesa, Estelle’s mind drifted back to other, more pressing concerns. The Expedition thumped onto the pavement of the state highway, and the undersheriff turned away from the race, back toward the airport and the village of Posadas. From this point on, race competitors faced miles of undulating prairie—not much of a spectator sport.
“That’s enough excitement for one day,” Leona said almost wistfully. “I thought Thomas looked pleased with himself, don’t you think?”
“Not too much blood yet.” Estelle grinned. “He’s been working hard on the organization for this race. I’m happy to see it working out. So far, so good, anyway.”
“I think I got a good picture—and one of Mr. Hansen as well, looking exhausted.” She stretched languidly. “I think I’ll e-mail him a copy. He’ll get a kick out of it.”
“He probably would—just him and the bike and the rocks and the blood,” Estelle said. “No politics out here.”
“Well, he’s not into politics much anymore. I think that when his brother died, he kinda shrank back a little. And I’m not surprised.”
Estelle glanced over at Leona. “I didn’t remember that’s what happened.”
“Sad, sad. You spend your life building roads, and then drive off a bad one.”
“Really?” Estelle asked, but Leona needed little prompting.
“Apparently so. He and his wife.” She frowned. “And I can’t remember their n
ames. Anyway, it was one of those little narrow roads down in Chiapas, with no guardrails.” She sighed. “I never did hear the details, but it’s sad nevertheless. They didn’t even bring the bodies back. Terribly burned, I suppose.”
“Ay. That’s right. That rings a bell. I remember there being some talk about how odd it was that they settled for burial in Mexico.”
“Well, dead is dead,” Leona said almost cheerfully. “Just a nasty, nasty thing.”
“That’s the brother who took over Hansen’s construction company while Chet was in office?”
“That’s the one. After Donnie’s—that’s his name—after Donnie died, Chet got the company back, but that’s a tough way to do it. I think the two boys were quite close. That’s what I’d heard, anyway.” She held up both hands in resignation. “But that’s ancient history. So, are we headed home now?”
“I wish I knew,” Estelle sighed. “I suppose so.” She took a deep breath. “You know, this youngster puzzles me.” She glanced across at Leona. “Hector, I mean. I don’t understand him.”
Leona frowned. “An impressionable young man, perhaps,” she said. “Easily talked down the wrong path.”
“He knows more than he’s telling us. I’m sure of that. He brings this Manolo Tapia into the country without knowing a thing about the man’s business? I don’t think so. And then we discover that the man is actually his uncle. We don’t know how much he confided in the boy, but we do know that Tapia stayed in the abandoned house next door to the Uriostes. Hector set him up with that little convenience. At any time, Hector could have tipped us off. Instead, this boy claims that he doesn’t even know how long his uncle hid next door.”
“There’s some trust there, though,” Leona said. “This ugly Tapia person trusted Hector enough that he must have figured the boy wouldn’t turn him in.”
“Sure there’s trust. And that’s the question. How much did Tapia keep Hector in the dark? Hector’s story seems to be that Tapia might come back. That the boy might be needed for another round of air taxi service.”
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