“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 names. 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.”
“And that door has been certainly and most definitely closed,” Leona said. “Thank heavens for that. This Mr. Tapia may not even know about Hector’s arrest yet.”
“But he just as easily could know, if he’s in the area. If he went up to Albuquerque as Hector suggests, then no, maybe not. It depends on how much of a spread the media gives it all when we finally open the door to reporters.”
“Well,” Leona said philosophically, “we can always hope that he never returns. And I can think of a very good reason why this man might not confide in the youngster, beyond the necessary basics. We’re dealing with a mere child, after all. I mean really…he is, is he not?” Estelle didn’t remind Leona that many of the world’s most accomplished thugs had never turned eighteen years old, and Hector had passed that milestone.
“He flies a mean airplane, that’s for sure,” Leona continued. “But Hector is a child. And you know, look where he ended up. Hmm? Clever as a little rat, but look where he ends up. In the clink. So there you are. I can empathize. The less the boy knows, the safer for this Tapia fellow, nasty as he is.” Leona’s eyes widened. “And he’s not in the clink. Not yet, anyway.” She reached over and patted Estelle’s shoulder maternally. “I think he’s back in Mexico…for what it’s worth. I think he accomplished his nasties, and now he’s back home.”