Read Online Prolonged Exposure by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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light squeezed through a thin rent in the clouds just above the horizon. The rest of the sky was dull lead, with the bottoms of the clouds torn and fragmented by winds aloft. It was going to be a cold, miserable day, the kind that duck hunters love, where the targets show up nice and black against the uniform background of the sky, with no sunshine in the shooters’ eyes.
We took my Blazer so that Estelle could use a child’s seat for Francis. Camille cheerfully sat in back with the kid, no doubt thankful that she didn’t have to stare out through a cop car’s backseat security grill.
Radio traffic was intense by Posadas County standards, and dispatcher Gayle Sedillos was handling the various agencies effortlessly. Search and Rescue operations were generally a mess anyway, since no one except the National Guard got enough practice, and everyone wanted to be lead dog. In this particular SAR episode, Sheriff Martin Holman was the commander—his first stab at that kind of interagency organization.
Just before the landfill north of town, Estelle turned west on State Highway 78. A mile farther and the chain-link fence along the airport property grew out of the red sandstone. Enough junk plastered itself to the fencing that it could be mistaken for the landfill.
A Huey chopper in sober New Mexico National Guard colors waited at the end of the runway. The Huey was probably older than the kid who was flying it, but the young pilot was having a good time despite the seriousness of his mission. He held the aging helicopter in a hover a foot off the ground, rock-steady, its wide blades thumping the air so hard, it shook the Blazer.
A second Huey whumped out from the apron in front of one of the hangars, nose slightly down as it followed the taxiway toward its waiting buddy.
“The heavy guns,” I said, pointing. Just in front of the hangar, a third chopper crouched, its blades just beginning to spool into motion. A couple of generations separated it from the two fat old Hueys. I didn’t recognize the model, but it had enough gear hanging off and poking out to make it as menacing as anything out of Hollywood.
“Lookit,” a small voice said, and I turned, to see young Francis straining against his belts, eyes huge as he stared at the show of airpower. I glanced over at Estelle and wondered if she was thinking the same thing. If I were three years old, lost and scared, and that thing arrived over the trees, blowing down a rain of dead leaves, sticks, nuts, even squirrels, I sure as hell would dig a hole and stick my head in, hoping that such a nasty monster would go away.
With the airport safely tucked behind us, we had a thousand yards of peace and quiet. And then Estelle said, “Here comes Robert.” She was looking in the rearview mirror, and even as I twisted in my seat, one of the Posadas County patrol cars shot past us so fast, I could feel its wake.
I recognized the hulk of Sgt. Robert Torrez’s shoulders, and our radio barked twice as he keyed the mike.
“Three oh eight,” the small voice behind me said soberly.
“How do you know that?” Camille asked. She was sitting skewed sideways, her hand resting lightly on the kid’s left shoulder. I wondered the same thing. The three-inch squad car numbers were displayed high on the back fenders. If Torrez had been parked and I’d had a pair of binoculars, I could have read them, too.
“’Cause,” Francis said. “ Ese es quien es .”
“In English, hijo ,” Estelle said, but in English or Spanish, that was all the kid wanted to say on the subject. “He knows the car numbers of all the deputies,” Estelle added. “Valuable information every three-year-old needs to know.”
In another two miles, we turned north on Forest Road 26, a road that was wide, smooth crushed stone for the first hundred yards and then narrowed to ruts, rocks, and dust for its climb up into Oria National Forest.
There wasn’t much forest in the Oria. Why the U.S. Forest Service
We took my Blazer so that Estelle could use a child’s seat for Francis. Camille cheerfully sat in back with the kid, no doubt thankful that she didn’t have to stare out through a cop car’s backseat security grill.
Radio traffic was intense by Posadas County standards, and dispatcher Gayle Sedillos was handling the various agencies effortlessly. Search and Rescue operations were generally a mess anyway, since no one except the National Guard got enough practice, and everyone wanted to be lead dog. In this particular SAR episode, Sheriff Martin Holman was the commander—his first stab at that kind of interagency organization.
Just before the landfill north of town, Estelle turned west on State Highway 78. A mile farther and the chain-link fence along the airport property grew out of the red sandstone. Enough junk plastered itself to the fencing that it could be mistaken for the landfill.
A Huey chopper in sober New Mexico National Guard colors waited at the end of the runway. The Huey was probably older than the kid who was flying it, but the young pilot was having a good time despite the seriousness of his mission. He held the aging helicopter in a hover a foot off the ground, rock-steady, its wide blades thumping the air so hard, it shook the Blazer.
A second Huey whumped out from the apron in front of one of the hangars, nose slightly down as it followed the taxiway toward its waiting buddy.
“The heavy guns,” I said, pointing. Just in front of the hangar, a third chopper crouched, its blades just beginning to spool into motion. A couple of generations separated it from the two fat old Hueys. I didn’t recognize the model, but it had enough gear hanging off and poking out to make it as menacing as anything out of Hollywood.
“Lookit,” a small voice said, and I turned, to see young Francis straining against his belts, eyes huge as he stared at the show of airpower. I glanced over at Estelle and wondered if she was thinking the same thing. If I were three years old, lost and scared, and that thing arrived over the trees, blowing down a rain of dead leaves, sticks, nuts, even squirrels, I sure as hell would dig a hole and stick my head in, hoping that such a nasty monster would go away.
With the airport safely tucked behind us, we had a thousand yards of peace and quiet. And then Estelle said, “Here comes Robert.” She was looking in the rearview mirror, and even as I twisted in my seat, one of the Posadas County patrol cars shot past us so fast, I could feel its wake.
I recognized the hulk of Sgt. Robert Torrez’s shoulders, and our radio barked twice as he keyed the mike.
“Three oh eight,” the small voice behind me said soberly.
“How do you know that?” Camille asked. She was sitting skewed sideways, her hand resting lightly on the kid’s left shoulder. I wondered the same thing. The three-inch squad car numbers were displayed high on the back fenders. If Torrez had been parked and I’d had a pair of binoculars, I could have read them, too.
“’Cause,” Francis said. “ Ese es quien es .”
“In English, hijo ,” Estelle said, but in English or Spanish, that was all the kid wanted to say on the subject. “He knows the car numbers of all the deputies,” Estelle added. “Valuable information every three-year-old needs to know.”
In another two miles, we turned north on Forest Road 26, a road that was wide, smooth crushed stone for the first hundred yards and then narrowed to ruts, rocks, and dust for its climb up into Oria National Forest.
There wasn’t much forest in the Oria. Why the U.S. Forest Service
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