Flash Flood

by Susan Slater

  “That was some mess we found out there.”

  “You part of the team who found her?”

  “Led the investigation. I’m Sheriff.”

  “Any speculation on how it might have happened?”

  “Naw.” A flicker of the eye said otherwise.

  “This sort of thing happen before around here?”

  Dan watched the man take the edge of his business card to the cuticle of his left thumb. The furious digging and scraping still left a grease-stained nail bed. Dan waited. Something told him Ray had more to say.

  “One theory has it, it’s aliens.” His voice dropped and Dan wasn’t sure he heard.

  “What was that?”

  “Aliens.” The man didn’t look up. Was this a joke?

  “Are sightings common?”

  “Maybe. Depends on how you think.”

  “Was there evidence?”

  “If you knew what to look for.”

  “Just what exactly would that be?” Daniel could play along with the best of them. But aliens?

  “Slime. No blood. All around her mouth, around the anus, was this goo. Thick stuff, clear like K-Y jelly.” Probably was K-Y Jelly but Dan kept his opinion to himself. “You know they’d shoved the severed dick of a bull calf in her mouth?” Ray paused to see if Dan was with him.

  Dan wasn’t certain what kind of comment was expected, so he asked, “Have there been other mutilations? Ones that you’ve seen?”

  “A couple. But it’s been a few years.”

  “Cows carved up the same way?”

  “Yeah. Exactly the same way.”

  Dan finished the can of pop and strolled to the trash bin. He’d seen the pictures and wasn’t up to a play by play description by Sheriff Ray.

  “I probably need to get going. Why don’t you take a look at this map and tell me if I can find the Double Horseshoe if I follow it?”

  The sheriff took the map and moved to the window.

  “Shorter if you go straight here.” He pointed to a section of road that intersected with County number five. Dan made a couple notes, folded the map and watched Sheriff Ray head back to the Wonder Bread truck. Dan walked out on Main Street, looked up and down the street. And then, without any real plan in mind, he walked across to the corner of Elm opposite from Ray’s, and up the steps of the bank, Midland Central Savings and Loan, and pushed open the double glass doors. In a small town the bank was always a good place to start if you wanted a character reference.

  Everyone, this included four people, looked up expectantly. He got that “you’re a stranger” once over before a teller leaned across her wrought iron cage to inquire, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I’d like to speak to the president.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” A tall man, impeccably dressed in navy suit, white shirt, and red power tie stepped around the edge of an impressive mahogany desk outside a set of carved wood, double doors leading somewhere in back. Must be a sentinel, among other duties, more than a junior clerk but not a trustee, Dan thought.

  “No. I was hoping Mr. Cyrus might have a minute.” Dan handed him a card. Thank God he’d glanced at the gilt-edged directory painted on the door. “I believe United Life and Casualty has dealt with Midland Savings and Loan before.” A lie, but the junior clerk wouldn’t necessarily know that.

  “Dad, uh, Mr. Cyrus prefers a call in advance.”

  I just bet he does, Dan thought, this wasn’t a town that would like surprises. “Why don’t you check with him. My time is limited.”

  The clerk disappeared after a short staccato knock on the heavy doors and returned almost immediately.

  “Mr. Cyrus will see you now.”

  Dan wondered if Junior had had to refer to his father as Mr. Cyrus since birth. Probably. Dan stepped into the room, not quite an office, but not really anything else unless there was such a thing as a one-room library. A ladder on wheels with a small railed platform on top stood just inside the door. And everywhere he looked were rows of law books.

  “Awesome, ain’t it?” Dan assumed the small man behind the desk was sitting until he walked toward him. A dwarf. With tailored suit, vest, pocket watch and well-trimmed graying goatee. “I should have ‘Esquire’ painted on the door out front. But newcomers are the only ones who don’t know I’m also Judge Franklin Cyrus. Now, you here to see the bank president or the judge?”

  The laugh that bounced against the bookcases was the one thing not small about Judge Cyrus. He motioned to an overstuffed chair and sat on one end of a matching loveseat, custom made with shortened legs.

  “Possibly both.” Did everyone in this town have two occupations? Kept things nicely accounted for if you discounted conflict of interest issues, Dan decided. “I’d like to just chat about Mr. Billy Roland Eklund. I’d appreciate it if you’d be comfortable in sharing your opinions of Mr. Eklund. Maybe, how well he’s thought of around here or a little background. History of the family and ranch, that sort of thing.”

  “Why, I don’t mind at all. Billy Roland’s an open book. Won’t find a nicer human being. And I emphasize ‘human’ when I say that, human and humane. Lots of youngsters in this town realized a college dream because of him. You know he’s founder of that Bible College over yonder?”

  Judge Cyrus studied him for a moment, then gestured for Dan to follow him as he walked to the only window in the room, a deep casement inset that opened out onto Main Street. “Look at this little town. We don’t have poverty in Tatum. You aren’t going to find drunks on the corners. Nobody is going to follow you down the street asking for a handout. This is what clean living and having a benefactor with a heart of gold looks like.”

  They stood silently for a moment. Dan looked for the truck loaded with alfalfa but it was gone. Ray was backing the bread truck out of the service bay and three teens leaned their bikes against the Post Office across the street before going into the building. Dull came to mind but he said, “Nice town. I don’t suppose cattle money alone can do all this.”

  “Oh my, no. Billy R. married Texas oil money. Missy Anne was the daughter of the Governor of Texas at the time. Came from Houston, but their home was just outside Plains. There was the biggest ol’ party of a wedding you’d ever hope to see.” It was evident that Judge Cyrus had attended from his wistful fixed stare as he doubtlessly recounted happy days past. “She was such a pretty thing but not very well. Sickly, really. Never gave him any children. You don’t go saying you heard it here, but that’s the one disappointment in Billy Roland’s life. Not one soul with his blood to leave everything to.”

  “Probably shouldn’t rule out his second wife giving him some offspring.”

  “No can do. Tubes are tied. One of those decisions made before she even met Billy Roland.”

  Dan was stunned. Just more proof of the “my business is your business” mentality of a small town. But wasn’t something like “tubes” private?

  “Those Charolais are his babies, so to speak. Wedding gift from the Governor on Billy R.’s marriage to Missy Anne. Original herd purchased in France in 1958 for thirty-seven million. Only about fifty head all together. One happy bull and forty-nine cows.”

  This time he slapped his knee in mirth. “Yes, sir. That bull was happy all right. Bunch of us used to go out and watch. That bull just about went cross-eyed with happiness but he got the job done.”

  Dan was glad he wasn’t expected to comment. The vision of a group of men hanging over a fence watching animals unite seemed a little perverted. But then he hadn’t been raised on a farm, had never had a chance to get a sex education from nature. He wasn’t sure but suspected it was better than the garbled street versions that he’d received.

  “What do you make of the problems he’s having with the cattle now?”

  “Well, you’re going to hear everything from aliens—” Judge Cyrus paused and looked up at him, possibly to see his reaction.

  “I’ve already talked to Sheriff Ray, but I gather you don�
�t necessarily share that theory?”

  “Now I’m not going to rule anything out. Not yet, anyway. Only one’s been mutilated so could be kid stuff, somebody from a neighboring town. Could be some sort of grudge thing, but I doubt it. Billy Roland’s been pretty free with his favors. Few years back, farmer to the south of here lost some goats. He thought at the time it was some sort of satanic worship.”

  “Tell me about the other cows. How did they die?”

  “Virus. Some virulent unknown killer picked up at a cattle show. That’s how those things get started, you know, shows where there’s lots of exposure to cows from all over and you can’t control the new strains. Humans are beginning to have some of the same problems, wacko viruses that eat the heart muscle or into the brain. Makes you want to live in a bubble.” More booming laughter. “Look, don’t want to give you the bum’s rush but I gotta meeting coming up. If you need any more info don’t hesitate to drop by, door’s always open once you get past Junior out there. Oh, in case you’re wondering, his mother’s regular size.” This time the laughter almost rocked him off his feet but he recovered to walk Dan to the door. “It’s the one question they all want to ask.”

  ***

  Tatum’s one-mile stretch of Main Street was deserted when Andy aimed the Caddy toward the Double Diamond Bar and Grill. Friday night, and the parking lot was already crammed with mud-encrusted pickups. Garth Brooks was blasting from the jukebox but a sign announced live music at seven thirty.

  She maneuvered the car to a spot six rows from the exit on the side of the weathered building garish with flashing neon tubing outlining lariats, boots, and cowboy hats. Eric noticed a group of posturing young studs leaning against their trucks, jawing and tipping back longnecks. Human nature dictated some of those conversations would turn into brawls before sundown.

  They found a booth by the bar in the back of the warehouse-sized building. Nothing small about the place, Eric noted, the bar could probably seat forty with another twenty standing. Not too many were dancing; the crowd was still light. Serious partying wouldn’t start before nine. It was weird to think that the place hadn’t even been there seven years ago.

  He’d found his appetite and put in an order for a New York steak smothered with grilled onions and home fries, green chili on the side. They might not stock Heineken but the first Coors was sliding down real nice. Eric leaned back against the cool red vinyl. He was beginning to enjoy this. He slipped an arm around Andy and pulled her close. It sure as hell beat anything he’d been doing the last seven years.

  ***

  The Tercel had air-conditioning which was a plus because it took Dan an hour and a half to find the ranch. And damned if it wasn’t something out of the old Dallas series. Big white two-story house with a wide veranda nestled in a windbreak of poplar and desert cypress. Barns better than half the houses in the United States. Pens, feeders, corrals, machinery, in freshly painted sheds. Horse flesh that represented five years’ salary if you made a hundred thousand plus a year. Somewhere he’d read that Billy Roland kept two strings of polo ponies, thoroughbred-quarter horse crosses. Interesting how the sport was catching on out here; there was supposed to be a playing field at San Patricio a hundred and fifty miles to the west. The sport of kings—too rich for his blood.

  The wood-fenced runs beside the curving drive held some real long-legged beauties. Dan slowed to watch them buck and run, slide to a stop then turn and double back, necks arched, tails floating out behind. This was the type of thing that might get him out of the city someday, horseflesh and wide open spaces.

  He cursed the Tercel as he accelerated and made the wide graveled turn in front of the house. The home office had never played loose with travel expenses. Maybe, just this once, it would have been to their benefit. This was the kind of house that dictated you pull up in a Mercedes, something that cost no less than fifty thousand. And the guayabera had been a wrong call, too. Designer jeans, thousand-dollar boots, Ralph Lauren linen…much more correct.

  He’d reviewed the players until every detail was memorized. William R. Eklund, rancher, sometime politician, founder of Wings of the Dove Bible College, top breeder/importer/judge of Charolais cattle, married to Iris Stuckey, thirty years his junior, second wife but with tied tubes; first one, sickly but filthy rich had left him fixed for life. But it didn’t put ol’ Billy Roland above suspicion of killing a few of his own cattle for seven hundred thou pocket change.

  He walked up the front steps, oddly pristine with no paint chips, no dirt. Out here you’d have to hire someone full time to just keep the dust off. Geraniums and petunias overflowed their hanging terra cotta pots and a huge Stars and Stripes hung flaccid from a thirty-foot pole. Conservative Republican.

  Possibly anal retentive, Dan noted.

  There was some cutesy wreath on the door about three feet in diameter with wooden cut-outs of Charolais, those brahma-like bumps behind their heads carefully chiseled, each one nestled in corn shucks dyed a teal green to match the trim on the house.

  The knocker was another Charolais, this one an anatomically correct brass bull. He let it thud against the wood.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened so quickly he hadn’t been ready. And the person standing there wasn’t a servant but had to be Ms. Iris Stuckey Eklund herself.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Eklund.”

  “Not here. Maybe I can help. I’m Iris.”

  “Iris.” He repeated her name out loud. Not because it was a pleasing sound but because it made her continue to look at him straight on, full in the face. He had her complete attention, the door between them distorting slightly what he knew was peachy skin, clear and smooth, despite the dot-matrix grayness caused by the screen.

  “April, May, June, and little ol’ Iris.”

  “Come again?”

  “My sisters and then there was me and my Daddy fresh out of months. He couldn’t have two Junes, now could he?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “So he looked around and saw a big ol’ patch of purple iris in full bloom. And here I am.”

  Dan couldn’t think of one appropriate thing to say and just stood there. Abruptly, he cleared his throat. He was there to ask questions and he better get started.

  “My card.” The screen door opened half an inch, and she took the card. He waited until she looked up. “I have some routine paperwork to complete. A few questions that I—”

  “What sort of questions you want to ask, Dan?” She opened the door another couple inches and leaned against the jamb. He ignored the familiar use of his name. In fact, he kind of liked it when she said it.

  “Routine stuff. Just need to make sure that everything’s in order.”

  “I don’t think I can help much.”

  “Could you have identified Grand Champion Taber’s Shortcake Dream?” He knew the question was abrupt but he needed to know who would recognize a substitution—just a regular ol’ cow standing in for the real thing when it came to killing.

  The giggle surprised him. She leaned close to the screen, her lips brushing the harshness of the wire.

  “I can’t tell a heifer from a Hereford and don’t plan to learn.” The hint of sultriness wasn’t lost on him. Little miss end-of-the-months was one hot tamale.

  “Suppose the two of us might sit out here on the steps a minute or two? You could help with names and dates.”

  He stepped back and pulled the screen door with him. Silhouetted against the dark interior of the house, Iris seemed bigger than life. He wouldn’t need to check the pubic hair to know the blond wasn’t real; it was too golden and just above her ears was the shadowing of dark fuzz defying peroxide to return to nature. But the rest of the body explained why she didn’t need to know the difference between anything, not even for the man who had devoted his life to raising prize-winning Charolais.

  “I’m not real sure Billy Roland would want me talking to you.” But she tucked the skirt of her sundress under her knees and sat on the top
step.

  “He’s real anxious to get this claim in, isn’t he? I’d think he’d welcome your involvement.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Do you happen to know where he’s off to?”

  Iris shrugged; a tiny twisted wisp of a cloth strap slipped over one shoulder. The sundress covered only what absolutely had to be hidden and the lacing on the bodice had pulled apart four inches. His concentration was suffering. He’d try a different tactic.

  “What, if anything, did you see on the night of July twelfth?”

  The petulant look was giving way to deep thought. She raked her perfectly white teeth over her bottom lip and stared off into space. He was beginning to think she’d help when she glanced at him, and he could see that fear overshadowed all else. Billy Roland must be one mean son of a bitch. Or Miss Iris just doesn’t want to fall off the chowder wagon. He was running out of ideas.

  “Tell you what. If anything comes to mind, give me a call at the Silver Spur. I’ll be there until tomorrow night.”

  He thought she nodded as she hopped up, skipping to safety behind the screen door. He felt her eyes on his backside all the way to the Tercel. She wouldn’t call, wouldn’t think of something. She didn’t get to live in this big house by babbling what she knew, which was probably plenty.

  He rolled down the windows and waited until the Tercel cooled down, considerably past the end of the half-mile driveway. But then it struck him. This ranch, this land, little Miss Jayne Mansfield look-alike, all of it was a cliché. Too rich, too macho, too Out-West big. He couldn’t shake the unreality of it. Even Sheriff Ray back at the gas station was probably some kind of pawn owned by Billy Roland Eklund.

  He looked past the fence posts to the right and thought he saw a rider disappear into a clump of poplar. Someone could watch the house from that distance; the grassy knoll, slightly elevated, made a good vantage point. Could it have been the master of the house? Billy Roland spying on Iris, on him, his house? Of course, he didn’t know for sure, but how many times had he been wrong? Not very many.