Flash Flood

by Susan Slater

  ***

  Billy Roland’s house exuded grandeur. Dan sat on the veranda in the coolness of early morning and enjoyed its Victorian charm; the high-ceilinged porch offered the perfect view of green fields and crisply white barns. He’d slept in a hundred-year-old canopy bed with crocheted edgings on the sheets and goose down in the pillows. It was the best rest that he’d had so far.

  His adjoining bathroom had a claw-and-ball porcelain tub, probably another original, and matching pedestal sink. The bordello red of the flowered wallpaper was muted by real walnut wainscoting and varnished wood floors. If you had to live out in nowhere, this was the way to do it.

  The breakfast table had been set up on the east side of the house to catch the morning sun. Silver and china rested on real linen. Everything had a turn-of-the-century look to it. Not newly purchased antiques, but rather, a grow old with the house feel like the wicker chair he was sitting on. This must have been Billy Roland’s family home.

  “Billy Roland’s awful sorry. He should be back tomorrow night.”

  He started. Dan had almost forgotten about the woman who sat across from him. He could be wrong but the hair seemed freshly done. Iris sounded apologetic, so why wasn’t he convinced about Billy Roland feeling remorseful about stranding him?

  Dan reached for the orange marmalade. “I’d like to spend some time today with the vet. Hank, isn’t it?”

  Iris nodded and poured the two of them more coffee. Amazing, but the servants seemed to be gone, too. Their intimate breakfast on the veranda hadn’t been interrupted once.

  “I’d like to show you around, first.”

  “As long as it doesn’t include any saddle time. I’ve ’bout had my quota for the next five years.”

  Iris pursed her lips and leaned forward. “You know Billy Roland thought you might need a rub down.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, but he hoped it wasn’t in Iris’ repertoire.

  “I was supposed to call over to the Ranch. I got a friend who does that Japanese stuff—Shih Tzu, I think.”

  “Shiatsu.”

  “Whatever. Does that sound good?”

  “Why not?”

  He watched Iris walk into the house to set up the appointment. The view to his right took in the swimming pool and a half dozen cabanas with thatched roofs. To his left must be five acres of pasture; huge irrigation wands swept back and forth in lazy one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arcs.

  “Ten o’clock, okay?” Iris had opened a window in the study.

  “Sure.”

  Time for a swim, loosen up the old muscles then let an expert untie any knots that were left. He could get used to living like this.

  “You know Billy Roland thought we might like to go over to the fair this afternoon.”

  “Fair?”

  “County Fair at Harper. Just the other side of the state line. The Charolais are going to be judged. Some important guy is here from back East supposed to really know his stuff.”

  He didn’t know if he liked someone planning—no, wasn’t a better word controlling—his day? But, actually, why not? The show might help him get a feel for the Eklund investment.

  ***

  He helped the massage therapist set up her table in a sitting room on the second floor. The orange tube top and crinkled gauze skirt gave her a hippy look. Not that that was a word in vogue today, but she reminded him of times when girls looked like that. Soft long brown hair fell over her shoulders. She seemed shy, reticent to start a conversation.

  He stepped into a guest bath off the hall and returned draped with an oversized towel. She was waving lighted incense in a circle from the center of the room.

  “For purifying.” She smiled through lowered lashes.

  He wondered if one tiny stick would be enough for the Eklund residence.

  “Let’s start with you face down,” she said.

  Her strokes were firm and even and lulled him into losing track of time.

  “Finished. Unless there’s someplace I missed?”

  Was this some kind of code he was supposed to respond to?

  “I’m fine. You’re great.”

  She leaned over him, her hair tickling his chest. It was obvious he’d missed his cue. “I’ve been paid to stay longer.” Her mouth was about three inches from his. She waited for him to say something, put an invitation into words, he guessed. “I mean, if you’d like a nooner?”

  He sat up slowly pushing her back to stand in front of him and knew he looked stupid trying to keep the towel from slipping. She’d just offered to jump him, and he was being Mr. Modest.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The money puts you off, doesn’t it? I mean it’s being paid for already.” She continued to stare at him, then with a laugh added, “I’m probably the same age as your daughter and I can tell you’re the type that that would bother.”

  He almost groaned out loud. What type was that? Too old for anything under thirty-five?

  “Course, there’s always Miss Iris.” For being tight-lipped a couple hours ago, she was positively loquacious now. “But I never said that,” she added, then winked.

  He slipped off the table and went to retrieve his clothes. By the time he got back, the massage therapist was gone. He hadn’t even tipped her. That was probably taken care of, too. He found himself getting angry. Just that slow burn that comes with being used. Wasn’t this some not so subtle way to get a person in the right camp? Provide a little nooky in exchange for looking the other way during the investigation? Well, Billy Roland had miscalculated. He wasn’t about to throw away a career for loose change and free ass.

  ***

  Harper was the Roby County seat. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from the Double Horseshoe was taken up mostly by listening to the vast collection of Country Western CDs that Iris just happened to have on hand. He got the distinct feeling that she’d been coached to keep a tight lip. Which was all right with him. After the morning, he welcomed the silence.

  The town was bigger than Tatum, more prosperous looking with a town square. The courthouse in the middle of a half acre bordered by red-orange zinnias appeared to have had a European influence with its cut stone walls topped by turrets and rounded parapets.

  “We can grab a bite in town or go on out to the fairgrounds.”

  “I can wait.” Dan checked his watch. Two twenty.

  At first glance there didn’t seem to be a parking space left in the lot to the side of the entrance. But a gate attendant recognized Iris and waved her through then pointed to a VIP spot behind the dairy barns.

  The fairgrounds must cover four or five acres. Dan admitted his surprise to Iris.

  “This land is part of a co-op. ’Bout five ranchers went together. They have some real big shows like calf roping and bull riding in addition to livestock judging—all national level.”

  Lunch sounded good even if it meant standing in line to get a mug of root beer and what the sign said was the best bratwurst and kraut on a bun to be had, anywhere. They ate at a picnic table, one of ten set up as an outdoor dining area. It seemed to take Iris forever to finish. She was preoccupied with wetting a finger and snagging every stray strand of cabbage that had escaped to the paper covering the bun.

  “You think I’m wasting my life stuck out there on the Double Horseshoe?”

  He hadn’t been prepared and wasn’t sure he’d have the right answer even if he’d thought about it, but he did take a couple seconds to get organized.

  “What else would you like to do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Travel, I guess.”

  “People who travel always come home to somewhere. Seems like you could travel and still live at the Double Horseshoe.”

  The answer hadn’t been the one she wanted to hear, Dan thought, judging from how quickly she stood up, wadded up the lunch papers, and dropped them in a trash barrel.

  “C’mon. The judging’s about to start.”

  Dan followed Iris single-file through rows of booths, all se
lling chances on something. Calliope music blared from a midway of rides to the right. The cow barns were ahead and Iris walked directly to the covered arena in the center and climbed six rows up in the bleachers behind the judging stand.

  “I just love the smell in here.” She kicked off her sandals and wiggled tanned toes sporting bright red polish before propping her feet on the seat in front.

  Dan tried hard to see what could be so appealing. Cow patties and sawdust left a little to be desired. The arena had been divided into three rings and a group of judges were making their final selections. Dairy cows, probably yearlings.

  “You want a program?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Iris skipped barefoot down the bleachers and disappeared through a side door. It was thirty minutes before she returned.

  “Hank says we’re on in fifteen minutes.”

  “How’s Hank?” It wasn’t that Dan cared, but he thought they ought to talk about something. It was apparent Iris didn’t want to watch the judging.

  “Okay. Could you stand another root beer? Coke, maybe?”

  Iris was absolutely wired. On something? It was hard to tell. But her energy level had certainly jumped.

  “I promised Hank I’d bring him something back.”

  “Nothing for me.”

  He’d had to shout because she was already at the bottom of the bleachers. Maybe she was just excited. But she hadn’t shown that much interest in cattle. The whole thing was getting a little crazy.

  The Charolais judging started at exactly three thirty. It didn’t take a program to see that the bulls were first. Iris was nowhere to be seen, so Dan matched the numbers on the entries to those listed in the program. Immaculately dressed young Hispanic men in white shirts and pressed jeans led Billy Roland’s entries around the ring, posed them, backed them, and stepped to one side so that the judges could move in closer. Each used a slim silver baton to urge the bull to place a hoof just right or retreat a certain number of paces and turn a certain way, and each handler stayed on his toes, always aware of just how the bull looked from every angle and how to bring the animal’s best profile forward at the twitch of a tail.

  This was a cadre of trained experts. Teams of young men and animals who practiced long hours together. Fifteen entries came from eight different ranches; two ranches outside Dalhart and Dumas rivaled the Double Horseshoe for total number of blue ribbons when the first round of judging was completed.

  As they left the ring, Dan spotted Hank leading a particularly fine animal through the double doors to line up waiting his turn to be judged. Must be something special to be shown by the resident vet himself. But Dan could see that special something from where he was sitting. The bull’s coat was gleaming silver with a darker gray mottling on his legs. Hooves were a distinct black and shone like patent leather. The bull had been polled but a lack of horns didn’t take away from the sheer size, the frightening largeness of the animal that made a statement of raw power.

  But he seemed as tame as a kitten. Dan vaguely wondered if they were allowed to use drugs. Could training keep this animal docile and compliant? Over the loudspeaker, an announcer was summoning all Charolais bulls two years and over. Dan glanced at the program. Hank moved into the ring with Mountain Run’s Cisco Kid.

  Directly across from him about twenty businessmen in suits, boots and western hats lounged in an air-conditioned glassed-in viewing box. Two of the men looked to be Japanese. Interesting. Dan was suddenly caught by the enormity of the cattle industry, its internationalism for lack of a better word. He knew that Billy Roland was a renowned judge and worked competitions from Columbia to Japan, but seeing the mix of interested bystanders brought the point home. Considering that the judging had started at seven a.m., there had been one hell of a lot of beef traipse past the stands in eight hours.

  Hank was now moving his young bull to the center, backing and turning it with the finesse of someone who seemed to be an extension of the animal itself. A young man followed at the heels of the bull urging it onward working in unison with Hank. Hank’s muscled forearms pushed at the four-snap cuffs of his western shirt. His lanky frame was supple and handsome in western slacks and ostrich boots. Couldn’t be too many years out of school, Dan surmised, a young man somewhere in his early thirties, already set for life working for Billy Roland. There wasn’t even a sweat stain on his hat band.

  Dan watched the judge start his rounds, checking his clipboard as he eyed each entry. Hank and the bull were posed perfectly. There couldn’t have been a hair out of place. Then with his mouth wide, the bull gagged, shook his head, gagged again. The third gag reflex pushed the bull’s tongue out of his mouth, strangling a tortured bellow as his legs folded beneath him.

  It took a second to realize what had happened. Hank was all action. Someone ran to him with a plastic case of medicines and syringes and he plunged a long needle into the bull’s neck, then another under the right leg. The bull didn’t even twitch. Dan didn’t need to check any papers to know that the animal was insured. Something in six figures, high six figures. He’d bet on that. What galled him was the audacity of it all. Billy Roland planned for him to see it. Treat the insurance dick to a little unexplained death. Dare him to figure out how he did it.

  A machine that looked like a forklift hoisted the limp bull onto a flatbed hospital cart pulled by a tractor. Dan took the bleachers in twos. He wasn’t going to let the bull out of his sight. But the first thing would be to get another vet involved. That all-important second opinion.

  “I want a complete workup. Blood, tissue…you guys know your business.” Dan directed the team of lab assistants and conferred with the show vet, leaving Hank stewing on the sidelines.

  “You can’t keep me away from my own animal. At least let me do an examination.” Hank’s cheeks were flushed and he’d grabbed Dan by the arm as he walked by.

  “If you so much as touch this bull, the insurance policy is null and void.” Dan should probably watch his anger but at the moment he had no reason not to suspect Hank.

  Two hours later, fifteen vials and an assortment of plastic containers packed in dry ice were handed over to FedEx for overnight delivery to Chicago and an identical set to Texas A&M. The judging had been canceled and the arena posted No Entry. Dan sat in the bleachers and watched a team of specialists collect samples of sawdust, tap water, and flecks of paint from the gates and from any surface or foodstuff that might have been consumed or even licked. He’d placed a call to Chicago to verify the bull’s insured sum; he had been right, six hundred thousand.

  After the team left, he continued to sit staring at the empty arena now bathed in shadows. Iris and Hank were long gone; back to the Double Horseshoe, to confer with Billy Roland? Congratulate each other on a job well done? Dan had a sinking feeling that he might not ever figure out how they did it.

  The clang of metal echoed around him. Someone had opened a side door in the corrugated steel building.

  “No one’s allowed in the arena. Judging will resume in the morning,” Dan called out then waited.

  No answer. The door clanged shut. The silence was comforting. He could hear the muffled screams of kids on the midway. Rides. As a teen he’d dump more than a week’s allowance on that thing where you stood at the edge and thanks to centrifugal force were sucked flat to the sides as it whirled vertically—then tossed your cookies after it stopped.

  “Don’t turn around.”

  The voice was male, low pitched and not familiar, coming from someone underneath him in the darkness. Dan realized the hair on his arms was standing up.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You will. I’m going to put a piece of paper on the seat behind you. Don’t pick it up until you hear me leave.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I think you know.”

  Dan listened to the sound of someone reaching up and placing something on the bleacher behind him. There wasn’t any easy way to get to the man. He’d be out of the
re before Dan could squeeze through the plank seating and drop to the floor. Besides, curiosity had replaced fear. There was something about the man. Maybe he had the answers.

  “Is there more?”

  “Could be.”

  “How can I get in touch?”

  “Leave a map on the dash of the Tercel. Circle where you’ll be.”

  Dan waited a full minute after he heard the door shut before turning around. Who was this man? How did he know what he was driving? Could be a hired hand at the Double Horseshoe. Some disgruntled cowpoke looking for revenge. What did he care as long as the information helped nail Billy Roland?

  He leaned back and picked up the folded piece of paper. A company’s insert—the kind of detailed disclaimer that came with a boxed drug. He smoothed the creases and could just make out sucostrin succinvicholine. A muscle relaxant. Then penciled in the margin were two words: “tail vein.” Virtually undetectable. Dan knew that was what had happened to Mountain Run’s Cisco Kid. Could he prove it? No. But he knew and the knowing might be power enough.

  He’d had the drive back to formulate a plan but the driver of the cattle truck had been talkative, filling him in, almost reverently, on how Billy Roland’s neighbors revered him. There were tales of scholarships, new church pews, operations for the indigent…he could do no wrong. It was just an echo of what the judge had said. Oh well, the bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

  The Double Horseshoe was ablaze with light. Dan had barely stepped inside before Iris caught his arm.

  “He’s in the study.”

  Dan thought Iris looked tired. For the first time, he noticed little lines etched around her mouth and a gray puffiness below her eyes. Being Billy Roland’s wife could be a tough job.

  “Looks as though you been rode hard and put away wet.” Billy Roland’s attempt at humor fell flat. Dan wasn’t in the mood.

  “I don’t think we need to talk about this for very long. We’ll meet in the morning. I’ll need full financial disclosures. Everything. You can bring a lawyer in. I’ll take your statement under oath.”