Flash Flood (4 page)

She and Philip wouldn't be back from Santa Fe until next week and then only to kick off some fund raisers for her husband's newest project, a series of down-home Bar-B-Ques for the next Governor of New Mexico. Jason, the only nephew, was at school, so it would have been just him and Dona Mari, the Mexican housekeeper/nanny who was a self-proclaimed herbalist and whose last cleansing had left him with two days of the trots. No thanks.

Was he looking forward to seeing the future First Lady of New Mexico? Yes, out of guilt. Not really, out of truth. Dan knew she'd be totally wrapped up in this newest adventure. Carolyn was born to be First Lady of something. Dan rolled over. He had about three hours until sundown, a nap, a sandwich in the coffee shop, and then a little night work. He wadded the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

The first rolls of thunder sounded like cannon fire. He sat straight up, dazed and apprehensive before he got his bearings. Was there anything worse than sleeping in a strange bed? A peek out the window showed patches of blue sky with some ominous gray-black clouds threatening to the west. The digital clock turned over six thirty-nine. Time to get going.

How could anyone ruin a toasted cheese with chips? The waitress was apologetic but didn't offer to make it good. Daniel left her a couple bucks anyway and walked outside. God, he was cranky. A lumpy bed, humidity you could cut with a knife—he stopped himself. Yes, those were reasons, unpleasantries, but wasn't he bugged the most by knowing he was going snooping? Taking a chance on being caught where he wasn't supposed to be?

But, damn it, they hadn't given him any alternative.

Why was it every time he was in this neck of the woods, the words to country western tunes played in his head. A little number by Johnny Paycheck was drowning out everything else right about now. He slammed the door to the Tercel harder than he meant to.

It was a great night if the rain would just hold off. No moon. Light wind. He couldn't have ordered anything better. He studied the map to the Double Horseshoe. He had an hour's drive ahead of him; he'd better get going.

***

The crowd spilled out of the Bar and Grill into the parking lot. A couple of discussions had turned ugly. But so had the weather. Blinding flashes of light bounced against the horizon, branching jaggedly to the sides. A series of nature's sonic booms rattled the bar's single-pane windows. The rain, heavy all around them, was just beginning here. Big splats of water hit the cement sidewalk, sending up an aroma of dust and limestone.

“We're going to have to run for it.” Eric pulled Andy closer, and they darted from under the protective overhang. The air hung charged and heavy; wet slaps of raindrops stung their arms. They reached the Caddy out of breath, both scrambling to roll up the windows. Pulling Andy toward him, Eric leaned back against the leather.

“Front row seats if you like a light show.”

The rain was just a loud spattering of drops, but the lightning illuminated the entire parking lot. And that's when he saw him. Again. Local or not, this guy was more than just curious. He'd started fiddling with something on the dash of his Dakota when he saw Eric look that way, but he was tailing them, pure and simple. It wasn't coincidence. Eric didn't like the feel of it. Had he been a fool to trust Billy Roland? Was this guy some hired goon?

“If you really had to run this old tank top-out, what would she do?”

“A hundred.” Andy hadn't hesitated but watched him closely.

“How well do you know the back roads in this county?”

“Is that a personal question?” She pouted, then offered a small flirty smile. Andy was sitting upright facing him, her back against the dash.

“Maybe.” He grinned. No use upsetting her by something that still might be just a figment of his imagination. “If we needed to ditch somebody, think you could do it?” He had her full attention now.

“It'd be easy.” She started to turn her head in the direction of his gaze. Roughly grabbing her chin, he turned her back to face him.

“Can't let on we suspect anything.”

“Who is it?”

“Damned if I know.”

Actually, he thought he knew. How could he be so naive as to think he could do a favor, pay with seven years of his life and then be left to enjoy two million dollars? He had even entertained the idea of arranging to have a gun waiting when he got out but had thought it too risky. A gun in the possession of a felon could turn a routine traffic stop into a major event. He wasn't planning to stay in the States any longer than he had to. A gun could be purchased later.

“I think we need to change our plans. If I wanted to rent a plane, is the closest small airstrip still the one at Lovington?”

“Aerowest Charters. If they aren't open, we could try Hobbs Field.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Maybe an hour.”

Eric checked his watch. The storm might give them some time. Time to dump the Caddy and become inconspicuous. Then if they had to wait until morning to rent a plane, they'd be okay. It didn't look like the tail was too eager to move. Probably put off by Andy's being there.

“Wait at the top of the drive until I tell you to pull out on the highway.”

Andy nodded, pumped the gas, and slipped the old car into gear. Slowly inching forward, they wound their way out of the lot, stopping for cars of locals turning in to park and begin the weekend. Eric had turned the rearview mirror to check the Dakota. He wasn't disappointed. It was pulling out.

“Which way is the closest turnoff to a back road?”

“To the right. About five miles down we'll intersect County Five. There's a maze of section roads that cuts through four large ranches. We'll be okay. The roads are graveled.”

Eric smiled. He liked the way she had jumped right in. No questions. Just an escape plan. He was at her mercy as much as the tail.

“Let's do it.” He had to yell. The rain was washing over the car in waves now. “What do you call these? Toad Stranglers?”

She didn't respond. She was intent on turning at the top of the drive. The water was already making the traction tricky for the big rear-wheel drive vehicle. The sliding didn't instill confidence, but the headlights of the pickup following them didn't either.

***

Damn. Dan was lost. And there wasn't a snowball's chance that he even had the slightest idea where he was. In the middle of nowhere everything looked alike in broad daylight, the dark had him totally turned around. Dan pulled over to the side of the road. He must have missed the marker. He needed to find County Road Number Five. Stay on it for thirty miles before turning to the right. He double-checked the map.

The start of the downpour caught him by surprise. He flipped on the wipers but realized they were useless. He'd have to wait it out, couldn't go anywhere in this anyway. He left on the park lights, pulled a roll of Life Savers from the glove compartment and leaned against the steering wheel. A nap? Or contemplation? He chose the nap. If he had to think too much, he might see what he was doing as idiocy.

***

“You okay?”

There was no going a hundred in a blinding storm, but Andy had pushed the old tank up to fifty. Her arms were rigid, hands gripping the wheel.

“I don't want to miss the turn. According to the odometer, we've gone five miles.” Andy slowed, intent on the right side of the highway.

“There. Thirty feet. County marker.” Eric was pounding the windshield with his index finger. Parking in high school hoping to grope and get groped hadn't made him this excited to see a county road.

“Got it.”

The Caddy left the highway and slipped and swished down a short incline before leveling out onto a narrow but seemingly stable stretch of gravel. The road was slightly elevated with steep edges that allowed for good drainage. The rain seemed to be slowing. Eric rolled down the window. Squinting into the wet and wind, he watched behind for some sign of the tail. The flicker of headlights was no more than a half mile back.

“Too close.” Eric eased around to face Andy. “I think we need a Plan B.”

He watched as she chewed her lip. He could tell the fun was gone. She looked scared and couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Let me think. Past Elm Creek Bridge there's some silos. An access road makes a big U around the back. We could pull in and wait till he goes by. It'll work if I can see with my lights off.”

Why not? They probably didn't have much of a choice. Eric was beginning to curse himself about the lack of a gun. The worst of the storm seemed to have passed. There was just enough rain to keep the wipers on.

“How far to the bridge?”

“Maybe a half mile.”

The high beams were blinding and coming up fast. He was able to make out the hood ornament. The truck was practically on top of them.

“Do you think this guy's really dangerous? Maybe if we just pulled over?” Andy looked terrified.

“I think we're past having a friendly chat.”

The first bullet ricocheted off the fender, making a loud ping. The second found the left rear tire. The Caddy listed but kept going on the rim.

“Floorboard her,” Eric screamed. He could see the bridge.

“I'm sorry. They said they wouldn't hurt you…they just wanted to talk….” Andy sobbed and fought to control the steering wheel as the Caddy fishtailed violently.

With a jolt the front wheels connected with the bridge planking, bucking both of them into the unpadded roof overhead. The low guard rails caught the swing of the Caddy first on the left, then on the right.

Eric lunged for the wheel. Andy was no longer in control, her body slumped against the driver's side door, her head bouncing off her chest. He screamed her name, but the sound got lost in a thunderous roar as the car was thrust upward, suspended above the bridge before being plummeted downward. They were being pushed by a solid wall of water that was rolling the Caddy on the crest of a thirty-foot wave. Andy's body hit him in the side; the back of her head caught his nose. It was the last thing Eric remembered.

Chapter Two

“Assholes.”

First the Caddy had gone by doing eighty with no headlights, then a Dodge pickup. It was the pickup that had forced Dan onto the soft shoulder. Thank God the Tercel's front-wheel drive kept him out of trouble. Kids. He hadn't missed anything. Only his sister thought parenting was a sacred calling. He thought it was more like an obligation you were lucky to live through. But then that was just another way he differed from Carolyn.

He cracked the window. The air smelled fresh. He breathed deeply and switched on his high beams. A ride in the country wasn't too bad after a good hard rain. He'd just passed a marker. He was on County Five.

At first the headlights looked like they were in his lane. He blinked his lights then wrenched the wheel to the right. It was the truck again, the same one that was on the heels of the Caddy. But that had been no kid driving. He could be mistaken, but it looked like Ray. Good ol' Sheriff Ray who saw an alien now and then. Sure was a shitty night for sightings, must have other reasons for burning up the back roads.

Dan goosed the Tercel up a steep incline and suddenly at the top, the headlights picked up nothing but water. “Holy shit.” He slammed on the brakes and jumped out. The roar of the water was deafening. In the surreal light, the twisted steel cross bars of the bridge looked like bad Modern Art. It had been one of those Roosevelt era wooden plank one-lane jobs with concrete supports and steel reinforcements. The sign that should have said Elm Creek had disappeared. Creek? Right about now it could put the Mississippi to shame.

Dan watched full-grown trees tumble forward where the bridge had been, tossed like toothpicks up then down, singly or in criss-crossed piles of three or four. He thought he saw the four stiff legs of a cow push up through the black water to twirl in a circle before the suction of undertow pulled her down. Was he watching United Life and Casualty's millions spread across the surrounding fields? This was a killer, an expensive killer.

Then it struck him. The pink Cadillac. Had it made it across? Only Sheriff Ray had come back. Timing put it just about here when the bridge was wiped out. It'd be tough to survive all that force. If he were religious, he'd come up with something to say now, but nothing profound came to mind. He got back into the Tercel hoping that there hadn't been a loss of life. So much for a night of snooping. He'd reassess tomorrow, maybe try a new tactic: corner Billy Roland and get some answers.

***

“Just a minute.”

The pounding had disoriented him. It wasn't light yet. What could be so important? Dan pulled on his jeans before opening the door of his motel room.

“Mr. Eklund thought you might like to ride with us this morning. Survey the flood damage. This one was a bad one. We're meeting at his place. Daybreak, 'bout an hour.”

Sheriff Ray filled the door. This time there was a shiny badge on the flap of his shirt pocket right over his first name stitched in bright yellow floss. Behind him the Dakota was parked next to the Tercel. No mistake, Ray was the one who ran him off the road last night.

“Sure. Firsthand look sounds good.”

“We're assuming you won't mind a little all-day horseback ride?”

“Hey, my choice of transportation.”

Jesus. He'd worked summers for a dude ranch during college and the last time on a horse had cost him two broken ribs. But he'd wipe that smirk out of Sheriff Ray's voice if he died trying.

“See you there.” Ray started toward the pickup. “Oh yeah, almost forgot. Bridge over Elm Creek washed out last night.” Ray took his time getting the rest of the message out, waiting for Dan to react? Give himself away? “Take the highway, three turns past the Co-op, then left thirty-seven miles. Can't miss it.”

Dan kept his face impassive. God, he hated this “he knows that I know” game. He saw me out there last night. But the question is why was he chasing the Cadillac? Speeding teenagers? An old pink Caddy surely couldn't be confused for a spaceship. He watched Ray leave the motel parking lot. He'd skip breakfast and get going. Could be Miss Iris would be serving up something hot off the griddle. He caught himself humming in the shower.

If he were the type to reflect on nature's injustices, the havoc of a flood had to be second or third on the list behind, maybe, a tornado or hurricane. The early morning sun revealed acres of gray-brown silt. Silt was clinging to everything. Milo lay flat in a field with a gray-brown mud wash plastering it to the earth. He'd spotted two dead calves, bloated, tongues swollen, eyes covered with flies, their coats scruffy and mud-stiff.

The county road was surprisingly well-drained, a puddle or two in low spots, but overall, safe going. It'd be awhile before anyone could get equipment into the fields though. He didn't try to hurry; he figured the inspection team would wait. He had a sneaking feeling that this ride was organized for his benefit, anyway. A chance to meet Mr. Billy R. Eklund in action, a lord of the manor scenario—let me show you how much of mother earth I own. See the good old boy in the midst of devastation and then out of conscience pay off those claims and go home. He'd see.

Dan counted about twenty cars, mostly pickups, lining the drive in front of the house. One was a vet truck; the enclosed back made it a clinic on wheels. Lot of the large animal docs were going to that—a portable phone and an outfitted truck. Progress. Always something new.

He hadn't reached the top step before the front door was thrown open.

“Mr. Mahoney. I understand we've been missing each other. Billy Roland here.”

Like it had to be announced. The beefy hand he held out sported a two-carat diamond pinky ring.

“Glad we're finally touching base.”

“You just let me know how I can help. You need any information, I want you to know that you can come to the source. That's important. No need asking questions of others, just come right on out here and chat with ol' Billy. Now, come along. There's a buffet in here that'll knock your socks off.”

Well, it hadn't taken Judge Cyrus long to share their little conversation. Dan followed Billy Roland into the house. A gaggle of male voices—excited laughter, a couple bass guffaws, the back-slapping kind, probably the judge—boomed out from a room off the end of a long hall. Was this some sort of Old West thing? Eat hearty, then ride out to survey the damage? Count the dead livestock? His own appetite waned thinking about what was ahead.

He followed Billy Roland past the polished oak bannister at the foot of the stairs that curved upward out of the parquet oak floor. The chandelier threw rainbow chips of light across the Persian entry rug. No adjectives came to mind that quite captured the opulence. This sure wasn't his apartment in Chicago.

“Everyone? Listen up. This here's Mr. Mahoney. I 'spect you all to show him some kindness.” Billy R. had pushed open the two paneled doors and entered a massive study, a man's room all hunter green and brass, dark stone fireplace, marble bar, walnut desk to match the walls.

Dan acknowledged the hellos and shook hands with half a dozen friendly types who pushed toward him. Judge Cyrus led the pack. There was a stale smell of tobacco and bourbon. Even Billy Roland was nursing a tumbler of pale golden liquid over ice. Dan checked his watch. It was seven nineteen. He didn't need to bolster the old testosterone this early. In fact, he'd have a hard time putting away the heaping plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits someone had handed him.

“If you don't mind, I'll just trade this in for a cup of coffee, black.” The uniformed servant didn't bat an eye; the plate disappeared and Dan had his mug of steaming coffee before he could be urged to take seconds on the eggs.

He watched Billy Roland work the room. A slap on the back here, a whispered word and an explosion of laughter there. One of the servants interrupted and indicated the phone. Billy Roland took the call at the bar. Must be difficult to get away from business. There was no sign of Iris. Probably wouldn't be at these all-male gatherings, sort of a cross between a roundup and a foxhunt.

“Let's you and me push back from that buffet table and think about getting this show on the road.” Billy Roland had returned to stand by him. Dan was wondering how the man could look just like he thought he would. A combination of a past President, someone who could get into swinging a beagle by the ears, and his grandfather who looked over his glasses, fixed him with a stare like he was taking a sighting off the end of his nose, a bulbous large-pored thing that dominated his face.

But that's where the comparison to his grandfather stopped. Billy Roland was something else. His posture screamed intimacy. An arm thrown around Dan's shoulders, leaning just close enough to rub that belly-muscle slack paunch against him, voice conspiratorially low when he wanted his attention. Dan fought back an urge to make sure he still had a billfold.

“I'm going to take Dan here on down to the barns. You all join us real soon now, you hear?” With that pronouncement Billy Roland steered Dan through the kitchen, a high-ceilinged monstrous room with assorted clerestories, ignored the genuflecting servants whose jabber in Spanish had abruptly ceased, pushed through the back door, crossed the porch, a screened affair filled with expensive outdoor furniture, and covered the distance from the house to the closest barn in a dozen strides.

“Hank. Thought you'd be saddled up by now.”

Hank must be the vet, Dan thought, unless all the ranch hands wore a lab coat over chaps, but Billy Roland was more intent on walking down the long row of stalls than introducing him.

“Here we go. Baby Belle. Hell of a smooth ride, just like her long-backed mama. She'll do you just fine.”

Dan thought that Hank blanched and started to say something. But knowing which side the bread was buttered on probably buttoned his lip. Baby Belle in the meantime had reared and struck the front of the stall a couple times and Dan hadn't seen her ears stand up once.

“Ray was saying you know your horseflesh.” He was handing him a halter and lead. “Saddles over there, tack room on the left.”

One time forty years ago when his parents moved to the suburbs and he had had to change schools he felt this same way going out at recess. The wall of sixth grade boys had bloodied his nose, kicked him in the shins, bruised a kneecap but accepted him because he didn't yell “uncle.” Was it too late to yell now? He slid the stall door open wide enough to step inside and eased the lead rope over Belle's neck. The horse eyed him, sized him up, let him buckle the halter in place before lashing out with a sidewinder-fast front hoof, catching him a glancing blow below the knee.

Without dwelling on what he had to do, Dan stepped her out into the walkway, grabbed her head, a hand on each side of the halter, and muscled her backward, pushing hard, not letting her get her bearings.

“Coming through. Little attitude adjustment.”

He backed the mare through the crowd entering the barn, wheeled her around and headed her backward to where they started. Then he released her, leaned close and whispered, “One more kick and you're Alpo, sweetheart,” in his best Bogart imitation.

But the mare had broken a sweat on her neck and had both ears forward. Leery respect, Dan decided. He'd won one and might not be tested again. He tied her to the stall door and went to get tack. Was it his imagination or was Billy Roland struck dumb? That's a man doesn't like his fun ruined.

The riders waited in twos and threes before falling in behind Billy Roland. Sheriff Ray was conspicuously missing but, as if on cue, a rider appeared to the right beyond the strand of poplar and cantered toward them.

“Most damage seems to be in the back forty. Lots of fences down, twelve calves dead or dying.” Ray's horse breathed heavily. Ray must have been in a hurry to report in. It seemed strange that the county sheriff would ride fences and not a foreman.

“I'll pick up some extra syringes. Y'all go on. I'll catch up.” The vet turned back toward the barn.

The first couple miles were uneventful. The damage was extensive to crops, but they had only seen one dead calf, the distraught mother standing guard, bawling her anxiety. Telephone poles were down or leaning precariously. The creek water had receded but wasn't contained. The sun was now almost overhead, and the swollen earth steamed. And so did Dan. He had taken off his jacket, next the vest and rolled his shirt sleeves above his elbows.

At the first sign of black gnats, he'd rolled them back down. The gnats were merciless. They hung in the air in undulating swarms sometimes drifting over the horse's ears, sometimes humming above his head. He moved Belle out away from the others and sought relief from the insects by steering her to higher ground.

The ridge seemed to please Belle, who stretched her neck forward to catch a nibble or two of grass and gave Dan a vantage point from which to survey Elm Creek and its path of destruction.

At first he missed the pink Caddy mired in the mud listing badly to the right, water running freely through its windows. Only the hood, the roof, and the left rear fender were above water. With a coating of silt, it blended with other debris choking the edges of the field.

“Over here.” Dan yelled and pointed, then goosed Belle down the slope, keeping her at a trot until they were a few feet from the car.

“Oh Lord.” Billy Roland sloshed around the perimeter of the Cadillac. “This here's the Lott girl's car, isn't it? You don't think she could be in there, do you?”

Sheriff Ray seemed reluctant to act or offer an opinion.

“I think it'd be a good idea for you to check, Sheriff.”

Dan watched as the sheriff eyed the water and muck then handed his reins to the man closest to him and dismounted with a splash. This called for a new pair of Justins; as Dan watched, the water rose over the tops of Ray's boots.

“Need help?” Two others were wading toward Ray. Then the three of them circled the car in the now waist-high water, one man taking a gulp of air and ducking under the surface to check the car's interior.