Flash Flood (6 page)

“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 there 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.”

He left the room before Billy Roland could react. Upstairs, he packed everything he'd brought and carried it out to the Tercel before going back down the hall to the study.

“I want you to be thinking about something. Sucostrin succinvicholine. Sleep tight.” Dan closed the door behind him.

Billy Roland made no move to detain him.

He got his old room back at the Silver Spur. Before going to bed, he unfolded a map of New Mexico and circled Roswell in red. He paperclipped a business card with the local office phone number on the back to the upper right hand corner and left it on the dash. The map was gone in the morning.

***

“I'm not asking you to understand, son, I'm asking you to believe me. I don't have any problem with your muscle-relaxant theory. It's as good as any. But what son-of-a-bitch would do such a thing?” Billy Roland was on his second Glenlivet over.

“I need to tape this session.” Dan placed a recorder on the edge of the desk.

“All right by me. You got any problems with that, J.J.?”

The lawyer looked up from an accordion file on the coffee table, nodded his assent, and went back to pulling out papers. Dan had instantly disliked the man. Italian shoes and a silk shirt which was open just one button too far to show a quarter-inch-thick gold chain. His dark hair, all the same length to below the ear, was combed straight back and plastered into place. His round tortoise shell glasses looked more for show than a prescription for myopic sight. J.J. stood for Juan Jose but that's as much as he knew; he guessed home was Mexico.

“Start by stating your full name, today's date, and where this deposition is being taken.”

While Billy Roland was doing that, Dan opened the file that J.J. had just handed him on Mountain Run's Cisco Kid. It wasn't like no one was cooperating; he was bowled over by the eagerness of both Billy R. and his lawyer. Made Dan think there might be some honest to God remorse at work here—at least in regard to the Cisco Kid.

Dan pulled an advertisement and attached bill of sale from the folder.

“Let's start with where and when you bought the Cisco Kid.”

“September 23, 1998, from Cecil Tucker Farms, Green Valley, Arizona.”

“Asking price and price paid?”

“I, uh, Hank, you want to intercede here, explain to Dan what the circumstances were at that time?” Hank started to step forward.

J.J. pushed the file folder aside. “I didn't hear any questions from Mr. Mahoney.” He scrutinized Dan. “Are there any?”

“I suppose there should be. Asking price for a six-month-old bull calf, seventy-five hundred dollars and price paid, fifty-five hundred—amount insured, two hundred thousand at eighteen months and six hundred thousand at age four. My question for the record is, what takes the worth of a bull calf from fifty-five hundred to six hundred thousand in under four years?”

“Because there were some medical issues at the time of purchase that impacted price. Hank, scoot a chair on up here and talk into this thing.” Billy Roland pushed his own chair out of the way.

Hank, looking like he'd just buried his best friend—which might be the truth, Dan thought—pulled his chair closer to the desk. Without his customary hat, his curly dark blond hair made him look young, vulnerable even.

“When I first examined Mountain Run's Cisco Kid at approximately six months of age, he appeared to be Cryptorchid.”

“Cryptorchid or Monorchid, because it says here—”

“Let me finish. Originally, Cryptorchid. There were no testicles in the scrotal sac. But it was observed that under stimulation, one testicle would descend. It was also determined at that time that Cisco Kid had viable sperm being produced in both testicles.”

“But this would still be considered a serious fault? Something highly suspect as a genetic factor, and definitely something you wouldn't want in your herd?” Dan asked.

“True. But Mr. Eklund and I were convinced that an illness suffered soon after weaning might have caused the condition. In short, the only thing that we've done wrong—against show rules, that is—is operate and surgically tighten the ring that keeps those testicles outside the body cavity.”

“That's illegal?” Dan said.

“Against show rules. But who's going to find a half-inch suture scar on that part of a bull's anatomy. Who's going to even look for one?”

“So, in yesterday's show, the judge could have dismissed the bull if such a scar had been found?”

“Yeah.”

“Has Cisco Kid's ability to sire been tested?”

“He has five on the ground from last spring and we're expecting ten come April next. Quality of offspring helped get us insured by United Life and Casualty. He was outstanding, prepotent—he could have rivaled the best.”

“So his condition once corrected didn't cause any problems?”

“We discovered that his sperm count was somewhat lower than what one would hope for in a normal bull of the same age, but this poses no problem with live-cover.”