Flash Flood (31 page)

“Mr. Roland shared with me before he died…God rest his soul…” Dan had reverently lowered his eyes when he said this last and through lowered lashes saw that she had done the same. Just a moment of silence but it may have made an ally.

“…that on several occasions the bodies of young women had been found in his woods, on an altar of sorts, suggesting that their deaths had been the result of some kind of cult worship, a ritualistic killing. I understand that their bodies were brought here to Roswell, were autopsied by the coroner? That your office often sent photos and prints to Mexico trying to identify the girls?”

He thought he had won her over. She was just looking thoughtful now, not adversarial.

“There have been five that I know about, and I've worked here for nineteen years. A couple date way back before my time. The last was two months ago, the one you mentioned. But before that, it must have been seven or eight years since we'd had an incident.”

Dan caught his breath. Seven or eight years. He felt the excitement rising. “Would you be able to look up the dates for me?” Go easy, don't get too eager; it might be nothing, just coincidence, Dan warned himself.

“I suppose it would be all right. It's the kind of thing people around here don't like to admit to. Makes outsiders shy away from investing in the community, makes us seem unsafe, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him, then added, “I was against the UFO museum at first, thought visitors would think all of Roswell ran around looking up at the sky to point at shiny whirling things.” She laughed, then added, “I'd hate for there to be any adverse publicity because of this…information.”

Dan smiled. “I understand, but this information might just mean the end to these senseless killings.” That had gotten her attention. She pushed a clipboard toward him.

“Sign here. Give your address and phone in Roswell. We keep a record of all inquiries.”

Dan signed and watched her go through an archway to filing cabinets that lined the walls of a back room. It seemed like she was gone overly long or was it just his excitement?

“Here it is,” she called out after he had heard several drawers being opened and slammed shut. “Thought for a moment that I'd misplaced the file.”

She walked back into the room carrying several green pendaflex folders. “There's a new procedure in place after this last killing. In the cases of unexplained or violent deaths, bodies must be sent to the Office of Medical Investigation in Albuquerque. In the old days, everything was handled here, locally. The body was examined, kept at the morgue a decent length of time, and if no next-of-kin presented themselves, someone would provide a burial plot.”

“Do you remember the names of people who might have done that?”

“Oh yes, people with private cemeteries. Billy Roland offered a resting place for one young girl many years ago. Seems like I remember Judge Cyrus has, too.”

“Does he have a family cemetery?”

“Not really. He set up a memorial garden. Pretty spot right next to the bank. The citizens of Tatum weren't too pleased. But it's nice to have someone concerned about the dead, the discarded ones who will never rest with their families.”

Dan agreed and hoped she couldn't see his hands shake as he pulled a folder out of the file marked with a date a few days before Eric Linden was framed. First time he had used the word, framed; but suddenly he was sure that that's what had happened.

The file was complete. A description and several photos attested to the young girl's beauty, even in death. She was probably sixteen. It was easy to imagine Eric accepting a little thanks for teaching her the alphabet, and he would bet anything that this was the stowaway, the one he brought to this country to start a new life. The one he accepted a few favors from, and the one Judge Cyrus used to sway his sentencing. He asked for a copy of the autopsy and turned to the other files.

The first death had occurred thirty-two years ago. That placed it a few years after the Voodoo priest moved to the community. The others were spaced at five to ten year intervals.

Nothing unusual. All were attributed to rituals practiced by those who strayed north of the Mexican border. In each instance there was an investigation. A handful of men tried to track down wrongdoers. There were never any suspects found.

“I'd like to borrow a photo of this victim.” Dan pointed to the girl that he hoped Eric would be able to identify.

“That's not our usual procedure.” The woman turned back to the copier.

“I'll be able to have the photo back in two days.” Unless it becomes evidence, he thought.

“I suppose it would be all right. We have four others here.” She was thumbing through the stack of papers on the machine in front of her, then removed an eight by ten glossy and put it in an envelope along with the copies of the investigation and autopsy.

“Here you go. I hope this will be helpful.”

Not as much as I do, Dan wanted to add as he walked out the door. He tossed the envelope onto the front seat of the Cherokee and backed out into traffic. He knew where he was going; he had one last thing to check before he went out to the Double Horseshoe to confront Eric.

***

The offices of the
Roswell Sentinel,
the city's one newspaper, were downtown in a beige brick building probably built in the fifties. He had about an hour before they closed to the public, but what he wanted to see wouldn't take long.

The receptionist directed him to the library, a room off of a long hallway that held a microfiche reader, long heavy oak tables and several uncomfortable chairs. The cabinets of film were protected by a counter that stretched across the width of the room. Someone had to be called from the back to help him, but soon he was seated in front of the screen moving through a month's worth of
Sentinels
—all seven and a half years old.

The first headline about finding the girl was two inches high: “Satan Lives Among Us.” A local group of ministers had banded together to protest the killing and vowed to get some answers. There were public outcries against satanism and ungodly ritual, lots of quotes from upstanding townspeople. Sheriff Ray supposedly took an active part in tracking down the killers, was quoted as saying he had several “hot” leads.

The second day headlines were even larger. “Community Vows Revenge,” a quote from the Tatum mayor. By then, the horror of the death had attracted state-wide attention. Sheriff Ray now had the help or hindrance of a local vigilante group. One more day and that was the end of headline news for the apparent sacrificial death. A total of three days. The next edition of the
Sentinel
had the news of the killing on the back page of the front section. This time the two-inch headline read: “Roswell Attorney Accused in Drug Smuggling.”

Dan scrolled through another week's worth of headlines. Eric Linden had indeed been big news. It seems like all of Roswell was captivated by the story. Even editorials chose themes of temptation and greed. The ritualistic death of a young girl from somewhere south of the border was no longer of interest. But a lawyer, well known in the community, suddenly was.

Dan was beginning to see the sense of it all. If someone had wanted,
needed,
to divert attention from a heinous crime; say, one where authorities were getting too close—what better way to do it? The newspapers were proof that it had worked. One day, the community was up in arms about the killing; the next it was in shock about one of its own gone wrong.

“We're closing in ten minutes. Is there something else I can help you with?”

“No. I have everything I need.” Dan hadn't seen the young man come in the room. “On second thought, how long would it take to make copies of these three editions, front pages only?”

“Could you pick them up tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Dan left his name and paid for the copies, but he was already thinking of talking with Eric. He could just be the last piece in the puzzle. What did Eric know about the young woman's death? He was out of the country when she was killed. And someone made certain that his attention was diverted when he returned. If the killer thought he could identify him…wouldn't that have been worth the promise of two million to keep him quiet?

When Dan pulled into the long curving front drive of the Double Horseshoe, the house was dark. And, for the first time, looked empty, lifeless and forsaken, in the subdued light of dusk. No one had removed the hanging terra cotta pots of petunias, summer leftovers, that now shed dried leaves onto the porch. The cornshuck wreath on the door had been shredded by the wind. This wasn't the same house he had pulled up in front of just four months ago on a sultry summer's day. He drove around to the back fighting the sadness that seemed to settle around him.

He was surprised to see two cars parked next to a couple of ranch pickups: Elaine's Benz and Phillip's white Buick. He pulled in and headed back to the house. They must have brought Eric out. This was turning into a reunion of sorts.

The back screen door was unlatched, and Dan walked through to the kitchen. There was a faint odor of stale food, garbage not removed. There were even dirty dishes in the sink. Whoever lived in the house now wasn't too tidy. The door to the study was closed. Dan knocked, then opened it. A floor lamp was on and had been moved to the middle of the floor. White sheeting covered the furniture. Someone was in the process of packing Billy Roland's library; books were stacked everywhere.

The bar had been dismantled. A large slab of gray-green marble rested against one wall. All the bottles of liquor had been removed. Not the sort of thing a state school would want to inherit, Dan guessed. He wondered who had helped themselves. Billy Roland's walnut desk was gone, leaving a lighter patch of carpet underneath. The drapes were down and the windows seemed naked with only tightly closed venetian blinds. It was a room with all the life sucked out of it.

He stepped into the hall and called out for Elaine before switching on a light. He stood and listened; but it was evident that the house was empty. There was dust everywhere. He was leaving tracks on the fine oak parquet flooring. The chandelier was dimmed by a dusty powdering. He turned and walked back through the kitchen turning out lights as he went.

The barns were a different story. He walked into the first one and saw that the horses had been recently fed. Baby Belle nickered in greeting, and he stopped to rub her nose. It seemed like there were fewer horses. He couldn't be sure. He hadn't paid that much attention before.

The first of the cow-barns was brightly lighted and bustling with activity. Charolais, some getting bathed, others exercised, were everywhere. And the men working with them were young, not quite acne-free Future Farmers of America members who had gone on to an agricultural college. There were even two young girls working together sudsing up a half-grown bull. College kids wearing cowboy hats and Levis. The crew who usually worked in the barns was absent.

“Things have changed.” Hank had walked up to stand beside him.

“It's a shock. What's going to happen to the house?”

“Somebody turned up some distant relative of the first wife and we're just waiting for her to come out and go through the household things before we turn it into offices. The Tatum library will get his books. Out here we've already transitioned to university ownership. The kids are doing a pretty good job, don't you think?”

Amid squeals of delight, the two girls washing the young bull turned the hose on each other.

“Different atmosphere,” Dan admitted.

“We've even converted one of the bunk houses into a dormitory. Come with me.” Hank paused to unlock a door to the back of a second barn. “I want to show you something.”

Dan followed Hank back toward the clinic, which was framed in already with rough white drywall panels hanging from sturdy two by fours.

“Difficult to imagine there was a fire.”

“Yeah. We were able to shake some money loose from the trust and go ahead with the repairs.”

Hank was leading him toward the show ring, a regulation-size arena of sawdust over sand flanked by bleachers.

“Sit here, I'll be back.”

Dan hadn't meant to be sidetracked by Hank, but he guessed that Eric would be down at the hangar and would probably still be there when he got through. Hank could barely contain his excitement when he returned to sit beside Dan.

“You've got to see this.” Hank pointed toward the double gate at the back of the arena.

As both men watched, the gates opened and two young college students entered leading a magnificent Charolais that glistened silver in the overhead spotlights.

“Shortcake Dream?” Dan couldn't believe it; he sat forward. This heifer was sparkling white with only the characteristic dark shadings on knees and hocks.

“How'd you get rid of the dye?”

“She's been bodyclipped. But look how she's filled out.” Hank leaned back. “That's the best example of what this ranch is all about. I know he always said it, but I agree—she's the best Billy Roland ever produced.” This last was said reverently. “What more could a man want than a living memorial to his work?”

Dan knew he didn't have to say anything. Hank's way to deal with the grief of Billy Roland's death was to devote his life to maintaining, maybe improving, what his benefactor had started. Actually, the more he thought about it, it wasn't a bad goal.

“What's next for Shortcake Dream?”

“A few shows in the spring. Motherhood can wait until next year. Until she's really ready.”

Hank was staring at the heifer with something akin to adoration. It was like Shortcake Dream was family. Dan hated to break the spell but he needed to find Eric.

“Did you happen to see Elaine Linden, or Eric, this afternoon?”

“Elaine was up at the house working on the study. But I think she's out somewhere looking for that dog, now. I told her I thought he followed some folks over to the hangar a while back.”