Flash Flood (33 page)

Tom produced a twenty-foot piece of nylon rope and Dan secured Simon to the trunk of a young cottonwood. Dan used the commands they had learned in school and hoped Simon would obey; then the three of them angled back toward the stream to begin following it south. If Dan wanted to be really truthful, he wasn't sorry he had company. Maybe it was the memory of what he had seen in the woods recently, or what he knew about human offerings in the past, but whatever it was, he felt uneasy.

The first mile was uneventful. Fallen leaves muffled their steps and the overgrown brush hid their movements, but the going was slow. Branches tore at their clothing and caught in their hair. Dan felt the sleeve on his windbreaker get snagged on a branch that he'd tried to duck.

“Just a minute. I'm caught here. It's torn through to the lining.”

Roger and Tom helped him get untangled.

“What was that?” Roger switched off his flashlight.

“Sounded like drums.”

The three of them stood silently straining to hear.

“There it was again. Did you hear it?” Tom whispered.

“It's coming from over this way.” Roger had already turned and began to thread his way through the brush away from the stream.

“Must be one doozy of a drum. Big mother,” Roger said.

“Brass gong.”

“What?” Roger turned to Dan.

“That last ringing sound must be a gong of some sort. The sound carries like a tuning fork.” Instinctively, Dan dropped to the ground. “If we're going to get any closer and not attract attention, we better do it this way.”

Crouched low Dan ran forward, then suddenly motioned for Tom and Roger to hit the ground beside him.

“Holy shit.” Tom let his breath out in a low whistle.

“What's going on?”

“Service of some sort.” Dan wasn't comfortable talking, but they were a safe seventy-five feet from the altar and had a panoramic view of what was happening.

Five drummers, naked except for loin cloths and body paint, knelt beside three-foot-high hollowed logs with taut animal skin coverings, striking their instruments at rhythmic intervals. He had been right, a five-foot brass plate hung between two sapling cottonwoods and every three minutes was struck by someone dressed in a flowing white robe.

Most of the congregation, if that's what they could be called, wore headdresses imbedded with slivers of glass that caught the light of the hundreds of candles that marked the boundaries of the pit-like sanctuary. Excluding the drummers, there had to be thirty people, men and women, dressed in white, wearing masks, body paint, or both, kneeling on mats in a semicircle facing a dais.

The altar in the center was covered with flowers and ribbons that trailed along the ground. The strange, bitter yet fragrant odor of incense hung in the air and wafted to where Dan was crouched. It was intense and penetrating, roses, gardenias, sandalwood, cloves and probably half a dozen other ingredients; he only hoped he didn't start sneezing.

Suddenly four people with tambourines stepped from the woods to stand behind the drummers and began to hit their instruments with the heels of their hands. Their robes were hooded and fell forward, hiding their faces. Dan couldn't help but feel he might recognize some of the people without their finery.

Dan felt the reverberations before he realized that the drummers had increased the tempo. Now, the sound enveloped them, filled the sanctuary, escaping up through the trees to drift out over the night. Dan huddled with Roger and Tom and watched as the congregation began to sway and wave their arms, increasing in speed until two women carrying enormous wicker baskets walked toward the crowd from behind the dais and sprinkled something in sweeping motions over their heads. Rose petals, Dan guessed, as the scent of the flowers reached him. This offering seemed to appease the crowd, which fell silent, but not for long.

Dan's ears were ringing even before a young man stepped up beside the gong and struck it, not once but three times. Again, silence, only the humming until the sound gradually wore itself out. But this time Dan could almost feel the anticipatory excitement as the crowd murmured and shifted position to lie flat in a supplicant's pose, all thirty people face down, arms extended, palms up.

In a burst of fragmented light that danced in the air and sizzled and popped from the tips of the sparklers embedded in the edge of the dais, six warrior-men stepped forward, each supporting his side of a portable throne, an enormous stool with curved arms and no back on a miniature platform secured to three four by fours that extended beyond the base to become carrying poles.

Dan couldn't take his eyes off the figure in the middle in a violet cassock of satin trimmed with gold scrolling and what looked like thousands of beads or buttons sewn along the hem, his long legs encased in white satin breeches and knee-high black riding boots. But on his head was a three-foot-tall headdress of deep purple that flowed train-like behind him, forming a tent around his shoulders and spilling over the edge of the airborne platform. A mask of white feathers covered every inch of his face and he sat sphinx-like, long arms folded in his lap, hands encased in white gloves, only moving his head to nod here and there blessing his followers.

Slowly moving with the beat of the drums, the warriors carried their impressive leader through the crowd. Acrobatic dancers, their green and purple costumes covered with tiny bells, waved additional sparklers and frolicked around the throne turning somersaults over worshipers. The result was a cacophony of sound. But it wasn't just sound. Dan marveled at how all his senses were assaulted, pushed to their limits, making his head ache with overload.

The chants reached a crescendo as the sparklers sputtered to darkness and were replaced by tall white candles in front of the throne. The warriors returned to the dais, but it soon became evident that they would continue to hold the man on the throne aloft and not place him on the ground. It probably wasn't such a bad idea, Dan thought; it certainly added to the majesty of it all.

Next, six women, naked to the waist in diaphanous skirts, nipples erect in the chilly night air, and garlands of flowers encircling their heads, danced around the throne, finally coming to rest at the feet of a warrior. After each pushed a jester away and feigned reclaiming her rightful spot, she offered flowers and a lighted candle to the man seated above her, who accepted her offering with a nod of his head. Yet, Dan had a feeling that it was all just a prelude for something else—a warm-up act, and he didn't have long to wait.

Bursting through a thicket of trees behind the drummers, a bronzed man, his body painted in chevron stripes of yellow and red, swung a machete-long knife above his head, circling and dipping to the low beat of the drums as he made his way to the altar and kicked up flower petals with each step.

Then as someone struck the gong, four more warriors carried a stretcher containing what looked like a body in a white satin robe to the base of the stone mass, where it took all four of them to heave the body upright and place it on its back over the altar.

“Give me the binoculars,” Dan hissed. He was suddenly frantic. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that there was going to be a sacrifice. A human one, if the shape of the bundle didn't lie. He focused on the altar and watched as the topless dancers moved forward to caress the body while they anointed it with some kind of oil.

Then they covered the body with theirs, pretending to what? Keep it safe? Shield it from harm? They moved in a mesmerizing circle, arms waving, scattering more flower petals before stopping on cue and stepping back. It took Dan a moment to realize that there was suddenly no sound. The worshippers were still prone and absolutely motionless. The man on the throne was staring in front of him. A light wind moved through the branches overhead, ruffling the feathers of the costumes and picking up tiny swirls of flower petals; in the distance a coyote called to a mate.

Then trance-like a dancer stepped to the altar and working slowly pulled apart the white satin robe, exposing the neck and finally the head of the body that had been tossed across the pile of stones. Eric Linden. In a rush of sound the drummers rolled to a crescendo as the warrior with the machete swung the heavy knife over his head and approached the altar.

Dan was on his feet, running, crashing through the brush, yelling for the craziness to stop. But that was when he saw Elaine, gun cradled in her outstretched hands, drop to one knee and take aim at the high priest. The rest was bedlam. The dancers scattered, stumbling over worshippers. The knife-wielding warrior dashed into the woods. And before Elaine could shoot, the warriors facing her saw the gun and dropped their poles to follow the others.

The throne tilted violently to the right, but as Dan watched, only the head of the priest slipped from view. His body remained stationary—massive squared shoulders, folded arms, gloved hands, legs in high leather boots—nothing moved. It was a shell. A hollowed-out facade that allowed the diminutive body of a dwarf, in this case Judge Franklin Cyrus, to stand upright behind it, looking for all the world like a six-foot-six ruler of the underworld.

***

It was late before Eric, Elaine and Dan returned to the house. Roger and Tom had taken a few key players and the judge into custody. Most of the audience in the woods had turned out to be former workers from the Double Horseshoe. Disgruntled at their termination and eager to celebrate the demise of the man they, no doubt, were told had caused it. But that part really couldn't be proved, so those who hadn't escaped into the woods at the start were detained as illegal aliens and faced deportation.

The Roswell sheriff's department sent help, manpower and transportation. Roger and Tom were in their element, giving orders and accepting the kudos. No doubt sensing their imminent fame.

Phillip and Carolyn watched all the excitement but begged off coming back to the house. They were taking Dona Mari home, probably secretly relieved that she was with them and not caught in the woods.

Dan was the last to reach the house after going back for Simon and Baby Belle. By the time he got there, Elaine had produced a bottle of Glenlivet that she'd found hidden in the bookcase, and brought ice and glasses in from the kitchen. Dan helped her uncover the furniture. It seemed like the right place to be, in Billy Roland's study, now that they had all the answers.

He silently toasted his friend with two fingers of good scotch, and fervently wished Billy Roland could be there to enjoy it with him. Dan wondered how much his old friend had known about the judge, the strange rituals in his woods. Had he suspected? Let them turn the runway lights on in the past as a signal to gather? Billy Roland had lived out here a little too long not to know the peccadilloes of his friends.

Dan passed the picture of the girl to Eric and instantly saw that he recognized her.

“You know, she was Enrico Garcia's granddaughter. She ran away to the States. I felt responsible; I had known her for some time.”

Dan vaguely wondered if that was in the Biblical sense but guessed that it was.

“Before that last trip she begged me to take her back home…she hated it at the judge's. But I never really knew why or didn't pay attention. I could have saved her life.”

Dan thought he heard real remorse in Eric's voice.

“Grandpa wouldn't have been too pleased, might have caused some problems. Do you think he ever found out?” Elaine asked.

“Probably not. It was hushed up pretty fast. In fact, that's what gave it away,” Dan said. “Three days of coverage and then Eric. It dawned on me that it would take something big to cover something big—especially if the authorities were getting a little too close to the truth.”

“So what happens now?” Elaine turned to Eric.

“I'll be reinstated, Eric Linden, attorney at law…probably have a little chat with Judge Aspen…of course, I'll sue the estate of Judge Cyrus.”

“I don't suppose a round figure like two million has crossed your mind?” Dan asked.

“I think seven years of my life is worth more than that, now.”

Dan knew he wasn't kidding and would probably get it.

“But how do you think he did it? Got the drugs on board without you knowing it?” Elaine asked.

“It could have been done after they brought me down. A few connections with border patrol, someone borrows from the cache from other busts, stuff that's supposed to be locked up. It's difficult to keep an accurate inventory. It would have been easy to repackage, plant it, and get it back without much notice. I have a feeling that J.J. Rodriguez could have shed some light on that.”

“Guess we'll never know if Sheriff Ray was warning you or trying to take you out,” Dan mused.

“Let's give him the benefit of the doubt,” Eric grinned.

There didn't seem to be a lot more to say. They finished their drinks in silence, and Dan stood to go. “You going to be all right out here? We can give you a ride back to Roswell.” He looked down at Eric, still pale and obviously shaken by his brush with death, but oddly complacent.

“You two go on. I'll stay up here at the house for tonight. I'll be all right…haven't made a dent in the bottle, yet.” Elaine walked toward the door, looked back as if to say something, then didn't. Dan caught her eye and she smiled. In relief? There was a glint of something….

“Leave the Benz and ride back with me.” Dan had his arm around her as they walked out the front door, and he realized that nothing had felt quite that good in a long time. “I need your advice about something.”

He handed her the packet of airline tickets that he'd picked up in Albuquerque and watched as she hurriedly scanned them under the Jeep's interior light.

“Ireland?”

“For two.” And he turned her toward him and realized that they wouldn't make it much farther than a motel room in Tatum that night.

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