Flash Flood

by Susan Slater

  They reached the cabin just as the sun was setting. Elaine emptied the car then returned to the cabin’s roughed-out front porch to watch the rose and cream of the sky spread above the mammoth evergreens. Everything smelled fresh with a lingering scent of pine. Simon couldn’t seem to stop running, investigating one tree, marking it before bounding further into the woods and then racing back to make sure she was still there.

  Elaine poured herself a Diet Coke, grabbed a sweater, and returned to the porch. Solitude. Somehow she was feeling better already. Simon finally tired and lay beside her sprawled on his side, feet twitching with some happy puppy dream of game that got away.

  It was cold before she went inside and lit the oil lamp so that she could see to build a fire. Rustic was perhaps an understatement. The cabin’s log frame needed repair. There were chinks between the beams that framed the two windows. A good reason it was best to visit in the summer. The first week in September was pushing it. The one room was spacious—for two people or one and a dog. There was running water and a tiny bathroom to one side of the kitchen. Sparse, but perfect. Exactly what she needed.

  Simon watched her as she spread the foam cushion in front of the fire, unrolled the sleeping bag on top of it, and stretched out. Simon flopped down at the foot of her floor-bed and was instantly asleep.

  Watching fires had always been soothing. She roused once to throw on another log and let Simon out. While she waited for him to return, she slipped into a long flannel night shirt. Simon came snuffling back to the door and was asleep before she had gotten back into the sleeping bag. She was beat but relaxed and felt better than she had in days.

  She hadn’t brought a clock but her watch said eight when she awoke to the sun pushing its way across the floor. She hadn’t meant to sleep away the day. Simon wolfed a bowl of dry dog food and begged to go out. She fixed coffee and sat on the porch listening to the birds. It was so unbelievably tranquil in the woods. She always wondered why she didn’t get away more often. She’d make sure the sabbatical included lots of getaways.

  The fishing poles were a little worse for wear. She couldn’t remember when they had last been used. It had been years. She and Matthew had wet a few lines together. She could remember him so well at ten or twelve. How did he get to be eighteen?

  The Jemez river was no more than thirty feet from the back of the cabin. She almost tripped over Simon as she half climbed, half slid down the steep bank. Once at the bottom she followed the narrow river to a bend that formed a deep pool around a cluster of rocks. Perfect for trout.

  The day was warming rapidly so she stripped to a cotton short-sleeved shirt and shorts, discarding sweater and jeans on the bank. This was more like it. In fact, wading seemed more inviting than fishing. At least Simon thought so. With all his splashing, the fish were probably in the next county by now.

  Slipping off her hiking boots, Elaine stood at the edge of the river where the bottom was covered with small smooth gravel. The water was like ice, joltingly fresh.

  She walked upriver collecting rocks, ones with sparkling mica caught in layers or their surfaces tumbled shiny by the river; she lost track of time but knew that she was at peace, that she didn’t want this feeling to end. She whistled for Simon. He’d disappeared into the woods on the opposite bank and had been gone too long. She whistled again. No dog.

  Then she saw Simon in the distance walking beside a man still half hidden by the trees. Dan. Yes. Didn’t she have a feeling that he’d find them? She’d left a map with her note. But as she watched, she knew it wasn’t Dan. But how could this person be so familiar? When she first heard the screams, she had no idea they were hers, no idea that she was stumbling backward cutting her feet on sharp rocks, scrambling up the bank to safety. Safety? How could you be safe from a dead man?

  And then she stopped. Stopped the running, the screaming and sank to her knees in the tall grass and stared. She practiced taking long deep breaths until, when he was splashing across the water to join her, she could say, “I should never have buried an empty box.”

  His laugh hadn’t changed. He stood there looking down at her, amused, more handsome than she remembered with a body chiseled from years in the prison gym. Self-contained, self-centered or both. The smirky smile, the lock of hair that fell forward, a world of memories blocked her from thinking clearly.

  “So, what’s new, kiddo?”

  She laughed, leaned back, a hand shielding her eyes. Here was Eric, alive, standing in front of her like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t been gone for seven years; like he hadn’t died. Laughter bubbled up from some recess, not a reaction to humor but that first step after screaming when the conscious mind doesn’t want to believe. And she could feel herself slip closer to the edge of some cliff, some abyss, a black hole she’d never get out of. She mentally kept this vision from fully forming, struggled to push it far back where it couldn’t come forward to envelop her and simply said,

  “Something tells me your life’s been more interesting.”

  He held out his hand to help her up and she hesitated, maybe only a nanosecond, but she felt reluctant to touch him. It was sort of like someone had held out a bowl of peeled grapes at Halloween and told you after you’d felt them that they were dead men’s eyeballs. But his hand was warm and very much alive. Yet in a rush she realized what was trying to sift to the surface of her thinking—she was feeling disappointment. Bitter disappointment. She had wanted this man dead, out of her life. She was rocked by the enormity of it. Could she really be thinking that? What kind of person rejoiced in another’s misfortune? Or was it like her shrink had said, it was easier to accept death as an ending than continue to work through her feelings and reach conclusions, however painful?

  “Should we go back to the cabin?” Eric said.

  She nodded, then pulled her hand away. “I need to find my shoes.”

  Eric talked on the way back of the flood, how lucky he’d been to be washed free of the car, how he’d been living on a little money he’d put away but was stealing what he could, food, clothing, gun, the motorcycle he’d ridden up here. There was a lot of bravado, but then hadn’t there always been?

  Eric dragged another chair onto the porch. They sat in silence both watching Simon patrol the edge of the woods. Elaine found herself curious about what Eric wanted to do now. There was still the question of why he had waited this long to step forward. Why had he wanted to stay dead? Still wanted to, it seemed. Elaine broke the silence first.

  “What advantage is there to hiding?”

  She thought he looked like he might not answer. The muscle in his jaw in front of his ear twitched, then stopped. But she knew she would demand an answer. She wasn’t going to play games, ones that could ruin her reputation, cost her her job. Maybe she had made some decisions without knowing it. But she had to be on guard, keep herself from relaxing, slipping back into the old familiar, not questioning, just “going with the flow” behavior of so many years.

  Eric finally began to talk, not looking at her, staring straight ahead at the trees, Simon’s antics, the cloudless sky. He insisted that he’d been set up seven years ago, but couldn’t prove it. No doubt there had been many flights when he had unknowingly acted as messenger, delivery boy. The offer of two million had seemed the least Billy Roland could do. The fact that the two million never existed or was withdrawn kept him in hiding. He would get it back with threats of exposure.

  “Do you have evidence of Billy Roland’s involvement?”

  “I’m working on getting it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Confront him. Demand what I’m owed.”

  “Isn’t there a better way?”

  “Damn it, Elaine, I was shot at. For all I know Andy would be alive today if someone hadn’t shot out the tires on the car.” She watched him as he paused, realizing he’d mentioned the girl. Let him feel awkward. She was past caring one way or the other. It wasn’t the first female; it wouldn’t be the last. Finally, she said, “I’m n
ot comfortable with all this secrecy.”

  “You’re not comfortable? What the bloody hell do you think this is?”

  He’d leaned over and grabbed her arm, jerking her to face him, his fingers digging into her biceps. “This is my life. How can I make it any plainer? Someone wants me dead.” He released her arm but continued to look at her. Defiant, belligerent, angry, an anger that was slowly slipping over the boundaries of right or wrong almost as Elaine watched.

  “So, what happens next?” She moved to the porch railing and sat facing him.

  “I need the keys and passport from the safe deposit box.”

  “That’s what you were looking for when you broke into the house? The night Buddy died.”

  “Sorry about ol’ Bud. He got pretty excited at seeing me. I was afraid he’d have a stroke.”

  “But didn’t wait around to help.”

  “I don’t play by your rules, anymore. I have two goals, stay alive and get what that bastard owes me.”

  “Did you ever play by any rules?” She said it quietly, maybe more of a question to herself but searched his face, watched the eyes for an answer.

  “I’m not going to say the marriage was perfect.”

  “A lack of perfection made you throw everything away for two million dollars?” Sarcasm. It felt good. Then she leaned back, rested against a support post and said, “You know, the only one that ever got to me was Carolyn. All the waitresses and secretaries, the girls you smuggled across the border…you never brought them home, never flaunted them, but my so-called best friend? The wife of your best friend?”

  “That was eight years ago. It’s forgotten.”

  “Time doesn’t erase everything. Maybe takes the edge off….”

  “Had I been in my grave, I wouldn’t have been cold before you started fucking around.”

  The calculating iciness of his voice surprised her. How did he know about Dan?

  “I think I’m entitled to a life.”

  “You’re so stupid, Elaine. For all the degrees, all the surface smarts, you’re fucking naive.”

  “Should I ask you what you mean or could anything stop you from telling me?” A wash of anger left her skin tingling.

  “You’re being used. Your insurance dick works for the feds. You’re a part of the payroll, get close to the poor wife who just might know more about all this than she’s saying. Wear a wire, wine, dine and fuck the poor thing. Just a mercy hump for the needy, but then maybe she’ll tell you what she knows.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You know I’m not. The asshole hasn’t even gotten back in touch, has he? Fills a room with pillows, spends the night screwing the grieving widow, then disappears, leaves poor little Elaine sitting by the phone. Frankly, it was a good idea to come up here, saved you from looking too pathetic.”

  She ignored his meanness, the biting crudeness designed to hurt, and simply said, “Dan wouldn’t use me.”

  “Then explain this.”

  He pulled a folded paper from his wallet and handed it to her. It was a copy of an expense report. A Federal Bureau of Investigation, government form and two items had been circled in red. One, an electronic device, a wire; and two, a seventy-eight dollar bouquet of orchids, white, miscellaneous types, sent to her address. The signature at the bottom was Dan’s.

  She couldn’t say anything…couldn’t stop the tears that came from nowhere and burst through tightly closed eyes to run down her cheeks. She wadded the paper and rocked back and forth trying to keep the sobs from pushing up her throat and making any sound. Then abruptly, she said, “You know I’m the one who told Phillip.” She said it softly, swallowing hard. He had to lean forward to hear. She blew her nose on a Kleenex she found in the pocket of her shorts.

  “Told Phillip?”

  “About the affair with Carolyn. I made copies of all the letters I found, yours, hers, and went to see Phillip.” She had his attention but couldn’t read his expression. “So, maybe, turnabout is fair play.”

  He continued to stare. Disbelief? Disappointment that she’d been able to take the edge off of his little surprise about Dan.

  “Phillip never said anything.”

  “But things seemed to cool down pretty quickly.”

  “Carolyn ended it. But it was over by then anyway. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a threat to you or to Phillip. Carolyn was bored. Needed some excitement in her life.”

  She couldn’t keep the sarcastic laugh back. “And you? Were you bored?”

  “I didn’t say that. I always thought we were good in bed.”

  “Maybe in the beginning.”

  She was tired of all this. She needed time to lick her wounds in private. Think about Dan without getting angry about being used. And think about Eric…. “What do we do about the divorce?”

  “Depends on whether I stay dead, doesn’t it?”

  “How soon will that decision be made?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on how quick our old friend Dan can come up with the evidence.”

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah. You might say he’s an employee of mine. He needs information for the feds. I need information to get on with my life.”

  “You know, you haven’t asked once about Matthew.”

  “I try not to dwell on what I’ve lost.”

  She let it pass. It was still too painful to confront him about dropping out of his son’s life. And she felt exhausted. She’d go back to Roswell, get the keys and passport, call a travel agency and get on with the sabbatical.

  Chapter Six

  Dan rode to Roswell with Hank to deliver the remains of Shortcake Dream to the UFO museum. He had all the pictures, measurements, and samples he needed. It was becoming important to get her embalmed as soon as possible; the museum would take care of that. They planned to use a new freeze-dry chemical that would preserve her indefinitely. When he’d called, they promised to set aside some videos on mutilation for him. All in the name of research. Well, curiosity, too.

  He’d gotten the message from Elaine saying she would be in the mountains for a few days. At least, he didn’t have to worry about her. Simon was having more fun than he was. The sheer volume of records, some on disk, most hard copy, at the Double Horseshoe would keep him out of trouble for some time.

  Hank filled up at the Texaco station just inside Roswell city limits before delivering his cargo. The town was bustling. They turned north onto Main, then took a left on Third. They could see the fork lift in the alley waiting on them.

  “Can we assume that you’re a supporter, too, Mr. Mahoney?”

  Dan looked down at the tiny lady with blue hair and three strands of pearls draped over the bodice of her black dress. She had opened the alley entrance to the back of the museum and directed the unloading of Shortcake Dream, informing them that she was a volunteer every Thursday. Last year she had been a docent at the zoo, but she’d moved on to aliens the end of January.

  “I keep an open mind.”

  “My, I’d think you would have to in your work. I just bet you have hundreds of fascinating stories.”

  Did she bat her eyelashes? Dan was beginning to think his tour guide was some seventy-five-year-old coquette. But the eyelashes weren’t seventy-five. The outside corner had come loose above the right eye and poked stiffly straight across, looking more like a tiny misplaced moustache. But he decided against telling her.

  “We just don’t know how to thank you for the calf. It’s the biggest thing we’ve ever had here.”

  Dan didn’t think she was talking about size but he wasn’t sure how they were going to display the animal.

  “I think we’ll put her in with Freddie.”

  “Freddie?”

  “The replica of the clone.” She smiled and motioned for him to follow and took off in that clipped gait of older people, posture erect and stiff, the result of wearing orthopedically correct oxfords for half a century.

  Freddie wasn’t exactly what he expected. Maybe it was the
shade of blue, bright and luminous that made him look… he was thinking unreal but how could a four-foot-high egg-headed being look real?

  “You know they aren’t real.” What was this, mind reading? True confession? He watched as she absently patted Freddie’s head. “These little guys are just messengers, scouts, they don’t have any insides so to speak. It’s just empty.” She tapped on the side of her head. “They communicate with the mother ship telepathically and all look alike. Real aliens look just like we do. You can’t tell the difference.”

  “I see.” He didn’t see. He just didn’t want to argue. But he wished that for the sake of effect, he could sprout an antenna above each eye, that would give his guide a thrill, or a heart attack.

  “We’re thinking of putting the glass front freezer case there. Perfect, isn’t it?” She was pointing to the opposite wall.

  Dan nodded his agreement, then followed her to the viewing room. He was ready to kick back and view some blood and gore, only those were the two things that were never found. They had the Linda Moulton Howe tape, one of the most definitive on the subject. So he watched forty minutes of actual footage on mutilations and interviews, every example looking exactly like Shortcake Dream. But if he could check out the tape, so could anyone else—an aspiring alien, someone wanting to throw an investigator off track.

  He’d have to come up with something more concrete for United Life and Casualty. Alien mutilation wouldn’t get past the first level of underwriters. Maybe it would be better to check on the Masons.

  “You need to do anything else in town or can we head back?” Hank stood in the doorway.

  Dan thought of leaving a message for Elaine, but pictured Eric’s anger and decided against it. He’d check in with Roger instead.

  “Just let me make a phone call.”

  He used the phone in one of the offices out front. He guessed the number was for a motel somewhere in Roswell and wasn’t disappointed. Tom answered but went to get Roger, who asked where he was calling from before talking. Was there just the slightest hesitation when he said the museum? Some urge to ask what the hell he was doing there? Must have mastered his curiosity because he launched right into what Dan still needed to do after a brief acknowledgment of what he’d sent so far to the P.O. box in Roswell.