by Jon Land
Jones finally started to ease his hand from his pocket, withdrawing a heavy, shiny piece of paper folded in two. “You’re about to thank me, Ranger,” he said.
“For what?”
“Getting you out from behind this desk.”
Caitlin glanced at the chair he’d just vacated. “Your message last night said you had something important to show me,” she said.
“Actually,” Jones corrected, “I said ‘vital.’ And the voice mail I left said we needed to play a little show-and-tell. I show and you tell, starting with this.”
Jones unfolded the picture he was holding and held it so Caitlin could see a tall, gangly young man with a bad case of acne.
“Holy shit,” Caitlin said, not believing her eyes.
“Recognize him, I see.”
“I spotted him yesterday bird-dogging a protest outside the Comanche Indian reservation near Austin.”
Jones shook his head, as if he were having trouble processing what Caitlin had just said. “What time?”
“Early afternoon. You need me to be more specific?”
Jones shook his head again. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“How you find shit to step in, no matter how well the pile is hidden.”
“Did I miss something here?”
“No, I did.” Jones looked down at the picture. “On a major terrorist suspect yesterday, because he happened to be in the same place as you. Then again, nothing just happens when it comes to Caitlin Strong, does it? You are a genuine force of nature, Ranger.”
“Maybe we should start this conversation again.”
“So you really don’t recognize this kid?”
“Should I?”
Jones held the picture up again. “We lifted this picture off social media.” Then he reached into his pocket and came out with a second photo, which he slowly unfolded. “This is a copy of one we found framed atop a bureau in the suspect’s apartment. Let’s see if it jogs your memory.”
“Oh, man,” Caitlin said, looking at it.
28
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
Caitlin was still shaking her head, moments later, unable to lift her eyes from the shot from ten years ago, of her standing next to a younger version of the kid she’d spotted outside the Comanche reservation yesterday. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Well, I guess that explains why he looked familiar to me,” she told Jones, finally raising her eyes.
“Remember his name?”
“Daniel Cross, I believe.”
Jones nodded. “Currently age twenty-four, lifelong resident of Austin, and recent frequenter of ISIS-related social media. In fact, you could call him a genuine fanboy, enough of one to hit our radar, with all the pinging he’d been doing.”
“You saying he’s a convert?”
“Sure. Straight to the terrorism watch list. The bureau’s been keeping tabs on a couple of hardcore ISIS homegrown operatives with ties right up to the organization’s top. They’re the ones who pinged Daniel Cross back.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, the kid’s a frigging genius, with degrees in molecular and chemical engineering. Most of the time, losers like him who hate the world can’t even steady an assault rifle long enough to do any real damage. But what put Daniel Cross on our radar was his brains, not his bullets. And in case you didn’t get the message, we’ve got ISIS seriously on the run. They’re desperate, and that’s given their midlevel operatives operational freedom to ditch the purity test. Whatever Cross put on the table before the two on the FBI’s radar was obviously more than enough to compensate for the fact that he doesn’t pray five times a day.” Jones stopped there, leaning slightly forward. “That makes this a good time for you to tell me the basis of your association with him.”
“I don’t think you really want to hear it.”
“Try me.”
“Cross got himself into a scrape, just before I left the Rangers for a time.”
“Yeah, I heard the death rate in Texas dropped precipitously those couple of years.”
“Anyway, Jones, I tried to help the kid.”
“What kind of scrape was it, exactly?”
Caitlin swallowed hard. “He was planning to blow up his high school.” She paused, then continued, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a worse case of bullying.”
“So the kid tries to blow up his school and you give him a shoulder to cry on?”
“It never got to the ‘trying’ stage, Jones. Cross left a page of some manifesto he was writing in a lavatory stall. Somebody found it and Rangers got the call.”
Jones took the picture back from her, wanting to crunch it into a ball so much his hand was shaking. “A kid does something like that today, it’s him who gets flushed down the toilet.”
“I notice you haven’t said anything about the bullies who pushed him to the edge.”
“Maybe because they’re not the ones who reached out to ISIS, Ranger. And I can’t wait to shove my fist down the throat of whoever left out of Daniel Cross’s file the fact that he was a bomber.”
“He was a juvenile at the time, and last time I checked, nobody’s a bomber until they actually blow something up.”
“A mere formality, in my line of work.”
“In mine, we actually try to help people from time to time, Jones.”
“Whether they deserve it or not.” Jones’s face had reddened, his cheeks seeming to puff with air as he shook his head. “So I guess your experiment in mentoring failed.”
“I lost touch with Daniel Cross after my sabbatical from the Rangers.”
“So we’ll have you to blame if whatever this kid is up to comes to pass. Did you know Cross’s real mother was a prostitute who tried to abort him with a coat hanger, after one of her johns raped her?”
“I knew she was a prostitute.”
“The kid was born a stain on the entire human race. Fits the classic loser profile, ends up courting favor with anybody who’ll give him the time of day on social media.”
“But a group like ISIS wouldn’t give him the time of day unless he had something to give them, Jones.”
“Hence the raid on his apartment yesterday, Ranger. I’ve got a team working on the contents of his computer as we speak, but so far they’ve found squat. Don’t ask me to explain the details, but the gist of it is he’s probably carrying around whatever got ISIS’s attention on a thumb drive in his pocket.”
“Meaning you’ve got no idea what.”
Jones let the shot picturing Daniel Cross and Caitlin together dangle between them. “I might, if we can figure out what the kid was doing at that Indian reservation.”
“So you’re drawing a link between ISIS and the Comanche?”
“I’m drawing a link from Daniel Cross and the Comanche. You’re a jump ahead of me, and I’ll leave it to you to fill in the gaps, now that you’re personally involved and officially off desk duty.”
“I haven’t seen the kid in over ten years, Jones.”
“And I’ve been avoiding tall buildings ever since nine eleven. So what’s your point?”
Caitlin’s phone rang, CORT WESLEY lighting up the caller ID, as if his psychic radar was switched on. “You’re not going to believe this, Cort Wesley,” she greeted him.
“That’s my line. I’m back at the reservation. You better get up here.”
“More trouble?”
“You might say that. That construction work foreman I beat up yesterday was found murdered, Ranger, and I think I’m about to be arrested.”
29
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
“We didn’t call for the Rangers,” Travis County sheriff Tom Winkmeister told Caitlin, after she slipped inside the cordoned-off crime scene.
“I’m here, all the same,” she said, not even breaking stride.
She’d glimpsed the protesters, milling about before the entrance to the reservation instead of arranged in a neat line, and spotte
d Dylan and Ela among them, but she didn’t stop to greet either.
“Tell you what,” Winkmeister said, holding his gaze on Cort Wesley, who was standing on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape, “if you can view the remains without losing your breakfast, I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say. But he stays right where he is, right where I can see him,” he continued, pointing toward Cort Wesley. “On account of the fact that I expect he’ll be in custody before the day is out.”
“Find anything here to support that theory yet?”
“You mean besides the fact that he busted the victim up yesterday?”
“And that would be thanks to the victim inciting his workers to break your police line and attack those Comanche protesting peacefully, right?”
“You implying something, Ranger?”
“No, Sheriff, just stating a fact. I might even go as far as to say that Cort Wesley Masters saved you a heap of trouble by preventing an all-out riot.”
The sheriff puckered his cheeks and let the air out of them through his mouth like a balloon deflating. “Maybe a little dustup would’ve made those protesters see the error of their ways.”
“I was referring to one of them being Cort Wesley’s oldest son. If anything had happened to him, the wrath of God would be nothing compared to what you’d be facing. Now, about that body…”
* * *
The remains were so mangled that they best resembled a human form after being dumped in a blender. Caitlin could tell from the size of the twisted limbs that the victim was big, and she thought she spotted a beard on the parts of his face left recognizable, trying to match that up to the foreman of the construction crew she’d glimpsed yesterday. He lay with his limbs askew, one arm detached and the other hanging by sinew, his mouth hung obscenely open as if his lower jaw had been broken away, the bone separated from the rest of his skull.
Caitlin rose to find the sheriff staring at Cort Wesley again.
“You want to tell me what business he’s got here, Ranger?”
“Protecting his boy, I imagine.”
“Do I need to remind you that he’s still our primary suspect?”
“Condition of the remains indicates the murder was committed last night, Sheriff,” Caitlin told him, peeling off her latex gloves. “After midnight, for sure.”
“So what?”
“So Mr. Masters and I were together from ten o’clock on,” she said, leaving it there.
Winkmeister smirked, then snickered. “Then I guess it’s a good thing this isn’t your case. Truth is, I’m not even sure we’re looking for a man, based on the condition of the body. I’m thinking of putting out an APB on stray bears or wolves.”
Caitlin gazed back toward the remains, where a swarm of flies thick enough to cloud the air had gathered. “You should know this isn’t the first time, Sheriff.”
“What isn’t?”
“That a body’s been found just off the rez, in almost the identical condition. It happened before, around a hundred and forty years ago. My great-great-grandfather’s case.”
“And here you are, figuring yourself to be following in his footsteps.”
Caitlin pocketed her balled-up gloves, noticed Cort Wesley gazing toward the protest line, where trouble seemed to be brewing again. “Only if I’m after the same killer, Sheriff, and it’s not Cort Wesley Masters.”
* * *
“What would you like to explain first, Ranger?” Tepper said, as soon as he answered Caitlin’s call. “Why you’re not at your desk or where the hell you’re calling from?”
“Jones didn’t talk to you?” Caitlin asked, as Cort Wesley listened to the conversation from nearby.
“Jones? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s why I’m back at the Comanche reservation. We got a murder on our hands.”
“You mean the Travis County sheriff has a murder on his hands.”
“I need you to get us assigned lead on the investigation.”
There was a pause, followed by a clicking sound Caitlin was certain was Captain Tepper’s lighter firing. She pictured him lighting a cigarette, probably holding the receiver to make sure she’d heard him light it.
“Don’t smoke on my account, D.W.”
“What other account is there? There, you hear me puffing now? How important is this, Ranger?”
“Important enough for you to get Doc Whatley up here,” Caitlin said, referring to Bexar County’s longtime medical examiner.
“It’s not even our case yet.”
“It’s a Homeland Security matter now, Captain. That means Jones will back us up.”
“And how’s that exactly?”
“I recognized someone watching the rez yesterday who’s linked to ISIS.”
“Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“I was hoping I heard wrong. ISIS? Frigging ISIS?” Tepper’s sigh dissolved into a cough. Now Caitlin could picture him pressing out his Marlboro in a new ashtray, brought in to replace yet another she’d hidden from sight. “Next time I put you behind a desk, Ranger,” he resumed, “will you please just stay there?”
30
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
Dylan and Ela stood in the blistering sunlight blazing down on the entrance to the Comanche reservation, their faces shiny with sweat and shirts dappled with spots where it had soaked through in patches. They seemed bent on not letting their discomfort either show or detract from their commitment to stop the construction workers from entering the rez.
But things had clearly changed since the body of the foreman had been found, just off Comanche land. More cops manned the line between the workers and protesters. But there also looked to be a lot more workers on the scene today, their frustration and declining patience evident in beet-red expressions and sweat-blanched shirts, both of which suggested more violence was in the offing.
“You look like hell, son,” Cort Wesley said to Dylan.
“I had a long night.”
“I spoke to someone in the registrar’s office at Brown. She told me the window for reenrolling in school for next semester is five days away. You want to mark that on your calendar or should I?”
Dylan glanced toward the cordoned-off crime scene. “Everyone thinks you killed that guy.”
“That what you think?”
“Not for a minute. He looks too good.”
“Ripped to shreds?”
“I’ve seen what you can do to people who piss you off.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Ela said suddenly, her words aimed at Caitlin.
“How exactly are we wasting our time, miss?”
“With that,” Ela answered, tilting her gaze toward the crime scene back off the road. “This isn’t the kind of killer you can catch.”
The confidence with which the young woman said that sent a chill up Caitlin’s spine. Again, her tone bordered on smugness, but the look on her face was somber and calm. She was not in the least rattled by what had transpired, and seemingly was not even surprised by it.
“Nature takes care of its own,” she continued.
“What was that, Ela?”
“Something my grandfather told us last night.”
“You think your grandfather can shed some light on that man’s murder?” Caitlin asked her.
“I think he knows this land is watched over and protected by a force you can’t possibly imagine. I think he knows man’s presence is tolerated only so long as we live by the land’s rules. And I don’t think he has any interest in talking to you.”
“Tell you what, Ela,” Caitlin said, turning her tone more conciliatory. “Why don’t you go tell your grandfather that the great-great-granddaughter of Steeldust Jack Strong wants to have a talk with him? I’ve got a feeling he’ll welcome the opportunity.”
31
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
Dylan and Ela led Caitlin and Cort Wesley through the center of the reservation toward the more rustic outskirts where
Ela’s grandfather made his home. As was the case on many contemporary Indian reservations, the contrast in the living accommodations was striking: from mansions claiming large parcels of land for themselves, to more modest ranch-style homes, to trailers and dilapidated shacks that looked lifted from old black-and-white pictures, right down to the barren ground from which they’d sprouted.
A handful of cases over the years had taken her to other reservations, all dealing with crimes committed off Native American land, when the Rangers had been called in to assist the efforts of the tribal police. She saw none of those officers in evidence now. Their entire number was gathered closer to the entrance, more to keep watch on the protesters, it seemed, than to protect them. Cort Wesley had said none of the tribal policemen had so much as moved a muscle when the work crew launched its attack yesterday. Hardly surprising, given that they were likely beholden to the elders whose deal with Sam Bob Jackson to sell off mineral rights to the land put them squarely at odds with those for whom that land was sacred.
To that point, Caitlin reasoned, the Comanche reservation sat on some of the most pristine, bucolic land the state of Texas had to offer. She wondered if Stephen Austin and the others behind the deal understood that, during the post–Civil War years when the land was deeded to those Comanche willing to lay down their arms and accept peace with the fledgling state of Texas. The Quahada Comanche under the great chief Quanah Parker, on the other hand, had refused to accept the terms of the 1867 Medicine Lodge Treaty. As a result, the U.S. Army, along with the Rangers, including Caitlin’s great-grandfather William Ray Strong, had spent years practically exterminating them in battles that remained shrouded as much in folklore as in fact. Parker himself finally surrendered at Fort Sill, in 1875, a year after Jack Strong’s encounter here, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether that timing had been more than coincidental.
The fact that this tribe continued to live off the land was well documented and was exemplified by the lush, rolling fields of crops, corn most notably, with plenty of other crops grown in smaller patches. Judging by the tree growth and younger landscaping, she imagined many of the mansion-like homes dotting the reservation had usurped land on which acres of crops had once sprouted.