by Jon Land
“Boy didn’t even bother to hide the evidence,” Judge Bean said as William Ray removed the items he’d spotted in the bottom drawer of the clothes bureau and laid them out neatly atop it.
Both men found themselves looking at a collection of fine sewing needles of various sizes, some with thin or wiry material still threaded through them. William Ray couldn’t tell if it was the same material used to sew the female murder victims’ heads back on, but it was close.
“Don’t look much the kind of needles you’d use for stitching, though,” the Ranger noted. “Look more like the kind used for sewing.”
“Sure,” Bean snickered, “sewing a head back on. Not like he’s gotta worry much about a fine line or causing further pain to the victim.”
“All the same,” William Ray told him, taking a fresh inventory of the assortment of needles they’d found in the bottom drawer, “this looks more like a seamstress’s collection for easy work along with the finer, more delicate kind.”
“Finer, more delicate kind would work pretty dang well on a neck, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“So what’s got your britches in a huff?”
“Something don’t feel right, Judge, that’s all.”
“Hell, Ranger, we got four bodies with their heads stitched on backward in this camp and who knows how many more in those others. This dumb-ass kid’s the devil in disguise, I tell ya. You want to argue the point, go right ahead.”
William Ray nodded and started tucking the evidence into a saddlebag. “What do you say we ride back out to the camp and go from there?”
* * *
The crew was in the process of moving the railroad farther down the line, trying to make up as much lost time as the unseasonable wet weather had cost them. The workers were crowded onto the empty train cars of the steam engine–driven locomotive that moved with them for the two-mile jaunt, the buildings and businesses constructed on their behalf shrinking in the distance.
But Chief Bates’s office, with RAILROAD POLICE HEADQUARTERS stenciled over the doorframe, was just where it had been. William Ray and Judge Bean found him inside with his boots kicked up on his desk, alternating between a cigar and cup of tar-black coffee while a pair of deputies flanked him on either side.
“I come here as a courtesy, Chief,” William Ray said with the judge just behind him, “to inform you that I am placing David Morehouse under arrest for the murders of the four Chinese women in this camp.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Bates chewed on his cigar, seemed to be giving consideration to William Ray’s words. “Sorry, Ranger, I can’t help you.”
“Why’s that?”
Bates removed the cigar from his mouth long enough to sip some of his coffee that left a dark ring on his upper lip. “On account of the fact that the boy ain’t on the premises any longer. His father found a proper place for him to reside. Boy ain’t right in the head, you know.”
“I did get that impression, but it doesn’t change the need for justice to be done.”
William Ray was still staring Bates in the face when the echo of gunfire, constant and unbroken, crackled beyond the shack.
* * *
William Ray Strong had never ridden a horse faster than he did the quarter-mile out to the camp where the Chinese workers remained on strike. The volley of echoing gunshots had slowed to single volleys by the time he leaped down with Colt in hand amid the litter of bodies and gun smoke drifting with the breeze.
He shot two Pinkerton men just as they were sighting in on a Chinese man trying to flee with a child in his arms and wife by his side. The Pinkertons fell to the ground over their Winchester rifles with great coats billowed to both sides. Two more rushed him and he shot them too, spotting the figure of the man he knew as Su dashing straight into the open space between a series of clotheslines to scoop a crying toddler up from the ground. Fresh gunfire rang out and William Ray watched Su’s spine arch as he was hit. The force of another round doubled him over, but he staggered onward still clutching the toddler until he reached a shrieking woman who took the boy from his grasp and ran off into the brush where other Chinese had scattered to escape the massacre.
William Ray watched Su keel over dead and used his final bullet to gun down one of his killers. The Ranger stood right there in the open while he reloaded, as bullets whizzed past him on both sides. He snapped the cylinder back into place, drew the Colt’s hammer back and sighted in on another gunman who’d shot Su in the back. The man opened up with his Winchester from thirty feet away, missing three times before William Ray fired twice, his second bullet taking the man square in the heart.
He used three more shots to clear a path to the cover provided by a pile of cut wood for burning, and reloaded again as wood shards and splinters flew through the air behind a torrent of return fire. William Ray cursed himself for not bringing his own rifle into the battle. His horse had bravely stood its ground, but was too far away to chance the effort now, leaving him with these fresh five shots and the ten additional bullets in his belt. He popped out from the right of the pile to return fire, then twisted to the left where he caught another Pinkerton by surprise.
If nothing else, the fire he was drawing ought to give any remaining Chinese time to flee, but he couldn’t get sight of all those downed bodies, women and children and some of those Christian missionaries among them, out of his mind. Then a storm of horses thundered into the camp, led by John Morehouse himself.
“Stand down!” he cried out. “Stand down now!” Then, after the Pinkerton men’s gunfire was reduced to no more than echoes, “Come out, Ranger Strong. It’s over.”
William Ray emerged from behind the woodpile with Colt steadied straight on Morehouse, who was seated atop a draft horse that towered over the scene. A tall, rail-thin, mustachioed man wearing the badge of a federal marshal sat on a horse next to him with a half dozen gunmen spread out just behind them, all with badges pinned to their lapels.
“You’re under arrest for ordering these killings, sir!” the Ranger shouted up at Morehouse.
At which point, Judge Roy Bean rode up, stopping his horse so short, he nearly fell off, then lost his balance and fell into a patch of mud once he dismounted.
“And I look forward to presiding over your trial!” he snapped at Morehouse, dropping both hands to his mud-soaked knees to catch his breath.
“This land doesn’t belong to Texas anymore,” Morehouse told them both quite calmly. “It belongs to the Southern Pacific under the jurisdiction of the United States government under President Chester A. Arthur. Isn’t that right, Marshal Stoudenmire?” he asked the tall man on the horse next to him.
“It sure is,” the tall, rail-thin man said.
Morehouse surveyed the scene of fallen bodies, dissipating gun smoke, and Pinkerton men emerging into the open, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “And do you feel yourself capable of dispensing proper justice in this matter, Marshal?”
“I sure do,” Stoudenmire told him.
“Then you can start with those Pinkertons I didn’t kill,” William Ray yelled up to him, “all of them guilty of murder.”
Stoudenmire surveyed the scene. “That’s a matter of opinion right now, pending a proper investigation.”
“By which point the killers could have scattered to the ends of the earth.”
“A man’s innocent until proven guilty, Ranger.”
“Meaning the Southern Pacific only enforces laws that suit its best interests.”
“That doesn’t matter one way or another,” Morehouse said, looking back at William Ray and the judge. “Now, you boys may not know that the county seat was recently moved from Ysleta to El Paso, giving Marshal Stoudenmire here full discretion in upholding the law of the land here in Langtry as well.”
“How recently was that?” Judge Bean asked him.
“Last week, give or take a few days,” Morehouse said, barely contai
ning his smile.
“Well,” said William Ray, “I didn’t know about the change in the county seat, but I know all about Marshal Stoudenmire,” he continued, striding toward the man who looked like a skeleton with clothes draped over his painted-on skin. “I believe you shot a bystander during a gunfight at the intersection of Overland Avenue and El Paso Street in April of 1881.”
“It happens,” Stoudenmire said, unmoved.
“Not to the Texas Rangers, it don’t. So you still a lousy shot or you been practicing?”
“You’re trespassing on railroad land, Ranger,” Morehouse picked up. “It’s now up to Marshal Stoudenmire to investigate and resolve this terribly tragic incident to the full extent of prevailing law under joint railroad and federal authority.”
“Where’s your son, Mr. Morehouse?” William Ray asked instead of arguing the point further, positioned so to spare himself further sight of the massacre’s victims.
“My son’s whereabouts are of no concern to you.”
“We found the sewing needles in the bottom drawer of his bureau, sir. Your boy was taught to sew in another camp by that blind man who makes your flags here, the same camp where the first set of murders took place.”
Morehouse stiffened atop his horse. “Damn shame, all these Chinese women getting killed and nobody seeming to care. I’ve been looking into these alleged murders personally, Ranger. It may interest you to know that my son wasn’t even present in the Cheyenne, Wyoming, camp or the one in the Oklahoma plains. He’s not your killer, so I sent him away before you could frighten him any further.”
“And I’m just supposed to take you at your word on that?”
“I’m sure you’ll check the story out and find out I’m telling you the truth. So go ahead, waste your time.”
Morehouse climbed down from his horse gingerly, his movements looking rehearsed and well practiced, and he was quickly joined on his feet by Marshal Stoudenmire and his deputies. “You don’t understand how the world works these days, Ranger. The time for cowboys and gunfighters is gone. The frontier’s dead because the railroad killed it.”
“And you think I’m just gonna forget my investigation because of that?” William Ray heard fresh sobs and cries of shock and sadness, turning to find survivors of the massacre rushing to their downed loved ones, hoping against hope to find them still alive. “You think I’m going to let the butcher who killed these women go free?”
“It’s over, Ranger,” Morehouse told him. “And who cares about a bunch of Chinese whores anyway?”
William Ray reared back and punched Morehouse square in the mouth. The man went down as if his legs had been yanked out from under him, Stoudenmire and his deputies getting their pistols steadied on William Ray while he continued to glare at John Morehouse.
“Thank you, Ranger,” Morehouse said, grinning through the blood seeping from his mouth. “You just made my point.” He kept his eyes fastened on William Ray Strong as he continued. “Marshal Stoudenmire, please place this man under arrest.”
88
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
“How’d you know all that?” Caitlin asked, once Jones had finished.
“We’re Homeland Security, Ranger,” he managed, fidgeting in the old wicker chair that seemed to creak or crackle every time he moved. “We know everything.”
Night had fallen in the course of his telling the story, a shroud of darkness descending on the neighborhood to the accompaniment of high-revving cars cruising the streets with blaring music emanating from their open windows.
Somehow the coming of that darkness left Caitlin feeling anxious and uneasy. “So the true murderer was never caught.”
“For all I know it was Morehouse’s son. But I can tell you the murders stopped after that. And what’s the difference after so many years?”
“Because it’s happening again, just like it did back then in every detail. And only somebody familiar with those details could be doing it.”
“You mean anyone with access to the same files I do. That’s a lot of names.”
A car backfiring on the street beyond left Caitlin’s hand just short of drawing her SIG Sauer and opened Jones’s eyes wide again.
“Did you know Morehouse stole Chinese technology to make the telegraphs work coast to coast?” Caitlin challenged.
“I know that’s what Li Zhen claims.”
“I think Li Zhen killed General Chang,” she said suddenly.
“Come again?”
“Our medical examiner has linked Chang’s death to the deaths of four homeless men. Identical circumstances for the most part that’ll go down as natural causes—a heart attack, something like that. What they call it when they don’t have another term. The homeless men were all carrying cell phones. That seem strange to you?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“How about the fact they were Chinese models not currently available here in the States? How about the fact that Chang was carrying an identical phone on his person? How about the fact that you called in Chang to shut Li Zhen down and then he dies in a most convenient manner at a most convenient time?”
“Where you going with this?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Caitlin told him. “You wanted to rig elections, get the right people into office or, at least, make sure the wrong people lost. That was enough to turn a blind eye to what Yuyuan and China were going to do with control over our fifth generation wireless network.”
“I already told you all that.”
“But you missed something. This was about something entirely different for Zhen all along.”
“I told you I had a feeling about that, but nothing else. Explains why I tried to shut the bastard down.”
“Zhen thinks America ruined his life way back when John Morehouse stole his great-grandfather’s invention and then perpetrated that massacre that took the man’s life and likely left the rest of the Zhen family in pretty bad conditions back in China.”
“So?”
“So what if Li Zhen’s been looking for a way to get even his entire life? What if that’s what building the fifth generation wireless network has been about for him from the beginning.”
“Any notion as to the specifics?”
“I believe it’s connected to however he killed General Chang.” Caitlin studied Jones closer. The porch light made him look milk-white in color. “I still say you need a hospital.”
“I need my head examined for thinking you’d understand what I was trying to do here. I listened to you, Ranger. I looked into what you said about Li Zhen and I tried to pull the plug. That’s why we’re both sitting here right now.”
As he finished, a dark sedan with rusted underpanels rolled casually down the street.
“So the only people you can call to report this want you dead and probably me too by now,” Caitlin told him. “Your people, Jones. How high up the food chain we talking about here?”
“They eat strictly gourmet. That clarify things for you?”
“Names would clarify them better.”
“Even if I gave them to you, even if I had them, what would you do? Thanks to you, I’m a bad boy, Ranger. I misbehaved. This is on me, and I’ll deal with it my own way.”
“Sure, with three bullets just yanked out of you.”
“And the three men who put them there stuffed in a car trunk. I believe I can still take care of myself.”
Caitlin looked away from him in time to glimpse the back end of a black car that just passed the house. Could have been the same rusty one she’d seen moments earlier, but she couldn’t be sure.
“You don’t like asking for help, do you?” she asked Jones, holding her gaze on the street now.
“You think you can ride into Washington with guns blazing?”
“I think whoever sent the men stuffed in your trunk and dispatched the State Department to warn me off are going to send a whole bunch more. And I don’t think they’re going to stop at you either. That makes it my fight too. Even i
f I take down Li Zhen and whatever he’s really up to, your friends at Homeland can’t risk being held complicit. The men who came after Cort Wesley in New York weren’t Chinese, Jones. The war’s started already.”
Tension settled between them, the moments passing without the rusty sedan reappearing.
“My truck’s rear tires are flat,” Caitlin said, happening to move her gaze in that direction.
She was feeling for her pistol when her phone rang. She checked the Caller ID before answering it.
“Colonel?”
“We’re almost back to San Antonio, Ranger,” said Guillermo Paz.
“How close?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Not close enough,” Caitlin told him.
89
NEW YORK CITY
Dylan eased the wheelchair along the LaGuardia Airport concourse, steering it toward the gate from where the flight back to Texas would be leaving. Kai sat slumped before him, totally transformed and barely recognizable from the girl who sent what felt like electricity dancing through him, the heavy makeup forming her disguise leaving a powdery residue in the air that smelled like lacquer.
From Columbus Park, they’d headed deeper into the heart of Chinatown, into a world different from anything he’d seen before. It was like entering a foreign country, everyone jabbering away in their native language instead of English. The air smelled of salt and spices from food served out of sidewalk stands or storefronts. The signs on the stores were printed in both English and Chinese, a few just in Chinese.
He let Kai steer him along, found it odd that spotting a fellow Caucasian walking the streets, shopping or just strolling, put him more at ease.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.
“About what?”
“About what happened to you. The night you were beaten. It wasn’t the first time something bad happened to you. I can see that in your eyes.”
“That’s true enough,” Dylan told her, trying not to catalog all the shit he’d been through these past few years. “But bad things have happened to you too, and I don’t need to see them in your eyes.”