But that toughness and honesty didn’t mean that Purdee could work miracles.
“I’m sorry, John Howard,” Purdee said as he looked across his desk at Stark. “I just don’t know what to tell you.”
Stark had his cream-colored Stetson balanced on his knee. His hand clenched on the brim, bending it a little. “Tell me you’ll find the bastards who killed Tommy Carranza and put them in jail,” he said. “Better yet, tell me you’ll blow holes in their sorry asses.”
“Nothing I’d like better,” Purdee said. “Carranza was a good man. I didn’t know him as well as you did, of course, but he was always cooperative and helpful with us. I’d like to see his killers brought to justice. But you and I both know that’s not the way these things work.”
“It’s not? I thought that was the job of our legal system, to see that justice is done.”
Purdee laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “If that was the real goal, John Howard, then cold-blooded murderers wouldn’t go free because they have enough money to hire better lawyers than the state has. Federal judges wouldn’t step in and try to micromanage everything from the military down to the local elementary school according to some half-assed theories of political correctness. Liberal politicians wouldn’t whine every time the law tries to get the least little bit tougher on killers and rapists and terrorists. Remember the old joke about a hockey game breaking out in the middle of a fistfight? That fistfight is what our legal system has become, John Howard. Every so often some real justice breaks out in the middle of it, but it’s rare. Chances are, this whole thing will be swept right under the rug.”
Purdee spoke with the voice of bitter experience. Stark let the emotional outburst run its course, and then he said, “So what you’re tellin’ me is that nothing can be done? Ramirez’s thugs will go scot-free?”
“There’s no proof Ramirez had anything to do with Tommy’s murder. The killers brought the weapons they used with them and took them away when they were finished. They didn’t leave any forensic evidence, at least according to Sheriff Hammond’s crime scene investigation team.”
Stark made a sound of disgust and contempt. “Hammond doesn’t want any evidence to be found. He’s in bed with Ramirez, and you know it.”
“I don’t have any proof of that, either.”
Stark stood and began to pace back and forth as best he could in the narrow confines of the small office. He just couldn’t sit still anymore.
“So what can you do?”
The question lashed out from him, and he saw anger and resentment in Purdee’s eyes. Stark felt bad about upsetting his friend. Purdee might not be a Texan—he was originally from Michigan or Wisconsin or one of those states up around the Great Lakes—but he was still a good man and had been a friend to Stark for the past five or six years, ever since he had been assigned to Del Rio.
Purdee stood up, too, resting the knobby knuckles of both hands on the desk. “I’ll tell you what I can do,” he said. “I can step up the patrols along the river. I don’t have the manpower for it, but I’ll find a way. I can put out the word to my sources on the other side of the border to let me know if they hear anything pointing to Ramirez as being responsible for Tommy’s murder.”
“You know he was—” Stark broke in.
Purdee held up a hand to stop him. “I can ask Washington to send me more agents and to authorize more man-hours. I’ll do those things, but that’s all I can do, John Howard. My hands are tied. The official investigation belongs to Sheriff Hammond.”
Stark snorted in disgust at the mention of Hammond’s name. He knew just how much good an investigation by the sheriff would do: none at all.
“Sit down,” Purdee went on. “I know you want to barge in and fix things, John Howard. That’s just your way. But this is one time when it won’t work.”
“Why the hell not?” Stark demanded.
Purdee said, “Because there is no quick fix in this situation. Think about it . . . the border between the U.S. and Mexico is over a thousand miles long, stretching from the mouth of the Rio Grande to the Pacific Ocean. Patrolling the border is a little higher priority now than it used to be, because we know that Islamic terrorists sometimes slip across pretending to be Mexicans. But we’re still so outmanned it’s scary. Every night there are hundreds, if not thousands, of illegal crossings. There’s a floodtide of illegals that we can’t even begin to stem. Many of them are relatively honest, hardworking folks who just want to make a better life for themselves and their families, but a lot of them are drug smugglers, like the couriers who work for Ramirez. And he’s not alone. The drug cartels have operations going on at every conceivable point along the border where they think they can get their shit across without getting caught. Ramirez is a big fish, no doubt about it, but he’s just one fish in a mighty big ocean.”
“I get it,” Stark said tightly. “The Border Patrol is overworked, so you just give up and let the bastards do whatever they want.”
Purdee’s jaw thrust out even more than usual as he said, “John Howard, I’m gonna cut you some slack because I know how upset you are about Carranza. But don’t ever accuse me of giving up just because I can see the reality of the situation.”
For a moment the strained silence between the men continued as they glared at each other. Then Stark gave a little shake of his head and said, “Sorry, Hodge. I know better.”
Purdee leaned back in his chair. “I know you do. That’s why I didn’t tell you to get the hell out of my office.”
“You said you’d ask Washington for more men . . . you reckon they’ll give ’em to you?”
“I’m not gonna hold my breath waiting. They’ll issue statements to the press saying how much they want to increase our budget so we can put more men out on patrol, but until those bright boys in Congress realize that protecting the country is more important than social experimentation and increasing everybody’s self-esteem, nothing’s really going to change. And to tell you the truth, I don’t see that happening in my lifetime.”
Stark hated to admit it, but he didn’t, either. Despite all the hot air coming out of Washington, politics changed about as fast as a glacier.
“All right,” he said as he leaned forward. “Let’s forget about proof and jurisdiction for a minute.”
“I told you, I can’t—”
This time it was Stark who held up his hand to forestall Purdee’s protest. “Just for a minute,” Stark said, “let’s talk plain, man to man, without it leaving this office.”
Purdee glared for a few seconds, but then he gave Stark a curt nod. “Man to man,” he said.
“We both know Ramirez ordered that Tommy be killed for defying him and hitting that lawyer,” Stark said.
“Yeah. That’s the way I see it, too.”
“Ramirez is a Colombian. They don’t just strike back at their enemies. They go after the family, too.”
Purdee nodded. “Usually.”
“So, can you protect Julie Carranza and her kids?”
“That’s not in the purview of this agency . . . I hate that legalistic mumbo jumbo, but when you work for the government it’s hard not to start spouting it. The simple answer to your question, John Howard, is that no, I can’t. I can’t guarantee a thing where they’re concerned.”
“Then I’m going to see to it they’re protected until after Tommy’s funeral, and then I’m going to get them as far away from here as I can, as fast as I can.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Purdee agreed. “At least for a while.”
There was nothing left to say. With the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth, Stark stood up and put his hat on. Purdee walked out with him. The two men paused in the doorway of the office building. Purdee put out his hand. Stark took it without hesitation. Purdee was still his friend.
“It’s a helluva shitty situation, John Howard,” the Border Patrol agent said, “but we just have to live with it.”
“No,” Stark said. “We don’t.”
Then he was back in his pickup and driving away before Purdee could ask him what in blazes he meant by that.
He was still as mad when he reached the ranch. All the way back he had been thinking about that last comment he’d made to Hodge Purdee. Purdee had said they had to live with their country being under attack by vicious killers, and Stark had declared that they didn’t.
But what could be done to stop it? What could one man do, where the full force of the federal government had failed?
Well, for one thing, Stark thought, the full force of the government hadn’t failed, because it had never been brought to bear on the problem. Build a high enough fence and station enough heavily armed soldiers along that fence, and the southern door to the United States would be slammed shut. That floodtide of drug smuggling and illegal immigration would quickly diminish to a trickle.
That would never happen, though. Too many politicians would squawk about how unfair it was and how expensive it was, and behind the scenes too many businessmen who depended on the cheap illegal labor would be doing plenty of squawking of their own. Too many officials with bribes in their pockets would continue to turn a blind eye to the illicit trade in human misery.
What could one man do?
Devery Small and W.R. Smathers were sitting in chairs on the front porch, evidently waiting for him. Both men had rifles across their knees. Stark thumbed back his hat and nodded to them. “Boys.”
“John Howard,” Devery said. “Hope you don’t mind. Me an’W.R. thought we’d come over and set a spell, just to make sure everything stays peaceful around here.”
“Everett and Hubie said they’d be along later to spell us,” W.R. added.
Stark frowned. “You fellas have places of your own to look after.”
Devery waved a hand and said, “Our spreads can get along just fine without us for a few days, until things quiet down.” He lowered his voice. “We don’t want anything to happen to Julie and those kids.”
Stark had figured out that much as soon as he saw his friends on the porch. He said, “I appreciate it. It shouldn’t be too long. I’m going to talk to Julie and see if she and the kids will go somewhere safer after the funeral tomorrow.”
“Funeral’s that soon, huh?” W.R. said.
“No reason to wait. The sooner the better, I expect.”
“You think Julie will go?” Devery asked.
“She’s got some stubbornness in her,” Stark said. “She has to, the way she put up with Tommy. But she loves her kids and will want to make sure they’re safe. She’ll go.”
“Yeah, I expect you’re right.” Devery patted the stock of his Winchester. “But until then, there’ll always be some of us close by.”
Stark took off his hat and sleeved sweat from his forehead. “I guess I’ve got to go talk to her now. You know if anybody’s told the kids yet?”
“Yeah, Julie told ’em,” W.R. said. “Elaine helped a little. But it was pretty bad, I reckon.”
Again Stark felt a twinge of guilt for leaving that in his wife’s lap. But Elaine was better with people than he was, and that was no self-serving rationalization. It was the truth. As bad as it must have been, it would have been even worse if he had delivered the news.
He went inside the house, taking a deep breath of the cool, air-conditioned air. Elaine must have heard his steps, because she called from the den, “We’re in here, John Howard.”
Stark saw that the curtains had been drawn in the room, and no lights were on. There was something horrible about a darkened room in the middle of the day, something that spoke of sickness or death. A part of him wanted to turn around and plunge back into the clean sunlight. Instead, he steeled himself and went on into the den.
Elaine and Julie sat on the sofa, close enough so that Julie could reach out and touch the other woman if she needed to. Stark saw that Julie’s eyes were swollen from crying, but she seemed to be under control. She said softly, “Hello, John Howard.”
He went over and perched on the arm of the sofa next to her. “Julie,” he said. “How are you?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m . . . all right. Elaine said you went to see—” Her voice broke for a second, but she got it back. “To see Father Sandoval,” she finished in a stronger voice.
“That’s right. I saw Manny Ortega at the funeral home, too. Both of them said they’d be out to visit with you this afternoon, to work out all the . . . arrangements. Father Sandoval thought it would be best, though, to go ahead and have the service tomorrow.”
Julie managed a weak nod. “I agree.”
Stark looked over at Elaine. “Where are the kids?”
“Newt and Chaco took them out on the range,” she replied. “A couple of the hands are with them.”
Stark nodded, knowing that Angelina and her brother, Marty, would be safe with the men. “How are they doing?”
“They were devastated, of course,” Elaine said. “But children are resilient. That’s one more thing us older folks can envy them for.”
Julie said, “They’re very strong children. They tried to comfort me. But I know they’ll never really get over this . . . this terrible thing. . .”
Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
He hadn’t talked to Julie about her taking the kids and leaving, going to San Antonio or some place even farther away, where they would be safe. How far away would that have to be, though? Ramirez had a long reach. They might have to leave Texas. Even that might not be far enough.
Of course, it was possible Ramirez wouldn’t come after them. The Vulture might be satisfied with what he had already done. Stark hoped that would be the case.
Anyway, Ramirez might soon have a bigger problem. Hammond wouldn’t do anything, and Purdee couldn’t do anything, but Stark’s hands weren’t tied. Somebody should do something, he had thought, and the answer had come back, Why not you? What could one man do? he had asked, and the answer was, You never know until you try. As he stood up, twisting his hat in his hands as he watched Julie Carranza sob out her grief, he realized he had known from the first that it was going to be up to him to set things right. As soon as he had walked into that barn and seen the bloody ruin of his friend, something deep inside him had hardened and crystallized into a pure, righteous anger that would not be denied.
What could one man do? He was about to find out.
And so was that bastard Ramirez.
Nine
The next morning thunderheads loomed over the range of low mountains known as the Serrianas del Burro to the southwest of Del Rio, across the border in Mexico. Stark stood on his front porch looking at the clouds and saw the faint flicker of lightning among them. He hoped the storms wouldn’t disrupt Tommy’s funeral, which was scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon.
Of course, a bleak, pouring rain would be appropriate for the occasion, as if the heavens themselves were crying out their grief over a good man’s tragic death.
The thunderstorms drifted from southwest to northeast, toward Del Rio, and out in front of them blew a cool breeze that carried the ozone tang of rain. But when the storms left the mountains and hit the desert, they broke apart for lack of moisture, as they usually did. Later in the summer, in the last half of August and on into September, the chances for rain would be better. Until then, the dryness would likely continue.
The Starks had an SUV in addition to several work pickups around the ranch, and Stark drove it into Del Rio that afternoon with Julie Carranza sitting stiffly in the front with him while Elaine rode in the back with the Carranza children. That morning the wives of Hubie, Devery, and Everett had gone over to the Carranza ranch and picked out appropriate clothes for Julie, Angelina, and Martin, then brought them to the Diamond S. The ladies had been accompanied and well guarded by some of their husbands’ ranch hands.
As Stark drove he wished he could pull off the tie that was cinched tightly around his neck. He had always hated the damned things and never wore them unless he absolutely had to.
This was one of those occasions.
He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look over at Julie. She was keeping a tight rein on her emotions, but he knew how shaky her grip was. The funeral and the burial service would be hard enough on her. No need to make things worse with a lot of unnecessary talking now.
As he left the ranch, Stark thought he saw a momentary reflection from the top of a small knoll about half a mile to the north. But it was there and gone so fast he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t imagined it. Still, imagination or not, his hands tightened on the steering wheel and what felt like an icy fingertip played along his spine. He took a deep breath and told himself not to start thinking crazy thoughts. He already had plenty of those running around inside his head.
But the feeling didn’t go away until he had covered a mile or more of the river road and the knoll was out of sight behind them.
Silencio Ryan rolled onto his back and let the sun beat down on him. Like a snake, he enjoyed its warmth. With his red hair and green eyes, he looked like he ought to be fair-skinned as well, the sort of complexion that burns easily in the fierce glare of the Texas border country. Instead he had inherited from his Mexican mother skin the same color as old saddle leather, and he could stay out in the sun all day without burning.
After a while he sat up, took out a cigarette, and lit it. Beside him lay the high-powered rifle with the equally high-powered telescopic sight mounted on it. For an instant John Howard Stark’s head had filled that sight, and the crosshairs had been centered on Stark’s temple, right where the silver was thickest in his graying dark hair. A slight squeeze of the trigger at that moment, just a few pounds’ worth of pull, and Stark’s head would have exploded under the impact of a bullet. That would have stopped the SUV, and in the next ten heartbeats Ryan could have put ten more rounds into the vehicle, killing everyone in it. Several pickups full of men had been following the SUV, and no doubt some of them were armed. They hadn’t worried Ryan, and they weren’t the reason he had held off.
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