Vengeance Is Mine

by William W. Johnstone

  “I want Stark to stew a little first,” Hammond had said. “It won’t hurt for him to spend a night in jail.”

  Wilfredo had gone along with that, albeit a little reluctantly. Hammond didn’t know what he was going to do, if anything, but he liked the idea of having Stark behind bars so that he could get at him if he wanted to.

  Hammond had been acting mostly out of frustration and anger when he made the arrest, but since then he had come to realize that it was the right thing to do. Stark was powerless now. The real question was, what would Ramirez want done with him? Hammond had toyed with the idea of setting up some sort of fatal “accident” for Stark, but he didn’t know if that would satisfy Ramirez. The Vulture might want his vengeance to be more personal than that. On the other hand, he might be happy just to get rid of the annoyance that Stark had become. Hammond just didn’t know.

  So he supposed it was a good thing he was going to see Ramirez. He could get a decision straight from the man himself.

  He just wished it wasn’t so damned scary dealing with him. And that bastard Ryan was always somewhere close by, giving Hammond the creeps.

  He stood up and put on his hat, then went through the outer office and said to his secretary, “I’ll be back in a while.”

  She just nodded and said, “Of course, Sheriff.” She was a fine-looking Hispanic woman named Juanita, and she knew not to ask too many questions. That was one reason Hammond thought highly of her. That and the fact that she let him screw her every now and then and never got all weepy or started dropping hints that she might tell Willa Sue about their affair. Juanita was married, too, and had to be as discreet as he was. It all worked out very well.

  Hammond drove across the International Bridge. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the late, hurried lunch he’d had wasn’t hitting too well. He belched as he drove past the guards at the Mexican end of the bridge. They knew his vehicle and didn’t bother stopping him. Things just worked a lot better on the Mexican side of the border, Hammond thought. Everybody knew their place, and money kept everything running smoothly. He had always admired the practicality of the Hispanic mind; they just took the money and went on about their business.

  The guards at Ramirez’s compound were a lot more diligent in their efforts. They searched Hammond even though he turned his revolver over to them. He knew the routine. Finally he was ushered into the cool, low-ceilinged den. Ramirez was waiting there, sitting on a low, heavy divan and sipping a drink. Ryan stood by the bar and seemed to be paying no attention to Hammond. The sheriff knew better.

  “It has come to my attention that this man Stark is in your jail,” Ramirez said without any greeting.

  “That’s right,” Hammond said with a nod. “I arrested him on manslaughter charges earlier today.”

  “The men he slaughtered . . . they worked for me.”

  That didn’t come as any news to Hammond, but at the same time, he wished Ramirez maybe hadn’t been so blunt about it. “That’s what Stark claimed, but he doesn’t have any way to prove it. They were all Mexican nationals, and the SUV they were driving was registered over here to one of them. I’ve checked it out, and there’s nothing leading back to you, Senor Ramirez.”

  “Of course not. Do you think I would arrange things any other way?” Ramirez finished his drink and set the empty glass aside on a stylishly rough-hewn table. “And yet, everyone knows those men worked for me. The whispers have already started. Stark killed four more of my men. My men.”

  Something Ramirez had just said jogged Hammond’s brain. “Wait a minute. You said four more men?”

  “That is correct. Last night he killed three. So that makes seven of El Bruitre’s men who have been killed by this gringo.” Ramirez’s voice took on an angry edge. “Such news travels fast. No doubt they are already laughing in Bogota about how the Vulture is helpless to stop the slaughter of his men by this American.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case, senor—” Hammond began hurriedly.

  “Shut up!” Ramirez roared as he sprang to his feet, his casual air abruptly discarded. “You know nothing! Nothing! Have you ever seen a pack of jackals, Hammond?”

  The question took the sheriff by surprise. He blinked in confusion and stammered, “Uh, n-no, I don’t reckon I have—”

  “The men who inhabit my world are like a pack of jackals, always alert for any sign of weakness. If they sense even the slightest opening, they are always ready to attack, to rush in and grab the weak one and rip him to pieces! That is what they will try to do to me if they believe they can get away with it.”

  “I’m sure that will never happen, senor,” Hammond said nervously. “Your reputation—”

  Again Ramirez interrupted him. “My reputation suffers now with every breath this man Stark takes. I want him put down—immediately.”

  “You mean . . . killed?”

  Ramirez gave him a withering stare of contempt. “Yes. I want him dead. As soon as possible.”

  Well, that was plain enough, Hammond thought. Ramirez didn’t care how Stark died. But the more Hammond thought about it, the less sure he was that it would be a good idea to have it happen in jail.

  “With all due respect, senor, Stark is in my custody. How’s it gonna look if he dies in one of my cells?”

  “And why, exactly, should I care how it looks?” Ramirez asked scornfully.

  “Well, Stark’s got a lot of friends in Del Rio. Probably more friends than I’ve got. And he’s got a loudmouthed lawyer who’s already talking to the press and hinting that Stark ain’t safe in my jail. If something happens to him that’s the least bit suspicious, it could blow the town wide open. That would have the feds on our asses in a heartbeat.”

  Ramirez waved off that protest. “You think I worry about your federal agents? That Border Patrolman, Purdee, has been trying to shut down my smuggling operation for years, and I run more drugs across the border now than I ever have. The United States government cannot touch me.”

  Hammond wasn’t so sure about that, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. Not with Ramirez in such a bad mood to start with.

  “I’ll do whatever you think is best,” he said, “but I really think it might be better to wait a little while, until Stark is out of jail. Then you can take care of him without it coming back on me.”

  Ramirez frowned for a moment and then shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. Release Stark, and I will see that he is taken care of.”

  “You mean release him right now?”

  “Why not, if it serves no purpose to keep him in jail?”

  Man, the noose around his neck just kept getting tighter and tighter, Hammond thought. But maybe he could wiggle out of it yet.

  “I can’t just let Stark go,” he said. “I’ve arrested him, the district attorney has agreed to go forward with the case, and he has to be arraigned; otherwise it’s not gonna look right. But we can do that first thing in the morning, and once the judge sets bail, Stark will be back out where you can get to him.”

  Ramirez thought about it. The seconds ticked past, stretching out so that they seemed longer to Hammond. He felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. At last, Ramirez nodded. “So it shall be. Your precious reputation will not suffer, Sheriff. But there had better not be any slipups. The bail should not be so high that Stark cannot afford it.”

  “It won’t be,” Hammond said, thinking of old Judge Harvey Goodnight, who would have jurisdiction in the case. The judge claimed to be no relation to the famous old-time rancher Charley Goodnight from the Panhandle, but he was every bit as prickly and incorruptible as that pioneer cattleman had been. No one would even think of trying to bribe Harvey Goodnight. That wouldn’t be necessary in this case. The judge would see that the case against Stark, while not insupportable, was weak, and he would set bail accordingly.

  “One more thing before you go,” Ramirez said.

  “Of course, senor. Whatever you want.”

  Ramirez tu
rned to Ryan. “Silencio, bring Alfonso in here.”

  Wordlessly, Ryan went to carry out the order. Ramirez strolled over to the bar and fixed himself another drink. He didn’t offer one to Hammond. The sheriff stood there holding his Stetson in his hands, waiting, trying not to get too nervous as he wondered what Ramirez was up to now.

  Ryan came back into the den accompanied by a heavyset Hispanic man. The newcomer looked a little anxious. Hammond understood the feeling. Nobody, with the possible exception of Silencio Ryan, liked to be summoned into the presence of the Vulture.

  Ramirez greeted the man with a smile. “Alfonso, how are you?”

  “Fine, Senor Ramirez,” Alfonso replied.

  “Really? I thought you might be feeling a bit, how do the Americans say, under the weather?”

  Ruiz, that was the man’s last name, Hammond recalled. He had seen him around before. Alfonso Ruiz was one of Ramirez’s top gunners. Maybe the top man, other than Ryan.

  Ruiz licked his lips and said, “No, senor, what would make you think that?”

  Ramirez put his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks. “I was told you were in the house of Flora Escobedo last night, and that you drank a great deal. So much, in fact, that you could not perform with the girl of Flora’s that you picked out to be your companion. So naturally I thought you might be suffering from a hangover today.”

  Ruiz flushed and looked uncomfortable. “Those rumors are greatly exaggerated, senor. I not only performed, I left the girl begging for more. No amount of liquor could leave me unable to function as a man.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Something about the way Ramirez said it made Hammond look at Ruiz and think, You poor son of a bitch.

  Ramirez went on, his voice sharp and lashing like a whip now, “Then what is your excuse for failing me this morning?”

  Ruiz blinked. “Failing you? I do not understand—”

  “You were the leader of the men I sent to Stark’s ranch this morning. You were to be with them, to see that they carried out their mission properly.”

  “Senor, I . . . I thought the men were capable . . . They were only supposed to kill the two old ones.”

  “So who did you put in charge?”

  “Benito Sandoval—”

  “The Drooler!” Ramirez screamed. “El Salivotas! And with him you sent Gordo, the Big Tamale, and the Dwarf! Idiota!”

  Ruiz began to back away. “A thousand apologies, senor! I meant no harm. I truly believed those men could handle the job. And they did kill the two old men, just as they were supposed to.”

  “And were killed in turn by Stark,” Ramirez said coldly, “making me look very bad in the process. I do not like to look bad, Alfonso.”

  Ruiz shook his head vehemently. “It will never happen again, senor—”

  “No,” Ramirez said. “It won’t.”

  With that, his right hand came out of his pocket. A flick of his wrist opened the blade of the knife he held, and with blinding speed he stepped forward and plunged the knife into Ruiz’s belly. Ruiz tried to jerk away, but Ryan had come up behind him, and now Ryan’s hand clamped hard on the back of his neck, holding him in place as Ramirez leaned on the blade, driving it deeper. Ramirez ripped the knife from side to side, opening up Ruiz’s belly so that the man’s guts began to ooze out. Ruiz screamed in agony and shuddered, but he couldn’t go anywhere with Ryan holding him.

  Ramirez twisted the knife and bore down on it, slicing through Ruiz’s abdomen. Blood flowed down Ruiz’s legs, soaking his jeans and puddling at his feet, staining the woven throw rug on which he stood. Ramirez pulled the knife free and held it up in front of Ruiz’s face so that Ruiz could see his lifeblood coating the blade.

  “You disappoint me, Alfonso,” Ramirez said between grated teeth. “I don’t like to be disappointed.”

  He shoved the knife into Ruiz’s throat and pulled it all the way across. More blood spurted. Ramirez stepped back quickly so the crimson flood wouldn’t get on his fine linen shirt. When Ryan let go of Ruiz, the man folded up on the floor, twitching a couple of times as he died.

  Ramirez turned toward a stunned Hammond, who had watched the whole gruesome incident in silence, not moving from where he stood. With a smile, Ramirez said, “My sister’s youngest boy. She asked me to find a place for him in my organization. A nice boy, but sloppy. This is what happens to people who displease me.”

  Hammond managed to stammer, “I . . . I thought . . .”

  “You thought I was no longer capable of getting my own hands bloody, Sheriff Hammond?” Slowly, Ramirez shook his head. “A good businessman knows how to delegate responsibility. But he also knows that from time to time he must handle his problems himself. Is this man Stark going to be a problem, Sheriff? Are you going to be a problem?”

  “No, sir,” Hammond choked out. “No, sir, I’ll do whatever you say. You just give me the word, and I’ll do it.”

  He knew he was groveling, and he hated himself for it. Once upon a time, Norval Lee Hammond had been a proud man and didn’t take any shit from anybody. But those days were long past, and only an idiot wouldn’t admit that. Hammond was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.

  “All right,” Ramirez said. “Go. And after Stark is released from jail tomorrow, you can wash your hands of the entire affair, Sheriff. It will be over as far as you are concerned.”

  “Gracias, senor.” Hammond backed toward the door. He fought the urge to bow and scrape like some damn house servant. “Gracias,” he said again.

  Then he was outside and the door was shut and he could no longer see the bloody corpse of Alfonso Ruiz sprawled on the rug at Ramirez’s feet. The air-conditioning inside the house had been cold, but Hammond’s shirt was soaked with sweat.

  Better sweat than blood, he told himself.

  With an effort, he kept his hands from shaking as he reclaimed his service revolver from the guards and got into the Blazer. He drove away from the compound with a tight grip on the wheel. Ramirez was crazy, he thought. Utterly insane.

  Yet he knew that wasn’t true. There was nothing insane about the way Ramirez operated. Cruel, ruthless, completely devoid of anything other than evil, sure, but not insane. Ramirez just knew what worked. He knew how to make sure that nobody crossed him. Anyone who did would pay the ultimate price, as John Howard Stark was going to find out.

  From one simple little incident—Tommy Carranza shoving around Ramirez’s gringo lawyer in that parking lot—eleven men had died, with surely more to come. A war was brewing on the border, a war that might have serious consequences for Norval Lee Hammond. Regardless of the consequences, though, it was too late to stop it now. Things would have to play out. More blood would be spilled, and more men would die. The best Hammond could hope for was that he would be able to ride it out.

  He took his hat off and sleeved sweat from his forehead as he drove across the bridge to Del Rio. His mouth had a bad taste in it. Ramirez had shown him today just how insignificant he really was. When he got back to the office, he would have to call Juanita in, get her on the desk, and fuck the shit out of her just to feel like any kind of man again.

  And when he got home, he would fuck Willa Sue, too, even though she didn’t like it much these days. That was just too damned bad for her.

  Hammond took a deep breath, already feeling a little better as he thought about what he would do to the two women. One of these days, he thought. One of these days that little shit Ramirez would push him too far, and then he would see that Norval Lee Hammond wasn’t a man to mess with. And if that peckerwood Ryan tried to interfere, Hammond would teach him a lesson, too.

  After all, Norval Lee Hammond wasn’t just the sheriff of Val Verde County. Once upon a time, he had been all-state.

  After the body had been taken away and the bloody rug rolled up to be disposed of, Ramirez poured himself another drink and said to Ryan, “You know what to do, Silencio.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “And after ou
r friend Mr. Stark ceases to be a problem, perhaps it would be wise to turn our attention to the good sheriff Hammond.”

  Ryan nodded again. This time, he might even have smiled a little. It was hard to tell.

  Eighteen

  Elaine Stark snapped her purse closed, took a deep breath, and looked at herself in the mirror. After getting back to the ranch house, she had changed into a dark blue short-sleeved dress with a wide black belt. She left her legs bare—they were still good enough that she didn’t need hose—and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals. A little makeup, a brush run through her short, graying blond hair, and she was ready to go.

  She didn’t know if the sheriff would let her see John Howard or not, but there was no way she could sit here and wait without even trying to get to her husband’s side.

  From the open door of the bedroom, Carmen Logales, whose husband was one of the hands and who worked on the Diamond S as a cook and housekeeper, said excitedly, “Several pickups are coming down the road, senora. Coming fast.”

  Elaine didn’t know who the newcomers could be, but at this moment she didn’t much care. If they were looking for trouble, she was in more than a mood to give it to them. She opened her purse again, reached inside, and took out the little .25 pistol she had put in there earlier.

  “I’ll deal with them, Carmen,” she said as she left the bedroom and went to the front door.

  When she stepped out onto the porch she saw the vehicles that had gotten Carmen so excited. Elaine relaxed as she recognized them. The one in the lead belonged to Devery Small. The others were driven by W.R. Smathers, Hubie Cornheiser, and Everett Hatcher. With dust billowing up from their tires, they came to a stop in front of the house.

  Devery got out, a grim look on his face and a Winchester in his hands that he had picked up from the seat beside him. “Howdy, Elaine,” he said. “The boys an’ me heard about what happened. Are you all right?”