Vengeance Is Mine

by William W. Johnstone

  “John Howard,” Gonzales finally managed to say. “I . . . I’m so sorry. . . .”

  Stark lunged into the room, wild with fear now, and grabbed the lapels of Gonzales’s suit coat. He jerked Gonzales to his feet and yelled, “What happened? Goddamn it, tell me what happened!”

  “The r-ranch,” Gonzales stammered out. “G-gone. The house . . . the bunkhouse . . . all the buildings . . . gone . . . burned down . . . there were explosions, some sort of explosions. . . Elaine’s gone, John Howard.”

  Stark just stared at him for a long moment, dizzyingly sick as if the entire universe had been twisted inside out, and finally he was able to croak, “Dead?”

  “Gone,” Gonzales repeated with a shake of his head. “Gone! We don’t know where she is, or what . . . what happened to her.”

  Stark’s brain frantically clung to the shred of hope that Gonzales had just tossed him. If Elaine had disappeared, then there was a chance she might still be alive. A slim chance, to be sure, but it was still there. Slowly, the maddening whirligig of emotion that had seized Stark began to ease its pace. A deep breath rasped in his throat as he drew it into his body. He said, “What about Devery and the others who were out there?”

  “Devery’s alive,” Gonzales said, “but just barely. The others. . . everybody else . . . oh God, John Howard, none of them made it. They’re all dead.”

  That was another hammer blow that almost floored Stark. His friends, all the ranch hands who had worked for him, even the wives and children of some of the men . . . gone, all gone. There had probably been eighteen or twenty people all told on the ranch. How could they all be dead, just like that?

  “What happened?”

  Hammond answered from the doorway. “We’re still investigating. Best we can guess right now, somebody planted explosives all around the buildings and then set them off. Everything burned to the ground.”

  Stark was still holding Gonzales’s lapels. He let go of them and swung toward the sheriff. “Your boss did this,” he said hollowly.

  “I work for the people of Val Verde County.”

  “You work for Ramirez, and we all know it. This is his way of getting back at me. He murdered my friends and framed me for it, got me thrown in jail. Now he’s kidnapped my wife and wiped out everybody on my ranch.” Stark started toward the door. “Get out of my way, Hammond.”

  Hammond thrust out a hand. “Hold on there, Stark! You’re still in custody until bail’s arranged. I know you’re upset, but you’re not goin’ anywhere!”

  “Get . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . way!” Stark roared. He threw himself at Hammond, swinging a wild punch. All he knew, all he could think about, was that he had to get out of here and get to Ramirez’s place somehow. He could still save Elaine, even if it cost him his own life!

  Hammond ducked the punch and grabbed him, tackling him around the waist. The deputies rushed in and threw themselves on Stark as well. Sam Gonzales got hold of him from behind, shouting, “No, John Howard, no! This won’t help anything!”

  Stark bellowed and fought like an enraged grizzly. One of the deputies went flying backward to crash against a wall and then fall limply to the floor of the corridor, out cold. Stark began dragging the other three men, but their weight was too much and when Hammond managed to trip him, he went down, landing heavily with the three men on top of him. Something hit him on the back of the head, sending blinding pain through his brain. He found out later that it was Hammond’s baton that had struck him, but right then it didn’t matter. The blow stunned him long enough for the deputy to get some cuffs on him. Stark writhed impotently on the floor.

  “Get him up and get him back in his cell!” he heard Hammond shout. “Damn it, Gonzales, the only reason I’m not gonna throw the book at Stark over this is that I know how upset he is.”

  “Because of something the man you work for did,” Gonzales said.

  Stark heard the meaty sound of a fist striking flesh. “Be careful, counselor,” Hammond grated. “You’ll trip and hurt yourself again.”

  “You won’t get away with that, Sheriff,” Gonzales said thickly. In the small part of his brain that was still coherent, Stark knew that Hammond had just punched the lawyer. Sam was wrong, though. Hammond would get away with it, because Hammond was one of the bad guys, one of the evil ones who got away with everything they did. That was the way the world worked now. Evil went unpunished—hell, it was even rewarded most of the time—while a decent man who tried to do the right thing had everything he loved ripped away from him.

  Stark was on his feet again. Hands gripped him, forced him to walk, marched him down the hall to his cell, and practically threw him into it. He slammed into the wall, bounced off, fell onto the bunk, and rolled off to lie huddled on the floor. The door crashed shut.

  “Elaine,” Stark whispered as tears filled his eyes. “Elaine . . .”

  By the middle of the day, when they let Sam Gonzales speak to him through the slot in the door where his food tray was passed in and out, Stark had run the gamut of emotions. He had known paralyzing fear and numbing grief, seething white-hot rage and cold, calculating hatred. Now he was back to mostly numb.

  “I’ve seen Devery at the hospital, John Howard,” Gonzales reported. “He’s in bad shape, but the doctors think he’s got a fighting chance. He has three stab wounds in his back, and one of his lungs was collapsed. The killer was going for the heart, and he probably believed that he got it. What he didn’t know is that Devery’s heart isn’t in the right place.”

  “What?” Gonzales’s statement was puzzling enough to cut through the fog in Stark’s brain.

  “Devery’s heart isn’t located where most people’s are. It’s more in the center of his chest instead of on the left side. Doug Huddleston said that if anything, Devery’s heart is a little on the right side. It’s considered a congenital defect, but it saved Devery’s life.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Stark muttered.

  “No reason for you to. Devery didn’t go around telling people that his heart’s in an odd place.”

  “I’m glad he’s got a chance to make it.” Something occurred to Stark. “Was he able to talk? Did he say anything about what happened?”

  “All he saw was one man, the man who stabbed him. There must have been more, though.” Gonzales passed a shaking hand over his face. “I went out there, John Howard. The destruction was . . . awful. One man couldn’t have done it by himself.”

  “That depends on the man,” Stark said, thinking of the son of a bitch from the Blue Burro, the one who had killed four men at the hospital and come damned close to killing Stark himself.

  How many people had died since this whole thing started? Stark couldn’t answer that, but he knew the toll had to number in the dozens. Many of them had been innocent men, women, and children who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  And what was behind all the tragedy? It wasn’t even money, Stark realized bleakly. Sure, he and his friends had put a dent in Ramirez’s drug smuggling operation with their patrols, but he doubted if they had actually cost the Vulture more than a few thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket compared to what Ramirez made in a year’s time from his poison. No, it was pride, nothing but vainglorious pride on the part of Ramirez, who couldn’t stand for anyone to defy him. Anyone who had dared to do so had to be punished, and to such an extreme that everyone from the Rio Grande to Ramirez’s home in Colombia would know that the Vulture was a bad man to cross.

  Pride. Stark could barely conceive of it causing so much bloodshed, and yet it had.

  “What about the bail?” he asked. “When am I getting out of here?”

  Gonzales sighed. “Not any time soon, I’m afraid. The bail has been raised to twenty million dollars.”

  “Twenty million! What the hell’s wrong with Judge Goodnight—”

  “The judge didn’t do this,” Gonzales said. “He’s been taken off the case. It’s been reassigned to a federal court. The judge there rai
sed the bail.”

  “Why?”

  “Those rocket-propelled grenades were stolen from an army supply depot six months ago. You’re getting the blame for that now, and since they were used in the commission of three murders, the feds have declared that they have a right to step in and take over. The Justice Department is talking about bringing charges of civil rights violations against you, too. And since you tried to escape, they say you’re a flight risk. It could have been worse. The federal prosecutor originally asked for fifty million dollars.”

  Stark closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the cell door. Almost all he could think of was Elaine, but this latest round of maneuvering against him by the federal government was so ridiculous that he couldn’t ignore it. Ridiculous, but effective, he thought. If the bureaucrats had their way, he would never be a free man again. He would spend the rest of his life behind bars, simply because he had embarrassed them.

  It wasn’t just Ramirez’s pride that had gotten him in this mess, he realized.

  Of course, his life behind bars might not be that long. Once he was in prison, Ramirez would be able to have him killed at any time. The bureaucrats could probably arrange a fatal “accident,” too, if they wanted to. And there wouldn’t be much Stark could do about it.

  “I’ll keep working on it, John Howard,” Gonzales said. “I’ll do what I can to set things right. For one thing, I’ve been in touch with the Texas Rangers.”

  “Can they help?” Stark asked dully.

  “Well, it would have been better if I had gotten them down here before the feds came in, but they’ll do what they can. And I’ve been in touch with the Mexican authorities about trying to find Elaine. If they can search Ramirez’s house—”

  Stark snorted contemptuously. “If they search Ramirez’s house, you can bet they won’t find anything. They’ll look the other way if they do. Half the police force is in his pocket, and so are the army commanders over there.”

  “Don’t give up,” Gonzales insisted. “I haven’t.”

  But it’s not your wife in the hands of that monster, Stark thought. He bit back a groan of despair as he wondered if he would ever see Elaine alive again.

  Late in the afternoon, Sam Gonzales paid another brief visit to the jail. He didn’t have much to report, only that he had been in touch with David and Peter, and both of Stark’s sons had been granted emergency leave to return to the United States. They were on the other side of the world, though, and it was going to take a couple of days for them to get home. Stark nodded. He wasn’t looking forward to having to explain to the boys everything that had happened. He knew he didn’t come off lily-white in this affair. His own pride and stubbornness had played a part in it. That didn’t matter at the moment, though. There was plenty of blame to pass around, with most of it going to Ernesto Diego Espinoza Ramirez.

  When Stark heard footsteps approaching the cell a short time later, he figured one of the deputies was bringing his supper, even though it was a little early for that. He was going to send the food away; he didn’t think he would ever have an appetite again.

  But instead a key rattled in the lock and one of the deputies swung the door open and announced, “You’ve got another visitor, Mr. Stark.” The young man’s tone was respectful.

  “Who is it?” Stark asked. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk to the press, which he imagined was having a field day with this story. The vigilante’s life collapses around him . . . the perfect cautionary tale for the liberal media.

  “He said his name is Jack Finnegan.”

  Stark’s head jerked up. Jack? Jack Finnegan? Stark hadn’t seen him or even talked to him for several years. What was Jack Finnegan doing in Del Rio, Texas? Wasn’t he supposed to be in Chicago, running that bank he had inherited, making money hand over fist, getting drunk, and screwing every woman at the country club except his own wife?

  “Are you willing to see him?” the deputy asked. “I can’t force you to.”

  “Sure,” Stark said. “Sure, I’ll talk to him. Good old Jack.”

  He got to his feet and stepped out into the corridor. There were three more deputies waiting there, all of them with their batons drawn. They were ready to jump him and batter him into unconsciousness if he tried anything. Stark smiled thinly.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m a peaceable man.”

  Yeah, just like Wild Bill Elliott used to say . . . just before he beat the hell out of Roy Barcroft.

  The deputies escorted Stark down the hall to the interview room where Jack Finnegan was waiting. Finnegan greeted Stark warmly, shaking his hand and using his other hand to clap Stark on the shoulder. “I won’t ask how you are, John Howard,” Finnegan said. “I know it’s a world of shit right now.”

  “You got that right,” Stark grunted. He waited until the deputies had gone out and closed the door; then he asked, “What are you doin’ here, Jack?”

  Finnegan looked down at the table for a second, then raised his eyes to Stark again. “Elaine called me,” he said bluntly. “She said you were in trouble and needed help. If I had to guess, I’d say you didn’t know anything about her getting in touch with me.”

  “No,” Stark said slowly. “I didn’t. But I’m not surprised. Did she call anybody else from the old unit?”

  “Will Sheffield and Henry Macon are here in town, too. We all ran into each other at the airport. That’s also where we found out about . . . what happened at your ranch. Is there any new word?”

  “About Elaine, you mean?” Stark sighed. “If there is, they haven’t told me. As far as I know, she’s still missing.”

  “Which means she could still be alive.”

  Stark nodded. “I keep hangin’ on to that hope . . . but it’s hard, Jack. It’s really hard.”

  “You know who took her?”

  Stark met his friend’s gaze squarely. “Of course I do.”

  “So you know where she is now.”

  “Probably.”

  Finnegan took a deep breath. “Then it seems to me somebody needs to go in there and get her. Sounds like a job for a marine recon unit.”

  “No, Jack,” Stark said, shaking his head. “That’s crazy. There’s only three of you—”

  “Four if we get you out of this hoosegow.”

  “You got a spare twenty million bucks for the bail?”

  “As a matter of fact . . . no. I could raise part of that. Give me enough time and I could probably get all of it. But we don’t have that much time.”

  Stark frowned. “It sounds like you’ve already been talking to Sheffield and Macon about this.”

  “We rode over here together, after we pored over all the newspaper accounts we could find and talked to that lawyer of yours. He seems like a good man, but my attorney is flying in tomorrow to lend him a hand. What we’re worried about is that tomorrow might be too late.”

  “Jack . . . you’re fifty-five years old. Sheffield and Macon are fifty-four, like me.”

  Finnegan smiled. “True. We’ve all been getting junk mail from the AARP for quite a while now. But we haven’t forgotten what it was like over there in ’Nam. We can still kick a little ass, John Howard.”

  Stark could see that Finnegan wasn’t going to listen to reason. “And you’re a drunk,” he said, hoping the cruel words would shock some sense into his friend.

  But Finnegan just smiled again and held out his hand. It was rock steady. “All too true,” he said, “but a drunk who hasn’t tasted booze in over four years.”

  Stark met Finnegan’s eyes squarely for a long moment, and in that moment hope was reborn in him. In an assault on Ramirez’s compound, four men would be vastly outnumbered.

  But the right four men might have a chance.

  Stark reached out and took that rock-steady hand Finnegan was showing him. “What are you going to do?” he asked as he gripped Finnegan’s hand firmly.

  “I don’t exactly know yet,” Finnegan replied, “but you need to be ready when
we do it, John Howard.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Stark promised. “And it had better be soon.”

  Thirty-three

  The three men had gotten just one rental car since their destination was the same. Will Sheffield was behind the wheel as they headed out to the Diamond S. They would need a place from which to operate, a command post, so to speak, and Finnegan thought that Stark’s ranch might be the best spot.

  “Won’t there still be cops all over it?” Macon asked.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Finnegan said. He was sitting in the backseat, sprawled out a little. Macon was riding shotgun. “They’ve had part of last night and all day today to go over the place for evidence, so they’re probably through with it by now. Let’s face it, how extensive of a crime scene investigation are you gonna get in Del Rio, Texas?”

  “Some of these small towns have good police departments,” Sheffield put in.

  “Yes, but the sheriff’s department here is as corrupt as they come, remember?”

  Macon said, “Yeah, well, you said John Howard told you the feds are part of this now.”

  “Let’s just take a look around and see,” Finnegan suggested. “No need to worry about it until the time comes.”

  Macon looked back at him and frowned. “I like to worry. I’m an adult. It’s what I do.”

  Finnegan just grinned.

  He felt sorry for John Howard, of course. The poor bastard had had shit dumped on him from every direction at once. And he had to be out of his mind with worry about his wife. Finnegan was worried about Elaine, too.

  But in a way, he was having the time of his life. For too many years, making a lot of money was the only thing that had been important to him. And he had made a lot of money, no doubt about that. Sheffield and Macon were doing all right for themselves, but Finnegan could have bought and sold both of them many times over. All that money, though, hadn’t done a damned thing to make him happy. Neither had booze, drugs, or sex.