Strong Vengeance

by Jon Land

  “What did Mr. Jackson do?” Caitlin asked, genuinely interested.

  “You’re going to laugh,” Braga said, suddenly relaxed. “But he set a spell.”

  “A spell?”

  “That’s what he claimed. See, Jackson was from Louisiana. Said his grandfather was a Cajun witch who taught him something called gris-gris voodoo.”

  “Did the spell work?”

  “Well, the Dixie Mafia never came back to collect their tribute. You can make up your own mind, Ranger.”

  Caitlin let him see her staring at him, his eyes wide and unblinking.

  “Exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Braga.”

  “And what Texas Ranger business has brought you out here today?”

  Caitlin tried to get a firmer fix on Braga but couldn’t. His face reminded her of a museum statue’s texture, open to differing interpretations depending on the angle from which it was viewed.

  “Well, sir, barrels bearing the logo of your company were recently spotted in the Gulf waters off Baffin Bay.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Let me show you the grounds, Ranger. We can talk as we drive.”

  36

  SAN ANTONIO, THE PRESENT

  “Covel Gardens was built to be developed in phases,” Braga said, driving the Jeep slowly along the complex’s private road. “We’ve got fifteen phases planned and have gotten through seven so far with each representing an individual disposal cell. I’ll show you what I mean as we get further out into the complex.”

  Braga started Caitlin’s tour at something he called the Scale House.

  “This is where we weigh the incoming dump loads,” he explained, directing her eyes toward a line of trucks three deep waiting to take their place on one of four scales. “Necessary for billing and to make sure we don’t exceed our limit for any of the disposal cells.”

  “I don’t see any of those big trash mounds,” Caitlin noted, gazing out into the distance with hand cupped over her eyes like a visor.

  Braga smiled. “That’s because the cells are contained belowground, which is more sophisticated, environmentally friendly, and far less unsightly.”

  He drove on again.

  “Okay, this is the Customer Convenience area,” he picked up when they reached a covered concrete off-loading area. “We use it during inclement weather. Customers drop their loads onto an elevated platform beneath which lie eight large roll-off containers. Once the containers are full, we shuttle them to the current active disposal unit where the loads are dumped.”

  Caitlin’s eyes fixed on a covered building open on three sides. “Looks like a picnic area there.”

  “Close. It’s the Helper Hut. From this point, only drivers are permitted to continue on to the disposal units. Anyone else they may have brought along waits here.”

  Braga proceeded to point out to Caitlin a plant that collected landfill gases and processed them into energy that was then distributed to the local community to reduce their energy costs. He slipped quickly by the facility’s simple office buildings contained in what looked like shotgun-style ranch houses. He breezed past the maintenance yard, beaming at what he called the Solidification Area.

  “Let me explain,” Braga said, when Caitlin professed ignorance on the subject. “Direct disposal of bulk liquid waste is prohibited, which means liquid loads must be solidified before disposal in the landfill. We manage this by off-loading the liquids into what we call mixing basins. Once in the basins soil from the site is added and a backhoe mixes the two until we have solid material. Then the same backhoe loads the contents of a mixing basin into a large dump truck and the waste is transferred to the disposal area.”

  “Very impressive, Mr. Braga.”

  “I was hoping you’d see my point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “We take our commitment to the environment seriously here, Ranger. Everything that comes in or goes out of here is measured and accounted for. That includes every truck, every drum, every barrel, and every gum wrapper. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I believe you’re telling me you had nothing to do with those barrels we found in the Gulf bearing your logo.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Braga said, as if he’d been somehow offended.

  “The problem, sir, is we have your drums down there on tape, Mr. Braga.”

  “Did you bring them up?”

  “They disappeared before we could manage that.”

  “Disappeared?”

  Caitlin held his stare briefly. “Somebody removed them after they’d been spotted,” she said, leaving things at that.

  “So we really can’t be sure of anything, can we?” Braga’s lip started to curl upward in a sneer, but quickly stopped. “Look, Ranger, you can find my logo on maybe a million barrels that fit your description, and I can’t be responsible for what becomes of them once in the hands of our hundreds of jobbers and subcontractors. And I suppose at least a few of my subsidiaries statewide still drop drums into the ocean. I don’t support the practice, but the truth is it happens.”

  “Can you get me a list of those subsidiaries so I can check them out?” Caitlin asked him.

  “When did the Texas Rangers become the environmental police?”

  “After an entire jack-up oil rig crew got murdered directly over the spot where your barrels where found.”

  Braga’s expression wavered but his rigid, angular features didn’t so much as crack. Maybe the sheen of perspiration coating his flesh had deepened a bit, but maybe not. “Like I said, they’re not—”

  “I understand you’re claiming they’re not your barrels directly,” Caitlin interrupted. “But they had your logo on them, which makes you the only place we’ve got to start our investigation.”

  She watched Braga fight to keep his frown from dissolving back into a snicker or sneer. But the sneer prevailed anyway. “Maybe I should ask for a warrant.”

  Caitlin pulled a multifolded set of pages from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him. “I thought you might just do that, Mr. Braga.”

  37

  SAN ANTONIO, THE PRESENT

  Caitlin expected any number of reactions from Braga, cracking a smile being the last of them. He left the warrant in her hand, suspended between them as if he were enjoying the challenge she provided. “You think you know me, Ranger?”

  “I know when a man’s hiding something, sir.”

  Braga finally took the warrant. “I’ll have my lawyers review this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself. And in the meantime, maybe I’ll look into that labor dispute you mentioned earlier.”

  Something changed in Braga’s expression, the facade suddenly broken like mirror glass, so his very features briefly looked disproportionate and exaggerated. “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Braga, you made Alvin Jackson out to be a hero in the company’s battle with the Dixie Mafia. Truth is my father was involved in the resulting investigation after four Dixie mob enforcers were found with their throats cut and testicles jammed into their mouths. He had two witnesses who claimed the killers spoke Spanish but neither could identify the suspects further.” Caitlin studied Braga for a reaction, continued when he showed none at all. “One of those witnesses is still alive. Any pictures you can recommend me showing him from back then?”

  Braga’s expression became statue-like again, the restored facade forced back over his features. The wind picked up but didn’t budge his thick crop of hair in the slightest. Caitlin could see the perspiration stains spreading on his underarms.

  “How many bad men did your grandfather gun down in Sweetwater?”

  “Being a Texas Ranger afforded him the luxury of doing whatever the hell he wanted.”

  “I’d ask that you not take that tone with me, Ranger.”

  “And what tone is that, sir?

  “Just answer me this: exactly how many men have you killed?”

  Caitlin
took a few breaths to steady her breathing. “In my first year as a Ranger I worked a case in Lubbock where three bodies were found in a Dumpster serviced by one of your competitors. I believe I interviewed the foreman who ran your facility there.”

  Braga grinned, his ivory teeth sparkling in the sunlight. He pulled the Jeep to a halt in clear view of a series of fenced-in fields adorned with thick Arkansas blue star that was actually the darkest shade of green Caitlin had ever seen in a grass.

  “Toward what purpose, Ranger?”

  “The bodies belonged to three drivers from that rival company. I believe Braga Waste Management was involved in some bidding disputes with it at the time.”

  “Ever catch the men responsible?” Braga wondered, holding Caitlin’s stare.

  “No, sir. The state’s attorney took the case over. You may remember him, a man named Durfee. You gave ten thousand dollars to his campaign.”

  Braga’s brow grew even shinier with sweat as he looked away. The air seemed to thicken between them, Caitlin listening to Braga breathe noisily through his mouth as she looked back toward the fields layered with thick Arkansas blue star.

  “All your disposal units are located under those fields, aren’t they? The first seven phases anyway.”

  “What makes you ask?”

  Caitlin held his gaze. “Just the fact that it doesn’t look at all like that’s the case from what you can see on the surface.”

  Braga smiled thinly, something else lurking behind the gesture. “How about I have the information you’re requesting about those subsidiaries of my company hand delivered later today?”

  “E-mail or fax would be fine, sir.”

  The smile lingered. “I prefer this means. To avoid any further misunderstandings between us, Ranger.”

  Caitlin fitted her hat back into place, the inside of its brim wet with sweat from her brow. Her cell phone rang and she stepped outside the vehicle to answer it, never taking her eyes from Braga.

  “Ranger Strong, this is Annabel Horbst, principal of Harris Middle School. I’m afraid we need you to come down here right away. It’s about Luke Torres.”

  38

  SAN ANTONIO, THE PRESENT

  Sam Harrabi led the cleric down the center row of the massive facility lined top to bottom with black fifty-five-gallon drums.

  “Phase one, sayyid,” he pronounced.

  The cleric gazed about, not bothering to hide his amazement. “This was the accident victim’s task.”

  “It was.”

  “A shame he will not be able to celebrate our victory with us, but he will witness the fruits of his labors from heaven where he celebrates with those in his family who departed before their time.”

  Harrabi stiffened at that, noticeably enough to draw the cleric’s attention.

  “My apologies for my indiscretion, my brother.”

  “It’s alright, sayyid.”

  “Is that because you regret the indiscretions of your past?”

  “I do, sayyid.”

  “Relax, my brother. I do not wish you to be punished any further for them; you have been punished enough. I’m only glad I was able to provide you a release from the terrible pain you have suffered at the hands of those in whom you once placed your trust.”

  Harrabi lowered his head. “I was wrong.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “And now you must use the pain your indiscretions have wrought. You must channel that pain to keep your focus on the holy nature of our mission as your opportunity to redeem yourself before God and your people.” The cavernous confines left a lingering echo in the air, giving the cleric’s words a tinny, hollow twang. “You were chosen for a reason and while we may question the plan of God, we must also accept it. We do not always ask for the lots life gives us, but we must embrace them all the same.”

  “May I speak plainly, sayyid?”

  “Of course.”

  “You seem in pain yourself, at least bothered.”

  The cleric nodded. “You are wondering why now, why would we risk all our resources on this one mission that will leave us hunted men forever.”

  Harrabi nodded, shrugged.

  “We had the ingredients and instructions for bomb assembly up on our private, secure Website. One day last year an intruder replaced it with a cupcake recipe. You see my point?”

  “A single hacking incident doesn’t mean they’ve penetrated our defenses, sayyid.”

  The cleric’s eyes narrowed. “We traced the intrusion to British intelligence sources.”

  Harrabi felt his breath seize up.

  “The point, my brother, is that the Western forces have pierced our network and are closing on us just as they closed on bin Laden. His death allowed them to turn their focus elsewhere. You ask why now, why put all our resources behind a single mission? The answer is because we may not have another chance. It must be now, since we don’t know how many tomorrows we have left.”

  The two men stopped in the center of two rows. They stood lost in the shadows cast by the mountains of barrels stacked around them, the echoes of their clacking footsteps fading out.

  “It is hard for me too sometimes, sayyid,” Harrabi said.

  “Because you miss your sons, my brother.”

  “I miss them terribly.”

  “And who took their lives?”

  “The Americans,” Harrabi managed through the lump that had formed in his throat.

  “Then their deaths at the hands of those you once embraced is what you should be focusing on now. The point, my brother, is that we are all serving a higher cause here. Our own lives are inconsequential with respect to that greater purpose we will soon see realized.”

  With that, the cleric stretched a hand out toward Harrabi’s head. Harrabi bowed it slightly again, believing he was about to be blessed. Instead, though, the cleric eased a finger over the ridged and callused depression on the right side of his forehead just before it met his skull.

  “I know of the night you came by this, my brother, the night that changed your place in the world forever and returned you to us. It was your fate, a blessed moment which I know makes the pain no more easy to bear.”

  The cleric might have been about to say more but Harrabi’s phone buzzed once, halting his train of thought.

  “Only e-mails pertaining to the mission come to this phone,” Harrabi said apologetically. “If you don’t mind, sayyid…”

  “Please,” the cleric nodded.

  Harrabi checked the e-mail, which must have been short judging by the brief time it took to review the contents. “It’s the American. He wants to talk.”

  “Then call him.”

  “He says he wants to meet in person.”

  Harrabi tried not to show any trepidation but his tone must have betrayed his efforts.

  “Then perhaps I should come along,” the cleric offered.

  39

  SAN ANTONIO, THE PRESENT

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Caitlin said to Luke in the front seat of her SUV after she’d picked him up at school.

  “How much trouble am I in?”

  She let him see her turn off her cell phone. “How’d the fight start?”

  “Kid tried to cut me in the lunch line. Thought he was tough. Happens a lot on account of things.”

  “What things?”

  “You, my dad. People figure I’m tough because of all the stories they hear about the two of you.”

  Caitlin swallowed hard, unable to push much air past the lump that had formed in her throat. She’d never imagined her own choices and lifestyle infringing on Luke’s or Dylan’s. It confronted her hard and fast with the fact that until Cort Wesley’s incarceration, she could come and go as she pleased in and out their lives. Now, instead, she had to worry about meals, homework, college applications, report cards, and, now, fighting in school. That made for a lot of walls that felt like they were closing in on her.

  “So they say things t
hey know will push my buttons,” Luke continued.

  “Like what?”

  “Like who’s killed more people, you or my dad. Like you’re both murderers who hate Mexicans and Latinos and shoot innocent people.”

  Caitlin weighed the boy’s words in conjunction with the hurt look on his face. Like his older brother, he’d begun to show his discontent by blowing his breath through the hair dangling over his face. He’d grown it out recently, making him look older, and she’d also noticed he was spending more time listening to his iPod and on Facebook than playing video games.

  “How about we get ourselves some ice cream?”

  * * *

  They went to Ben & Jerry’s Scoop Shop on the River Walk, claiming a shaded wrought iron table close enough to the water to hear the tour guides’ standard spiel as their boats cruised past. Luke got a cone of Cherry Garcia, Caitlin a dish of Chocolate Chunk.

  “The kid I got into the fight with today … his brother was the football player you shot in the shoulder at Dylan’s school.”

  Caitlin had just pushed a big spoonful into her mouth and forced herself to swallow it. “That was a bad mistake on my part.”

  “It’s why you almost lost your job.”

  “It’s why I got reassigned, yeah.”

  “Kid said his brother’s never gonna play quarterback again on account of you.”

  “And I’m sorry about that. But I’m more sorry about it being my fault you have to go through all this in school.”

  Luke plopped his ice cream cone down back in the cup it had been served in. “I hear you on the porch sometimes at night. Is that why you’re crying?”

  Caitlin felt herself cringe. “I still have nightmares about that day, I still wake up running it through my head to see if there was something I could’ve done different to avoid gunplay. Thing is, if I hadn’t done what I did, how many kids would the real shooter have killed? The boys in school sure know how to push your buttons, but put them in the same situation in the school library and they’d be begging for someone like me to do exactly what I did. I know that may not make it any easier for you, but it’s the truth for sure. I’m sorry I shot that boy’s brother. I’m sorry he won’t be playing quarterback anymore. But I got the rest of those kids out safe and alive, including him.” Spoken as if she were really trying to convince herself. “And if I had it to do all over again, I’d likely do exactly the same thing, hopefully with better aim.”