Strong from the Heart--A Caitlin Strong Novel

by Jon Land

  * * *

  Caitlin glimpsed the shadowy shape freeze briefly, then jerk about in the manner of some crazed dance. She heard grunts, gasps, groans as she pictured the oil soaking the Native American’s National Guard disguise. A retching sound followed, evidence that at least some of the oil had made it into his mouth.

  If only I had a match …

  She wondered what D. W. Tepper might make of her wishing for the first time that she was a smoker. Caitlin thought she caught two glowing eyes glaring at her from behind a dark mask of dripping oil, and she fired off her final two shots.

  As the mist began to dissipate, though, she could see no fallen body. The big man had vanished with the steam, leaving in his wake a black, viscous trail of footprints through the hospital’s subbasement.

  PART FOUR

  WILLIAM “BIGFOOT” WALLACE

  The 19-year-old Wallace (whose more-than-six-feet, 240-pound stature earned him the nickname “Bigfoot”) was at home in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1836 when he learned that his brother had been killed by the Mexican Army in the massacre at Goliad. He headed to Texas looking for payback, but the war was over by the time he arrived. Wallace decided to stay on in the new Texas Republic, and eventually moved to San Antonio. After joining the Texan Army to repulse a Mexican invasion in 1842, he was captured and spent two years in a notoriously brutal prison at Vera Cruz. Upon his return to Texas, Wallace joined the Rangers, and would serve under Captain Jack Hays; in the 1850s, he led a Ranger company of his own. An opponent of secession, Wallace stayed in Texas during the Civil War, continuing his defense of the frontier against attacks by Comanches, Union soldiers and deserters. In his later years (he died in 1899), Wallace regaled friends and neighbors in South Texas with tales of his wild frontier life, earning a reputation as a Texan folk hero.

  —Sarah Pruitt, “8 Famous Texas Rangers,” History.com

  35

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Senator Lee Eckles held the microphone stand down to make sure that it didn’t rattle as he spoke.

  “You can see why I insisted we hold this hearing in closed session, I believe. I’d like to open things up with some general questions I invite any or all of you to answer. Since this is a closed session, you should speak freely, with the assurance no transcript will be made available to the press and entered into the Congressional Record only under seal. I will now continue with my opening statement but reserve the right to pose questions amidst my words. Any of you have a question you’d like to pose or concern you’d like to raise before we go on the record?”

  The men sat rigidly at the table, mirror images of one another, down to their matching dark suits.

  “Very well then,” the senator resumed.

  He was a bull of a man with a squarish head topped by gray-black stubble that was just starting to grow out. The back of his neck was perpetually red, as if someone had spilled paint on it, and his neck was thick, fleshy, and lined with a wrinkled depression down the middle that started just under his chin. His eyes were too small for his face, set way back in his head as if God had inserted them as an afterthought. They were so small that they seemed to be bled of white, dominated by the dark pupils that looked black even from close up.

  “America is in the middle of an epidemic like none it has ever seen before,” Eckles began. “The opioid crisis knows no bounds. It is affecting individuals and families in every congressional district. Its consequences, ranging from personal health to the economy, are devastating. Tragically, more than eighty thousand Americans died from drug overdoses in 2018. This year, more than two million Americans will suffer from addiction to prescription or illicit opioids. I’m going to repeat that to make sure you gentlemen heard me clearly. Two million.”

  Eckles stopped and ran his eyes from one CEO to another, the five men representing the five largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, all of which counted prescription narcotics as crucial to their bottom lines.

  “Mr. Oswell, are you aware how many opioid prescriptions were written in 2012, for some historical context?”

  “I am not, Senator,” said the man at the end of the line on the right.

  “The answer is more than two hundred and fifty-five million, or just over eighty-one scrips for every hundred people in the United States. Does that seem excessive to you?”

  Oswell leaned in closer to his microphone. “That is a matter for the patient and his or her doctor.”

  “I see,” Eckles said, turning to the man seated to Oswell’s left. “Mr. Barthwell, are you aware that in 2007 Purdue Pharma pleaded guilty in federal court in Virginia to misleading doctors and patients about OxyContin’s safety and paid a record six-million-dollar fine in penalties?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then are you also aware, for the record, that between 1995 and 2015 the same company made thirty-five billion dollars from OxyContin sales alone?”

  Barthwell leaned forward again, his motions as casual as his words. “I am not.”

  “Let’s move on to Mr. Jenks, then,” the senator said, continuing down the line to the thin man in the center. “Are you aware of the law passed several years ago entitled the Ensuring Patient Access and Effective Drug Enforcement Act?”

  “I testified in open hearings in support of it,” Jenks said smugly.

  “Of course you did, since it required the DEA to warn anyone involved in the drug industry, in virtually any capacity, if they are in breach of any regulations, in order that they are given a chance to comply before their licenses are withdrawn.”

  “I believe that’s the case, yes, Senator.”

  “Do you also believe, as many of us do, that what this bill really did was take away the DEA’s ability to go after a pharmacist, wholesaler, manufacturer, or distributor they suspect of wrongdoing?”

  “That is not my understanding,” Jenks said.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Eckles asked rhetorically, focusing his gaze on the fourth man in the row, who kept dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. “Mr. Flood, I’m going to quote some statistics. Please stop me if you find yourself in disagreement with any of them. Let’s start with the fact that there are two point five million Americans suffering from substance abuse disorders related to prescription opioid pain relievers.… No argument, Mr. Flood? How about that over the past three years, deaths by synthetic opioids increased by over five hundred percent, from three thousand to twenty thousand.… No argument again, Mr. Flood? Let’s try the fact that each day, nearly two hundred Americans die from opioid overdose.… Nothing? Okay, how about the fact that, in the past decade, your five companies combined have spent nine hundred million dollars on lobbying efforts. Putting that in context, it’s eight times the amount spent by the gun lobby.”

  Eckles waited for Flood to mount an argument, then moved on to the final CEO when he didn’t.

  “Your company produces a version of the overdose-reversal drug Narcan, called Remeo, is that correct, Mr. DePrete?”

  “It is, Senator.”

  “And it is also true that two years ago your company sold two dosages of Remeo for five hundred dollars but today that price now approaches five thousand?”

  “I don’t have the records in front of me,” DePrete said into his microphone.

  “Then it’s a good thing I do,” Eckles followed, flapping a ream of pages in the air before him. “Let’s proceed, shall we?”

  36

  WASHINGTON, DC

  His fellow committee members gave Lee Eckles a standing ovation when he entered the hotel suite where they’d gathered at the hearing’s conclusion. Eckles smiled, trying to appear humble though inwardly relishing their praise and, in conjunction, the power he held over them. That power was furthered by a performance earlier in the day that had served only to enhance his credibility on the subject.

  Indeed, the fact that Washington’s top drug crusader was the mastermind behind a multibillion-dollar scheme to flood the country’s streets with all manner of opiates
was known only to a select few, none of whom were present in this room, which meant that Eckles would have to maintain his guise.

  “Thank you,” Eckles said, still in humble mode but genuinely meaning it. “Thank you.”

  Their laudatory comments went in one ear and out the other. Eckles’s attention focused instead on a man standing by himself off in the suite’s darkest recesses. After exchanging sufficient pleasantries and accepting back slaps to go with all the praise, he made his way over to Roland Fass, pretending to greet him warmly like an old friend.

  “You want to explain why I’m looking at you up close and personal?” Eckles asked sharply, his back to the room so no one would see the anger stretched across his features. “What part of ‘We are never to meet in person’ don’t you understand?”

  “I don’t trust the phones, especially anything with a two oh two area code.”

  “Can’t say I blame you there, but this is a serious breach of protocol. Need I remind you what the people we’re both on the hook to might make of it?”

  “I don’t know, tell them we’re lovers or something.”

  “That wouldn’t bother them a lick, but if they found out about this, us meeting in person, we’d both be looking to change our identities tomorrow.”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than today.”

  “This about Texas? Mission accomplished, I thought.”

  “The survivor from Camino Pass is out of the picture, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What else would I mean?”

  “Our man had it out with a Texas Ranger.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “It gets worse, Senator. The Ranger’s still alive.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’ve lived in Texas my whole life and never met a single Ranger.”

  “And you don’t want to meet this one. That’s why I’m here. To tell you we need to do something about her and we need to do it fast.”

  “Did you say her?”

  “The name Caitlin Strong doesn’t ring any bells?” Fass asked him.

  Eckles nodded his head. “I’m the senior senator from the state of Texas, son. So, yes, that name rings a whole bunch of bells, like the church ones that ought to be playing at her funeral after she went up against this hired gun of yours. Maybe he’s not as good as advertised.”

  “He killed eight people before he ran into her.”

  “So you’re telling me it’s Caitlin Strong who’s investigating Camino Pass.”

  Fass nodded. “As part of some Homeland Security detail.”

  Eckles was about to respond, but then he greeted with a wide grin and a celebratory slap on the back an overweight man with shiny skin who was passing by.

  “We ate their lunch,” he said, the grin holding, “and left the fork stuck in their mouth.”

  The overweight man sauntered off to freshen his drink, leaving the corner all to Eckles and Fass again.

  “Now, what is it you crashed the party to tell me?” Eckles said.

  “The cause of death in Camino Pass was exposure to hydrogen cyanide.”

  “The stuff they used in the old gas chamber?”

  “The very same.”

  Eckles could see something squirrelly lurking behind Fass’s eyes. “You didn’t need to come all this way to tell me that.”

  “No, I didn’t. After Camino Pass, we did a detailed check of the inventory for contamination. Turns out we’ve got a problem.”

  “How deep we talking, Fass?”

  “If you don’t mind killing a whole lot of people, not deep at all.”

  Eckles found himself intrigued by what he was hearing, overcoming whatever anger he felt over Fass’s presence in the room. “Tell me more.”

  37

  SHAVANO PARK, TEXAS

  Caitlin was almost to Cort Wesley’s house when her phone rang.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, figuring it was him calling now.

  * * *

  She’d spent the last six hours at University Hospital, interviewing witnesses and being interviewed herself as FBI and Homeland Security officials tried to make sense of the murder of three medical personnel and four national guardsmen, along with the subject responsible for their presence. Caitlin labored through the first few hours just trying to convince them it was the work of a single man, going through another ten milligrams of Vicodin to take the edge off the pounding in her head, which had returned in all of its original intensity in the ordeal’s wake.

  “No one man could do this,” a procession of investigators insisted, one after the other. “It’s not possible.”

  “It is in my world. Business as usual.”

  “I’d listen to her if I were you,” D. W. Tepper’s voice chimed in as he strode onto the scene. “You have now experienced the winds of Hurricane Caitlin firsthand.”

  Without asking for permission, Tepper brought Caitlin with him into an empty room and closed the door behind them.

  “Heard all the initial reporting, Ranger. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were describing your friend Paz.”

  “Except he was Native American.”

  Tepper rolled his eyes. “So on top of everything else, you’ve mastered time travel. Revisiting old Ranger battles.”

  “This guy didn’t come from the past, Captain. But you can bet whoever sent him had something to do with those near three hundred victims in Camino Pass.”

  “Man you’re describing has to be in somebody’s database.”

  “Paz isn’t,” Caitlin reminded.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Caitlin,” Dylan’s voice, instead of Cort Wesley’s, began in her ear. “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “You want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  “I thought I had, but when I woke up there was a note on the other pillow that read ‘Family is everything.’”

  “Got a feeling I know who wrote it,” Caitlin said, pulling into the driveway to find Nola Delgado seated on the front porch.

  * * *

  She was drinking one of Cort Wesley’s craft beers, rocking the swing casually as she sipped from a can of Freetail Brewing Company’s Original American Amber Ale.

  “Come on, sis, take a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.”

  “Hey, suit yourself. At least get yourself a beer or something.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I heard you could’ve used my help earlier today. Is it true the guy was an Indian?”

  “Native American,” Caitlin corrected.

  “We still call them Indians down in Mexico.”

  “You’re in Texas right now, Nola.”

  Just a few months ago, Caitlin hadn’t even known she had a half sister, the product of a brief affair between her father, Jim Strong, and the infamous Mexican crime boss Luna Diaz Delgado, aka the Red Widow. They’d fought on the same side against forces both her mother and Caitlin’s father had battled before in what became known as the second Battle of the Alamo. Caitlin had known a lot of people in her time, true gunfighters to the core, like Guillermo Paz and Cort Wesley, who were good at killing, but she’d never met anyone who enjoyed it as much as Nola Delgado.

  Nola smelled of something sweet and soft, jasmine or sandalwood. Her complexion was dark, though a few shades lighter than her mother’s, neither of whom saw the need to wear makeup, just like Caitlin. Nola was wearing black leather leggings tucked into scuffed black boots, her shirt tight enough to show off her muscular arms and shoulders. Caitlin pictured her spending lots of time in the gym, very much the equal of men who grunted and groaned their way through heavy lifting routines. She imagined the men staring at her across the mirrored room, while Nola paid them no attention whatsoever, secure in the notion she could wipe the floor with every single one of them without breaking a sweat.

  Nola looked across the porch to where Caitlin was standing against the railing, seeming to read her mind. “Hey, sis,
you know what I was thinking before you got here? Which of us has killed more men.”

  “I don’t keep count.”

  “Me neither. And notches in the gun belt always seemed a bit tacky.”

  “What do you want, Nola?”

  “Is that any way to talk to family?”

  “I’ll let you know if any shows up.”

  Nola hesitated, eyes continuously sizing Caitlin up from one second to the next. “Dylan told me what happened to his brother.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Caitlin asked her, figuring Cort Wesley must have finally spoken to Dylan about Luke.

  “Maybe I just want to help.”

  “Maybe it was your mother’s drugs that almost killed him.”

  “He OD’d on opioids. We’re not into that.”

  “That’s comforting to know.”

  “Tell me about the gunman in the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Because maybe our paths have crossed.”

  “On the same or different sides?”

  “Could be both, sis. Did you really shower him in oil by shooting out the overhead pipes?”

  “Your mother tell you that?”

  “She does have her sources and, it turns out, she’s taken a particular interest in you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you saved her life. In my mother’s code, that makes her responsible for yours now. Might say you’ve got another guardian angel, one with an army at her command.”

  “And a daughter she can’t control.”

  Nola drained the rest of her beer and winked. “Guess it runs in the family, doesn’t it?”

  “You promised you’d stay away from Dylan, Nola. You remember that?”

  “I remember nodding when you asked me to. Why don’t we just say I changed my mind?”