by Jon Land
“You came all this way to tell me that?”
“Along with a story your father once shared with my mother. Something I thought you might want to hear.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because it involves your great-grandfather, what he and Pancho Villa found after they partnered up…”
38
MEXICO; 1898
“Is this really necessary, Ranger?” Pancho Villa asked William Ray Strong, as the Ranger clamped his leg irons in place.
“It’s for your own good, amigo,” William Ray said, going to work on his wrists.
“I don’t understand.”
“The less you’re tempted to run off, the more chance there is I won’t have to kill you.”
The wrist cuffs clacked into place.
“After today, I thought I’d gained your trust.”
“You have, amigo. That’s why I didn’t chain you to a tree.”
William Ray Strong and Pancho Villa made camp in the foothills beyond Sal Si Puede, the town’s lights flickering and fading as the night wore on. The descent of darkness made continuing on a fool’s errand, given where the bandits told them they could find los Chinos that those same bandits insisted were behind both the murder of the posse from Camino Pass and the kidnappings that had preceded it. The Las Bajadas country beyond this stretch of rolling hills was as lawless as it got, populated by Mexican cutthroats and criminals, along with, occasionally, the American outlaws who rode with them. William Ray had heard it said that Mexicans and Americans got along better in Las Bajadas than anywhere else, given that they shared an indelible bond forged in blood and crime.
“What do you make of your friends telling us it’s Chinese we’re after?” the Ranger said, after getting a fire going.
“They’re not my friends,” Villa told him. “Take these irons off my wrists and I’ll tell you.”
“Those irons are staying where they’re at whether you tell me or not, amigo.”
“I don’t know a lot about los Chinos, anyway. They came to my country in the 1870s as part of the same flood of Chinese immigrants who built your railroads. They found other work south of the border and have grown into a community that’s spread from their original settlements in Sinaloa mostly to the cities that dot my country’s northwest border. Today the majority of them are bilingual in Spanish and Mandarin and have Mexican Christian names.”
“A fine tale,” William Ray nodded, “but last time I checked we weren’t anywhere near Sinaloa or your northwest border. And I’ve never heard, not even once, of Chinese gunmen stealing kids and gunning down Americans.”
“No, because you’ve pretty much enslaved them.”
“Last time I checked, they signed up to build the railroads. Nobody forced them to do a goddamn thing.”
“What other work could they have done?”
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought.”
“If you had, you’d realize your country’s traditions of slavery didn’t end with your Civil War.”
“And that’s why you figure they stole kids and shot a posse clean off their horses?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“What did you say?”
“You’re conflating two different things, Ranger.”
William Ray worked some more wood into the fire. “Conflating? Maybe I was wrong about how good your English is, amigo.”
The Ranger watched Villa studying his every move.
“Am I conflating something else, amigo?”
“That’s a pretty big fire you’re building.”
“It’s a pretty cold night in these parts. Never liked the desert, either here or back north of the border. Weather can never make up its mind what it wants to do. I can handle heat, I can handle cold, but getting both thrown at you so quick twists me into knots.”
Villa continued staring into the fire, its glow shining off his smooth complexion, reminding William Ray that he was still a kid. Hell, the Ranger couldn’t even tell if he’d started shaving yet or not, given that wispy mustache he was trying to grow.
“Get some sleep, amigo,” he advised Villa. “We’re up at dawn.”
* * *
It was actually an hour or so before sunrise that the sounds of Colts being cocked and shells racked into the chambers of both Winchesters and pump action shotguns woke both men up. William Ray Strong’s eyes opened to the sight of the fat man from the cantina grinning down at him with a long-barreled pistol angled on his face.
“For a Texas Ranger, you’re awfully stupid.”
“Everybody makes mistakes … Jesus. It is Jesus, isn’t it, as in Jesus Arriaga?”
The fat man’s mouth dropped, a black hole opening amid his beard. “Maybe you’re smarter than I thought…”
“Of course, you’re better known as Chucho el Roto, ‘Chucho’ for short. The subject of all kinds of books and magazine articles. You’re even a folk hero in some circles, given the legend says you shared the spoils of your crimes with the poor and downtrodden. Problem being that both Jesus Arriaga and Chucho el Roto supposedly died in 1885. So tell me, am I looking at a ghost?”
Jesus Arriaga held his pistol in place, in direct line with the Ranger’s eyes. “Too many books, too many articles, and you didn’t even make mention of the stage plays. You know, I actually played myself once. People criticized me because they didn’t think I looked the part,” Arriaga said, grinning and slapping his considerable stomach. “Of course, I was thinner back in my folk hero days.”
“Since when do folk heroes steal children from their families to enslave?”
William Ray could see Arriaga stiffen, a glint of fear flashing in his eyes. “That wasn’t me, el Rinche,” he spat hatefully.
“Then who was it? I’d love to meet him.”
“That’s good, because he wants to meet you too. Said he’s never killed a Texas Ranger.”
Arriaga’s men unlatched the chains from Pancho Villa and fastened them around William Ray’s wrists instead.
“You’re free to go, muchacho,” Arriaga said to Villa.
Villa held his gaze on the Ranger. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see this through. Nowhere else I need to be right now.”
“Suit yourself.”
Villa positioned himself to ride alongside William Ray Strong through the foothills leading up into the higher peaks and mesas that formed Las Bajadas.
“You want to tell me what you’re up to?” the Ranger asked him.
“You trusted me back in Texas. I owe you this much, to do what I can to keep you alive.”
“Seems to me that’s a foregone conclusion.”
“I’m going to make sure you don’t run off. I know that’s what you’re thinking of doing, but it will get you killed.”
“Appears I’m gonna get killed either way, then. So if you got something to say, just spit it out.”
“It’s better you see for yourself, Ranger. Besides, you never told me the truth of why you built that fire so high. You wanted Arriaga to find us. You wanted him to take you prisoner.”
William Ray shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “I figured he’d take me to the man in charge.”
“A man like that works for no one.”
“Even los Chinos?”
Villa grinned. “You’re a smart man for an American.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you left out of the story last night?”
“Tell me,” Villa said, staring straight ahead as if the Ranger wasn’t there at all, “what’s it like needing the help of a Mexican?”
“I’ve helped plenty more of your people than I killed, amigo. I don’t keep count of such things, but I’d wager I’ve killed more Indians and even Texans in my time than Mexicans.”
“Any Chinese?”
“Not yet,” William Ray told him. “But I believe that may all change today.”
39
SHAVANO PARK, TEXAS
“And did it?” Caitlin asked Nol
a Delgado.
“My memory’s foggy on what happened next. Give me a few days to let my thoughts settle.”
“You can fill me in from Mexico.”
“I leave town and you’ll never know. Want to know the funny thing? I’m the last blood relative you’ve got left in the world.”
“Why’s that funny?”
“Because I’m half Strong and got as much of your father inside me as you do.”
“You’re not worthy of sharing the name, Nola.”
“Ouch, sis. Is that what I get for saving your life on a regular basis?”
Caitlin watched her rocking gently back and forth on the swing. Nola Delgado seemed to be ten seconds ahead of the rest of the world, knowing exactly how to respond to any moment because she already knew what was coming. That was the best way Caitlin could describe the cocksure swagger that defined her. She owned every situation in which she had a part. Caitlin figured that, more than anything, described the stone killer whose blood she shared.
“You need to stop using Dylan to get to me,” she heard herself say, as if it were someone else’s voice.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. No, worse than wrong. Why is it you can’t accept the fact that I like being around Dylan because he’s Dylan? It might not have started out that way, but that’s the way it is now.”
“And I’m supposed to just accept that?” Caitlin asked, resisting the urge to stick her foot out to stop the swing from rocking.
“You need to talk to Dylan about these conflicted feelings of yours.”
“My feelings about you aren’t conflicted at all, Nola.”
“I’m talking about your feelings for him, sis. In your mind he’s still the fourteen-year-old kid whose life you saved after he witnessed his mother being gunned down. You don’t want to face the fact that he doesn’t need your protection anymore.” She seemed finished, then resumed. “You’re not his mother.”
“And what’s your mother think of the whole thing?”
“We haven’t discussed it.”
“Maybe I should have a talk with her.”
“The two of you having so much in common and all.”
“I think you’re missing my point.”
Nola stopped the swing on her own. “No, sis, you’re missing mine. My mother managed to achieve everything she has while raising three children.”
“While grooming one of her grandkids to take her place.”
“Keeping it in the family; something you can’t do because you don’t have one. We all make our choices and then life makes us live with them. My mother with hers, you with yours, and me with mine. You want to think me following Dylan to school in Providence, Rhode Island, is all about you, go ahead.”
“Really?” Caitlin said, feeling her heart starting to hammer against her chest, the heat building up inside her. “Then why leave him to come back to see me?”
“Maybe I figure you’re going to need me again.”
“Know something, Nola? You’re starting to sound like—”
Caitlin broke off her thought, realizing something.
“He called you, didn’t he? Guillermo Paz called you, and now here you are.”
“He said he had one of his visions.”
“With you as a part of it?”
“He didn’t say, sis. I get the feeling it was more general in nature, real end-of-the-world type shit. You know, the world tearing itself apart, starting in Texas.” Nola paused and tightened her gaze, seeming to look through Caitlin more than at her. “Looks like I almost got here too late. You want to tell me what it was like going up against that Indian, go tit for tit now that I’ve told you a story?”
“It’s ‘tit for tat,’” Caitlin corrected.
Nola teased her with a smile. “Sure. Whatever you say, sis. Just don’t hate me because we’re related, same blood pumping through our veins and all.”
Caitlin nodded, her thoughts settling again. “You ever hear of Medusa, Nola?”
“The Gorgon from Greek mythology? The woman with snakes for hair whose look turns men hard as stone—and I’m not talking about their penii either.”
“That’s the one.”
Nola grinned almost playfully again. “I guess I can see what you’re getting at.”
“No, you don’t. Everyone considers Medusa a monster, but that’s not entirely accurate. Many elements of the myth suggest her tragic nature. There’s an epilogue to her story, telling of how Athena gave two drops of Medusa’s blood to Asclepius, one of which has the power to cure while the other kills on contact.”
“You think that describes me?”
“Go back to Mexico, Nola.”
“You don’t think it describes you just as much—no, even more? Maybe you’re the one who turns men to stone, sis. That would explain why it took so long for you to find one.”
“Beats robbing the cradle, Nola.”
Caitlin’s phone rang and she answered it, her eyes never leaving Nola Delgado, who had resumed rocking on the porch swing.
“You’re not going to believe who I’m talking to, Captain,” she answered, after glimpsing D. W. TEPPER on the caller ID.
“Nola Delgado?”
“Am I the only one left in the world who’s not psychic?”
“I’m not reading the future, Ranger, just the security bulletins. Camera flagged her coming into San Antonio airport. Anyway, I’m sorry to break up the party, but Cort Wesley Masters is in jail up in Houston. I’ve arranged for him to be released into your custody. How soon can you leave?”
40
HOUSTON
Cort Wesley sat in the corner of the holding cell, leaning his head against the cold concrete and doing his best to block out the stench of urine, which was battling with the vomit for supremacy. Reviewing the chain of events that had landed him in here.
A name, Cholo.
Don’t have a name for you. Just an address. Knock yourself out, puta. Just make sure you got your affairs in order first.
Cort Wesley had gone straight to that address, his intention being to get the lay of the land before returning the following day with a plan in place and his emotions contained. What he found when he got to 7231 FM 1960 in the Houston suburb of Humble, though, changed all his intentions.
He checked three times to see that he had the right address, since he’d found himself in a strip mall of slab-style buildings colored an ugly turquoise shade. The office suite in question belonged to the Uptown Medical Clinic, a facility not unlike the ones he was more familiar with closer to home around Shavano Park. He’d gotten there just as the sun was setting and found the reception area packed with patients—literally, standing room only.
He checked the address yet again, searching his memory to make sure he’d entered the right street number into the app on his phone. This was the place, all right, he was sure of it.
After watching yet more patients arriving as others left, Cort Wesley decided to have a closer look. He angled his features downward to avoid any security cameras and found a seat in a darkened area of the lobby that afforded a clear view of the single door through which clinic patients both disappeared and emerged in a steady stream. Based on the building’s size and patient traffic, he figured there were at least four exam rooms beyond that door, and as many as six. Probably two hundred patients crammed into the waiting area with him, most standing in what looked like lines you’d see for a bank teller, the place packed solid with bodies except in the back where he’d snared a seat.
The patients seemed to have virtually nothing of substance in common, other than that none of them appeared to be sick. They passed through the single door as soon as their number was called, many reemerging either holding a prescription bottle in hand or tucking one into their pocket. That alone struck Cort Wesley as strange, given that so many prescriptions were phoned into pharmacies these days, not treated like take-out food by a walk-in clinic.
>
What struck him as stranger, though, was the presence of not one but two armed security guards, who had the look of men with more experience than typical rent-a-cops. They stood off to the side in respective corners, doing their best not to stand out, and, to that point, none of the clinic patients seemed to be paying them any heed at all.
He remained in his seat for an hour, the clinic traffic showing no signs of slowing. He had a sense of what he was witnessing here, but that didn’t make it any easier to believe. He was doing a mental count and some rough multiplication to answer a single question: What if all the “patients” of this clinic left with a hefty supply of opioids tucked in their pocket, backpack, or handbag?
Cort Wesley figured he’d need a calculator or even a computer to come up with the right numbers. He continued running the math in his head, sitting there stewing as he considered the very real possibility that the drugs that had nearly killed his son had originated here, if the claims of Cholo Brown were true.
He read the clinic’s hours backwards through the glass door and saw that they closed at ten o’clock. Shortly after that, he was one of the last people in the waiting room, and he chose that moment to approach the reception desk, which was tucked behind a sliding glass partition.
Drawing closer, Cort Wesley saw that it was thick enough to be bulletproof, complete with a thin gel layer between two matching panes of glass. He waited as patiently as he could manage for the woman wearing a lab coat to slide the glass partition open, his heart slamming against his rib cage nonetheless.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I just realized I forgot my insurance card.”
She started to reach for a clipboard preloaded with some kind of blank form. “Did you fill out our patient questionnaire yet?”
“Guy who referred me said that wouldn’t be necessary. Patient of yours named Cholo Brown.”
Cort Wesley had hoped mention of the name would get a rise out of the woman, perhaps because Cholo had called ahead to warn the clinic that Cort Wesley was coming. But she didn’t so much as flicker an eyebrow at mention of the name, handing over the clipboard in casual fashion instead.