by Jon Land
“But it’s a safe bet we’re looking at Europeans here,” Cort Wesley said, still trying to make sense of that.
“They’re sure as shit not Texans, and I don’t know a single gunman in the entire US of A who’d use a PM-84 or a Steyr. They’re more likely to use a Star Wars blaster or lightsaber, even though the Steyr compares favorably to the Glock, which has never been my weapon of choice, and is a distant cousin of the SIG Sauer line, like the one your girlfriend used up in Dallas yesterday. I’m surprised SIG hasn’t come a-calling to make her their international spokesman.”
“They did. The conversation didn’t go well.”
Baer chuckled, coming up just short of a laugh. “How could it? Gunfighters don’t fancy giving endorsements. Might as well paint a target on their backs.”
“Caitlin Strong doesn’t need to endorse a gun line for that, Gunny. The target’s already permanently in place.”
“Texas Rangers wouldn’t have it any other way, either. I’ve worked with enough of them, on this range and others, to appreciate their respect, even reverence, for the weapon they’re holding. And I respect any man, or woman, who’s part of an outfit that requires a certain shooting standard to get in and stay in. Where’s the little lady shoot, by the way?”
“Old range without couches or smoothies, where her grandfather taught her.”
Tom Baer nodded. “I think I know the place. We got an anniversary celebration coming up, and it just so happens I was looking for a special guest. Think you could ask your girlfriend?”
“Sure thing. Least I can do, Gunny.”
Baer gazed about lethargically, as if totally unimpressed by his surroundings. “Not what she’s used to, of course. At her range, they likely spray the air with gun oil to make people feel at home.”
Cort Wesley sniffed at the air. “What was it I smelled when I first stepped through the door?”
“Something linen-scented from Glade, if you can believe that shit.”
“Beats the smell of blood, Gunny.”
Baer started to smile, then stopped, with a gleam holding in his eyes. “Not for my money, Captain Masters.”
27
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
As a soldier in an army dedicated to eliminating any threats posed to the Catholic Church, the first thing Enrico Molinari did upon reaching San Antonio was to seek out a venue to properly pay reverence to those whom he served.
San Fernando Cathedral on West Main Plaza had been founded in March of 1731 by a group of fifteen families from the Canary Islands, at the invitation of King Philip V of Spain. It was the oldest continuously functioning religious community in the entire state, and also the oldest standing church building and cathedral sanctuary in the United States, adding to both its majesty and its holiness. Jim Bowie had been married here before dying at the Alamo at the hands of Santa Anna, who used the building as an observation post. The cathedral claimed that Bowie, along with Lieutenant Colonel William Travis and Davy Crockett himself, had been ceremonially buried in the church’s graveyard as his official resting place.
Molinari was not enough of a student of Texas history to know if that was true, one way or another. Since the heroes’ bodies had all been burned after the famous battle, he supposed anybody could claim anything they wanted to.
Only within a house of the Lord like this one could Molinari conjure the memories of his becoming, from that very moment the flames swallowed him in a single poof, the pain instantly indescribable, but somehow welcome. The heat first roasted and then stole his breath, left him praying for the moment darkness would replace the bright flames and he’d be on his way to someplace else.
Then Molinari felt a wash of air and something cold shoving its way through the heat. He pictured his body melting into nothing, sucked back into the ground from which it had once sprung. He realized the pain was back, a million times worse. He wanted to scream, but there was no air, and when the breath came, it felt like somebody else’s being shoved into his lungs.
In a brief moment of clarity and consciousness, Molinari realized he’d been rescued, and he wanted to tell his fellow officers not to bother, to just let him die so he wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. But he couldn’t speak at all, much less those words, and instead of letting him die they did everything they could to make sure he lived. Of course, none of those efforts mattered, couldn’t matter, because Molinari had been burned so badly. Just some more pain to endure, hopefully broken by pain medication, before death mercifully took him in its grasp. But then the most unexpected thing happened: he lived. Doctors proclaimed it a miracle.
For Molinari’s part, that only lasted until he looked in the mirror at the monster he had become.
The miracle of his survival turned Molinari into a cause célèbre. Religious groups and movements claimed him as their own, racing to see which could pay his substantial medical bills first. But one group rose above the others by going beyond even that, by having him transferred to the world’s premier burn clinic, where the costs of his treatment were virtually incalculable.
An endless series of skin grafts ensued, many of the procedures experimental and years away from approval in the United States. The pain they wrought was worse than anything, even those initial moments when the flames first consumed him. The process unfolded over what could have been months but was more likely years. Molinari’s sense of time was lost to the haze of medications that cut through the agony while they sliced away his very being. He had the real sense that he was mired in the midst of a great becoming, a biblical teaching, even prophecy come to life.
But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image, from glory to glory, just as from the Lord, the Spirit.
That passage from Second Corinthians came to define his life, both figuratively and literally. The months, and years, passed, with more surgeries to complete his remaking, his becoming. They even managed to repair his face, thanks to an experimental procedure that combined plasmapheresis with something called microtransplantation, where swaths of donated skin made him look like a poorly sewed scarecrow before the scars receded.
And He was transfigured before them; and His face shone like the sun, and His garments became as white as light.
Just as written in Matthew. The miracle complete, the old Molinari gone and a new man, quite literally, rising in his place.
Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.
From the Book of Peter, and Molinari took from it the concept not so much of hope but of purpose, what he might take to replace all he had lost. He found solace and meaning in his former life of killing, realizing it had been a training ground for his great becoming. Just as doctors had stitched various parts together to make his face whole, Molinari gathered the pieces of his life toward the same end.
He would be a warrior for God, upholding the missions of the mysterious forces that had brought him to the clinic and had wrought his becoming.
Mysterious forces that called themselves the Order, dedicated to preserving the word of God above all else. They were warriors in service to a fragile truth that had nonetheless endured for centuries. As guardians of the dogma upon which the cornerstone of Christianity had been laid, the Order’s mission was to preserve the word of God by silencing those who dared to speak over it.
And now this holy mission had brought him to Texas.
Back to Texas.
Call it unfinished business, an opportunity to correct a great wrong, to turn failure into success. To serve God in the most meaningful way he ever had.
Texas had been his first assignment on behalf of the Order. And now God’s mysterious ways had brought him back to bestow a miracle upon mankind: the means to vanquish the enemies of the Church forever.
He removed a small, folded slip of paper from his pocket, opening it as he exited the ornate cathedral. The contact number he’d been provided with was different from the one he’d dialed twenty-five years ago, but he recognized the voice on the other end of the line as the same.
“Greetings, brother,” the voice said.
“I await your instructions,” Molinari told him.
“I’ll send them to this number. Memorize them immediately, since the message will disappear in seconds.”
“I understand. You indicated the opportunity we thought lost twenty-five years ago has been regained.”
“Yes,” the familiar voice told him, “but circumstances have changed since my original report was issued. I’m afraid we’ve encountered a … problem.”
28
AUSTIN, TEXAS
“You want to dance with me or just go find a room someplace?” the young woman said to Dylan Torres, laying her shot glass back on the bar at Antone’s, Austin’s most popular nightclub and, especially, music venue.
“Why don’t we do another tequila shot to help us decide?” the oldest son of Cort Wesley Masters asked her.
“No more Cuervo, though. I’d rather eat the worm.”
“Patrón?”
“Only if it’s the silver. Top-shelf.”
“Ouch. I look like I’m made of money to you?”
“I don’t know what you look like, boy, but it suits me just fine.”
Dylan slapped a twenty down on the bar, added a ten atop it, and ordered up a pair of Patrón Silver shots. “So what’s your name?” he asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Dylan Torres,” Dylan said, leaving it there.
“Are you famous or something?”
“Why?”
“You look familiar. Like from television or something.”
“I’ve been hearing that since I was fourteen.”
“Don’t blame me ’cause you’re pretty, boy.”
“It takes one to know one,” Dylan said, handing one of the just-poured shots to the raven-haired girl and keeping the second one for himself. “To beauty,” he toasted.
“To beauty.”
They drained their shots and grabbed matching slices of lime in mirrorlike fashion, Dylan no longer caring about the friends who’d wandered off on him to get closer to the stage. He studied the girl in the mirror, pretending to play it cool. Her wavy black hair kept claiming his attention, and her eyes seemed to be the same color. Dylan had never met anyone with black eyes before—dark, dark blue maybe, but not black. Her skin was flawless and left Dylan imagining what might be under her blouse and her shiny, leather-like leggings, which were tucked into brown boots that climbed past her ankles. She smelled of jasmine, or lavender or something, just enough to hide the slight scent of tobacco that rode her clothes the way it did for people who prefer vaping.
“Selina,” the girl said suddenly, “as in Kyle.”
“Catwoman,” Dylan followed, extending his hand. “Nice to officially meet you, Selina.”
Selina looked at the hand but didn’t take it. “That the best you can do?”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
Selina leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Stop trying.”
* * *
She was a pharmaceutical rep, age twenty-six, which made her four years or so his senior. He texted his friends to tell them they were on their own and then walked with Selina the short distance down a few blocks to the Hyatt Place, where she was staying.
“You bring guys back on all your business trips?” Dylan asked, stopping short of pulling her in close or even holding her hand.
Selina saved him further consideration of the dilemma by cupping his butt with her hand as they approached the Hyatt marquee. “This is my first one, at least without a trainer, so I’m kind of establishing a tradition.”
“Well, I’m glad to be your first.”
Selina laughed easily at that. “Yeah, not even close.”
“What if you were mine?”
“Am I?”
“I asked you what if I was.”
She stopped just short of the hotel entrance, sizing him up. “I’m guessing, with that look of yours, you’ve been with as many women as I have men. Unless you’re gay. Then you would’ve been with even more men than me.”
“My brother’s gay.”
Dylan’s comment didn’t throw Selina at all. “If he looks like you, I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”
“He’s still in high school.”
“Proving my point,” she said, taking him by the hand and yanking him through the sliding doors.
* * *
Dylan didn’t bother mentioning that it had been a while since he’d had sex, the whole process tarnished by a Native American girl who’d nearly broken him in two after he’d followed her from Brown University to her reservation back home. He didn’t bother telling Selina that, because then he’d have to explain his obsession with the girl, and how she’d died in his arms. He’d taken a leave of absence from Brown, which pretty much meant dropping out, to chase the girl back to Texas, only to realize he was just another part of her plan. Talk about feeling like a loser, having his heart ripped out to the point where he’d lost his confidence—until tonight in Antone’s, when Selina approached him.
Talk about being a buzzkill.
Instead, he tried his best to pick up where he’d left off over a year ago, only to find himself feeling fifteen again, the whole sex thing done practically before it started.
“Oops,” Dylan said.
“Don’t stop,” Selina said from beneath him.
* * *
And they didn’t stop, for hours, Dylan finding the process a lot like riding a bicycle, except for the spill he’d taken during their first ride. He’d been on peyote the last time he’d had sex, and it felt good not to be on anything stronger than tequila tonight, although he found himself hoping she sold Viagra or something so there might be some samples hanging around.
Selina was methodical, practiced, turning the night into forever, to the point where Dylan came to dread any peek of sunshine through the drawn blinds. His phone was somewhere, his clothes were somewhere, and he felt like he were somewhere other than here, anywhere he wanted to be, in the darkness, so long as Selina was with him and they didn’t stop. A few times he thought he’d stopped breathing and wondered if he were dead, if Selina were some magical spirit meant to escort him into an afterlife consumed by pleasure.
Catwoman, indeed.
He didn’t remember lying down, didn’t remember finally passing out, only waking up to the sun streaming in through the open blinds, alone in the big bed. Selina’s side was empty, not even an impression left in her wake. And her stuff was gone, too, including the scent that rode her body like a spring meadow.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing.
Then he looked up from the sink, with his face dripping water, to find something written in black Magic Marker on his forehead. Dylan knew a phone number when he saw one, but he had to position a handheld mirror in order to read this one.
Even after jotting the number down on a hotel memo pad and memorizing it, he didn’t wash the marker off, just left the Hyatt with the numbers riding his forehead like a scar.
PART FOUR
A reporter did a human interest piece on the Texas Rangers. The reporter recognized the Colt Model 1911 the Ranger was carrying and asked him, “Why do you carry a .45?” The Ranger responded, “Because they don’t make a .46.”
—Texas Ranger legend
29
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
“Sorry I’m early, Colonel Gee,” Caitlin Strong greeted Guillermo Paz, at the day care center where they’d arranged to meet.
She’d arrived just as his charges were leaving for the day, tiny backpacks slung in place and lunch boxes emblazoned with cartoon characters or superheroes in hand. She had come straight from Doc Whatley’s office, where she’d delivered her father’s .45. She
got a kick out of how they referred to him as “Colonel Gee” and out of watching the biggest man she’d ever seen stoop to meet their hugs. The tallest in the group reached only as high as his waist, leaving Caitlin figuring she’d stumbled onto some twisted version of Gulliver’s Travels, in which diminutive creatures known as Lilliputians took the title character hostage.
“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” he said, returning her grin.
“As a matter of fact, I do. And I think your priest would be proud of this latest stop on your Reconciling with God tour.”
“Not exactly, Ranger, given that I was never close to Him until I met you, so there was nothing to reconcile. It’s more like my Winning God Over tour.”
“How’s Father Boylston?” Caitlin asked him, referring to the priest from the famed San Fernando Cathedral who’d functioned as Paz’s spiritual adviser until a stroke felled him.
“I’m heading over to the nursing home to feed him as soon as I get the place back in order,” the big man said, an edge lacing his tone that was grim and sad at the same time. “He didn’t eat much while I was away; I’m not sure he ate at all. But when I saw him again, yesterday, I’m almost certain he acknowledged my presence, maybe even cracked a little smile. I was worried he wasn’t going to eat, that he’s ready to cash in his chips.”
“You can’t really blame him.”
“There is still strength in his eyes. I know it because I can see it there.”
Caitlin looked at the man who’d saved her life more times than she could count, after initially being hired to take it, and saw him differently. Vulnerable, mournful, and clinging to false hope all at the same time. She knew Guillermo Paz for a lot of things, but clinging to hope wasn’t one of them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, staring at her with the familiar gleam back in his eyes. “But I can’t help it. So much of who I am today rests with my priest. I’m worried that losing him means losing that part of myself. So I make myself believe there is hope for him, even though, as Tolkien has written, ‘False hopes are more dangerous than fears.’ But I’ve never been scared of anything before, from the time my first priest died in my arms until now.”