Strong As Steel

by Jon Land

  “I think Francis Bacon had something to say on the subject, too.”

  Paz nodded, impressed by Caitlin’s knowledge, thanks to a college class that had stuck in her head for some reason. “Specifically, that ‘hope is a good breakfast, but it’s a bad supper.’ Meaning it’s a fine thing so long as you don’t cling to it too hard or long. Not too long ago, I told my priest I’d put him out of his misery if he asked me to. Now I realize I could never do that, for fear of the misery it might cause in me. That thought made me feel selfish, Ranger, and I think that’s why I had to go home for my mother’s funeral. To prove I was capable of something that wasn’t selfish at all.”

  “Jones didn’t tell me what was going on, until the rescue was already under way.”

  “You don’t owe me any apologies.”

  “I wish I’d been there, all the same, Colonel. Least I could have done, given our history.”

  “The outlaw had everything under control, and Jones was able to sneak my men into the country so they could infiltrate the crowd. I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t gone, but I’m sure my mother will tell me how stupid I was for coming back for the funeral, when I see her in my dreams.” Paz stopped, seeming to study her eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me about him?”

  “Who?”

  “The outlaw.”

  The night before, Caitlin had noticed Cort Wesley still favoring his right hand, the healing going much too slowly for her taste. She knew enough to know it hadn’t been the product of a cramp at all, and she half wished he’d come home with that arm in a sling after some doctor had found a bullet lodged under the skin. As it was, the thought of the way he kept positioning his right arm to keep her from seeing it had kept her up much of the night worrying, because that’s what she did whenever she found herself unable to do anything but think.

  “I was going to ask you about his arm,” Caitlin told Paz.

  “He called it a cramp on the plane. My man who’s a medic agreed.”

  “Agreed or diagnosed?”

  “Fair question.”

  “And do you agree with the diagnosis, Colonel?”

  “No, Ranger. The way he was carrying his arm, I thought he’d been shot.”

  Caitlin left things there and swung her gaze about the pastel-colored walls, over the toys, games, soft floor cushions, and libraries of both books and DVDs that were age appropriate.

  “You said you needed to see me about something else, Ranger.”

  “It has to do with a case my father worked in 1994, and another that’s surfaced today, the connection being none other than Luna Diaz Delgado.”

  “Your father worked a case involving la Viuda Roja?” Paz asked, genuinely interested.

  “It wasn’t long after her husband’s assassination, a few years maybe. My dad was on the trail of whoever killed seven men, maybe even ten, to steal something off a freight train that made a fateful stop in Fort Stockton on its way to Chihuahua.”

  “Delgado’s home base in Mexico.”

  “Exactly. And, as the story goes, she didn’t deny that the cargo that never made it there was hers, but she did her best to warn him off.”

  Caitlin saw Paz’s eyes flicker. “You mentioned both seven and ten victims. Which is it?”

  “Hard to say. The entire five-man train crew and a couple ex–Mexican special operators serving as guards were shot to death. Three more bodies that were never identified were found inside the freight car in question, the cause of their deaths never positively determined.”

  “They weren’t murdered like the others?”

  Caitlin shook her head again. “They died of heart failure and respiratory arrest. The bodies were transferred to the Centers for Disease Control, but I haven’t followed that up yet.”

  Paz sank into one of the beanbag chairs normally occupied by five-year-olds who weighed maybe a tenth of what he did. The chair wheezed in protest, and Caitlin thought she heard something pop as she plopped into the one next to his.

  “That explains the past, Ranger. What happened to make it so relevant all of a sudden?”

  “The skeletal remains of four bodies were found in the desert near Sonora. No IDs, obviously, but the preliminary tests date their killings back about, oh, twenty-five years.”

  “1994.”

  “I think you’re getting the point. But there’s more: those bodies had been buried in the middle of nowhere with something else that got pulled out of the ground by a backhoe.”

  “And you think it was the same thing that was stolen from that freight car, the property of Luna Diaz Delgado?”

  Caitlin realized she was rocking back and forth, the contents of the beanbag chair crackling. “Just another of my crazy feelings probably. But it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  Guillermo Paz’s thick face, creased by light patches of scarring amid his naturally dark skin, tightened in concern. “How can I help?”

  “What do you know about Delgado?”

  “The Red Widow keeps to herself, outside of her business and political interests.”

  “Political?”

  “She likes putting all that money she’s making to good use by buying off as many Mexican politicians as possible. And the government considers itself in her debt, given that Delgado’s effort at centralizing the drug trade has sharply cut back on internecine wars between the rival cartels that claim the lives of so many innocents.” Paz stopped and looked at her closer, narrowing his gaze. “You want to pick up where your father left off with her. That’s what you coming to me is about.”

  “And if I told you I intended to drive down there and have a little talk with her?”

  “I’d tell you not to waste the gasoline, Ranger. If you don’t know something already, you’ll never hear it from the Red Widow.” Paz leaned in toward her, his expression turning somber and serious. “Something you need to know. Yesterday, when I was telling my charges a story, I had one of my visions.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “A new darkness is coming, Ranger. I don’t know its source or purposes but I know it means to consume us in its path. Now you come to me with this and it makes me think the darkness is beginning to reveal itself, that it somehow involves the Red Widow. And if that’s the case, we know where this is going. Wherever la Viuda Roja goes, blood follows. The Red Widow has more than earned her nickname.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Caitlin told Paz, “though not necessarily the specifics.”

  “A lot of victims, a lot of blood. Those are the only specifics you need in this case. And you’ll be wasting your time. I doubt very much Delgado would see you and, if she did, you won’t be able to get anything worthwhile from her.”

  “Worried that I’ve met my match, Colonel?”

  “Have you ever seen two female tarantulas fight, Ranger?”

  “Usually over a male during mating season, isn’t it, Colonel?”

  “And for his efforts, the male ends up being killed.”

  “Eaten as well, I seem to recall,” Caitlin added.

  She felt her phone buzz, drew it from her pocket, and saw a text message from Young Roger: NEED TO SEE YOU RIGHT AWAY, RANGER. IMPORTANT!!!!!!!!!

  “If you’re able to make the trip over the weekend, I could join you,” Paz offered.

  “Why just the weekend?” Caitlin asked, counting the exclamation points in Young Roger’s message for some reason.

  Paz swiped from the floor a stuffed bear left behind by one of the just-departed kids. “Because I have a story I promised my charges I’d finish on Monday.”

  30

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  Cort Wesley spooned the scrambled eggs he’d just made onto Dylan’s plate.

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” the boy said, pushing it away from him.

  “It’s called a hangover, son.”

  “I’m never drinking tequila again,” Dylan moaned, face in his hands.

  “I’ve said that a time or two myself. Don’t eat until you�
��re ready. Eggs warmed up in the microwave aren’t as bad as they sound.”

  Cort Wesley took the plate from the table, covered it in plastic wrap, and slid it onto a shelf in the refrigerator.

  “I’ll bet you’ll miss making me breakfast when I go back to school in a couple weeks.”

  “A couple weeks? Seems awfully early,” Cort Wesley said, suddenly realizing how much he was going to miss having his oldest around.

  “Football practice starts the third week in August.”

  “You back on the team?”

  “Coach Estes hasn’t decided yet.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Cort Wesley thought Dylan was looking more through than at him. “Coach wants to talk to you, Dad.”

  “He want my permission?”

  “That, and your opinion.”

  “About whether you should play or not?”

  “About me in general. That’s the impression I got.”

  “I’ll call him today.”

  Dylan nodded, running his tongue around his mouth as if to make sure it was still there. “Just make sure to tell him what he wants to hear.”

  “And how am I supposed to know what that is?”

  “Come on, you can bullshit with the best of them.”

  “I think you’re confusing me with you, son.”

  “What is it they say about the apple and the tree?” Dylan started to smile, until a fresh throb struck him like a bell striker rattling about his skull. “Oh, man, I am never drinking again.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m sticking to drugs.”

  Cort Wesley waited for him to look back up again. “What’s her name, son?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “’Cause you’ve got her phone number on your forehead.”

  The doorbell rang. Cort Wesley left Dylan and his hangover there in the kitchen and moved to answer it, yanking the door open to the sight of a beautiful dark-haired young woman, dressed to kill, with eyes that looked like eight balls shining out of her face.

  “Hey, Mr. Torres, is Dylan around?”

  “Name’s Masters. I’ve got a notion of your phone number from Dylan’s forehead, but not your name.”

  “It’s Selina Escolante.”

  “Nice to meet you, Selina Escolante. Come right in,” Cort Wesley offered, angling for the door himself. “Why don’t I give the two of you some space.”

  * * *

  Outside in his truck, Cort Wesley checked his phone to see if Tom Baer had called. But there was nothing there except a text from Caitlin that read simply, GOOD MORNING.

  He hadn’t been very good company since coming back from Venezuela, with his arm still bothering him and all, and he supposed this was her way of telling him to snap out of it. Cort Wesley was starting to wonder if this whole thing with his arm might be psychological in nature, conjured out of guilt by his subconscious—something like that. Maybe killing was like pouring water into a glass, the psyche only able to handle so much before it spilled over the top. And the response of his unconscious mind was to take his trigger hand away from him.

  Made sense, when you thought about it that way.

  Was he supposed to feel more guilt for all the lives he’d taken over the years? Was there a built-in obsolescence to a man’s capacity to take the lives of others, perhaps at least partially explaining why combat was a young man’s game? Maybe it was not for somebody pushing fifty, even if he was in the best shape of his life. Not that he regretted for even a moment agreeing to lead the mission to rescue Guillermo Paz. And, truth be told, he would have traded use of his arm for the colonel’s life any day.

  You hear that, subconscious?

  He was going to drive over to the Nardis Gun Club to try forcing his right hand back into action by doing some shooting, but he ended up pulling over into a Valero parking lot instead, where he jogged his phone to the number of Brown University’s head football coach, Phil Estes.

  “Dylan told me you wanted to talk,” Cort Wesley said, aiming his words toward his truck’s Bluetooth speaker, “about him wanting to play football again.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Masters?” the coach asked him.

  “For my son to be happy.”

  “Would he be happy not playing because he’s way down the depth chart?”

  “He’s not the kind of kid you want to count out, Coach.”

  “I’ve witnessed that firsthand, but you really think calling him a kid is accurate?”

  “What’s that mean?” Cort Wesley wondered, closing the truck’s windows and flipping on the air-conditioning.

  “Sounds like he’s had a pretty busy sabbatical.”

  “He told you?”

  “Gave me the broad strokes.”

  “Coach,” Cort Wesley started, finding his voice and his point, “those broad strokes are the whole point here. I think the main reason Dylan’s got it in his head is that he wants to feel normal again, and being normal means getting back on the football field. You’re right about what the last year’s done to him, and from where I sit, I’m thinking he wants to pick up like that year never happened. I don’t think he cares about playing; I think he cares about trying, competing. That’s all he wants. He may not see the field except to practice, but that’s enough to make new memories to replace the ones he can’t chase out of his mind from the past few months. Make sense?”

  “Plenty, Mr. Masters,” Coach Estes said. “Tell Dylan to check his email for the preseason schedule.”

  31

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  Cort Wesley ended the call and drove to the walk-in Texas MedClinic located on North Loop 1604, also known as the Charles W. Anderson Loop. He’d passed the spot a million times without giving the sign a second thought. He checked in at the receptionist’s desk, presented his insurance card, and filled out the required information while standing right there at the counter.

  “You’re here because of a cramp?” the receptionist said, after regarding the form.

  Cort Wesley demonstrated the difficulty he had lifting and moving his right arm. “It’s taking a long time to loosen up.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple days now.”

  The receptionist added that notation to the form and looked back up at him. “Please take a seat.”

  Cort Wesley had barely sat down and begun fishing through the stale magazines when a nurse emerged through a door and called his name. Moments later he was sitting atop a cushioned exam table, his blood pressure deemed perfect and his heart, according to the nurse, strong enough to power a city bus.

  A doctor replaced her in the room five minutes later.

  “I’m Dr. Shazir. Let’s take a look at that arm.”

  The doctor did more touching, prodding, and pushing than looking, then checked Cort Wesley’s range of motion and the strength of his grasp and ran something that felt like a pencil up and down his arm while studying his reaction.

  “You got that look, Doc,” Cort Wesley said, because he had to say something.

  Dr. Shazir glanced down at the form Cort Wesley had filled out, not finding what he was looking for. “When did the first symptoms appear?”

  Cort Wesley worked the time backward. “Three days ago. Almost exactly.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, ten being normal and one being the onset of symptoms, where would you say you are now?”

  “Five maybe?”

  “Five?”

  “Or six.”

  Dr. Shazir nodded, his expression still framed by concern not quite approaching worry. “Do you know what a transient ischemic attack is, Mr. Masters?”

  “No.”

  “It’s more commonly known as a TIA.”

  “The answer’s still no, Doc.”

  Shazir nodded, as if preparing himself, instead of Cort Wesley, for what he was going to say next. “How about what’s known as a ‘warning stroke’?”

 
Cort Wesley felt his insides drop. “You think I had a stroke?”

  “A warning stroke.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The fact that your arm is showing signs of improvement and there are no other apparent symptoms.”

  “And that’s a good thing,” Cort Wesley said, listening to his own words as if someone else had spoken them.

  “Most certainly,” Dr. Shazir told him, “although you’ll need to get a complete medical workup, including a CT scan or MRI.” He consulted the clipboard. “You don’t list a primary physician here.”

  “That’s because I don’t have one. How about you?”

  “I can order the labs and refer you to a neurologist.”

  “Neurologist?”

  Shazir nodded. “To find out exactly what your risk factors are of suffering another episode, and for him to prescribe measures to prevent that, or a more serious stroke, from happening.”

  Cort Wesley again felt like somebody else was doing the talking for him. “And that’s a possibility?”

  “About a third of those who suffer a warning stroke suffer a more serious episode within the year.”

  “I don’t like that math.”

  “That’s why we need to get you to a neurologist as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll prescribe blood thinners to reduce that likelihood substantially.”

  “So, Doc, I’m okay, but I may not be okay for long.”

  Shazir nodded patiently. “The blockage causing your TIA was likely broken up by natural clot dissolvers called anticoagulants, in the blood, so the blockage was likely centered in your arm and wasn’t in place long enough to cause any lasting damage to the brain. Blood flow was restored quickly. The severity of any blockage-related stroke is determined by how long the tissue was without blood flow and the location of the injury in the brain. When an episode is diagnosed as a TIA, it’s because there is evidence of a blockage but no lasting damage has happened yet.”