Strong to the Bone--A Caitlin Strong Novel

by Jon Land

  “Well what?”

  “I was waiting for one of your lectures about my lungs filing a grievance and ruining my golden years you already turned to lead.”

  “I’m done trying to talk you out of killing yourself, D.W.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, this is cause for celebration.”

  He took out his lighter, snapped the top open, and flicked at it with no success.

  “What the hell?” Tepper started, giving it a closer look, squinting. “Somebody yanked out the goddamn wick. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Ranger?”

  * * *

  Dusk fell without any of the first responders emerging from the complex.

  “What did the Rangers do for excitement back in the day before we had terrorists?” Caitlin asked D. W. Tepper.

  “You mean besides hunting dinosaurs? Well, we did have the likes of Bonnie and Clyde and John Wesley Hardin to deal with. And your grandpa, he even went up against the Nazis.”

  “Earl Strong spent time in Europe?” Caitlin asked, trying to reconcile the apparent discrepancy with what she knew of her grandfather’s history.

  “Nope, he went up against them right here in Texas.…”

  18

  HEARNE, TEXAS; 1944

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Earl Strong said to J. Edgar Hoover. “It’s not every day the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation comes to Texas.”

  “Well,” Hoover said dismissively, looking up at Earl, whose boots made him more than a half-foot taller, “this particular case warranted an exception.”

  “It sure does, given the unprecedented nature of a Nazi war criminal loose on our soil. But I find myself curious about one thing, Mr. Hoover.”

  “What’s that, Ranger?”

  “Well, I drove out here in my truck directly after receiving the call. Assuming you got the call in the relative vicinity I did, I’m wondering how it was you got out here all the way from Washington so fast, ’less you got a plane faster than the kind in the comic books my boy reads,” Earl said, referring to his ten-year-old son, Jim.

  Hoover wet his lips with his tongue, even more reluctant to meet Earl’s gaze. “Was there something else, Ranger?” he asked.

  Earl wondered if he was supposed to pay more deference to the man, maybe kneel on bended knee to kiss his ring. He liked most of what he’d heard and knew about the FBI, respecting their prowess at outthinking and outgunning the kind of criminal vermin the Texas Rangers had been battling for an additional century or so. When it came to the kind of up close and personal confrontations on which lawmen staked their reputations, though, he hadn’t heard much indicating FBI types were up to the task. Neither great shots nor particularly good at putting down the wild-eyed bandits and gunmen who’d battled the Rangers since the time of Stephen Austin.

  “Well, sir,” Earl replied, “it just seems obvious you were already on your way here, before you could possibly have gotten word of these killings. And, since a case like this is hardly becoming a man of your stature, I’ve got to figure that you had an interest in the suspect, Gunther Haut, even before these murders went down.”

  “What’s your point, Ranger?” J. Edgar Hoover asked him.

  “I’m just wondering about the basis for your interest in this particular prisoner, that’s all.”

  Hoover forced a smile that rode his face like he had gas he couldn’t pass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were interrogating me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect. It’s just that if there’s something you know about Gunther Haut, something that brought you all the way out here, it could be a great help to my investigation into the murders of his three bunkmates.”

  “Are Texas Rangers always this prone to jumping to erroneous conclusions?”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”

  “You’re assuming I came to Texas because of Gunther Haut, instead of considering the possibility I came to Texas for an entirely different reason that just happened to overlap with the murders and escape here at Camp Hearne.”

  “Just happened,” Earl repeated.

  “It’s called a coincidence, Ranger.”

  “I know what it’s called, sir, and that leads me to another problem I’m having with your presence here, and thus your involvement. Haut was here for three uneventful weeks, with no disturbances or any forewarning of what happened last night. So I’m wondering if maybe he got word somehow that you were headed this way, and that’s why he’s in the wind now with blood on his hands. And that makes me wonder what it is that made Gunther Haut, one of over seventy thousand German prisoners of war held currently in Texas, so important to bring you halfway across the country.”

  Hoover started to step closer to Earl, then changed his mind. One of his fancy shoes was untied, and both were plastered with grit and the orange clay dirt unique to this part of Texas that clung to his soles like gum.

  “I think I can make this simpler for both of us, Ranger,” the head of the FBI offered. “What we have here is a jurisdictional issue, federal versus state. While the Federal Bureau of Investigation has every intention of working cooperatively in this process with Texas, this is a federal matter given that the land on which it occurred is a duly registered facility of the United States government. I’m sure we can agree on that much.”

  “Actually, sir, that’s not entirely true,” Earl said, as respectfully as he could manage. “The federal government has made it clear that it’s not liable for any damage incurred as a result of these prisons being placed on Texas soil. And it’s my understanding that the federal government has only leased the land these camps reside on. That means any crime committed inside one has to be treated like any crime committed in Texas and, at this point, that don’t really matter a bit anyway.”

  Hoover was kicking at the soft, claylike dirt now with the toes of his shoes. “Am I missing something here, Ranger?”

  “No, sir. What’s missing is Gunther Haut, currently a fugitive on Texas land the federal government has no claim to or jurisdiction over. So until I’m told otherwise by the parties I answer to, I’m going to stay on the job, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, the fact is I do mind,” Hoover told him, his neck getting red from both the agitation and the day’s building heat. “And I intend to inform your superiors in Austin as such. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them promptly.” Hoover nodded at the surety of his own words, seeming to look at Earl differently. “You never served in the war, did you?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. Too much damage done by past gunfights. Army docs said they would’ve thought I was sixty years old, if they didn’t have my chart right in front of them. I couldn’t serve my country, no, so I decided to stay home and keep serving my state. One of those gunfights, by the way, took place in Sweetwater during the big oil boom. I had a run-in with Al Capone’s boys from the Outfit, who’d been attracted by the lawlessness of those boom towns they must’ve seen as good for business.”

  “I seem to recall something about the incident you’re referring to. Such incursions by organized crime into law-abiding places in the country was one of the considerations behind the formation of the FBI in 1935.”

  “Well, sir, what you don’t recall is the help I requested, but never received, from the Bureau of Investigation you headed up at the time and had been for a decade, after your appointment at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.”

  Hoover fidgeted, started kicking at the drying mud again, but then stopped. “We consider Nazis at large in this country to be a major security problem the FBI is completely dedicated to dealing with. We don’t have time to consider distractions, like something that happened ten years ago, or a local investigation that may hamper our federal one here today. In a word, Ranger, this isn’t your problem.”

  “That’s more than a word, Mr. Hoover, and so long as Camp Hearne is located on Texas soil, my job is to bring the man who murdered h
is bunkmates while they slept to justice. Now, you can conduct your own investigation, the army can conduct theirs—hell, I don’t care if the Girl Scouts of America thinks they’ve got a dog in this fight. The more the merrier. But right now, I think I’m gonna get myself back to the actual crime scene,” Earl said, Hoover finally meeting his stare, his eyes wide with contempt. “One of us here has a job to do.”

  * * *

  Captain Bo Lowry stood anxiously at the open flap of the framed, tented shed from which Gunther Haut had disappeared after murdering the three fellow German prisoners sharing the space. For Earl Strong, meanwhile, the aroma of blood hung heavy in the stale air. He noticed the same claylike dirt on his boots that had coated the shoes of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. He’d left a trail of it across the shed’s plank flooring and cursed himself for disturbing the scene, even in such an innocuous way.

  But that was just the start of it. While he’d been speaking with Hoover, the bodies had been removed and the cots stripped clean to the mattresses that remained sodden with blood from where the victims had bled out.

  “Something seems to be missing, Captain,” Earl said, turning with hands firmly planted on his hips.

  Lowry stiffened even more. “On orders of Mr. Hoover, sir.”

  “Is that a fact? Did Mr. Hoover give instructions as to where the bodies should be taken?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” Lowry said, like a man with a gun to his head.

  Before Earl Strong could voice further objection, a soldier trotted up to Lowry and spoke softly to him. Lowry asked a single question and got his answer, never once taking his eyes off Earl.

  “Your commanding officer phoned the camp, Ranger,” Lowry said, a measure of relief creeping into his voice. “Looks like you’re needed elsewhere.”

  “And where would that be exactly?”

  “The Driskill Hotel in Austin, sir. There’s been another murder.”

  19

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  “And who was it?” Caitlin asked Tepper, after he’d stopped, enthralled by the tale of her grandfather’s run-in with J. Edgar Hoover. “What did my grandfather find when he got to the Driskill Hotel?”

  The captain’s gaze drifted over her shoulder, Caitlin turning to find the familiar figure of Jones striding through the area authorities had cordoned off from the public.

  “Guess we’re gonna have to pick this up later, Ranger,” Tepper said to her.

  * * *

  “Well, well, well,” Jones smirked, when he reached Caitlin and Tepper, “if it isn’t the lady who’s keeping my entire department funded.”

  “I thought your department had a blank check, Jones,” Caitlin said, by way of greeting.

  “In the past five years, we’ve expended more resources in Texas than any ten other states combined. Care to guess who’s responsible for that?”

  Captain Tepper took a step back from them. “Think I’ll leave you two to catch up. Locals over there are looking pretty antsy.”

  Caitlin followed his gaze. “I notice they’re smoking, D.W. Means you might find a lighter.”

  “That thought had crossed my mind, too,” Tepper said, already turning away. “Just make sure you don’t shoot anybody while I’m gone.”

  * * *

  Caitlin and Jones moved out of the direct spill of the big work lights that had been set up outside a tent erected to serve as a command post, away from the constant parade of uniformed and civilian figures coming and going.

  “I’m glad you’re so appreciative of my efforts,” Caitlin said to Jones.

  “What did your captain mean by that ‘don’t shoot anybody’ remark?”

  “I shot an unarmed man last night.”

  “And you’re here instead of behind a desk?”

  “The man was picking the pockets of a sexual assault victim. I thought the cell phone he’d just pinched was a gun.”

  Jones was left shaking his head. “Loose cannon doesn’t even begin to describe you, Ranger. No wonder I hear there’s a big Hollywood studio looking to do a movie based on your life. I hear they’re going call it ‘Strong to the Bone,’ because that describes you perfectly. If they happen to contact you, just remember to leave Homeland out of the script.”

  “I guess that means they won’t have to pick an actor to play you. I was thinking Tom Cruise.”

  “He’s too small.”

  “I’m sure he gets that a lot.”

  Jones circled his gaze about, as if to remind himself where he was. “Did you and your boyfriend really hijack a fire truck and hose down a bunch of college kids outside Stubb’s Barbecue in Austin last night, before you shot that unarmed man?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “What do you call it, Ranger?”

  “Stopping a riot,” Caitlin said.

  “I hear a few of the kids you wet down are filing lawsuits against the city of Austin. Good luck using that as your defense.”

  Caitlin couldn’t say exactly what Jones did with Homeland Security, especially these days, and doubted that anybody else could, either. He operated in the muck among the dregs of society plotting to harm the country from the inside. Caitlin doubted he’d ever written a report, or detailed the specifics of his operations in any way. He lived in the dark, calling on the likes of Guillermo Paz and the colonel’s henchmen to deal with matters always out of view of the light. When those matters brought him to Texas, which seemed to be every other day, he’d seek out Caitlin the way he might a former classmate.

  She’d first met him when his name was still “Smith,” and he was attached to the American embassy in Bahrain, enough of a relationship formed for the two of them to have remained in contact and to have actually worked together on several more occasions. Sometimes Jones surprised her, but mostly he could be relied on to live down to Caitlin’s expectations.

  The fall of night kept Jones’s face cloaked in the shadows with which he was most comfortable. Caitlin tried to remember the color of his eyes but couldn’t, as if he’d been trained to never look at anyone long enough for anything to register. He was wearing a sport jacket over a button-down shirt and pressed trousers, making him seem like a high school teacher. He’d even let his hair grow out a bit, no longer fancying the tightly cropped, military-style haircut that had been one of his signatures for as long as she’d known him.

  “The two hundred people you evacuated from the complex were all taken to San Antonio’s Southwest General Hospital to make use of the new quarantine procedures we put in place,” Jones told her. “So far, about half of them have undergone preliminary examinations that have revealed nothing out of the ordinary, no indication whatsoever that they’ve been afflicted by whatever killed the two victims inside.”

  “Good news.”

  “Really? Do you have any idea what you pushing the panic button on this one is going to cost?”

  “Why, are you paying? Give it a rest, Jones, I was just following procedure and you know it.”

  “And all that washes just fine, until nothing turns up and Homeland’s budget dips another five million into the red. When I get called on the carpet for that, I’ll tell the new administration that you were just playing things safe, the same way you were when you shot a man armed with a cell phone.”

  For some reason, Jones’s remark stung Caitlin. No matter how hard she tried to push the shooting from her mind, along with the associated memories of her own past it conjured, it came roaring back. She wondered who she’d really wanted to shoot last night; the man she’d suspected of being Kelly Ann Beasley’s rapist or her own from eighteen years ago.

  “And you’re anticipating the new administration having a problem with that?” Caitlin managed finally.

  “They have a problem with everything.”

  “Including that private jet you’ve been flying around on lately?”

  “Comes with the job these days. Time is money and, in Code Red cases, the country needs first responders on the s
cene before social media can control the narrative.”

  “Sounds like you’ve mastered a whole new vocabulary, Jones.”

  “That also comes with the territory. Oh, and did I mention that the preliminary water and air samples taken on-site have come back negative?” Jones peered over Caitlin’s shoulder. “Friend of yours, Ranger?”

  Caitlin turned to follow his gaze and recognized Doc Whatley’s squat shape through his yellow biohazard suit, as he lumbered her way. She watched him struggle to remove the soft helmet with affixed respirator, finally managing to let it flop downward behind him like the hood of a sweatshirt. His face was red from a combination of exertion and the hood’s confines.

  Whatley stopped just before Caitlin and bent over slightly with hands on his knees to catch his breath. “First time I’ve ever put one of these on and also the last.”

  “Let’s hope so, Doc.”

  Whatley noted Jones’s presence and cast him a sidelong, disapproving glare. “Is there anything we can keep local these days?”

  “Not something like this,” Caitlin told him. “Jones just told me the residents we quarantined are checking out fine, and the samples taken inside the complex so far reveal nothing awry.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Ranger, because I’ve been busy with the two bodies we found,” Whatley said, eyeing Jones again, as if to determine how much to share in front of him. “They got something in common, all right; just not what we were expecting.”

  20

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  Cort Wesley came straight to the Catholic Worker House as soon as he received Guillermo Paz’s phone call. He found the former head of the Venezuelan secret police wrapping up a service held in a cramped, makeshift chapel that all of the homeless men staying the night were required to attend.

  He was standing just outside the door when a man with gray hair and glasses, wearing an ID badge dangling from a lanyard, approached him.

  “You need to go inside. It’s a rule.”

  “It’s okay,” Cort Wesley told him, caught off guard. “I’m not staying.”