Strong to the Bone--A Caitlin Strong Novel

by Jon Land

  With that, Earl extracted Abner Dunbar’s phone bill that he’d found beneath the mail slot the day before and laid it on the desk. “Sir, could you confirm for me that the numbers I’ve circled are yours, both home and here at the office?”

  Long’s eyes narrowed warily, and he placed a pair of spectacles over his nose to better see the circled numbers, taking his gaze from Earl in order to regard them. He left his other meat slab of a hand propped on the desk, never noticing the Ranger ease the ballpeen hammer from the pocket of his brown suede coat.

  “Could you please explain what this—”

  The hammer strike that smashed the knuckle on his pinky finger froze Long’s words there, his mouth gaping for a scream that never came. He collapsed back into his chair, which rocked violently backward. Earl clamped a hand over his mouth when it snapped back forward, and kept Long’s hand, the one with the pinkie already swollen to twice its normal size, trapped in his grasp.

  “I’m going to speak plainly, Mr. Long,” Earl started, “to waste as little of your valuable time as possible.”

  The big man was breathing heavily, his flushed face twisted in agony, eyes that suddenly looked too small for his head darting about as if to measure his options.

  “This here phone bill,” Earl said, flapping the pages before Long, while Captain Druce looked on in silent amazement, “belongs to a man I believe you’re acquainted with named Abner Dunbar.” Earl laid the phone bill down, where Long could still see it. “He’s now deceased, in case nobody else has told you, killed we believe by a Nazi prisoner of war being held in Texas he was charged with helping get to safety. This man here is Captain Henry Druce of the British Special Air Service whose job it is to ferret out Nazis like him. Mr. Druce informs me that there’s a whole bunch of big businessmen who don’t let anything as pointless as patriotism get in the way of making a buck. And since the late Mr. Dunbar made a whole bunch of calls to you, I’m going to assume that you’re one of them.”

  Long finally caught his breath, his red face dappled with beads of sweat now. “I have no idea what you’re talking—”

  Earl lashed the ballpeen hammer downward again, this time crunching the knuckle on Long’s ring finger that blew up as big as a golf ball, again clamping his free hand over the man’s mouth to stifle his scream.

  “Neither of us has time for bull crap here, sir. You are going to tell us all about your involvement with whatever Abner Dunbar was up to. You’re going to serve us some names and spill everything you got inside you on the subject. If you don’t, I’m gonna keep breaking your knuckles until I run out, and then I’m gonna push you out that big window there to see what three hundred pounds of bullshit looks like splattered across the sidewalk. How’s that sound?”

  “You’re out of your mind!” Long rasped through flecks of blood-streaked drool leaking out his mouth, from biting his tongue. “Who sent you here? Who ordered this investigation? I’ll have your badge! I’ll put the Texas Rangers out of business once and for all. Do you even know who I am?”

  “I’m starting to get a real good idea, yes, sir,” Earl said, his stare boring into Long’s face, as if trying to find his tiny eyes narrowed even further into slits.

  “Abner Dunbar is, was, in my employ, in charge of opening new venues of business across the Southwest. And if you think that in any way—”

  This time Earl’s hand swallowed the rest of his words, ahead of bringing the hammer down on his middle finger.

  “Seven more to go, sir, and since you know so much about the Rangers, I’m going to assume you know I won’t stop until all ten look like you squeezed marbles inside your skin. Good news is I’m not really interested in the business dealings that made you party to this—my guess is slithery creatures like yourself are well versed in avoiding illegality in the formal sense. So, being the big dealmaker that you are, here’s the deal on the table: you tell me what you know, in general, and about a Nazi prisoner named Gunther Haut, in particular, and our business is done. Alternative is hitting the sidewalk with all your fingers busted. And I don’t believe a third option’s in the cards, is it, Captain Druce?”

  “It most certainly is not, Ranger Strong.”

  Earl turned back to Witchell Long. “Let’s start with Gunther Haut, sir. Dunbar was waiting for him at the Driskill Hotel in Austin, when Haut showed up and killed him.”

  “That wasn’t my doing!” Long insisted, his words strung out to sound more like a harmonic whine.

  “Then why don’t you tell me what your doing was exactly?”

  “I have business associates in Europe,” Long started, through rapid heaves of breath, “who are indeed sympathetic to the Nazi cause. They said they were in contact with any number of German scientists who loathed the Nazis as much as we all do, who’d been forced into their service. These scientists were looking for a lifeline, once the war drew to a close.”

  “In other words, they were looking for a way to avoid being on the wrong end of a rope.”

  Long managed a labored nod that seemed to shoot fresh stabs of pain through him. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. These scientists have developed entirely new technologies to extract oil and gas from deeper in the ground. Energy is the future, Ranger, and they could assure that future belongs to America.”

  “So now you’re a patriot.”

  “You think you have to ride a horse to be a patriot?”

  “I ride a Chevy.”

  “And the Texas Rangers, such noble patriots and heroes, how many Indians did they massacre in cold blood?”

  “Not nearly as many as were riding in to kill them first. Just stick to the subject. What did your Nazi friends ask you to do with regards to Gunther Haut? He was too young to be a scientist.”

  “They didn’t go into details. It was a matter of … resettlement. My international dealings have afforded me a wealth of contacts in smoothing over certain issues of identity and nationality. Borders mean nothing in business, but sometimes it’s necessary to travel with different papers, even passports, so as not to stoke interest in parties who may have their own best ends in mind.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, sir, except that it sounds like you were supposed to provide Gunther Haut with a new name, birth certificate—the whole ball of wax. And Abner Dunbar was your middleman, the one who got his hands dirty so yours could stay clean. Is that about it?”

  This time, Long nodded only once, gnashing his teeth against the pain that had flared anew.

  “Speaking of the wrong end of a rope, sir, you wanna explain to me how that doesn’t make you a traitor?”

  Long was breathing noisily now, trying very hard not to turn his gaze toward the hammer still clutched in Earl Strong’s hand.

  “I guess you don’t,” Earl said, when he remained silent. “Let’s try this next: what were Dunbar’s orders regarding Gunther Haut’s safety?”

  “He was to set up a safe house for him, where Haut would remain until more permanent arrangements could be made.”

  “Because all this happened fast, right? Haut had only been at the prison camp in Hearne for three weeks.”

  “Somebody wanted him out of there very badly, Ranger. We were supposed to have more time. The killings in that camp by his hand came as a surprise.”

  “And now Mr. Dunbar will be leaving Austin in a pine box. Sounds like somebody in Hearne figured something out about Haut he wasn’t supposed to. That would be the first thought most folks would entertain on the subject. But here’s what’s sticking with me. Dunbar checked into the Driskill, before Haut killed his three bunkmates. You want to try explaining that to me, sir?”

  Long remained flat-faced, as if pretending not to hear him.

  “Yeah, I figured that would be your answer.”

  And, with that, Earl covered Long’s mouth yet again and slammed the ballpeen hammer down on Long’s index finger knuckle, pulling his hand away when the man started gagging for breath.

  “Why don’t we try that question
again?”

  “Haut was important to them!” Long managed, through a twisted mask of agony.

  “Important to who?”

  “My German business associates!”

  “You mean Nazi business associates, don’t you? And why was he so important to them?”

  “They didn’t say.” Then, staring into Earl Strong’s eyes, “That’s the God’s honest truth, Ranger!”

  “I believe it is. Now, work with me here, Mr. Long, because I’m of the opinion that the timing of all this was anything but accidental. That tells me you and those business associates of yours had somebody on the inside of that camp. A soldier, officer—somebody. You got a name for me?”

  Earl raised the hammer back overhead when Witchell Long failed to respond.

  “No, wait! Wait! It was the commanding officer!”

  “Captain Bo Lowry?” the Ranger posed, with no small degree of surprise.

  “I don’t know his name. I didn’t need to know his name.”

  “But you’re saying he was in on it.”

  Long’s eyes were still teary from the pain. “Gunther Haut wasn’t the first prisoner whose escape was facilitated, Ranger.”

  “But I’d wager he was the first who killed three fellow inmates before strolling out the gate. That tells me they’d figured out what made him so important. Maybe he spilled the beans, maybe he talked in his sleep, maybe he just liked killing folks the way I like taking a ballpeen hammer to the knuckles of traitors.”

  Long’s expression wrinkled with disgust, as if revolted by Earl Strong’s words. “Don’t blame me for putting the future first, Ranger. The difference between the simple man and the successful one is the vision to see far ahead, not straight ahead.” His eyes made no secret of his message, as they widened out of the slits into which they’d narrowed. “Then there are those who can’t stop living in the past, with no regard for the future.”

  At that, Earl slammed the ballpeen hammer down on Long’s thumb knuckle.

  “I got no more questions for you, sir. That one was just on principle.”

  68

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  “You can’t stop there,” Caitlin protested.

  “I have no choice,” Jones told her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The rest of the file was redacted.”

  “Redacted?”

  Jones nodded. “For reasons of national security.”

  “Come again?”

  “State secrets, that sort of thing.”

  “My grandfather was involved in state secrets?”

  “Explains why he never told you this particular story, doesn’t it?”

  “So you don’t know what happened when he returned to the prisoner-of-war camp in Hearne to see what the camp commander was up to? You have no idea what it was Earl Strong had stumbled upon?”

  Jones shrugged. “I’m trying to locate the rest of the file now. It’s probably tucked away in storage somewhere. Just give me some time, and you’ll know if your grandfather took a ballpeen hammer to Captain Lowry’s knuckles, too.”

  Caitlin shook her head. “Who the hell was this Gunther Haut?”

  “Beats me. All I can tell you is that no record of him exists after that day.”

  “No surprise there, Jones.”

  “But here’s one, Ranger: there’s also no record of him ever being interred in Hearne. I uncovered the logs featuring the names of nearly all five thousand POWs who passed through those gates, and there’s no listing whatsoever for a Gunther Haut.”

  “Which means somebody scrubbed those records clean. Which means somebody with that capability must’ve had reason to.” Caitlin thought for a moment. “What do you figure J. Edgar Hoover’s part in this was?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But he must’ve known, at least suspected, what made Haut so important to the Nazis and their sympathizers over here. Maybe he’d figured out what Witchell Long couldn’t tell my grandfather because he didn’t know.” Caitlin hesitated and gave him a longer look across the conference table. “Doesn’t the notion of Nazis running around Texas make your skin crawl, Jones, at least a little?”

  Jones flashed a slight smirk. “After all I’ve been through in this twilight zone of a state of yours, nothing could make my skin crawl.” The smirk vanished. “You mind if I speak plainly?”

  “Since when did you need to ask?”

  “I think I get it now,” Jones said, looking straight at her. “This obsession of yours with the past, with trying to link every case you’re on to something one of your ancestors was involved in.”

  “I’m not following.”

  Jones’s stare continue to bore through her. “You can’t remember all of that night from eighteen years ago, aren’t sure who really assaulted you. So maybe you figure if you can get a better handle on the past, sooner or later that part of it will come back to you, too.”

  “Dime-store psychology coming from you ain’t worth a nickel, Jones.”

  “Changing the subject won’t change the fact you know I’m right. And figuring out who Gunther Haut really was won’t bring you any closer to what happened after you finished whatever was inside that red Solo cup.”

  Caitlin pushed herself back to her feet, her chair scraping across the hardwood floor when she shoved it backward. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

  “Hold on there,” Jones said when she headed for the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To meet up with Doc Whatley.”

  “I hope you remember you’re not an active Texas Ranger right now.”

  “This is Homeland Security business. Scout’s honor. I’ll brief you, as soon as I’m done.”

  Jones’s phone rang, a fresh smirk claiming his face when he checked the caller ID. “How about that? It’s Masters. You want to talk to him?”

  But Caitlin was already out the conference room door.

  69

  HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

  “Where’d you say you were?” Jones asked Cort Wesley.

  “Huntsville. The Walls prison, specifically,” Cort Wesley told him.

  “Which side of the fence?”

  “I need access, to see an inmate named Darl Pickett.”

  “You want to tell me what this is about, cowboy?”

  “Let’s see what Pickett has to say first, if he’s even still alive, Jones.”

  Cort Wesley had learned from inquiring at the gate that Warden Dellahunt had finally retired. He’d stayed in touch with Dellahunt sporadically since his release and believed the warden to be the quickest route by which he could gain entry to the Walls to visit Darl Pickett. With Dellahunt no longer in charge, Cort Wesley needed another way to speed through the red tape of an ex-con paying a prison visit.

  Pickett had been old when Cort Wesley was an inmate nearly a decade before, and he’d been there at the time Boone Masters was jailed at the Walls as well, and plenty of years before that to boot. Pickett had been rounded up as a peripheral player in an organized crime RICO beef. He’d served as a mob accountant, an absolute whiz with numbers. With a good lawyer, he might have done a couple years behind bars at most. Thanks to a bad one, though, he earned himself a lifetime stretch, due to being tied in conspiratorial fashion to a series of murders that had nearly earned him a seat in the electric chair.

  By the time he was up for parole for the third time, the outside world no longer held any claim over or interest for Darl Pickett, and he’d accepted his permanent home as the prison where he served as an inmate trustee and unofficial historian. Pickett would be in his seventies now, maybe even eighties, a man who’d found a form of contentment and simplicity inside an eight-by-eight cell from which he’d been permitted to come and go as he pleased.

  “This Darl Pickett hasn’t had a visitor in over twenty years,” Jones said, when he called Cort Wesley back. “The new warden thought I was crazy when I told him Homeland had some questions for him.”

  “That’s beca
use everyone Darl’s known for fifty years is either dead or still jailed.”

  “Where do you fit into that mix, cowboy?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself, Jones.”

  * * *

  Darl Pickett had skin as yellow as the whites of Leroy Epps’s eyes, before he’d turned into a ghost. His entire face was sallow, skin sagging in patches on the verge, it seemed, of sliding off altogether. A patchwork quilt of what looked like reptilian ridges and bumps from a lack of sunlight and the lousy air inmates were forced to breathe, as if the state of Texas processed it just for them.

  “Boone Masters!” the old man greeted, confusing Cort Wesley for his father.

  He took a seat opposite Cort Wesley in the otherwise empty visitors’ area of the prison, lined with tables and chairs that were intentionally uncomfortable. The exception had been granted for Darl Pickett because of his age, special status as an inmate, and the fact that Cort Wesley was here on behalf of Homeland.

  “I haven’t seen you in…” The old man’s eyes wavered, as if he’d lost control of his thinking. “How long has it been now?”

  “Quite a while,” Cort Wesley told him.

  “Long time.”

  “Quite.”

  “I’ve been in here forty-six years, eight months, and six days as of today. That’s seventeen thousand and forty-seven days in total, counting leap years. That’s four hundred and nine thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight hours. That’s twenty-four million, five hundred and forty-seven thousand, six hundred and eighty minutes.”

  “Like you said, Darl, a long time,” Cort Wesley said, amazed at how the man brightened when reciting numbers from the world in which he was most comfortable.

  Pickett scratched at his scalp, bald except for a few stray patches of white hair. “When’d you get out? I forget now.”

  “A few months back.”

  “And how’s that boy of yours, the one you’re always bragging on?”

  Cort Wesley felt something sink in his stomach. “He’s fine.”

  “Bet he missed you while you were inside.”