Vengeance Is Mine

by William W. Johnstone

  “If there is a chance,” Ramirez had said, “I want them all dead, Carranza’s slut and both of their whelps. Fate spared them once, but it shall not do so again.”

  That was where the Vulture was wrong, Ryan thought as he dropped the butt of his cigarette in the gravelly dirt beside him. Fate had once more spared Julie Carranza and her children. Fate was named, in this case, Silencio Ryan. He could not have said why he had decided not to shoot. It was enough for him to know that he had the option to do so. Of all the men who worked for Ramirez, Ryan was the only one who had any sort of discretionary power. With everyone else, Ramirez expected total, instantaneous obedience. When Ryan returned to the compound and delivered the news that Julie Carranza and her children were still alive, Ramirez would be disappointed, but he would shrug off that disappointment. If Silencio Ryan thought it best not to pull the trigger, then so it must be.

  Ryan’s weathered face creased in a smile. He took a pair of sunglasses from the breast pocket of his khaki shirt, slipped them on, and stood up. He picked up the rifle and carried it toward the jeep that had brought him here.

  On another day it might all be different, he thought. But only he would know when the time was right.

  Baptist funerals were sad, of course. How could any funeral not have an element of grieving to it? But at the same time, Baptist funerals were sometimes like Irish wakes. There wasn’t any drinking, of course, unless you wanted to count iced tea. But relatives and friends usually got together before a Baptist funeral, and folks brought food—casseroles and bowls of mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and English pea salad and macaroni and cheese and plates full of homemade rolls and pies and cakes—and people who hadn’t seen each other since the last funeral shook hands and slapped each other on the back and asked how everybody was doing. There were smiles of greeting and even a little laughter as people caught up on each other’s lives. It was all muted by the solemnity of the occasion, but it was there nonetheless.

  Tomas Carranza’s funeral mass, on the other hand, was filled with ritual and weeping, and Stark hated every minute of it. Tommy had been such a vital man, full of life and passion, quick to anger but even quicker to give out with a booming laugh, that it seemed impossible to believe he was really up there in front of the altar in that closed, flower-draped coffin.

  Elaine took Stark’s hand as they sat side by side on the hard, uncomfortable pew. He squeezed it and wished this was all over.

  Eventually, it was. Tommy was laid to rest in the cemetery beside the church. Stark approached the crowd of people around Julie. He recognized one of them as her brother Rigoberto from Austin. Stark drew him aside, shook his hand, and said quietly, “ ’Berto, I think it’d be a good idea for Julie and the kids to get away from here for a while.”

  “So they won’t be reminded of what happened to Tomas, you mean?”

  “So it won’t happen to them, too,” Stark said bluntly.

  Rigoberto caught his breath and stared at Stark. “This man Ramirez,” he said after a moment. “You really think he would . . . would come after them, too?” He sounded outraged and afraid at the same time.

  “I think there’s every chance in the world that he will. He’s a Colombian. They don’t stop with just killing their enemies.”

  “No. I’ve never dealt with them directly, but I’ve heard stories. Plenty of stories.” ’Berto was an assistant district attorney in Travis County. He fingered his chin as he thought. “We have relatives all over south Texas, but that’s too close,” he finally said.

  Stark nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “But I have a good friend in Cheyenne, Wyoming, a fellow I went to law school with. He owes me plenty of little favors. If I combine all of them into one, he might be willing to look after Julie and the kids. He and his wife have plenty of room in their house. They have a place up in the mountains that might be even better.”

  “Not too isolated,” Stark warned. “Sometimes that works against you when you’re trying to protect somebody. Gives the bad guys too much room to operate.”

  ’Berto nodded. “I’ll go up there with them and check it all out myself.”

  “Good idea. How soon can you leave?”

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to Austin for a trial day after tomorrow . . .”

  “Let somebody else handle it. Leave from here and head north. Don’t go back out to the ranch or anywhere else.”

  ’Berto stared at him, not quite comprehending for a few seconds just what Stark proposed. Then he said, “But none of us are prepared for a long trip like that.”

  “I’d be willing to bet that if Ramirez has somebody watching Julie, he’s not ready to take off on a long trip, either. Go to San Angelo and catch a plane there, doesn’t matter where it’s headed as long as you can get a connecting flight to Denver. You can rent a car and drive to Cheyenne from there. If you move fast enough, Ramirez won’t be able to track you. Buy whatever Julie and the kids need when you get to Wyoming. If it’s a matter of money, I can—”

  “That’s not necessary, Mr. Stark. I know from talking to Tommy what a hard time all you ranchers down here in the valley are having. I can take care of my sister.” ’Berto flashed a grin. “Hey, that’s what plastic’s for, no?”

  “Thanks, ’Berto.”

  “I just wish there was something I could do to even the score for Tommy.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Stark said. “I’m already working on it.”

  But to tell the truth, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t like to think that he might be just full of hot air, that he really wouldn’t get around to doing anything about Tommy’s murder. He had always despised people who were big talkers but who never actually got anything done, or even tried to.

  After the funeral, after Rigoberto had hustled a confused Julie and Angelina and Martin into his car and driven off, Stark and his friends gathered at the Diamond S. It was late in the afternoon when they all sat in the rocking chairs on the front porch of the ranch house. Neckties had long since come off, along with suit coats. Collars were unbuttoned and sleeves were rolled up. Elaine had brought out bottles of beer for the men and some of the women. W.R. was the only old bachelor in the bunch. The rest of the men had brought along their wives. It was reminiscent of the barbecue two nights earlier, but this was a much smaller, much more somber gathering.

  Devery lifted his bottle and said, “To Tommy.” The others echoed the toast and drank.

  When Everett lowered his bottle, he asked, “What are we gonna do about this?”

  “What do you mean?” his wife, Mary, asked. “You boys have already done everything you could.”

  “We ain’t done squat!” Everett said heatedly. “Tommy’s in the ground, and we ain’t done a thing to settle the score.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Kate Small said. “Tommy’s murder is a matter for the police to handle.”

  “Hammond ain’t gonna do anything about it,” Devery said. The other men nodded and muttered agreement.

  W.R. belched and said, “We could get our guns and go down and roust ol’ Ramirez outta his hidey-hole.”

  “And get yourselves killed doing it,” Elaine said. “John Howard, you’d better talk some sense into these friends of yours.”

  “Nobody could talk sense to an old pelican like W.R.,” Stark said with a smile.

  W.R. snorted. “Old pelican, is it?”

  “Anyway, I’m not sure but what he’s right,” Stark went on, “at least in theory.”

  Hubie asked, “What do you mean by that in-theory business?”

  “We could go after Ramirez, like W.R. suggested,” Stark said, “but Elaine’s probably right, too. We’d just get ourselves killed. Ramirez has got himself a damn fort down there on the other side of the river. Y’all read the story about it in the paper last year.”

  Sober nods went around the group. A newspaper reporter named Acosta had somehow gotten some inside information about the Vulture’s
drug-smuggling operation and his opulent home, including photographs, and he had written an exposé about the whole thing. A few days later, Acosta had disappeared . . . and it had taken a week to find all the parts of his body scattered up and down the Rio Grande.

  “It would take an army to pry Ramirez out of that stronghold of his,” Stark went on. “I’m afraid five broken-down old ranchers are a far cry from an army.”

  “So we just let it go?” Everett asked indignantly.

  “I didn’t say that. But we’re gonna have to do some figuring.”

  “You can figure a thing to death.”

  That was exactly what Stark was afraid of, but he didn’t say that. He just said, “It won’t bring Tommy back for the rest of us to get killed.”

  Kate Small, Mary Hatcher, and Doris Cornheiser all nodded emphatically in agreement. Doris said, “You boys listen to John Howard. He makes good sense.”

  There was more muttering, but talk of attacking Ramirez was dropped. Eventually the conversation turned, as it always did, to the price of beef and the way the government made things harder than they had to be for ranchers.

  When the sun began to dip below the horizon and the visitors got up to leave, Stark said, “Better pass the word among your hands to be extra careful for a while. Ramirez is liable to get more aggressive than ever now that he probably thinks he’s got us scared.”

  “He’s right about that,” Kate Small said. “I am scared, and anybody else with any sense would be, too.”

  Devery sighed. “Yeah, this valley sure ain’t the kind of place it once was. Never thought I’d live to see the day when it got so dangerous and all-fired mean around here.”

  The visitors left, Stark and Elaine standing on the porch to wave good-bye to them as they drove off. Then, as Stark turned and started to go into the house, Elaine said, “Hold on a minute, John Howard. You don’t think you fooled me, do you?”

  “Fooled you about what?” Stark asked, although he had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew the answer.

  “All that talk about being cautious and figuring and not trying to even the score for Tommy. I’ve known you for too long. You’re up to something, but you don’t want your friends to get drawn into it and get hurt.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Don’t lie to my face,” she said. “I deserve better than that.”

  Stark just looked at her for a moment, and then he drew in a deep breath and blew it out in a sigh. “You always did know me too well, woman,” he muttered. “You’re right. I do want to do something to avenge Tommy’s murder. I know Ramirez was behind it, and I know the law can’t or won’t do a damned thing. But the hell of it is, I really don’t know what to do. One man can’t get to Ramirez.”

  “The others offered to help.”

  Stark shook his head. “They’re tough old birds, but they’re no match for Ramirez’s men.”

  “Not like you, an old marine who chews nails for breakfast.”

  Stark smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid my nail-chewin’ days are over. No, I’ve got enough sense to know that I can’t launch some one-man crusade. But we can sure keep a closer eye on the border and try to keep the Vulture’s men off our land. That’s something, anyway.”

  Elaine’s eyes narrowed in the dusk as she studied him. “I’m still not sure I believe you. It’s been a long time since you did anything crazy, John Howard, but you cut some pretty good capers when you were a youngster. If you get too worked up, just remember that you’re fifty-four years old.”

  “I ain’t likely to forget it,” Stark said.

  Elaine gave him a kiss on the cheek and went on inside. Stark lingered on the porch, watching the orange glow of the sunset fade from the western sky.

  “That girl just thinks she knows how crazy you can be.”

  Stark looked toward the shadows at the end of the porch. “How long you been skulkin’ there, old man?”

  “Long enough,” Uncle Newt said as he shuffled forward. “Long enough to see the look in your eyes when you talk about that fella Ramirez. You can sound mighty calm and reasonable-like when you want to, John Howard, but I know better. I ever tell you I knew Wyatt Earp?”

  “Only about a thousand times. And you didn’t really know Wyatt Earp. You were too young to even remember that time Grandpa saw him out there in California.”

  “No, I weren’t!” Newt protested. “I was three years old, and I remember it clear as a bell! Nineteen and twenty-eight it was. We was walkin’ down the street and Daddy was holdin’ my hand and this old man come a-walkin’ down the sidewalk the other way. He was a mite bent from bein’ so old, but he straightened up and give Daddy a nod as he went past, and when he’d gone on Daddy leaned over to me and said, ‘Son, you remember this day, because that there was Wyatt Earp, the last o’ the old-time gunfighters to still be alive. He’s outlived ’em all, Smoke Jensen, Doc Holliday, Frank Morgan, Ben Thompson, Falcon McAllister, an’all the rest. He’s the last o’his kind.’ That’s what he said to me, an’ I remember it, by golly!”

  “Maybe so, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “When Wyatt Earp walked past us, I looked in that old man’s eyes. What I seen there, I never saw in any other man’s eyes . . . until now.”

  Stark felt that coldness along his spine again, but this time he didn’t feel like he was being watched. Not by human eyes, anyway.

  Newt turned and started to limp away. Stark said, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the bunkhouse,” the old man said over his shoulder. “Wheel o’ Fortune’s on the satellite, an’ that gal who turns the letters, whoo-ee, she’s a looker!”

  Ten

  Stark went inside a few minutes later. Elaine was putting together a quick supper. They ate together in the kitchen, but neither of them had much of an appetite. Afterward, when Stark asked her if she wanted to watch some TV, Elaine shook her head and said, “I’m worn out, John Howard. I think I’ll just go on up and read for a while.”

  “Suit yourself.” Stark was too restless to even consider turning in this early. He went into the den/office and fired up the computer that sat on the desk. He would never be the type to spend hours on end surfing the Web or the Net or whatever they called it, but he enjoyed the convenience of e-mail and there were a few ranching-related Web sites that he visited fairly regularly. As he waited for the computer to boot up, he hoped there would be e-mail from David or Pete or both. These days that was the easiest way for the boys overseas to communicate with the folks back home.

  He connected and started to retrieve his e-mail. He’d heard a lot about that so-called spam, the e-mail ads for everything under the sun from porno to mortgages to printer ink, but he didn’t get that many of them, probably because he didn’t use the Internet all that much. Only a handful of messages came in, and none of them amounted to anything.

  Until the last one popped up and he saw that the subject line was blank. That wasn’t all that unusual, and when it happened it was usually just another piece of junk e-mail. On this one, though, the sender’s name caught his eye and made him sit up straight in shock.

  The name was “Carranza.”

  “Damn it, Tommy,” Stark said under his breath, “are you sendin’ me e-mail from beyond the grave now?”

  That was impossible, of course. Stark was too hardheaded to believe in ghosts, and he wasn’t going to start now. This was some sort of fluky coincidence. Either that, or somebody was playing one hell of a cruel practical joke. The message had no attachment, and when Stark checked its properties he found that it was small, less than one kilobyte. So it seemed safe enough to open it. He double-clicked on it.

  The message screen that came up had only a few words on it:

  GUZMAN MENDEZ CANALES

  THE BLUE BURRO

  TOMORROW NIGHT

  What the hell? Stark thought. Those first three were names, of course, but they meant nothing to him. “The Blue Burro”? That could be
anything, but for some reason it sounded to Stark like the name of a cantina or a nightclub. “Tomorrow night” was clear enough on the face of it, but what did it mean? That Guzman, Mendez, and Canales would be at some place called the Blue Burro tomorrow night? That made sense, Stark decided, but he didn’t know who the men were or why their whereabouts tomorrow night should have any meaning to him.

  And then one possible answer hit him like a punch between the eyes.

  Hodge Purdee had said that he would put the word out to his informants south of the border that he was looking for information about Tommy Carranza’s murder. Maybe Purdee had come up with something, like the names of three of the men involved in the killing, and was passing them along to Stark with a tip as to where those men would be on the coming night. That was possible, wasn’t it? Purdee knew he couldn’t act officially, but he could send an anonymous tip. . . .

  Somebody who knew more about computers than Stark did might be able to figure out exactly where that message had come from. On the other hand, if he was right in his guess about what it meant, whoever had sent it would have been very careful to conceal his identity, especially if he worked for a bloated, unresponsive, but sometimes petty and vengeful government. The more Stark thought about it, the more convinced he was that he was right.

  The question now was, what was he supposed to do with that information? The Border Patrol was powerless, Hammond wasn’t interested, and the Mexican authorities just weren’t about to interfere with one of the primary sources of the graft on which they thrived.