Strong Light of Day (43 page)

“And it's you who may need a lawyer, Congressman,” she added.

“And why's that, Ranger?”

“Because it so happens a criminal complaint has been filed against you back in Texas.” Caitlin withdrew a folded set of pages from the inside pocket of the lightweight denim jacket she'd worn for the occasion. “I have it right here. The charge is conspiracy.”

“This hearing isn't about me, Ranger,” Fraley said, struggling hard to manage a smirk.

“Why don't you let me speak my piece? Unless you've got something to hide, Congressman.”

“Proceed, Ranger Strong.”

“I believe you're acquainted with Christoph Russell Ilg, the rancher who believed he could graze his stolen cattle for free.”

“I am.”

“Him being a rustler didn't sit well with me. A moocher and lowlife for sure, but a rustler who'd bother rebranding the stolen cattle? No, that didn't seem his style at all.”

Fraley sat stoically on the raised dais before her. Caitlin was certain he was clutching his gavel, even though she couldn't see it from this angle.

“So I paid him a visit before I came down here,” she continued. “He was none too happy to see me, until I threatened to revoke his bail. He sang your praises, Congressman, had a lot of nice things to say. Like you telling him he didn't need to pay his grazing fees, that you'd take care of things on his behalf.”

“I never said anything of the sort!” Fraley roared, over the hum of words being exchanged in the hearing chamber.

“And where do you think he said he got the cattle to replace the ones that had died, threatening to stop the plan you hatched in a real hurry?”

Fraley rose slowly, his tinted hair looking orange under the bright lighting as he pointed the heavy end of his gavel straight at Caitlin. “Texas Ranger or not, this committee will entertain no more of these baseless allegations meant to distract us from doing our duty.”

“Does your duty include cattle rustling, sir? Because you may be interested to know that the local sheriff's department just arrested the alleged perpetrator. I hear they got security camera footage to help make their case.”

“Caitlin Strong, you are out of your order!” Fraley repeated, louder, banging his gavel over the murmurs spreading through the gallery and the press suddenly turning their focus on him. “These charges are not worthy of being entered into the record. Please strike all comments made by the witness in that regard from the record.”

Caitlin waited for the chamber to quiet again before resuming. “Then can you tell me how it is, Congressman, the rustler in custody happens to be your brother?”

 

102

M
OSCOW; ONE WEEK LATER

“How could I not know about this?” President Vladimir Putin said into his headset, as the helicopter cruised over the vast expanse of crops filling out the Black Earth region of southern Russia, looking like an endless ribbon of beige stretched atop the countryside.

“We'd run out of fuel before we got to see the whole of these fields, sir,” Caitlin told him. Jones had arranged for her to join a law enforcement delegation to Moscow, along with this private audience with the Russian president. “I'm told it's somewhere around twenty million acres, capable of yielding ten thousand metric tons of wheat per year, putting Russia on par with the United States and China in terms of production. With America's heartland turned into a wasteland, Zhirnosky would've used these crops as a springboard to succeed you as president. He even found himself a distributor, in the person of Calum Dane.”

Putin sneered at that. “So now I've received two gifts from you,” he said, in a fashion hardly in keeping with his fearsomely cold reputation. “But I must say, the horse was much more pleasant to receive.”

“It's a Driftwood quarter, Mr. President, bred at Green Creek Ranch. Not much for speed, but great for riding, and tough as nails. I've heard a pair of them can plow as much as four acres in a single day. I saw one crush a possum flat as a pancake once.”

Putin grinned. “Sounds exactly like the fate soon to befall Comrade Zhirnosky, Ranger.”

 

E
PILOGUE

The legendary Texas Rangers occupy a unique place in American history both as lawmen and as larger-than-life heroes, occasionally even antiheroes. Historically the force has reflected the values and shortcomings of the Texas society of the time. As a statewide enforcement agency the Rangers have been wielded as a political instrument by elected offices in times of social and economic discord. At times actions by Rangers enforced inequitable and even violent causes, often dictated by Texas law. Today the Rangers still reflect the direction and values of the state but modern Texas itself has adapted, sometimes imperfectly, to a more diverse culture and peaceful, often technological, solutions to the challenges of the twenty-first century. So too has the modern Ranger force … adapted and today operates as a team of professional and respected lawmen—but lawmen with a colorful history.

—Bruce A. Glasrud and Harold J. Weiss, Jr.,
Tracking the Texas Rangers: The Twentieth Century

 

 

S
AN
A
NTONIO,
T
EXAS

“You have that talk with Luke?” Caitlin asked Cort Wesley, on the drive from the airport where he'd picked her up after she flew back from Moscow by way of New York.

“Not yet. Keep putting it off. Hey, don't look at me that way.”

“What way is that?”

“Like you think I'm avoiding the issue, Ranger, sticking my head in the sand.”

“That is what I think,” she told him.

“Well, I've started the conversation maybe a dozen times, but it keeps going off the rails. I'll finish it next time, I promise.”

“Sure, Cort Wesley, whatever you say.”

“You don't believe me?” he said, and whipped out his cell phone. “I'll up and call Luke right now, I swear I will. Have that talk right now for you to hear on speaker.”

“I thought you said he was back in school.”

Cort Wesley stuffed the phone back in his pocket. “Later on, then.”

“Sure.”

“Stop saying that. Anyway, Zach's mother and stepdad finally showed up.”

“You say anything to them?”

“As little as possible for now.”

“Even about Calum Dane?”

“I figured I'd leave that to you, Ranger.”

“When the time is right.”

“Speaking of the right time, I've got a little present here for you,” Cort Wesley said, lifting what looked like a matchbox from the console.

Caitlin took the box from his grasp and slid it open, finding inside a dead beetle that looked exactly like the ones they'd battled after rescuing the hostages on Calum Dane's former cotton farm in Glasscock County. Seeing it in this condition made for a pleasant contrast with the vision of the picture from Doc Whatley's encyclopedia, come to life in those fields.

“Turns out there was a survivor from the blast Zhirnosky engineered in Kansas, a doctor who moonlights as a rodeo clown,” Cort Wesley explained to her. “He came up with the means to kill all those bugs by putting a little present in some food bait. They'll be a nuisance for a while, but they're all gonna end up exactly like the one in that box.”

Caitlin slid the box closed again and placed it back in the console. “You look tired,” Caitlin said, as they turned onto East Main Plaza, going through the city, thanks to both an accident and construction on the 410.

“I haven't been getting much sleep.”

“You're a damn good father, Cort Wesley.”

“It's not about Luke so much as his friend Zach. I keep thinking of his son-of-a-bitch father beating him on account of he's gay.”

“It's not about that,” Caitlin corrected. “It's about the kind of man Calum Dane is. Love doesn't mean a damn thing to him—I don't think it ever did. For him, power is everything, and asserting it over anyone in his world is like breathing to him. Google ‘bully' on the Internet and his will be the first face that comes up.”

“How do we find these people, Ranger?” Cort Wesley asked her, shaking his head.

“We don't. They find us, through their actions. There's too many Zachs out there, and too many Calum Danes too.”

Cort Wesley took a deep breath and glanced across the seat. “What about Paz?”

“Haven't heard a word from him. I don't think any man could've survived what I saw behind us on that farm,” Caitlin said, elaborating no further.

“That's assuming Paz is a man.”

“He wasn't in the warehouse, Cort Wesley. That was your imagination, turning one of the game figures into him.”

“The smell of beetle shit included?”

Caitlin just shrugged.

“So the Russian giant who ended up impaled on a spike?”

“You,” Caitlin told him. “You did it. You were slumped under him when I found you. You don't remember it that way, but that's the way it happened.”

Cort Wesley saw no point in arguing the matter further. “I was thinking of paying a visit to that psychic Paz was seeing, check if maybe she's still tuned in to the same frequency.”

“Paz doesn't have a frequency, he's got his own goddamn bandwidth.”

“Present tense, Ranger?” Cort Wesley said and checked the rearview mirror.

They hit a traffic snarl a few blocks before San Fernando Cathedral, the church Guillermo Paz was known to frequent. At first, Caitlin and Cort Wesley passed it off to too many cars funneling off the highway, but drawing closer they saw an intersection before the church awash in flashing lights, traffic being detoured onto adjoining streets. They noticed the shapes hanging from matching telephone poles on either side of the street, just short of the church, passing them off initially as the product of a prank.

Initially.

Cort Wesley leaned forward, squinting behind the wheel. “Is
that
 … are
those
…”

“Yes, I believe they are,” Caitlin acknowledged.

They were close enough now to clearly identify the shapes as bodies swaying lightly in the breeze; what looked like baling wire was looped under their arms and knotted over spokes protruding from the poles. The corpses' sagging pants hung low enough on their hips to expose their boxer shorts, and bandanas dressed in the colors of whatever gang they'd run with were stuffed in their mouths.

Cort Wesley looked across the seat. “Didn't you tell me that church—
Paz's
church—was vandalized recently?”

“I did.”

“Then I guess it's safe to assume the offenders have been punished,” Cort Wesley told her.

“We shouldn't be smiling about this, Cort Wesley.”

“But we still are.”

“All things being relative.”

“That's my point, Ranger. That's my point.”

 

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

The headline in the January 27, 2014, edition of
The New York Times
read, “Genetic Weapon Against Insects Raises Hope and Fear in Farming,” and with it, this book was born, almost a year to the day before I finished it. I saw the headline and, even before reading the article, the two greatest words for a writer popped into my mind: What if?

That's where all thrillers are born. In this case, what if something went wrong with that kind of genetic weapon—I mean
really
wrong?

As a kid, maybe the best short story I read was one called “Leiningen Versus the Ants,” by Carl Stephenson, about a Brazilian plantation owner who learns that a horde of army ants,
marabunta,
is headed his way. It was made into a damn good film for its time, called
The Naked Jungle,
starring the great Charlton Heston. In both versions, Leiningen decides to stay and fight the scourge, resulting in a brilliant last hour featuring amazing effects, before anyone even knew what computer animation was. I guess I'd always wanted to do my version of that tale, and that
New York Times
article gave me the chance.

The idea for a gunfight staged within a video game came after I read a similar Web article on “immersive gaming.” I was shocked at how close Samsung actually is to showcasing a first-generation version. I kid you not. And the concept also reminded me of the classic short story “The Veldt,” by the great Ray Bradbury. Given his recent passing, I saw the scene as a way to pay homage to one of America's greatest writers, at any time or in any genre.

I'm working up the concept for Caitlin's next adventure now. Guess it's time, with the anniversary of finding the last one just about upon me. So let's make a date to get together at the same time next year, and be well until then.

Providence, Rhode Island; January 26, 2015

 

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