Strong Darkness (11 page)

“He made a sound. His eyelids were fluttering. I think he was dreaming.”

“That's good,” the doctor noted, and held Dylan's one eyelid open and then the other while shining the light into them. Then he looked toward the window, face tilting in surprise. “Where'd that come from? Haven't seen one of those since I was a boy growing up in the South.”

Cort Wesley followed his gaze and saw the bottle Leroy Epps had drained still sitting on the sill.

“Authentic Hines Root Beer with old-fashioned sassafras as the primary ingredient,” the doctor continued, shaking his head nostalgically. “Brings back memories, I'll tell you. Almost like seeing a ghost.”

“I know what you mean,” said Cort Wesley.

 

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The serial killer's latest victim had been found in a room at the Menger Hotel that overlooked the Alamo. According to Bexar County medical examiner Frank Dean Whatley, the unidentified young woman was presumed to be a prostitute for reasons he didn't elaborate on right away. Her body had been removed hours prior to Caitlin arriving on the scene but the wall behind the headboard was splattered with blood and the bed sheets were covered in it.

Caitlin stood in the doorway for a moment, picturing the scene in its original form; the victim with her head cut off and sewn back on backward, raped postmortem.

Just like the victim William Ray Strong and Judge Roy Bean had examined in a camp occupied by Chinese workers building the Trans-Pecos rail line in 1883, without benefit of crime scene technicians, DNA testing, blood splatter experts. Or lights and sprays that could reveal hidden blood and semen. Hard to believe a case ever got solved in those days, but the Texas Rangers had solved plenty of them anyway.

“We pulled a sample of the stitching he used off the carpet,” Whatley reported, having inched up closer to her. “Step into the room and I'll run the numbers for you.”

Frank Dean Whatley had been the Bexar County medical examiner since Caitlin was in diapers. He'd grown a belly in recent years that hung out over his thin belt, seeming to force his spine to angle inward at the torso. Whatley's teenage son had been killed by Latino gangbangers when Caitlin was a mere kid herself. Ever since then, he'd harbored a virulent hatred for that particular race from the bag boys at the local H.E.B. to the politicians who professed to be peacemakers. With his wife lost, in life and then death, to alcoholism, he'd probably stayed on the job too long. But he had nothing to go home to, no real life outside the office, and remained exceptionally good at performing the rigors of his job.

Whatley had seemed to resent Caitlin in her first years as a Ranger, warming up to her only after they'd worked closely on a few cases together. Caitlin always let him know how much she appreciated his persistence and professionalism, inevitably treating the victims of violence with a dignity that belied the coldness of his office. He'd purchased floral bed linens with his own money to better dress the steel slabs on which he performed his autopsies, because he believed those with the misfortune of ending up there deserved at least that much comfort and respect.

Caitlin entered the hotel room, feeling immediately chilled, and wondered if it was the product of illusion or a literal change in temperature from the hall. The room looked lifted straight out of the mid-nineteenth century when the hotel had been built, outfitted with furnishings that included a four-poster bed, velvet-covered Victorian couch, and marble table. A framed colorful tapestry map of Texas from around that time hung over a dark-wood desk.

The Menger was proclaimed “the finest hotel west of the Mississippi” almost since its first day in business and, according to the information Caitlin had pulled up on the Internet, had played host to the likes of Sam Houston, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, and numerous presidents. It was even said that none other than Teddy Roosevelt recruited several of his Rough Riders in the hotel bar. The hotel's majestic facade and beige-tone design, together with its original wrought-iron balconies pitched beneath striped awnings that looked like wagon canvas, made it an apt complement to the historic Alamo located directly across the plaza.

Caitlin could hear Whatley's labored breathing just to her right. “You know, my great-grandfather came up against an almost identical killer in 1883.”

“You mean the case he supposedly worked with Roy Bean? I thought that was just a legend.”

“Maybe so, like everything else. But there's plenty of facts to support it really did happen.”

Whatley took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow of sweat, even though the room was chilly. “Well, I got some facts for you too. The victim wasn't carrying any ID and AFIS came up with nothing when we ran her prints. But if she was a prostitute, I'd say we're looking at very high-end, even exclusive.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We found her clothes hung neatly in the closet, name-brand designer the whole way. Her grooming was perfect and she carried a small bottle of perfume in her purse that cost more than I make in a week.”

“So she had a purse, but no identification.”

“Killer must've removed it. A souvenir probably.”

“Well, I hope it helps us catch him, Doc.”

Whatley frowned and dabbed some more sweat off his brow. “The preliminary autopsy I conducted revealed fracturing of the hyoid bone and broken blood vessels in her eyes consistent with being strangled to death before she was beheaded. The cut was jagged and, I'm only guessing here, done with some kind of sharp, serrated knife like you might see a butcher use to trim filets. But, judging by the irregular slices, a butcher would have been much finer in his work.”

“You said you found some of the thread he used when he stitched it back on.”

“It was more like a twine, maybe a tightly woven yarn. I haven't identified the material yet, but I can tell you it was found at the crime scene in Houston too.”

“Houston,” Caitlin echoed. “Where else?”

“Laredo,” came the voice of D. W. Tepper from the doorway, “to go with Lubbock and Amarillo. Is five still your favorite number, Ranger?”

“I don't recall it ever being my favorite number,” Caitlin told him.

“I'm talking when you were a girl. Everything had to be in fives. Know why? Because that's how many shells fit into a Colt Patterson revolver, the first pistol Earl Strong taught you how to shoot.”

Whatley looked toward Tepper. “Am I done here? I got a ton of work waiting for me back at the lab.”

“You got any more questions for the good doctor, Ranger?”

“Just one,” Caitlin said, turning back toward Whatley. “Your autopsy reveal any semen inside the victim, Doc?”

“No, and I wouldn't expect there'd be.”

“Why's that?”

“Because the man who raped her didn't do it with his johnson. Near as we can tell, he did it with a soldering iron. Guess the only good thing about us not being able to identify her is that we don't have to explain all that to her next of kin. Long way to ship the body in any event.”

“What's that mean?”

“The girl was Chinese.”

 

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“All five victims were Chinese,” Tepper told Caitlin, after Whatley had taken his leave.

“Just like William Ray Strong's case in 1883…”

“Another reason why you're the only one for the job, Ranger.”

“I assume you dusted the outlets nearest the bed for prints, Captain,” Caitlin said.

“We did and there weren't any.” Tepper felt about his pockets, not realizing he was already holding his pack of Marlboros in hand. “But heat marks indicate the soldering iron was probably plugged in when it was inserted into her. You can see why I was adamant about asking you to come home.”

“Because I know something about electric tools?”

Tepper's expression crinkled in displeasure. “Because Austin figured we needed to put the right face on this.”

“Me?”

“People of Texas are sure to feel safer knowing that you're on the job.”

“The ones I haven't shot anyway.”

“How many of those are left? Ten or twelve maybe?”

Caitlin looked back at the blood staining the sheets, back wall, and floor. “How do the other four killings compare to this one?”

“I got Lieutenants Berry and Rollins sorting through that now. Looks like the pattern's pretty much identical, although the other investigations all seemed to miss out on one thing Doc Whatley figured out in the time it takes me to finish a Marlboro.”

“This is a nonsmoking room, Captain,” she said, watching him tap the pack.

“You see me striking a match, Ranger? Let it go, will ya?”

“Soon as you give up that nasty habit, I'll be glad to.”

“Tell me how our serial killer could be repeating history, how he came by such specific knowledge that's not written down anyplace I've ever seen.”

“Maybe he had a grandfather like mine who told him the tale.”

“Either way, he's got intimate knowledge of events from 1883.”

“A connection to the railroad would be the most obvious conclusion.”

Tepper flashed her a wink, popped a cigarette into his mouth but didn't light it. “Glad you figured that much out all on your own.”

“What is it you're not telling me, D.W.?” Caitlin said, recalling how cryptic he'd sounded over the phone as well.

Tepper moved to the desk over which hung the framed tapestry map of old West Texas. “Houston, Amarillo, Lubbock,” he said, touching each city through the glass, “San Antonio, and Laredo. That line I just drew look familiar to you?”

“I'm not following you, D.W.”

“Take a closer look, Ranger.”

Caitlin stepped back and did, seeing the map in a whole new way and feeling her eyes widen. “Oh, God,” she realized. “It's the original rail line built by the Southern Pacific.”

 

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“I'm impressed,” the big man said, over the steady drone of the machines in the secret underground level of Yuyuan.

“Your skills in killing are matched only by your loyalty, Qiang,” Li Zhen said, moving a hand out from behind his back toward one of the computers inputting information fed by his orbiting satellites. “But in less than a week's time, I will be able to kill thousands with a simple touch of a key.”

“And yet you still require my more old-fashioned services,” Qiang told Zhen.

“The two targets are threats we must eliminate to ensure we encounter no setbacks.”

The big man nodded, letting his eyes run along the walls of numbers rolling down the screens taking up one entire wall of the sublevel. He regarded them diffidently, seeming to forget they'd ever been here as soon as he turned away.

Qiang was big
everywhere
. A tower of muscle wrapped into a black suit, shirt, and tie that hid all but a single line of tattoo ink that pushed itself up over his collar. Li knew Qiang's entire body would be covered in ink, each drawing etched into his skin telling a different story of his background, lineage, and experience with the Triad, still the most powerful criminal organization in China. Like organized crime in America, the Triad had been targeted relentlessly by law enforcement, ultimately moving their efforts underground. Men like Qiang became ghosts, lost to their families who were under constant surveillance and adopting the philosophy that they were already, for all intents and purposes, dead—at least the men they had been were. The men they were now had no families, no history, no friends, no relationships. They had only the Triad.

“Qiang” wasn't his real name, but one appropriated because it meant “strength” in the Chinese language. Qiang's father had been one of Li Zhen's closest associates, the man who had guided him through his formative years when the highest echelon a peasant scum could reach in China was in either gambling or pornography. Thanks to Qiang's father, Zhen had ended up in pornography, taking over the entire business when his mentor fell ill. Near death, he'd asked Zhen to pledge that he'd look after his son, a wish Zhen was more than happy to grant for his own selfish reasons, given Qiang's reputation as a violently effective enforcer even when barely out of his teens.

“You are prepared, then?” Li Zhen asked him now.

Qiang looked away from the wall he'd taken to studying again. “I have two teams moving into place, ready to act as soon as I give the word. I need only one more thing from you.”

“Name it.”

“Camellia flowers from your gardens for the strings they produce,” Qiang finally said. “I want my men to partake in the traditional ceremony as my ancestors did before they set out in battle.”

“This isn't just a battle, my friend, it's the beginning of a war.”

Qiang looked down at the keyboard over which Zhen stood. His spine stiffened, making him seem even taller. “
Q
ǐ
shì,”
he said.

“Chinese for apocalypse,” Zhen translated, “because that is what I'm bringing to America.”

Li moved to another terminal attached to a screen with only four numbers frozen upon it and depressed the Enter key.

“And what was that?” Qiang asked him.

“A test, my friend, a test.”

 

P
ART
T
HREE

“We had a little shooting and he lost.”

—Anonymous Texas Ranger

 

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