Strong Darkness (25 page)

“Actually, I believe General Chang may have been murdered, sir.”

“I was informed all indications pointed to a heart attack.”

“Not all indications. That's why I'm here,” Caitlin told him. “Your safety's more important to me than some edict from the State Department.”

“I appreciate that, Ranger, but don't see what—”

“General Chang was on the phone to an identified party back in China when he was stricken,” Caitlin interrupted. “But a number of other calls on his phone's log were to you. Was it business between him and Yuyuan that brought him to Texas?”

“I met with General Chang earlier in the day. I'm sure you understand I am not at liberty to discuss the topics of our discussion. He was supposed to stop off at Six Flags Fiesta to ride the park's roller coasters, a kind of obsession for the general—at least, that's what he told me. We met in Fiesta actually so he could make the stop before going home. You may want to report that to those overseeing the investigation, Ranger. General Chang was an older man who probably shouldn't have been riding roller coasters at all. There could be a connection.”

“And what exactly was your connection to him?”

“You realize I am under no obligation to answer your questions.”

“I am, sir, and, like I said, I took the risk in coming here because of my concerns for your safety on the chance my suspicions are well founded.”

“I appreciate the courtesy, Ranger. In China, it's no secret that the interests of business, the military, and the government are all intrinsically intertwined. General Chang was the military representative to whom I reported on a regular basis.”

“That's interesting, sir, since the travel documents I had a look at indicate the last time General Chang was in Texas goes all the way back to the time Yuyuan opened its offices here.”

Caitlin's gaze moved behind Li Zhen to the wall of old black-and-white photographs from the frontier railroad days.

“One of your pictures is missing,” she noted.

Li did not turn to follow her gaze to the wall. He looked like a man trying not to appear surprised.

“It was a shot that caught the work in progress on one of the many railroad lines Chinese immigrants helped build,” Caitlin continued. “I thought I recognized it as somewhere in West Texas.”

“A lot to conclude from a single photo.”

“It was the scrub brush, Mr. Zhen. Only Texas has it, or, at least, it's the only state that has it where the railroads were building at the time.”

“My great-grandfather, Tsuyoshi Zhen, spent many years in your state, working those rails. Did I mention that?”

“You mentioned the owners of the railroad cheated him out of some invention.”

“Not just some invention,” Li told her, with an edge of bitterness and animus creeping into his voice. “It was his life's work and they stole it from him.”

“My great-grandfather spent some time in one of those work camps investigating the murders of Chinese women at the hands of the Old West's first recorded serial killer. You know anything about that?”

Li Zhen's expression didn't change, remaining utterly flat and noncommittal. “I believe I do,” he said, rising from his chair. “Allow me to share it with you.…”

 

66

L
ANGTRY,
T
EXAS; 1883

William Ray Strong stayed in one of the six bedrooms over Roy Bean's combination saloon and courthouse that were normally occupied only for an hour or so at a time. He was awoken not long after dawn by a knock on the door and opened it to find the judge standing there.

“I brought you some coffee,” he said, handing William Ray a hot, steaming mug, the contents of which looked thick as tar.

“Didn't think we were intending to get this early a start.”

“Tell that to the railroad men downstairs waiting for you, Ranger.”

*   *   *

William Ray dressed quickly and headed down the stairway that doglegged to the right with the rest of his coffee in hand. He spotted four men all in suits, two standing and two sitting. The two who were sitting sat patiently next to each other, each in their forties or fifties. One wore tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. The other, who was somehow familiar to William Ray, didn't.

The two men standing, meanwhile, stood slightly back from them. Their suit coats dangled over the bulges of their holsters and William Ray had them made as private security, Pinkerton men in all probability since the company supplied both the Trans-Union and Southern Pacific railroads with most of their hired gunmen. There was no shortage of need for their services, especially on the plains, but these were the type better suited for dealing with settlers and farmers unwilling to cede their land based on the eminent domain principle upon which the railroad relied.

The two seated men rose briefly in unison at William Ray's approach, his gaze following them even as he watched to see if the Pinkerton men brushed their coats back to expose their pistols.

“Nice to meet you, Ranger,” the older of the two said, extending a hand across the table.

William Ray laid his cooling mug of coffee down on the table and took it. “Normally, when I shake a man's hand I'm already familiar with his name.”

“John W. Morehouse, Ranger, and this is Christopher Allen Bookbinder. We operate the Southern Pacific Railroad.”

“By operate I don't suppose you mean drive the trains.”

“Hardly,” Morehouse said, his teeth so white when he smiled it seemed as if he'd wet them down with paint. “My father was one of the founders of the Southern Pacific and Mr. Bookbinder here serves as our project manager, quite a job given how much rail we're laying at any given time over any number of sites.”

William Ray let his gaze wander over them to the two men standing in the shadows cast by the morning sunlight streaming in through the side windows. “You didn't introduce them.”

“Because their names aren't important.”

“But their presence must be, or they wouldn't be here. I thought you looked familiar, Mr. Morehouse. I've seen your picture in the papers. I've never seen their pictures in the papers,” the Ranger continued, tilting his gaze again toward the Pinkertons, “but they look familiar enough too. You come all the way out here from New York?”

“We were already here on other business when we received word of the visit you paid to our worksite yesterday. Stirred the pot a bit, didn't you?”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“And that's why we're here now, doing ours. Spare you time and trouble in the process.”

“Time and trouble kind of goes with my job too,” William Ray told him. “Isn't that right, Judge?” he continued when Roy Bean took the chair next to him, laying a massive mug of beer before him, plopping it down so hard that a bunch of the foam at the top sprayed into the air.

“Take it from me,” the judge said, toasting Bookbinder and Morehouse, “this man is a genuine pain in the ass. His bad side is a place you don't want to be, any more than you want to mess with any Texas Ranger.”

“You caused quite a commotion,” Morehouse said to William Ray. “I thought it prudent we have a talk to set the scales right.” He shifted in his chair enough to be able to look back at the two Pinkerton men. “And these men accompanied us to demonstrate to you that we are well capable of policing our own and handling the kind of situation that has arisen in the camp you visited.”

“Where were they a couple weeks back?”

“Pardon me?”

“The first victim was killed almost two weeks ago, but I'm guessing this is their first trip to the camp.” William Ray leaned forward. “See, their shoes are clean and their suits don't have a single speck of mud or dust on them. And their pants are wrinkled in the places that tell me they just finished a long train ride.”

“Makes sense,” said Roy Bean, draining a hefty portion of his beer in a single swig and mopping the suds from his mouth with his sleeve.

“But here's the problem,” William Ray resumed. “Your Pinkerton men must've been on their way west before the judge and I showed up at that worksite. I seem to recall your chief engineer, Kincannon, telling us they'd been sent for to deal with that strike by those Chinese workers.”

“That's none of your business, Ranger. None of this is your business.”

“That's funny, because last time I checked this was still Texas, and that makes it my business.”

Morehouse frowned, looking toward Bookbinder who handed him an envelope. “Then maybe you should have a look at this, Ranger. Save all of us some trouble.”

He handed the envelope to William Ray who saw it had been neatly slit open at the top, recognizing it as a Western Union wire. Though the envelope was open, the wire looked otherwise undisturbed as he slid it out and unfolded it a third at a time.

“In case you have a problem with any of the words, Ranger,” Moorehead said flatly with no apparent derision, “it's from the governor of Texas, John Ireland himself, ordering you to cease and desist all investigative efforts as they pertain to the Southern Pacific Railroad here in your great state.”

William Ray handed the telegram to the judge initially without comment. Then he regarded the man wearing the pressed woolen suit across the table.

“Pays to have friends in high places, doesn't it, Mr. Morehouse? Tell me, did you make any contributions to our recently elected governor's campaign?”

“I did indeed, Ranger. Then again, the Southern Pacific made an equally substantial contribution to his opponent.”

“A fine strategy, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“And so is keeping a lid on the fact that you've got a murderer loose who's killed Chinese women at several of your work camps and will go on killing unless justice is done.”

“We are perfectly capable of looking after our own, Ranger.”

William Ray leaned across the table, shoving his coffee mug out of the way to make room for his elbows. “If that were the case, there wouldn't be four dead young ladies in Langtry, sir.”

Morehouse leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Has a complaint been filed, Ranger?”

“The murdered women weren't exactly feeling up to the task of filling out a report.”

“Then if no complaint was filed, what's your cause for investigating?”

“That's on me,” said Judge Roy Bean, seeming to lick at the suds down the sides of his now empty stein of beer. “I caught wind of what was transpiring from a customer of mine who delivers beef to the site. He overhead a few men talking.”

“Well,” said Morehouse, slapping his open palms on the table hard enough to make the rest of William Ray's coffee jump in its mug, “there you have it. Since no official complaint has been filed, Ranger, you had no real call to intrude on the camp, land duly owned by the Southern Pacific, I might add, in the first place.” He pointed toward the telegram upon which William Ray had planted his elbows. “I believe the governor came to his decision in full awareness of that fact. Enough said.” Morehouse rose and replaced his bowler hat. “I appreciate you both doing your best to uphold justice in this fine state.”

“I believe I recognize you from someplace other than the newspapers,” William Ray said, looking up at him now. “Can you think of a time we may have met before?”

“I don't think I would have forgotten you, if that were the case, Ranger.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Mr. Morehouse. That's what bugs me.”

“Maybe I have a familiar face.”

“I suspect you must.”

“Well, then, we'd best be getting back to work.”

Morehouse turned and walked toward the door in lock step with Bookbinder under the protective shadow of the Pinkerton men who didn't take their eyes off William Ray for a single second.

“Mr. Morehouse?” he called just as Morehouse was starting through the door, waiting for him to stop and turn. “Just make sure no harm comes to any of these Chinese on account of this strike.”

“I've got a railroad to run, Ranger, and right now they're stopping me from doing that.”

“Then pay them what you owe for the construction of that dam. Last time I checked, slavery was illegal in this country.”

“Well, sir,” Morehouse said, with a snarky grin, “that depends on your perspective, doesn't it?”

*   *   *

“We still headed over to that camp?” Judge Bean called from the bar where he was refilling his mug, after Morehouse and the Pinkertons were gone.

“We sure are, Judge,” William Ray said, checking his Colt. “Those boys must not know much about the Texas Rangers. And something else.”

“What's that?”

“I believe I remember where I recognized Mr. Morehouse from.”

*   *   *

William Ray Strong and Judge Roy Bean reached the site just as work was starting up again laying track. The entire camp seemed to be working—everyone but the Chinese, that is, who, to a man, remained on strike, which was sure to keep the Southern Pacific from meeting its daily quota.

They rode in single file, one behind the other, the eyes of the workers gaping at the sight once again of the Texas Ranger riding high in the saddle with one hand on the reins and another perched near enough his Colt to have it drawn in a blink. William Ray spotted a number of Pinkerton men scattered strategically about, leaning against posts, cigarettes dangling from their lips, with a few holding shotguns just tight enough. They all wore suits, some covered by long barn coats just beginning to soak up the grime of the street, but none had their Pinkerton badges pinned to their lapels.

William Ray made a point of ignoring them through the course of his leisurely approach to the camp, heading straight to the tent forming police headquarters where the bowling pin form of Chief Bates was perched on the stoop shaking his head.