Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(57)

John D. Rockefeller bucked his own horse around to face Jack Strong, but the Texas Ranger was already gone, his horse galloping through the grasslands and kicking up gravel in its wake.





53

HOUSTON, TEXAS

“It was an old trick my great-great-granddad learned in the Civil War,” Caitlin said, finishing up the story.

The stale air of the gym seemed to have thickened through the course of her tale, the stink of sweat growing more pronounced in the process. It felt to her as if the air-conditioning had shut down, leaving her roasting inside her cotton shirt.

“Confederate soldiers,” Caitlin continued, “would dig and disguise trenches in the road to slow supplies headed to the Northern troops, like guerrilla warfare. It almost worked well enough to tilt things in the South’s favor.”

“Almost,” Cray Rawls repeated.

“Even so, it slowed up Rockefeller’s wagons enough to delay him for a while.”

“Well, Ranger, nobody’s ever compared me to John D. Rockefeller before,” Rawls said, lifting the gloves hanging limply by his sides and tapping at the heavy bag in preparation for resuming his pounding of it.

“I wouldn’t take it as a compliment, sir.”

“I guess it’s a matter of perspective again, isn’t it?”

“But here’s the thing, Mr. Rawls. Back then, nobody had the resources to find out the truth behind John D. Rockefeller’s cutthroat business practices or how many lives he left trampled in his wake.”

“Is that the comparison you’re drawing here?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

One-two … One two … One-two …

Back to his punching again, Rawls seemed not to hear her.

“Because I wonder,” Caitlin continued anyway, “how much the Comanche tribal elders know about your history in Texas?”

One-two … One two … One-two …

“I wasn’t aware I had much of one to speak of, really,” Rawls said, as casually as he could manage.

But something had changed in the way he hit the heavy bag. Caitlin could feel the reduced intensity of his blows, which suddenly sounded hollow on impact.

“It’s true, isn’t it, sir, that following the death of your mother in North Carolina, you were adopted by a couple from Texas?”

Rawls forced himself to continue punching, just going through the motions now.

“For a time,” he said.

“Nine years is a long time.”

Caitlin realized the man’s entire demeanor had changed. His shoulders were sagging and his wrists were bending inward too much on impact. And he was breathing rapidly, mostly through his nose, the smooth and practiced cadence gone.

“What I’m getting at, Mr. Rawls,” Caitlin resumed, “is whether you informed the tribal elders you’re doing business with about your criminal record in this state.”

Rawls stopped punching altogether and held the bag steady with his gloves. “I was a juvenile at the time. Those records are sealed. Are we almost done here?”

“You were charged with rape, and would’ve been charged as an adult if the charges had stuck. But the woman was a prostitute who never showed up to give her statement. Lucky for you. Along with the fact that the fire marshal never followed through much on the investigation into the fire that killed the couple that adopted you.”

“Thank you for not calling them my parents,” Rawls said stiffly.

“Religious types, I’m told. Real Bible thumpers.”

“Are you finished, Ranger?”

“Just one more question for now. You ever actually get in the ring, Mr. Rawls?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just this, sir: I’ve known a lot of great shots on the range, some of the best. Champion target shooters who’ve never actually been in a gunfight. I never understood why anyone would shoot for sport, any more than I can understand why somebody would learn how to box and never get into the ring for a real bout.”

“You didn’t let me answer the question.”

“Your face gave it away,” Caitlin told him, “along with the way you’re hitting the bag. Boxers hold back when they’re practicing. It’s a necessary evil, so they can unleash themselves in the ring. But you aren’t holding back anything, like that bag is as close as you’ll ever come to a real opponent.”

“Maybe you didn’t notice my nose.”

“I did, sir, along with the lack of even a blotch anywhere else. I’m guessing you did some simple sparring that turned bad. Looks to me like somebody sucker punched you.”

“I’m sure there’s a point to all this,” Rawls said, breathing faster and louder.

“Only that an actual opponent is a whole different thing, either in the ring or in a gunfight. I just thought you should know that. Call it a little friendly advice.”

Rawls leaned back against the heavy bag, crossing his arms against his chest. “Did I do or say something to offend you, Ranger?”

“When you first saw me coming over, you looked at me like you knew you’d been caught. Like you’d done something that made you figure me or somebody else was coming, and that maybe you were glad, at least resigned. I’ve seen that look before, plenty often, and it always makes me wonder what a person’s hiding. Because if they’re hiding one thing, it’s a pretty safe bet they’re hiding something more.”