by Brett Riley
John stared at the figure. He could not seem to stop. He shivered and felt the hair on his neck stand up.
Now Pat was practically yanking his arm out of its socket.
Yeah, you’re right, he muttered. Let’s get inside right now.
They took three steps before the man appeared in front of them, just popped out of nowhere like one of those holograms on Star Trek. Over on Austin, the streetlights buzzed like angry insects and then winked out. The diner’s overheads strobed and crackled. The jukebox cut off. From inside came a cacophony of outraged voices. Pat moaned and gripped John’s arm. He was sure her long nails would break the skin.
Just like that night the Harveston girl died. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
The man stood perhaps ten feet away. John was over six feet tall and weighed 240 pounds, and he had gone toe to toe with even bigger men in honky-tonks across central Texas. It had never frightened him. But now, standing in front of this short, skinny, grayish man in the cowboy getup, John Marion Wayne nearly pissed himself.
Get hold of yourself, you pussy. He cleared his throat.
Mister, you’re scarin my wife. Best you step outta the way.
Pat trembled. John wondered if those pistols were functional. They sure looked real. We heard gunshots that night.
Let’s go back to the car, Pat said.
I mean it, mister, John said. Don’t make me tell you again.
But the cowboy did not move.
I wanna go home, Pat said.
John’s fists clenched. Jesus, it’s just some jackass in a cowboy suit, not the goddam boogeyman. He pulled away from Pat and assumed a boxer’s stance.
All right. I don’t know how you got over here so fast or why you’re wearin that getup, and I don’t care. Move your skinny ass, or I’ll move it for you.
He took two steps toward the gray figure.
The cowboy raised his head. His visage was haggard and gaunt and stubbled, the cheekbones prominent. His eyes, already gray and faded, sunk into his head, and the Waynes screamed as they gazed into the his skull’s empty sockets.
The cowboy snarled. Pat’s voice rose like the whistle of a teakettle.
And then, faster than John could follow, the cowboy drew his pistols and fired twice. Something punched John in the gut, and he flew backward five feet, landing on his back, his legs in the air. Then he rolled onto his side and lay still, groaning.
Pat ran to John and grabbed his shoulder with both hands and pulled him onto his back. His eyes were wide open, his teeth clenched. He opened his mouth. She leaned in close. And then John vomited blood, hitting her in the face. It streamed into her shirt and burned her eyes. Some ran into her mouth, gagging her, yet she kept on screaming, clawing at her eyes, flinging ropes of gore into the grass. By the time she could see, John was dead.
The cowboy stood ten feet away, guns holstered, arms hanging slack at his sides as if he had never moved.
You killed him, Pat said. You son of a bitch.
People poured out of the diner, their footfalls like the muted thud of faraway horses’ hooves. The cowboy ignored them. Pat got to her feet, hands hooked into claws. Let the cowboy blow her head off. If he did not, if she could get close enough, she would dig her fingers deep into those gray sockets and see if she could find something soft.
Behind the cowboy, a white man and two Latinos arrived and fanned out.
What the hell’s goin on here? one of the men said.
The cowboy ignored him.
Pat advanced, her arms outstretched, John’s blood dripping from her fingers.
But just as she got close enough to rip his face off, the cowboy disappeared. He did not move or fade. He winked out of existence.
Pat stumbled toward the men, not seeing their puzzled, frightened expressions. The white man caught her before she fell. She tried to scream again, her abused vocal chords not up to the task. She beat at the man’s face, blood spattering onto the other two as they tried to pull her away.
Jesus, she’s as slippery as a greased pig, the first Latino man said.
What happened to her? said the other.
What I wanna know is where that sumbitch in the cowboy hat went.
The white man wiped streaks of blood off his face with his shirttail and trotted to John’s body. He put two fingers under John’s upper jaw. Then he put his ear to John’s chest and listened. The other men watched, silent. Pat had collapsed in their arms. She hung there like a puppet without strings.
This fella’s dead, the white man said. Somebody call the cops. Anybody know these people?
I don’t, one of the Latino men said. Maybe somebody inside does.
Sirens warbled in the distance. In the back of the parking lot, the Mustang sat in darkness, where the police would find it minutes later, still perfect but for a bit of dust and cut grass sticking to its undercarriage.
Bathed in the pulsing reds and blues of police and ambulance lights, C.W. Roark stood over John Wayne’s body. The eyes were open, the mouth pulled down in a horrible rictus. Nearby, Bob Bradley, the chief of police, conversed with the county coroner. Deputy Roen interviewed three men who had come out to help. Every other cop on the payroll worked crowd control. That had never been much of a problem in Comanche, but when two people were killed in the same place only seven or eight weeks apart, the townsfolk tended to gawk. Or piss themselves. They might even tell their friends and relatives to stay away, and right before the annual Pow Wow.
Roark squinted against the lights. A pounding headache formed on top of his skull. Will was out there, leaning against his truck and shooting the scene with his phone. Hell and damnation. Gotta go make him delete it, or it’ll be up on the YouTube before I get home. Roark started to move. Then, as if he needed more problems, Rennie arrived.
She parked on Austin. The streetlights—burning bright, though the three witnesses swore they had gone dark during the killing—reflected off the hood and roof of her car. She got out, her red hair pulled back in its usual bun, and spotted Will. Pausing long enough to glare at him, hands on her hips, she said something Roark could not make out. The boy scowled, put the phone in his pocket, and got in his truck. As he drove away, Rennie ducked under the police tape, ignoring the calls of the deputies to stop, to get back on the other side of the barrier. Roark sighed. They all knew her and would not restrain her, though who knew whether they feared losing their jobs by his hand or their heads by hers?
Rennie trooped past the chief and the coroner, who stopped talking long enough to watch. The coroner shook his head and laughed. The chief did not. Rennie stamped up and regarded C.W., hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side, as if he were their son come home two hours after curfew with liquor on his breath. Roark steeled himself for the onslaught and hoped his temper would hold.
C.W., she said, I wonder if you understand what this means.
He frowned. I understand we’ve had two people dead in our goddam front yard. You shouldn’t be here. You ain’t a town official.
I don’t give a rat’s ass. Is that really John Wayne over yonder?
Not the one you’re thinkin of. He’s been dead a lot longer.
That’s about as funny as a broken knee. We’re in trouble here.
He snorted. Don’t I know it. Sayin this is bad for our business is like callin Niagara Falls a campground shower. Plus, we can kiss the Pow Wow goodbye if we don’t catch this fella. And if I can’t keep the Pow Wow goin, I might as well clear out my office, because our merchants will remember next Election Day.
I couldn’t care less about the diner or the Pow Wow. Or your job either.
Then what?
She reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to him. He took it and stepped closer to the streetlights, pulling his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. It was Red Thornapple’s article on the Piney Woods
Kid. Roark looked at the black-and-white photograph with the names under it. He saw himself and Garner, the big truck driver, and the Johnstone lady, who was, if memory served, somebody or other’s secretary. The sluttish McCorkle woman, whose pants had been tight enough to trace the creases in her ass. Red Thornapple himself. The young girl, dark hair falling past her shoulders—Lorena Harveston. And John Wayne.
Rennie’s point was obvious, but why would anybody target the folks in that picture? Most of them had done little in their lives beyond ordinary living. Only he was of any particular importance to the community. Only he and Thornapple had money. No one could be jealous of their publicity; the Warrior-Tribune did not exactly enjoy national circulation. Rennie was seeing connections where only happenstance existed, but he did not have that luxury. Not now, when his town needed him and would remember, for better or worse, how he handled this crisis.
He folded the article. If you’re tryin to show me two people in this picture have died here, I kind of noticed.
She touched his arm. I heard those men say the killer disappeared. Like he was a ghost.
Oh, for God’s sake.
Listen to me, she hissed. I don’t know what those people saw, but how did he get away? How did he do it twice?
We don’t even know if it was the same person.
She groaned. Are you really arguin we should worry less because maybe there’s two killers in town? We gotta call somebody. Bob Bradley don’t know how to deal with a serial killer. Maybe the state police or the FBI—
Damn the state police, he said. This town needs every single dollar we can get, and to attract more dollars, we need the Pow Wow. If anybody so much as hears the words serial killer, we can kiss it goodbye. And if the diner goes under, we’ll lose our investment. Is that what you want?
I told you. I don’t give a damn about that. I’d rather be the wife of a live ex-mayor than a widow.
Bradley and the coroner stopped talking and glanced at them. So did some of the deputies.
Keep your voice down, C.W. urged. People are lookin. I’m tellin you, this town can’t afford to let this shit go statewide. This killer ain’t no goddam ghost or a criminal genius. He’s just a man, and he’ll slip up. So we’re gonna handle this ourselves. I mean it, Rennie. If you so much as breathe a word to any law enforcement official—local, state, or federal—you and me are gonna go round and round.
They scowled at each other, their eyes locked. Finally, C.W. looked away. Rennie could stare down a rabid bull when she put her mind to it.
Then she poleaxed him by saying, What about Raymond? We could call him.
Anger welled up in C.W.’s throat like acrid vomit. His expression hardened. What’s he gonna do? Drink the killer under the table?
He’s been sober for months now. You know that.
What I know is that he near about broke your heart and probably gave himself cirrhosis while he was at it.
Rennie looked like she could rip out C.W.’s liver with her teeth. Marie died, she said. She was his whole world. He’s human.
He’s weak is what he is. No. We ain’t callin Raymond. He’d just muck things up even worse. Now please. Get on home, and let our people earn their salaries.
He walked away. I never talked to her that way before. I’ll be in the doghouse at least a week. She tromped back toward the car. The deputies backed away like she was a grizzly bear.
Rennie pulled into her driveway and killed the engine, yanking the keys out of the ignition and slamming the door behind her. On the drive home, one thought flashed like a neon sign: God, that man can be an ass. She unlocked the front door and dropped the keys on the coffee table while passing through the living room. In the bedroom, she sat down and leaned against the headboard, looking at the family picture on her nightstand—her, C.W., and Will, all sitting on a bench in front of an oak tree. Everyone looked happy.
She dug her phone out of her purse, opened her contacts, and selected Raymond.
He answered on the second ring. What’s wrong? he asked.
Chapter Eleven
August 29, 2016—New Orleans, Louisiana
When Raymond reached the office, he had already sweated through his clothes, which felt fused to his skin. He had not eaten breakfast. The agency’s waiting room, on a busy day, looked like a doctor’s office, with prospective clients reading old magazines. Today it was empty. Good. Anytime the sun glared down like the wrathful eye of God, slow days felt like a blessing. He opened the heavy oak door and walked into the office proper.
Raymond’s desk sat near the far wall in front of a framed Dali poster. To its right stood the door to the back rooms—storage, a restroom, and sleeping quarters he and LeBlanc sometimes used and sometimes hid their clients in. His desk looked sloppy as hell—papers spilled everywhere, a dirty coffee cup on one corner, an empty in-and-out box, a laptop buried somewhere. Two padded red chairs faced it. Two more stood in front of LeBlanc’s desk near the left wall. LeBlanc sat behind it, snoring, his feet planted on the burgundy carpet, his head tilting over the back of his chair like the lid of a teapot. Raymond laughed. LeBlanc, a good six inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than Raymond, looked like a grown-up in a third grader’s seat.
Raymond tiptoed into the room and shut the door. Then he rooted around until he found a phone book. He walked over to LeBlanc and savored the big man’s peaceful look before slamming the phone book down with a sound like a shotgun blast.
LeBlanc’s eyes flew open, and he overbalanced, his arms pinwheeling, his mouth open in a surprised yawp that doubled Raymond over in laughter even before LeBlanc fell onto his right side. He jumped up, eyes wild. Raymond stepped away in case LeBlanc took a swing before all his senses returned. But when his eyes focused, LeBlanc just said, You asshole.
You should have seen your face, said Raymond, still laughing.
LeBlanc glowered a moment longer, and then his mouth twitched upward and his eyes softened. Soon he was grinning. One of these days, I’m gonna get you. He sat back in his chair and tossed the phone book across the room. It fluttered like a wounded bird, landing near Raymond’s visitors chairs.
Raymond sat on the edge of LeBlanc’s desk. LeBlanc eyed Raymond’s ring.
Still wearin it, I see.
You feel like eatin?
LeBlanc stood up and gestured toward the door. Age before beauty.
Smartass.
They both ordered a shrimp po’ boy with fries and tea, despite the early hour. At their table facing Decatur, LeBlanc read a printout of the article from the Comanche Warrior-Tribune. At the top were two pictures. On the left, a grainy photograph of an old gunfighter standing on an empty street, his hat tipped back, his expression inscrutable, both thumbs tucked into his gun belt. The caption read The Piney Woods Kid c. 1884. The other showed several people sitting in a restaurant booth. Their names were listed: Mayor C.W. Roark, Sue McCorkle, Adam Garner, Joyce Johnstone, Red Thornapple, John M. Wayne, and Lorena Harveston.
So. It’s an article about your sister’s new business, LeBlanc said.
Raymond took it back and folded it. Two people in that picture are dead. Lorena Harveston and John Wayne. Both died right outside the diner, the girl on the very night they took that picture.
I can see why Rennie’s concerned. Any other connections between the victims?
Nope.
So the question’s whether they died because of the diner or their ancestors, LeBlanc said.
Can’t imagine there’s much about the diner worth killin for. It just started up.
Maybe C.W. crossed a mob contractor or somethin.
Raymond laughed. If they were in New Jersey, maybe, but I doubt even the Dixie Mafia’s ever heard of Comanche. Besides, C.W. wouldn’t get involved in somethin shady. Some folks got a stick up their ass. C.W.’s got a whole tree.
LeBlanc took a huge bite of his sandwich. M
outh still full, he said, So no problems with gettin the land or anything?
Rennie said somethin about the county historical society wantin it, but those ain’t generally the kind of folks that resort to killin nurses.
But the posse angle seems pretty thin, too. I mean, this is Texas we’re talkin about. Somebody in your family tree had to be part of a posse at some point.
Or the one the posse chased.
Where the hell is Comanche anyway? Is it closer to Dallas or El Paso? Or goddam Lubbock?
Closer to Dallas than them other two, Raymond said. Oh, I haven’t even told you the best part. Eyewitnesses say the killer wasn’t human.
That surprised the big man so much, he almost stopped chewing. What was it then? A coyote or a Bengal tiger? What lives in Texas?
Raymond sipped his tea and, just for fun, waited until LeBlanc bit off another hunk of sandwich before he said, Word is a ghost killed ’em.
LeBlanc nearly choked. He sputtered and coughed, crumbs and bits of half-chewed shrimp and tomato and lettuce spewing onto the table and Raymond’s fries. Raymond frowned and pushed his plate away.
Are you serious? LeBlanc croaked.
I’m just tellin you what Rennie told me.
LeBlanc drained his glass and signaled a server for another, his face still red, crumbs dotting his chin. A ghost. Just when you think you’ve heard everything.
Maybe we can get us a ghost-huntin TV show.
They already got a few of those. They all suck.
Don’t I know it.
They stopped talking while LeBlanc ate. They would take the case, of course, even though they were not licensed in Texas. With all the worry Raymond had put Rennie through, he owed her that much, and more. He would miss New Orleans, though. He had visited Comanche before and had seen no sign of beignets and po’ boys and crawfish and shrimp and beer and strippers and shitfaced tourists taking their pants off in the streets. In fact, it was hard to remember just what he had seen—a hardware store, maybe, and some car-repair joints and a motel or two. If he and LeBlanc had to stay more than a few days, how would they stand it?
