by Brett Riley
What the hell? LeBlanc said.
Raymond grunted. He had never seen anything like that, had never even heard tell of it. He grabbed McDowell by the shoulder and turned her around. Blood dripped from both her eyes.
Raymond shook her. Betsy. Snap out of it, darlin, he said.
LeBlanc’s eyes bugged. Is she okay?
Wake up, Raymond said. Come on back.
McDowell’s eyes focused. Then she burst into sobs. She fell against LeBlanc, turned, and buried her face in his shirt. He held her and stroked her hair and made shushing sounds as she gasped and wracked tears up from the deep well of her soul, smearing blood and sweat all over LeBlanc.
We’re leavin, LeBlanc said.
Yeah, Raymond said. Come on, Betsy. Watch your step.
Screw that, LeBlanc snapped. He picked her up and carried her, kicking pieces of booth and disassembled stools out of his way. He toted her out the door, and Raymond followed them back into the light of the Texas afternoon.
Everyone was thirsty, and LeBlanc insisted they take McDowell away from the diner, so they drove to Dairy Queen and bought her a Coca-Cola and a Blizzard. Raymond sat across from her, sipping Coke. LeBlanc took the seat beside her. He watched her as if she might burst into flame. The air conditioner blasted out of the vent over their heads, and a couple of ceiling fans twirled nearby, but the heat still pressed them like an iron. The décor hardly helped. With its mix of what Raymond hoped were fake cow skulls and potted cacti and warm-hued paint, it looked like a desert. Raymond reached over and patted LeBlanc’s right hand. The big man nodded but did not relax.
McDowell spooned the Blizzard into her mouth with metronomic regularity. How long before she got brain freeze? After a while, she put down her plastic spoon and smiled.
Much better, she said. Felt like I was about to melt.
LeBlanc still looked stricken. You sure you’re okay? We were really worried about you.
I’m fine.
LeBlanc seemed unconvinced. And McDowell did seem out of sorts. The fear in her voice, the blood dripping from her eyes like something from a horror film—what had they witnessed?
Betsy, Raymond said. I hate to ask you—
It’s okay. I can talk about it.
LeBlanc glanced at Raymond. We can do this later.
She shook her head. Now’s better, while it’s still fresh. Though I can’t tell you much.
Whatever you can give us will help, Raymond said.
McDowell pushed her hair behind her ears and drank more soda.
The boots, the belt—it was like a black swarm of bees hung over ’em and buzzed around my head, McDowell said. This high-pitched whine that tickled my throat just under my ears. And the feelin—like a wall of pure hate. The anger—no, more like rage. It felt murderous. Somethin bad happened in that storeroom. And we better hope it ain’t connected to our case, because if it is, we’re in for some rough times.
LeBlanc wanted McDowell to stay in the hotel while he and Raymond talked to Lorena Harveston’s family. But as they wound through town following Google Maps, McDowell drove. After she showered and changed her clothes, she had argued her skills were best used in situations like this. LeBlanc had gritted his teeth and complained, but it was McDowell’s decision. Besides, she was right. They had brought her along to help deal with people, and in any murder case, you had to look at the family. According to Bradley, the Harveston woman’s mother and father still lived in the house where she had grown up. The agency had to persuade the parents to talk.
Soon they pulled up to the curb of a white house with flaking paint and a rusty pickup in the drive. A grill sat in the middle of the yard, wisps of smoke curling from the vents on top and carrying the sweet smell of barbecue. They walked through the front yard, and as they passed the grill, LeBlanc raised the lid and waved away the smoke and steam. Leg quarters and a couple of breasts.
If I can do this without a beer, you can get your mind off your stomach, Raymond said.
LeBlanc stuck out his tongue. McDowell laughed.
The temperature had not abated. Even the ankle-deep grass felt hot. At the front door, they arranged themselves strategically—McDowell in front, Raymond behind her, and LeBlanc with his imposing figure in the rear. McDowell knocked. From within, the sound of a television turned to deafening levels. McDowell knocked again, harder this time. Nothing. Finally, LeBlanc stepped past her and rapped on the door hard enough to shake it in its frame. The television volume decreased. A moment later, the door opened, a blast of cool air washing over them. The man who stood before them looked to be in his midfifties. He wore a short but ill-kept beard, a white T-shirt with drops of barbecue sauce on the chest, and a pair of bright red shorts. He held an open Shiner Bock, the bottle sweating in his hand. Raymond licked his lips.
Benny Harveston looked them over and said, I already took a copy of The Watchtower this week.
McDowell favored him with her 200-watt smile. Mr. Harveston, I believe Chief Bradley told you we’d be stoppin by.
Harveston’s eyes narrowed. He might have.
Well, sir, first of all, I hope you’ll accept our condolences—
Hold up, Harveston broke in, looking at each of them as he spoke, his eyes cold. I ain’t speakin about Lorena with strangers unless I know what you want. And if you’re startin a sales pitch for some goddam magazine article, you’ll have about a two-minute head start before I can fetch my shotgun.
LeBlanc tensed. Raymond shook his head, hoping LeBlanc saw him. McDowell reached out and took Harveston’s free hand in both of hers. The man’s face went slack. His eyes widened. McDowell was sending now—sympathy, calmness, whatever—and it seemed to be working. Harveston’s watery red eyes softened.
We ain’t journalists, McDowell said, her voice gentle. And we would never disrespect your daughter’s memory. We want to catch whoever took her away from you. Will you let us help?
Harveston looked at McDowell for a moment more, then at Raymond and LeBlanc. He blinked as if he had just noticed them.
Scuse my manners. We done had too many buzzards flappin around. And forgive the mess. We ain’t been much on housekeepin since Lorena passed.
Harveston led them into the living room—a couch and glass-topped coffee table, an easy chair, a flat-screen television on which the Houston Astros were beating the Cincinnati Reds 4-1. Harveston took one end of the couch and set his beer on the coffee table. He did not use a coaster.
Y’all have a seat, he said. My wife’s at the store.
McDowell sat on the other end of the sofa. Raymond and LeBlanc stood.
Raymond made the introductions. I’m Raymond Turner. These are my partners, Darrell LeBlanc and Elizabeth McDowell. We’re private detectives.
Harveston’s brow furrowed. Who hired you?
Raymond glanced at LeBlanc. Somebody who wants to make sure nobody else gets hurt. We’d like to ask you some questions.
Harveston looked at McDowell. She nodded.
All right, Harveston said. But let’s get this done before my wife gets back. She’s been through enough.
Raymond nodded. Can you think of anybody that might have wanted to hurt your daughter?
Harveston ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. Like I told the cops, I can’t think of a single person. The folks she worked with liked her. She hadn’t dated since she came home from school.
LeBlanc took notes. McDowell focused on Harveston.
All right, Raymond said. Did anything unusual happen around the time of your daughter’s death? Any strangers in your neighborhood, any prank phone calls?
Naw. Nothin we don’t see and hear every goddam day.
Raymond pretended to think for a minute while LeBlanc scribbled. Then he asked, You got any opinion on this Piney Woods Kid business? I’ve been private eyein for a long time now, and I never heard somethin so far-
fetched.
Harveston gestured dismissively. It’s disrespectful. Crazy bastards. It ain’t like my daughter was the first person that ever got killed in this town. No, that shit’s spreadin because them folks out at the diner’s got too much imagination. And because of my family’s connection to the Kid.
Tell us about that.
My great-great-granddad, name of Roy, was a member of the posse that killed the Kid and brought him back to Comanche.
Raymond looked at LeBlanc. Huh.
Only reason I know what Roy did was because of that article Red Thornapple wrote.
Thornapple. Seems like I heard that name before, Raymond said, hoping Harveston would tell him something Bradley had not discovered.
Red runs the town newspaper. He’s the one that got everybody together at the diner. Took their picture. I was supposed to be in it, but I had to work that evenin, so Lorena went instead. If I’d been there instead of her, she’d still be alive. My little girl.
Harveston wiped his eyes. LeBlanc wrote.
It’s not your fault, said McDowell. The only person to blame is the killer.
Harveston snuffled. If it wasn’t for the Wayne fella dyin there, too, I’d say some tweaker needed money and Lorena was just in the wrong place. I mean, why would somebody come after us? We ain’t done nothin. We ain’t got nothin.
And your wife doesn’t have any ideas about why… Raymond said.
Harveston’s expression darkened. No, he said. And I won’t drag her through the whole thing again.
I understand. We’re just lookin at every angle.
Well, you’ll have to look at this angle without my wife.
Ten minutes later, they were driving back to the hotel. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Kids played in yards and splashed in plastic swimming pools. One man in a swimsuit washed his truck in his driveway, the sudsy water snaking into the street.
Betsy, Raymond said. Anything?
Grief. Pain, McDowell said from the back seat. Some anger when you asked about his wife. Survivor’s guilt.
There’s gotta be somethin more that connects these people, LeBlanc said.
Yeah, said Raymond. Two descendants buy it on damn near the same spot the posse brought the Kid’s body. It can’t be a coincidence.
Well, what next? McDowell asked.
Three things. One, we call the chief and see if he’s got our copies of the case files yet. Two, we talk to the other descendants. Maybe one of ’em knows somethin, even if they don’t know they know. Three, we find out everything we can about the Piney Woods Kid. Our connection might be in the history.
From what I felt earlier, McDowell said, I’d say there’s a really good chance you’re right.
LeBlanc glanced at Raymond. Time to call Betsy’s friend Jake?
He wanted to help, Raymond said, and professors like libraries.
Chapter Sixteen
September 5, 2016—Comanche, Texas
Raymond sat in a booth at Dairy Queen, eating a basket of steak fingers. God, I miss New Orleans. He had never gone so long without eating dishes filled with bell peppers and onions and celery. He wanted a steaming bowl of gumbo, heavy on the shrimp and okra and andouille; some crawfish etouffee; a real po’ boy, not a cold ham sandwich on a hoagie roll. He wanted some spice. Perhaps tomorrow LeBlanc might grab some takeout from that Mexican place south of the diner, because if Raymond had to eat one more meal deep-fried in vegetable oil, he might just puke.
Bradley had called that morning, waking Raymond from a sound sleep in which he had dreamed of eating stuffed fish and key lime pie in the Quarter with Marie. In all their years of marriage, they must have eaten that meal hundreds of times, always seeking a table near the windows or on the patio, mosquitoes and humidity be damned, the seafood varying from night to night but the pie a constant. Marie could have lived on key lime pie. Raymond always ordered two pieces, and he would eat his own first, hoarding both slices on his side of the table, moaning with pleasure as he chewed and swallowed, slapping her hands when she tried to grab hers, pretending not to hear her good-natured protests, her laughter, recurring moments in his past now mere ghosts flitting through his dreams more often than he could stand. He woke from those dreams with tears on his pillow, the pressure of her hand on his. He never dreamed of how he used to feed her the first bite, a delicate forkful, filling and crust and a brushing of whipped cream, the way her eyes would close in pleasure as she tasted it, how he would pass the saucer to her and watch her eat until every crumb was gone. He never dreamed it, but he never forgot. Moments like that followed him about, haunted him, kissed him like a breeze. And whenever it happened, he wanted a drink.
He wanted one now, but instead of drinking himself into a dayslong stupor, he ate something resembling fried steak and waited for the chief. The second murder victim’s autopsy results had come in.
When Raymond had asked for details on the phone, Bradley said, I ain’t got time to get into it. C.W.’s here and breathin fire like a goddam dragon. I’m callin you from the shitter. Be at the Dairy Queen this afternoon after one, and I’ll bump in to you there.
Bradley had hung up, leaving a fuzzy-brained Raymond to wonder if he had heard the chief correctly. He was supposed to go sit in Dairy Queen from one o’clock until when? How many cups of Coca-Cola could he drink before he had to piss, which, according to his luck, would be exactly when Bradley arrived? And was he supposed to come alone, or could he bring LeBlanc and McDowell? Raymond had cursed. Then he had gotten up and showered and started the coffee. LeBlanc had not awakened, his snores rhythmic.
Raymond sat in the restaurant for an hour and a half before Bradley arrived.
The chief did not look into the dining room. Instead, he walked to the counter and ordered something, bantering with the pimple-faced teenaged girl taking orders in her grease-stained shirt. Then he stood at the counter near the frozen cakes, scratching his ass until his order was ready. Taking the dog-dick-red tray and carrying it to the dining room, selecting the table across from Raymond’s booth, he sat down, scooted the chair up until the table’s edge rested against his gut, and unwrapped a double cheeseburger.
The chief took a bite, chewing with apparent gusto. Then he cut his eyes at Raymond and, his voice low, said, Sorry for the wait. C.W.’s been followin me around like a lost puppy.
What’s up?
Bradley turned away, staring straight ahead. He ate a couple of fries and took a drink.
Tox screen won’t be back for a while yet, but we know why Wayne died. His insides looked like he swallowed a live grenade.
Like the Harveston girl.
Yeah. Stomach and intestines in pieces. One kidney exploded. It looks like somebody gut-shot him with a goddam Howitzer. But since there ain’t any entry or exit wounds, the coroner can’t call it a gunshot. We don’t know what the hell did it.
The chief ate. Raymond picked up a steak finger and dropped it back in the basket. The coroner’s report told them nothing new.
I need to talk to Wayne’s wife, Raymond said. She saw the whole thing, right?
Bradley munched fries and looked around, making sure no one was listening.
We interviewed her in the hospital the night it happened. They had to sedate her. She’s home now, and I’m hopin she’ll make more sense. If you care to show up at her house in about fifteen minutes, I’m headin over there as soon as I finish my lunch.
Sounds good. But what do you mean? What did she say the first time?
Bradley swallowed, his expression somewhere between amusement and disgust.
She claims John got shot by a gray-lookin man dressed in Old West cowboy clothes. Folks at the scene say the son of a bitch disappeared into thin air.
Raymond groaned. More to himself than to the chief, he muttered, Of course they did. Shit.
Bradley stopped to speak with an old-timer on his
way out, so Raymond beat him to the Waynes’ house and parked on the side of the road, his right tires in someone’s ditch. He left the car running and tried to find a good radio station, sweating despite the air-conditioning. He had almost resigned himself to a country station playing oldies like Patsy Cline and Hank Williams when Bradley’s cruiser passed him. It pulled into the Waynes’ driveway. Raymond killed his engine and got out and walked down the street.
Bradley leaned against the radio car. If anybody asks, you just happened to show up when I did, and I decided to keep an eye on you.
You think that’ll fly with C.W.?
No. But it’s better than admittin I invited you.
They walked up the driveway and turned onto the little walk. Piles of recently cut grass lay at the concrete’s edges. A black welcome mat sat before a screen door trimmed in white. The heavy wooden door beyond it was also white. Overhead, a porch light hung in its globular cover, the shadowed corpses of bugs visible at the bottom. Bradley opened the screen and rapped on the door. Soon they heard soft footfalls on creaky boards. The latches and locks clicked, and the door opened. Patricia Wayne stood there in her housecoat, hair frizzed, face pale, eyes as red as a radio tower beacon. She looked at Bradley and Raymond without surprise and snuffled twice, wiping her nose on her housecoat sleeve.
Hello, Bob, she said.
Bradley laid a hand on her shoulder. Pat. May we come in?
She looked at Raymond. Who’s this?
Raymond stepped forward and extended his hand. I’m Raymond Turner, ma’am. A private detective.
His hand hung in the air. She didn’t even look at it. The neighbors keep sendin their kids to mow my yard, but ain’t nobody picked up the house, she said, turning on her heel.
Raymond lowered his hand and followed Bradley and Pat into the dim house. The wooden floor creaked under their feet. Crumpled tissues littered the place. Empty glasses and cans of Bud Light sat on every flat surface. Pat sat on a green couch and picked up a remote control and turned down the television. An old, comfortable-looking La-Z-Boy recliner sat on one side of the couch. On the other, a wooden end table held a lamp and more empty cans. The place smelled like sweat and beer and despair. Raymond recognized it because his own house had smelled precisely the same way for weeks after Marie’s accident, for long months after her death, if you substituted the beer smell for hard liquor. He rubbed his wedding ring with his thumb. Every image here could have come from his life. The curtains pulled, as if sunlight might reveal your haunted visage. The thundering silence of someone’s absence. The almost tangible emptiness on the sofa or their side of the bed. He still wandered his house expecting to run into Marie, still ached when he did not, so he knew what Pat Wayne felt in a personal and specific way. Yet the scents also reminded Raymond of every death house he had ever entered, the aromas of various foods assaulting the nostrils instead of tantalizing. Through a doorless entry in the far wall, half the kitchen table and some counter space had been covered with casserole dishes and bowls.
