by Brett Riley
For three days, Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell poked around, interviewing witnesses. Those who seemed most credible had seen nothing at all.
Others claimed to have witnessed events that failed to match the cases’ details. One man said the Kid rode a fiery horse. He was either lying or drunk, possibly both. A woman stated she had seen the Kid’s Comanche companion, but nobody else had.
As for those who had run into the parking lot just before or after John Wayne’s death, their accounts matched almost perfectly, a real oddity with eyewitnesses: a gray-looking fellow in old gunfighter clothes had thrown down on Wayne, who had flown backward. They all claimed to have heard a gunshot but had no theories as to why the body had been unmarked.
Roark avoided Raymond’s group, and they saw little of Bradley, who had apparently decided distance might be necessary for a while. No one else got shot, perhaps because Bradley had, with the mayor’s grudging approval, ordered the diner closed until further notice. Bright yellow crime scene tape bordered the lot and the buildings, while patrol cars swept the area to run off curious citizens and kids taking a break from cruising the Drag, local teenage parlance for driving back and forth on Central Avenue. In the evenings, Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell ate restaurant food and drank store-bought sweet tea from gallon jugs.
But on the third day, as Raymond lay in his room dozing under the air conditioner, his cellphone buzzed. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he picked up the phone from the bedside table and punched the Accept button.
Turner, he yawned.
You guys have really stepped in it, Jacob Frost said.
Raymond’s head ached. The sunlight streaming through the window sent sharp slivers of pain into his skull. Perhaps a migraine.
Professor, he said. You got somethin?
Frost sounded both excited and worried. I’ve been working genealogy websites and looking up records. As far as I can tell, everybody mentioned in that article falls in the direct line of descent from the men who killed the Piney Woods Kid or handled his body on the night he died. Even that newspaper guy, Thornapple. If I’ve counted back through the generations correctly, his great-great-uncle P.D. ran the depot that night. P.D. Thornapple would have been responsible for storing the body.
Raymond yawned. Yeah. That matches what we’ve found here. Our killer’s obsessed with the Kid. Just when I thought I’d seen every brand of crazy.
Look, now that we know there’s a connection to the local legends, maybe I can get somebody to cover my classes for a couple of weeks.
Sounds great. We need all the help we can get.
Raymond hung up. Frost seemed far too eager to fly halfway across the country just to piddle around in the county courthouse archives, but they really did need help. In a town this small, the citizenry would not need press leaks to know what was happening and to whom. And word of mouth worked both ways. He had not even looked at a copy of Thornapple’s little paper and had said little to Bradley since leaving the mayor’s office, but he knew C.W. wanted the diner open again. The Roarks were losing income every hour.
Raymond dialed Bob Bradley’s number.
Silky and Morlon Redheart lived in a small ranch-style house on Highway 67 near Hasse. The city boy in Raymond pissed and moaned about how Comanche rolled up its sidewalks at nine o’clock every night, but he had to admit the area had its attractions: the variety of trees and landscapes, which reminded him of southeast Louisiana; how a new house might be built on a run-down lot with two or three cars rusting in the yard, or the way a brand-new Lexus might be parked in the driveway of a tumbledown shack; the little café up by the square with the excellent coffee and pie; and, of course, the Depot Diner, which had the best hamburgers he had ever eaten, plus some damn good chicken fajitas.
Bob Bradley turned his cruiser into the Redhearts’ long gravel driveway, Raymond in the passenger seat, gauging the height of the pecan trees growing on either side. The yard had been cut recently, the grass a uniform two inches. The trees threw angular shadows on the shingled roof. A silver pickup sat in the carport, a fiery red Toyota Camry on the lawn. A dog the approximate size of a horse lounged on the porch near two rocking chairs and a side table piled high with paperback books. Bradley killed the engine, and they got out. Birds chattered in the trees. A squirrel scampered across the yard, an old and dusty-looking pecan in its mouth. The dog raised his ears and watched it but did not pursue. He regarded Raymond and Bradley with open curiosity, muzzle on his paws. His tail thumped the porch boards.
Raymond and Bradley climbed the two rickety wooden steps and crossed the porch, the splintered boards creaking. Raymond must have looked worried because Bradley winked at him and said, She’s solider than she looks. Or sounds.
The chief pulled open the screen, the hinges squealing like an old car’s worn brakes, and rapped on the faded red door. Behind them, cicadas’ electric hums filled the air, setting Raymond’s teeth on edge. The sound of bugs, the absence of car horns and streetcar rumblings and motorcycles tearing down the streets—it took him back to Marie, as so many things did. Before her accident, they used to stroll along the Riverwalk and talk about what they would do after he retired, where they might go. In one of their favorite scenarios, they would buy a little cabin overlooking a bayou, where they would spend their evenings drinking sweet tea on a screened-in porch, watching the water flow, spotting the turtles and the fish and the occasional gator breaking water. Perhaps they would hold hands, side by side on their porch swing, and breathe the fresh air, let the day’s heat or cold settle into their bones, and listen to the birds, the buzzing mosquitoes, the croaking frogs, the cacophony of the evening rising around them like an orchestra, the whole world a stage, the play just for them.
His breath hitched as if he were about to burst into tears. Marie had ambushed him again, jumping out from the corners of his memory. He turned his head and pressed a hand into his eyes, willing the emotions away. He had not thought of their little bayou dream since her death. It came to him now like a spirit someone careless and stupid had evoked.
You okay? Bradley said.
Yeah. Raymond cleared his throat. Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. He glanced at Bradley, who was digging a pinky finger into his ear canal and snorting. His eyes were red and watery. What’s the matter with you?
Allergies. I stop up like this every time I come out here. All this damn mesquite.
You live in Texas, and you’re allergic to mesquite?
Yeah. I reckon I got a taste for irony.
Silky Redheart opened the door. She had taken down her braids, her coarse hair flowing past her waist. She wore a deep blue muumuu and house shoes. Her face looked as blank as a raw concrete wall. As they squeezed past her, Raymond’s chest knocked against the enormity of her breasts, which bounced like pudding-filled balloons. Silky did not seem to notice or care. The house smelled of onions, cabbage, and frying meat, a not unpleasant aroma that made Raymond’s stomach rumble. He had not eaten lunch and wished for a diner-style chiliburger.
Inside, Silky turned right and disappeared through a closed door, where she stomped around, rattling pots and pans and scraping something that sounded like a spatula on a cast-iron skillet. Raymond’s stomach gurgled again. Before them lay the Redhearts’ den. A deep brown leather couch faced a flat-screen television mounted on the far wall. Morlon Redheart sat watching TV, only the back of his head and his broad shoulders visible, his hair straight and free. A jet-black cat damn near as big as a bear cub lay on one of the couch’s arms. Did they feed their pets growth hormones? A recliner sat next to the couch. The walls had been painted a mélange of deep summer colors. Potted plants grew in each corner. A concrete fireplace dominated the left-hand wall, the blackened hearth clean and swept. Almost straight across from the front door, a dark hallway led deeper into the house. Bradley and Raymond walked around the couch and faced Morlon Redheart, who glanced at them and then resum
ed watching a program in which four or five blustery talking heads debated the relative merits of college football teams. Redheart was drinking a cold bottle of beer.
What I wouldn’t give for one of those.
Morlon, said Bradley.
Chief, Redheart said. You gonna let us open?
Can’t do it. We need your help on somethin.
Redheart picked up the remote control. He turned off the TV and nodded at the couch. Bradley took a seat. Raymond remained standing.
Silky offer you boys anything to drink? Morlon asked.
We’re good, Bradley replied. We won’t take up much of your time.
Suit yourself.
Did Lorena Harveston and Johnny Wayne eat with y’all much?
Silky appeared and handed Raymond an opened bottle of beer. He took it out of instinct and then stared at it like it was an alien artifact. Shit. Beads of moisture had already formed on its neck. As he watched, one trickled down the surface and onto his hand. Like the bottle itself, the condensation felt ice-cold. Perhaps an eighth inch of head inside. Don’t take so much as a sip. Don’t you dare.
The Harveston gal came in maybe once every week or ten days, I believe, Redheart said. I seen Wayne more than that. Reckon his wife ain’t much of a cook. They might have stopped by after we went home sometimes. You’d have to ask the employees.
Bradley nodded. All right. How much do the rest of these folks eat with you?
He handed Redheart the article. Redheart took it and studied it. Then he sighed and handed it back to Bradley, who folded it up.
I’d estimate at least once a week. Adam Garner eats breakfast every day when he’s in town. I remember the day they took this picture. They tipped Silky enough to get her nails done in Fort Worth.
Raymond gripped the beer in his hand. Can’t give it back now that I took it. That would be rude. But I can’t drink it. I can’t. Don’t drink it, you asshole.
They’re all in danger, the chief said. We need your help to keep ’em away from the diner until we catch the killer.
Redheart leaned forward, elbows on knees. How? Am I supposed to run off my own customers or what?
We’re keepin your place closed till we can contact everybody in that article. After that, you can open, but we’re gonna have somebody sittin on your place day and night. Until we get evidence to the contrary, we gotta assume your parkin lot is this sumbitch’s huntin ground.
I still don’t see what you want me to do.
When these folks come in, call the station. In case the deputy on duty misses ’em. That’s it.
Redheart sat back and relaxed. I reckon we can do that much, even if the mayor has a fit.
The aromas from the kitchen grew thicker. Raymond half expected a fog to roll in. Redheart turned on the television again and belched. He did not ask Bradley and Raymond to stay for supper. On their way to the car, Raymond poured out the beer.
Raymond pulled into the hotel parking lot and left the engine running. He took out his phone and dialed Frost’s office. The question he was about to ask made him feel like an asshole.
Frost picked up on the second ring. Raymond took a deep breath.
How do you fight a ghost?
Who is this? asked Frost. You could practically hear his smile.
I’m serious. We got some weird shit goin down here. I’m startin to put more stock in the theory that our guy might believe he’s a ghost. Wouldn’t hurt to know what might scare him.
Wow. Okay. Well, these myths vary more than you’d think. Some legends say ghosts can’t cross running water. Others feature ghost ships and ghost rafts and ghost canoes. Some say you can repel a ghost with cold iron or rock salt. Some claim that ghosts appear only at night, but there have been plenty of daytime sightings over the years. Then there’s exorcism.
Raymond shuddered. He had seen that movie, and he had no desire to live it.
So basically, I gotta come up with some iron and rock salt or find myself a good priest.
I’ll research Texas lore. Your man might be operating under a specific set of rules. Frost cleared his throat. Raymond could hear that smile again. Or maybe he’s just trying to make people think he’s a ghost, like in the cartoons.
Raymond groaned. God help us, I didn’t even bring a talkin dog or any teenagers.
Well, I wouldn’t recommend splitting up, just in case. What else? Ghosts are usually associated with unfinished business and a specific location. You’ve found the place and made a tenuous connection between the victims. I assume you’ve tried to find any descendants of the Piney Woods Kid, right? I can’t find any records online.
Raymond turned up the air conditioner. Nobody’s come forward.
Keep it in mind. Maybe there’s a Hatfields-and-McCoys thing the locals aren’t telling you about.
The folks that run the diner for my sister—they’re descended from the Kid’s Comanche runnin buddy, but I can’t think of a reason why they’d sabotage the place they work. And neither of them’s the killer. Their body types are all wrong, if the eyewitness accounts are anywhere close to accurate, and they were on duty when the Harveston girl died.
Well, you know the situation better than I do. In the meantime, I’d also suggest finding out what happened on the night the Kid died. We’ve heard the bones of the story, but we need the meat. I’ll do that part. Sound good?
Yeah. Thanks, Jake.
Raymond hung up and killed the engine. He did not like where this case was going. All roads led back to the diner and that storage building, and McDowell’s spell had frightened Raymond worse than he let on. Not just the trance—her goddam eyes had bled. She had talked as if something terrible were whispering in her ear.
He opened the car door and stepped into the heat, wishing he had a gallon of cold beer and one of those portable fans the tourists carried around the Quarter.
Chapter Eighteen
September 11, 2016—Comanche, Texas
Raymond was supposed to meet Bradley in the afternoon. They had planned to visit Sue McCorkle. But that morning, Rennie called and asked Raymond to stop by her house. Before, she had asked him to stay away until C.W. calmed down, so something must have been bothering her a great deal. It won’t hurt to take Betsy along. She’ll be better for Rennie than a fistful of Valium, and healthier, too.
When Raymond asked LeBlanc to partner with Bradley for the day, he had shrugged.
Sure. If it’s after lunch.
That was LeBlanc all over—still thinking with his stomach.
McDowell said nothing. She seemed distracted.
When the time came, they walked outside. Bradley waited in his cruiser. LeBlanc got in and waved as the radio car pulled away. Raymond fed Rennie’s address into the rental’s GPS and drove away. McDowell stared at the dashboard all the way over, grunting when spoken to. Her brow was wrinkled, her eyes distant.
What is it? Raymond asked.
She looked out her window and chewed on a fingernail. I’ve been thinkin about that building. I don’t wanna go back there.
Raymond patted her hand. Don’t worry about that now.
Still, he felt as if someone had squeezed his guts with a vise. If the investigation took them back to the diner, as it almost certainly would, McDowell would have to go. Whatever she had felt meant something. It was, in fact, the only thing resembling a lead they had found.
Raymond pulled into the Roarks’ driveway ten minutes later.
The house stood two stories high, with a wraparound porch and healthy shrubs. The wood and brick were well tended, though a few shingles on the roof needed repair. A three-year-old silver Cadillac sat under the carport. Raymond had not seen the interior since a year or so before Marie died, but he would have bet his team and buggy it would look exactly the same. McDowell seemed to be studying the live oaks and pecan trees planted around the house, lendi
ng shade here, allowing a view there. Raymond killed the engine and got out. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. McDowell followed and slammed her door. Blackbirds flew out of a nearby oak.
They ascended the porch steps. At their feet, a woven doormat sported a scrolled letter R, merging the practical and the ornate. A black iron knocker hung on the door, while a button was mounted on the wall at waist level. Raymond ignored both and rapped with his knuckles.
Rennie answered. She had pulled her hair back into another skin-ripping bun. Does she keep it that way all the time? Raymond wondered. It looks like somebody stapled it to her scalp. She wore faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt that must have belonged to C.W., since it hung to her knees. She was sweating, the shirt clinging to her.
Been doin some housekeepin, she said. Mind the mess. They followed her into the house, which seemed dim after the afternoon sunlight. I’ll get y’all some tea. She left them in the den.
I was wrong. Some things have changed.
Everything looked neat and clean and organized. Ceramic roosters perched on some of the flat surfaces. They were new. In other places stood photos and knickknacks that had been there ever since Raymond could remember. Framed cross-stitched proverbs and more photographs hung on the walls. Handmade quilts draped the furniture. Raymond sat on the couch. McDowell joined him, displacing several throw pillows bearing pictures of cows and horses. The air smelled of Pine-Sol and strong potpourri, an odor that lodged itself in the back of Raymond’s throat. Rennie bustled in the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge. Ice clinked into glasses. Soon she returned, carrying three tall glasses of iced tea on a tray. She set her burden on the wooden coffee table. Someone had decoupaged a set of family photos in a spiral pattern. The table’s distressed wood gave it the appearance of an antique, though Raymond doubted C.W. Roark would cotton to pasting photographs onto anything worth money.
A bowl of lemon slices accompanied the glasses. Rennie took one and squeezed it into her tea and stirred with one finger. Raymond picked up the other two glasses and held one out to McDowell, who took it and helped herself to some lemon, dropping the slice into the glass.
