Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Thank you, Mrs. Roark, she said. It’s sure enough hot out there.

  Rennie smiled. You’re welcome, honey. I try to be hospitable, even when somebody’s comin to shit in my corn flakes. Y’all got bad news. I can see it in your faces.

  McDowell took a long drink. She set the glass on the tray and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  That’s awful good. I wish I could make tea that way. Mine’s always too strong.

  You gotta watch it while it steeps. If it sits there too long, you’re sunk.

  McDowell smiled and nodded as if this were the most enlightening advice in the world. Next, she asked Rennie about the coffee table decorations. Rennie spent fifteen minutes explaining her technique and what each picture meant. Then McDowell moved on to quilting and from that, to the general décor. Raymond sat back and marveled at the skillful way McDowell put Rennie at ease. It was not just the conversation. Anyone else who tried this tactic might have left with his balls in a sling. The rest could be chalked up to whatever mojo McDowell carried. Even Raymond felt happier.

  But now it was time for business. When the conversation lagged, Raymond leaned forward and said, So far, we haven’t found anything you don’t already know. We won’t give up, but in the meantime, stay away from the diner. You, but especially C.W. and Will. In fact, y’all might wanna take a little vacation. Just in case.

  Rennie sighed. Then she stood up and walked to the far wall, where a group of framed pictures hung. She took a photo down and studied it, her expression full of love and fear. She ran her finger across the glass.

  I can do a lot of things, but I can’t make C.W. leave.

  Then you should go. Take Will with you.

  Folks will remember that. It’s liable to cost C.W., come the election.

  It’ll cost him more if one of you dies.

  He’s my husband, Raymond. Would you have left Marie?

  All the arguments he had prepared flew out of his head. No, he said.

  That’s what I thought. What if I keep ’em away from the diner? Will they be safe?

  Raymond looked at McDowell, but he found no help there. She had no more answers than he did. He turned back to Rennie.

  Nobody’s been killed anywhere else, but that could change.

  Rennie sat back down and handed Raymond the photograph. It showed a bullet-headed boy of about seventeen. The lines of the jaw and the eyes were unmistakably C.W.’s. Raymond had not seen a photograph of Will since he started drinking. The kid looked more like a man now. Raymond passed the picture to McDowell. Then he walked around the coffee table, knelt in front of Rennie, and took one of her hands in his. Her lacquered nails bit into his wrist.

  There’s somethin else, he said. I got a man workin on ways to fight a ghost.

  Rennie raised her eyebrows. Did you get heatstroke?

  We’re worried this killer thinks he’s the Piney Woods Kid. We’re just tryin to think like him—what he’s liable to do, what might keep him away. It’ll probably come to nothin, but this fella’s covered his tracks like a professional hit man. Better, even. We’d rather be safe than sorry. I just wanted you to hear it from me.

  Rennie looked at Raymond for a long time. Finally, she said, Do what you think is best.

  Raymond squeezed her hand. There ain’t no promises worth makin in my line of work. But I can tell you this. We’re gonna do everything we can to keep you and yours safe. When you’re steerin your family away from the diner, though, I’d advise you to keep our names out of it, and don’t mention a ghost.

  She frowned. I’m not stupid. Right now if you said the sky’s blue, C.W. would swear it’s green, just for spite.

  Don’t I know it.

  She put her free hand on his cheek. You be careful. You’re my favorite brother.

  I’m your only brother.

  Still and all.

  As Raymond and McDowell climbed into their rental, a cherry-red Ford F-150 extended cab pulled up, the driver hidden behind windows so tinted they had to be illegal. McDowell glanced at Raymond.

  He shrugged. Better get in. In case it’s C.W. or somebody he sent.

  McDowell got in the car. She likely wouldn’t stay there if trouble started, but at least the first blush of it would miss her.

  The Ford’s driver’s-side door opened. Will Roark stepped out. He wore blue jeans and a Toadies concert T-shirt. His too-long hair hung in his flawless face.

  Shit-fire. You’d think a boy his age would have at least one pimple. Raymond approached, grinning.

  Will smiled. Hey, Uncle Ray.

  Look at you. You’ve done growed like a weed.

  Raymond stuck out his hand. Will shook it and then, without letting go, pulled Raymond into a one-armed bro hug, patting his uncle on the back precisely two times. When he let go, Raymond took him by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length. Will punched him in the stomach just hard enough for him to feel the impact. They laughed.

  It’s good to see you, the boy said. It’s been way too long.

  It sure has.

  Will raised his chin at the car. Who’s your friend?

  Wanna meet her?

  Will raised an arm and sniffed his pit. Maybe later. I just got outta P.E.

  What are you doin home this time of day anyway?

  Run outta deodorant. They let me run home to get some. Reckon bein the mayor’s son ain’t all bad.

  I reckon not. When you gonna come out to New Orleans?

  Will looked at the ground. He cleared his throat. Um. Well.

  I know. Your daddy ain’t gonna let you near me. Still, the invitation’s open. House has been too empty since your aunt Marie passed.

  A pained expression crossed the boy’s face. I’m real sorry about that. I wish I’d got to spend more time with her.

  We would have liked that, too, son. It was nobody’s fault. We lived in different states. It’s hard when you’re that far away.

  Yeah. Well. Anyway.

  Raymond squeezed Will’s shoulder. I reckon I better let you get on, before the school sends out a search party. Maybe we can get lunch or somethin before I leave.

  Will scowled. Yeah. If I can get away from Daddy. Y’all gonna find this killer or what?

  That’s the plan.

  Well, be careful. You’re my favorite uncle.

  I’m your only uncle.

  Like I said.

  After Will had walked on and Raymond had climbed into the car, McDowell said, So. That’s your nephew.

  Yep. He’s gonna break some hearts, if we don’t let him get killed.

  McDowell took Raymond’s hand. Calm flooded him. His heartbeat slowed.

  Come on, she said. Ain’t no percentage in sittin here all day.

  Ten minutes after leaving, Raymond and McDowell pulled into Joyce Johnstone’s drive on Goodson Street. They had passed a sign for the Comanche Airport, which made Raymond laugh and wonder aloud if a good-sized meadow with a dirt track qualified as an airport in these parts. McDowell told him to stop being such a city boy, but sometimes he could not help himself. He missed New Orleans.

  Johnstone’s house looked about like what he expected of a Comanche secretary—a one-story crackerbox-shaped place with bare spots in the yard, an oil-stained carport and cracked concrete driveway, peeling paint, and three or four emaciated trees. He got out of the car and shut the door and strode up the driveway. McDowell stood to his left as he knocked. Crickets chirped in the yard. Overhead, birds bickered like old married couples. He knocked again.

  They stood there a bit longer before Raymond said, Ain’t nobody home. Maybe Bradley knows where else we can look.

  LeBlanc and Bradley pulled into Sue McCorkle’s driveway just as the lady in question stepped outside. She looked to be fifty years old and wore cutoff shorts that might have been melted on. Her tight shir
t’s neckline plunged to reveal breasts roughly the size of honeydew melons. She watched the men as they rolled up behind her gray Ford Taurus. Bradley killed the engine. LeBlanc let out a low-pitched whistle.

  Yeah, Bradley said. She dresses like that all the time. Seems to think she’s thirty years younger.

  That don’t bother me, LeBlanc said, staring at her cleavage, which could probably be seen from space. It’s the way she’s watchin us. That’s a woman confident in her charms.

  You sure you never met her before?

  They got out. McCorkle leaned against her carport wall, thumbs tucked into her Daisy Dukes. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery. Too many sessions in the tanning bed. Too many days in a bass boat using baby oil for sunscreen. And yet she exuded sensuality in the cock of her hips, the pouty grin.

  Quit it, LeBlanc thought.

  She looked him over.

  My, my. If I knew you boys was hirin somebody like this, I would have applied, too.

  This here’s Darrell LeBlanc, Bradley said. Him and his partners are consultin on a case.

  The killins.

  That’s the one. We need to speak with you about it, and it’s hotter out here than a snake’s belly in July. Can we come in?

  McCorkle winked at LeBlanc and opened the door. She swept her hand toward the house. LeBlanc imagined a plump spider waiting in the shadows while two flies buzzed into its web. He edged by McCorkle and stepped inside.

  The door led into her den. A ratty sectional dominated the room, pointing toward a wobbly entertainment center that might have been rescued from a dumpster. An ancient Sylvania sat on it like a boulder, gray and blank save for numerous scratches gouged into its plastic shell. McCorkle sat on the couch and shooed away a tabby with a cataract in one eye. The last three inches of its tail were bare, as if shaved. LeBlanc grimaced.

  Bradley sat, unmindful of the gray cat fur sticking to his pants. Sue McCorkle patted the other side of the couch and winked at LeBlanc.

  No, ma’am, I’m good, he said. Been sittin all day.

  This was a lie. Bradley pretended to stifle a yawn, but he was hiding a shit-eating grin. LeBlanc scratched his nose with his middle finger.

  If Sue McCorkle knew what was happening, she gave no sign. Looking at LeBlanc, she said, Well, sugar, if you need someplace to lay down for a spell, you just come on over. I got a bed big enough even for you.

  Bradley coughed hard, his face reddening. LeBlanc tried to keep his expression neutral. He refused to look at Bradley and could not bring himself to meet McCorkle’s gaze, so he turned to the walls. They had once been painted a uniform off-white that had yellowed in places, especially around the baseboards. The cat had marked its territory well over the years, as had a series of smokers.

  Now, Sue, you behave, Bradley said. We got serious business here.

  She pretended to pout. Bob Bradley, you always were a party pooper.

  LeBlanc studied a picture on the wall, one of those cheesy dogs-playing-poker numbers. He had seen a hundred of them in a hundred places, but here, subtle differences revealed themselves. All the dogs sported bright red erections, and their playing cards showed pictures of busty naked women and rock-hard penises the size of fence posts. LeBlanc turned away.

  Bradley was saying, So. The murders.

  McCorkle shook her head. That poor Harveston gal. So young. She ain’t even been back in town that long.

  Bradley reached into his shirt pocket and took out a photocopy of the Warrior-Tribune article. He handed it to McCorkle. She glanced at it and passed it back, wiping her hands on her shirt as if the paper were contaminated. She looked from Bradley to LeBlanc and back again, serious now.

  You think somebody’s after the folks in that article, she said. Includin me.

  I reckon it’s occurred to you, too, Bradley said. You heard about them folks claimin a ghost shot Johnny Wayne?

  Yeah.

  Then you also heard it’s supposed to be the Piney Woods Kid. Crazy as it sounds, the killer’s playin dress-up and coverin himself with somethin gray. Maybe some kind of pancake makeup. Whatever it is, he looks the part, and we still don’t know how he’s killin folks. It’s like they were shot, but there ain’t a mark on ’em.

  McCorkle stood up and paced, crossing her arms as if she were cold. She stopped in front of LeBlanc. Her eyes moist, she said, What do you think, mister?

  LeBlanc hooked his thumbs in his pockets and tried to sound comforting.

  You’d be safer someplace else. We can take you there.

  McCorkle looked defiant. I’ve lived in this house thirty years. I reckon I’ll live in it till they haul me out to Siloam.

  It wouldn’t be forever, Bradley said. Think of your boys. You still got the two at home, right?

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. Yeah. My oldest joined the Marines, and my second oldest is takin classes up at Tarleton. But Johnny and Mack still live at home.

  As LeBlanc wondered how old Johnny and Mack might be and what they made of that dog painting, Bradley said, Well, that no-account ex of yours won’t help ’em if somethin happens to you. Your cousin still lives in Stephenville, right? McCorkle nodded. Then go stay with her until we get this sorted out. Spend time with your college boy. And when you’re in Comanche, stay away from the Depot Diner.

  McCorkle sniffled and nodded. All the flirtation had vanished. Now, she just seemed like a frightened middle-aged woman with far too much on her mind.

  They pulled out of McCorkle’s driveway five minutes later. Bradley turned up the air full blast. LeBlanc watched the house in the side mirror until they turned right at the first stop sign and headed down a narrow residential street with cars parked on the curb and trees overhanging the asphalt.

  So, LeBlanc said. That wasn’t so bad. One less for us to worry about.

  Yep, said Bradley. Let’s just hope that Adam Garner’s home.

  But Garner’s rig was gone. They pulled into his empty drive anyway and spent two or three minutes banging on the door, but no one answered. Bradley cursed and went back to the car.

  LeBlanc followed, pulling his sweat-soaked shirt away from his torso. I’ve probably lost ten pounds in water weight this afternoon. Back in the car, he said, Well, what now? Get on a CB? Dig up his cell number? Grab a cheeseburger and fries from the DQ?

  Nope, nope, and nope. Gotta touch base with Red Thornapple and make sure he’d rather live than get a good picture for the Warrior-Tribune. You might as well get your people to meet us out there. He may be the hardest one to convince.

  Bradley backed out of Garner’s driveway, the tires crunching gravel. LeBlanc took out his cell and called Raymond.

  The route to Red Thornapple’s house took Raymond and McDowell north of town, and when they turned off the highway and saw the place, Raymond double-checked the address. A man running a once-a-week small-town newspaper should not live in a two-story home sitting on enough acres to cover downtown New Orleans, but Bradley’s cruiser was parked near the house. Where did Thornapple get his money? Did it have anything to do with the killings? Maybe his ancestor P.D. had gotten some of the Piney Woods Kid’s loot and passed it down over the generations. Or maybe someone in the family had gotten rich in the oil booms or the cattle industry or train robberies. Raymond pulled up beside Bradley’s car and killed the engine. They traversed the concrete driveway and knocked on the front door.

  Red Thornapple answered it, a bottle of Bud Light in one hand.

  Howdy, he said, holding out his hand. Red Thornapple. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself the other day.

  Ray Turner, said Raymond, shaking his hand. This is Betsy McDowell.

  Ma’am, I’d like to apologize to you twice over. My manners left me that day.

  Don’t worry about it, McDowell said. Mayor Roark seems to bring that out in folks.

  Thornapple grinned. He surely does. Y’al
l come on in.

  They followed Thornapple through the foyer and into a great room that might have been hosting a yard sale. Piles of books stood in the corners and on the end tables near a deep brown leather couch. A woman sat on the sofa, her back to Raymond, curly blond hair cascading over her shoulders and poofing a good six inches outward like something from a 1980s heavy metal video. Her feet rested on a thick wooden coffee table. An entertainment center sat against one wall, on which an enormous flat-screen television had been mounted. DVDs and Blu-rays were piled on the center’s top surface. Figurines and novelty plaques filled three curio cabinets against one wall. Six or eight piles of folded laundry had been stacked near a recliner that had seen its best days during the Ford administration. Bradley and LeBlanc sat in two straight-backed dining chairs, part of a set that had been brought in and fanned in a semicircle before the sofa and coffee table.

  Y’all find the place all right? Bradley asked.

  Yep, said Raymond. At first, I thought we took a wrong turn and wound up in Graceland.

  Thornapple laughed. It ain’t near that grand. He nodded at the woman on the couch. Raymond Turner, Betsy McDowell, this is Joyce Johnstone.

  They shook hands all around. Except for that aging rock groupie hair, Johnstone appeared elegant and composed, her makeup flawless, her dress conservative and tasteful. Like she takes dictation for Whitesnake or Guns N’ Roses. She had crooked white teeth and bright hazel eyes.

  Red’s opened his own branch of witness protection, Bradley said. I didn’t know, or I would have saved y’all the trip to Joyce’s house.

  Thornapple sat next to Johnstone. He put an arm around her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  It’s a little more than that, he said. We’ve been seein each other since that night at the diner.

  Bradley looked surprised. Well, shut my mouth.

  We’ve kept a low profile. You know how people talk. We didn’t want ’em whisperin about us every time we went to town.