by Brett Riley
Shit, he muttered. This is more like Scooby-Doo all the time.
LeBlanc, lying on his bed and watching SportsCenter, said, Huh?
I said, I should have stayed in New Orleans. Wake me up in two hours, unless somethin happens.
He lay on his bed and settled in as an anchorman rattled off statistics from a ball game Raymond had not seen and did not care about.
After LeBlanc woke him, Raymond went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face. He combed his hair. Too much gray. I’m gettin old. It seemed like fifty years since Marie had died, and if she saw him today, she might mistake him for his father. He needed a shave and a bottle of whiskey and a goddam bowl of gumbo, and in Comanche, he would likely find only the shave. He took a long piss and grabbed an empty water bottle for the stakeout. No telling when a man might need to relieve himself, and the diner sat too close to the main drag to go behind a tree. Another problem—they had only the one car, meaning that the off man would have to leave the other to the elements or sit in the hotel with no way to get anywhere. The other choice—beg Bradley to lend them a vehicle. He certainly could not ask Rennie and C.W.
Raymond dialed Bradley and asked.
I know where we can get you a low-profile ride. I’ll meet you at the diner, the chief said.
The grounds were still cordoned off with sawhorses and police tape. Bradley leaned against his cruiser, parked on the west side of Austin, directly across from the diner. Behind it sat an early ’90s Ford Ranger, black and beaten to shit, covered in mud. The back bumper was missing, the bed filled with junk and garbage—rusty spare parts, at least three rimless tires, loose bottles and cans.
LeBlanc pulled up behind the Ranger and got out, looking over the truck with disdain. Raymond joined him.
It looks like a burned-out Chevy took a shit, and that shit built this truck, LeBlanc said.
The inside was in only marginally better shape. The seat covers were split, the padding puffing out. An overflowing ashtray had spilled a fine coating of black ash all over the gearshift and the emergency brake. Raymond winced. He hated smoke even worse than divorce cases.
Someone sat in the passenger seat of Bradley’s radio car, a balding, wispy man who looked about as happy as a pit bull with the clap. Raymond nodded in the little man’s direction and said, That gent’s truck, I take it.
Bradley grinned. That’s Officer Roen. The truck belongs to his ex-wife. She wanted to sell it for parts but didn’t have a title, so she hauled it to his house in the middle of the night and dumped it in his driveway. Nobody would suspect it for a stakeout car.
That’s for sure, Raymond said. Looks like somethin a hobo wouldn’t bother pissin in.
Bradley tossed the keys to Raymond. If you’re lookin to watch both sides at once, you ought to stay here. Otherwise I’d park in the lot. If you see or hear anything, give me a call, and I’ll come runnin.
He walked away. Roen never looked at them. When Bradley got in, Roen turned to him and said something. Bradley shook his head and started the car. Roen faced forward again. The cruiser pulled away.
Raymond and LeBlanc watched it go.
I wish he’d arm us, Raymond said. What the devil are we gonna use if the killer shows up? Irony?
LeBlanc grinned. He led Raymond to the rental’s trunk and opened it. Inside were two 20-gauge pump-action shotguns and two cartons of shells. Raymond raised his eyebrows.
Borrowed ’em from Thornapple while you was nappin, LeBlanc said.
Raymond whistled. Jesus. I bet he owns stock in Lockheed Martin.
Nah. I think Texans are legally required to stockpile shootin irons.
LeBlanc picked up one of the guns and loaded it and handed it to Raymond. He left the second one in the trunk and gave Raymond a box of shells. Raymond walked back to the Ranger and opened the door. He climbed in and set the gun on the seat, its barrel pointed toward the passenger door. The smell of stale cigarettes assaulted him, making his nose burn and his eyes water. The ashtray would not shut.
I hate to do another man’s work, Raymond said, but we need to clean this thing up. I’m scared I’m gonna catch hepatitis.
Yeah. Mrs. Roen must have been a real peach.
LeBlanc left Raymond at the diner and drove to Thornapple’s place. Joyce Johnstone was napping. You could hear her snoring all the way down the hall. Thornapple reddened.
She had a rough night, so she took off work early, the newspaperman said. She’s, uh, got a sinus problem. Anyway, the shells I gave you ought to get y’all started. You can pick up more at the Stephenville Walmart.
We really appreciate everything you’re doin, LeBlanc said. You and Joyce both.
Woman snores like a lumberjack, but God help me, I love her.
When LeBlanc returned to the hotel, he left the guns and shells in the car. He looked at his watch—6 p.m., enough time for a nap before he relieved Raymond at eight. They had something planned that they had not cleared with Bradley.
He had barely closed his eyes when someone rapped on the door three times, sharp and staccato. LeBlanc groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. When he opened the door, McDowell stood there holding a couple of Cokes. LeBlanc blinked, feeling stupid and thick. For the first time since they had gotten off the plane in Dallas, he had been too busy to think about McDowell. She had been stuck in her room all day, watching talk shows or soap operas or God only knew what, subsisting off whatever crap she could find in the vending machines.
Hey, Betsy, he yawned. I was just layin down for a nap.
She stepped past him into the room. Mind if I join you? I’ve been lonesome all day.
She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Then she jumped onto Raymond’s bed and rolled onto her stomach, her bare feet near the pillows, her arms tucked underneath her head. LeBlanc shut the door and went back to his bed. He sat down, back against the headboard. McDowell turned to an episode of Dr. Phil. The host sat between a crying mother and her thirteen-year-old daughter, who, according to the graphic on screen, had become sexually active and drank alcohol.
McDowell looked at LeBlanc over her shoulder. Can you believe the shit this kid does? What were you doin when you were thirteen?
At that age, LeBlanc had been a head taller than most of his classmates and skinny. He endured nicknames like Slim and Treetop and Ichabod Crane—a gangly and clumsy kid who had the passion and brains for playing football and basketball but also tripped over his own feet. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon character, arms and legs akimbo, all knees and knobby elbows. Around sixteen, he began to gain weight. Exercise produced muscle mass, and some of what he ate actually stuck to his ribs. If his thirteen-year-old self could see him now, the boy would probably jump for joy.
But why go into all that? It was over.
I hung out with my friends and talked about girls all day. What about you?
McDowell turned onto her side. I don’t remember. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been this age my whole life. I’ve always sensed what other people felt, so I could never really tell what was mine and what was theirs.
You ever try to turn it off?
It just gave me a headache. She rolled off the bed and sat beside him on his. You know, we’ve been here all this time, and we’ve hardly been alone.
God knows I’ve wanted to. But we ain’t even had that dinner we talked about. I—
She shushed him, putting a finger over her lips. Just kiss me.
LeBlanc obliged. They explored each other, hips and breasts and inner thighs. Soon they fell sideways and fumbled with buttons and zippers. The air conditioner hummed along as Dr. Phil dispensed advice in the background.
Chapter Twenty
September 13, 2016, Near Sunset—Comanche, Texas
Raymond sat in the Ranger’s cab, the windows rolled down for the faint breeze. He had sweated through his clothes hours ag
o and had drunk most of his water. Now he opened a bag of jerky and ate a piece. Jerky made his teeth ache like a seldom-used muscle being exercised. He checked his watch—7:09. LeBlanc would arrive any minute. They would perform their little ritual. And then, finally, he could grab a decent cheeseburger—assuming Dairy Queen or Sonic stayed open after eight—take a long shower, and fall into bed. In Comanche, you could walk for a few miles in any direction and find yourself in raw woods. New Orleans had seldom felt so far away.
He checked his watch again. 7:12.
The diner, the storage building, the grounds, the train tracks, the road—all that possibility, yet nothing had happened all day. Several cars had passed, most of the drivers craning their necks to look at the police tape, but no one had stopped. No trains passed, if any ever did. A stray dog had meandered by, giving the storage building a wide berth, stopping long enough to raise its leg and piss on the diner’s porch steps, and that had been the day’s most interesting event. Raymond should have been glad. No killer meant no victim. The shotgun was propped stock down in the trashy passenger floorboard. It was good to have some protection, but in truth, a 20-gauge seemed a bit excessive. Up close, it would practically cut the killer in two.
Fifteen minutes and another piece of jerky later, their rental turned down Austin. Raymond got out, stretching his legs, stifling a yawn, thinking, not for the first time, how doing nothing could exhaust you as much as keeping busy. Then he reached back in and grabbed a book of matches from the console, plus the shotgun, just in case. LeBlanc and McDowell got out of the rental and shut their doors.
As they approached, Raymond said, I started to think y’all weren’t comin.
Sorry, LeBlanc said, reddening. Lost track of time.
Did you, now? Y’all ready, or should I turn around for three minutes?
McDowell nodded, though she looked paler than usual. Her smile seemed forced.
LeBlanc cleared his throat and said, Let’s get it done. Then he went to the trunk and opened it. He took out an orange gasoline can and shut the trunk. The three of them crossed the street and ducked under the police tape. Overhead, the setting sun and broken cloud cover sailed through a sky the color of raw salmon. They had perhaps ten minutes of daylight left—plenty of time, without interruptions. What they planned was pointless in a practical sense. McDowell wanted to do it, though, and they owed her that much. As they walked toward the storage building, gas sloshed in the can.
Darrell, did you bring supplies? Raymond said. I went through damn near everything today.
They’re in the car. Don’t you run off before I get ’em out, you hear?
Raymond and LeBlanc had pranked each other many times over the years, but never on a stakeout. You could not leave a man in a car for twelve hours without water or food. It was probably against the Geneva Convention.
Between them, McDowell walked in silence, laser-focused on the storage building. Now she took LeBlanc’s free hand. He squeezed it.
It’s about time. They’ve been circlin each other like seventh graders at their first dance. Maybe now Darrell can stop daydreamin and get more work done.
But Raymond’s cheerful thoughts faded as they neared the building. He could feel the place. Dread emanated from it and settled in his balls and made him want to dash for the nearest liquor store. Could LeBlanc feel it, too? And if they could sense it, then McDowell would probably do well to stay conscious. What had Frost said—that the place had been a way station for corpses and that men who hated the Piney Woods Kid had hacked him to pieces in there? This really was a bad place. And they had to go back inside.
They reached the door and stood in front of it, shoulder to shoulder, like desperados facing down a sheriff on some dusty thoroughfare. God, I ain’t never felt so squirrelly. Raymond Turner lived in New Orleans, once home to a major slave market, now host to one of the nation’s highest murder rates. He had stayed in cheap hotels that had probably seen their fair share of suicides, rapes, overdoses, and insanity and had walked into those places with little thought of their histories. But now, here in Comanche, Texas, his spine wanted to climb right out of his skin. Eating the shotgun’s barrel seemed preferable to walking back inside. He glanced at McDowell, who had closed her eyes and seemed to be whispering to herself. Or praying. LeBlanc still held her hand.
It’s gotta be locked. And we don’t have the key this time. Maybe we can just go back—
McDowell opened her eyes and turned the knob. She pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.
Goddam Mayberry cops. Can’t even secure their crime scene.
LeBlanc cleared his throat again. Then they followed her in.
The gloom seemed even thicker than last time. McDowell circumnavigated the junk on the floor and pulled back the smoke-colored curtains on the nearest window. The waning sunlight was pale and weak. Dust motes undulated everywhere. Raymond shuddered. He already needed fresh air. He needed a bottle of whiskey. He needed to be outside. They could be standing on the very spot where the posse had dismembered the Kid, taking impotent revenge on his remains like ghouls.
Raymond froze. So did LeBlanc. But McDowell stepped across the scattered cans and furniture and boxes of paper goods and took the boots off the shelf, holding one in each hand by her thumbs and forefingers, the way one might carry a dead rat by the tail. She winced. Now that they knew what those dark stains were, Raymond understood how she felt.
She moved past him, saying, One of you boys will have to get that gun belt.
She stepped out of the dead house and into the fading day as LeBlanc set down the gas can and made his way to the shelf. He grabbed the gun belt and stepped back over, picked up the can, and stumbled out the door. Raymond gripped the shotgun and followed, half expecting a pale figure in frontier garb to waylay them all.
He shut the door. McDowell and LeBlanc piled the boots and gun belt on the ground. The sun dipped ever closer to the horizon. It was harder to see now than it had been when they walked across the lot, as if they had spent half an hour inside, waiting for someone to make the first move. Raymond stepped up to the objects. McDowell stood ten feet away, arms folded across her chest. She seemed tired, as if the effort of carrying those boots had exhausted her. Raymond looked at LeBlanc and nodded.
LeBlanc tilted the can over the boots and gun belt. Gasoline gurgled over them, turning the dark, stained leather nearly black. Raymond handed LeBlanc the shotgun and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt over his nose. He could not afford to get high on the fumes or pass out, not this close to the dead house. LeBlanc stepped back and put one arm around McDowell’s shoulders. I don’t know how the Redhearts managed to dump all that shit in there without goin insane. Raymond took a deep breath and let his shirt drop so he could use both hands. Then he struck a match, holding it in his left hand with the rest of the book still in his right.
Before Raymond could drop the match, McDowell cried out in misery and pain. Raymond turned. Her hands were pressed to her temples. Blood poured from her eyes.
LeBlanc recoiled.
Jesus fuckin Christ! he said. Ray?
Then, a concussive boom. In retrospect, Raymond would realize he had heard it in his mind, not with his ears.
Something struck his left hand. He screamed as his hand jerked. The match flew from his hand and sputtered out. He stumbled backward, dropping the matchbook and tripping over his own feet, falling hard on his ass, holding his injured hand against his body. It felt like someone had smashed it with a hammer. He held it up. It looked like the gnarled branch of an ancient and misshapen tree. He moaned. What had hit him?
And then he saw. Standing near the corner of the dead house, a pale man held an old-fashioned revolver in one hand as his other arm dangled at his side. His skin and garments were the color of desert hardpan. He wore a neckerchief and an old button-down shirt and torn jeans, tattered boots the mirror image of those lying in the pu
ddle of gas, a low-slung gun belt the twin of the one on the ground. The revolver looked enormous, the bore like a cannon’s. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, drenching the grounds in deepening shades of night, the man seemed to waver, as if he were an image on a badly made television.
He swam back into focus. Then he wavered again.
McDowell screamed.
The figure vanished. LeBlanc grabbed McDowell by the wrist and pulled her behind him. He raised his shotgun and panned it, eyes bugging.
Ray, what the fuck? LeBlanc shouted. Where the hell did he go?
Raymond could not answer. His teeth were still clenched in agony. He moaned as fire shot up his arm with every heartbeat, grunting as he pushed himself into a sitting position with his right hand. The left looked lumpy, deep purple.
He swallowed and croaked, You see anything?
Nothin, LeBlanc said. Raymond tried to flex his hand, and fresh contrails of agony pulsed all the way to his jaw. He shrieked and doubled over.
Okay, we’re gettin the hell outta here right now, LeBlanc said.
He and McDowell ran to Raymond and grabbed him under the arms, hauling him to his feet. His stomach roiled. All that jerky’s gonna taste like shit the second time. McDowell smoothed his hair back from his face, pasting it with his own sweat. She had turned a sickly mottled color, like old cheese.
I can stand, Raymond rasped.
Good, said LeBlanc. That sumbitch could be sightin in on us right now.
McDowell stepped away from them and picked up the matches.
Darrell, Raymond said.
