Comanche

by Brett Riley

  McDowell stood. Okay. Here we go.

  The door creaked open. Roark’s heavy tread thudded through the foyer. McDowell’s half-full glass of tea jiggled on the coffee table, like that scene in Jurassic Park where the lawyer got trapped in the shitter. And when Roark walked into the den, he looked about as friendly as Spielberg’s T-Rex. He saw McDowell and glanced around the room, as if expecting random New Orleans natives dripping with Mardi Gras beads to tackle him.

  McDowell put on her best disarming smile. Evenin. I’ve been enjoyin Ms. Rennie’s company. She makes a mean pitcher of tea.

  Roark’s jaw clenched as his hands balled into fists. He turned on Rennie.

  Where’s Raymond and his pet gorilla?

  McDowell’s smile never faltered. It’s just me. Nothin to get upset about.

  Like hell! I can’t even get away from you people in my own house.

  Rennie faced him, hands on her hips, her stoplight-red hair piled high on her head. There was no trace of her brief trepidation.

  C.W., be civil, or I will personally stick my shoe heel through your left nut.

  Roark glowered. Sweat ran down his face in thin rivulets. Then he turned to McDowell and jabbed a finger at her. I’m callin Bob Bradley. If you’re still in Comanche County when he finds you, you can’t say you weren’t warned. He turned and stomped down the hall, shouting, Will! Let’s go!

  Rennie chased Roark down the hall, berating him like a squirrel barking at a black bear. McDowell winced as waves of fear and anger swept over her, a red-orange ball of fire that threatened to cook her brain. She put her hands to her temples and rubbed counterclockwise, which always soothed her and helped her focus.

  Soon, Will Roark wandered back into the room in fresh clothes, his hair dripping. He stared at McDowell’s breasts for a moment before his parents realized he had left and followed him down the hall, still grousing.

  You can stay if you want, the mayor was saying, but I won’t be a prisoner in my own house, and I won’t have the town thinkin I’m scared to take the same chances they are. I’m eatin chicken fried steak and gravy at our diner tonight, and my son’s comin with me.

  You ain’t takin the same chances they are, you damn fool, Rennie said. You’re takin more. Nobody’s after them.

  Will watched his parents’ row with some interest.

  Come on, son, the mayor said. I’ll buy you a cheeseburger and some steak fries.

  Will did not have to be asked twice. He followed his father toward the front door, awash in the bulletproof aura of teenagers and fools. Rennie chased them, demanding that Will stop, that C.W. leave the boy out of this.

  Will hissed protests like, Chill out, Mom. Geez.

  McDowell considered intervening, but the vibes she had gotten from Roark felt dangerous. He was wound tighter than a guitar string. If she plucked him the wrong way, he would snap, and woe to anyone in his way.

  The front door slammed. McDowell took out her phone and called Raymond.

  They’re on the way, she said. Sorry.

  We’ll be ready, said Raymond. You heard from Bradley or Jake?

  Not since I called about the chief bein late.

  Okay. We’ll be in touch soon, one way or the other.

  McDowell hung up as Rennie stormed back through the room and down the hall. A moment later, McDowell heard things being tossed about, the musical tinkle of metal on metal, the muffled whump of fabric billowing in the air. She followed the sounds and turned into the Roarks’ bedroom. A king-size bed took up most of the space. It was piled high with clothes and shoes and cardboard boxes. As McDowell watched, another shoebox flew out of a walk-in closet and landed on the growing pile.

  A moment later, Rennie stepped out, holding what appeared to be a bulletproof vest. She held it out to McDowell, who took it, unsure of what else to do.

  I knew this goddam thing was in there somewhere, Rennie muttered. She brushed past McDowell and back toward the living room.

  McDowell set the vest on the floor. That won’t help, Ms. Rennie.

  Rennie picked up the .38 and started for the door.

  McDowell reached her and laid a hand on her shoulder, sending out all the calm and peace she could muster.

  Rennie took a deep breath and exhaled. Her shoulders slumped. She turned to look at McDowell, tears in her eyes. He’s my only son, she whispered.

  I know, said McDowell. But you can’t go after him, or you’re liable to get yourself killed. That boy needs his mother.

  A single tear slipped down Rennie’s cheek. We can’t just sit here.

  McDowell squeezed her shoulder. I’ll go. And remember your brother and Darrell are already there. Give me your keys. I can’t be worryin you’ll change your mind.

  Rennie nodded and crossed the room, picking up her purse and digging inside it. McDowell looked at her watch. It was 5:25 p.m.

  LeBlanc returned from the diner, where he had gone for a piss and a to-go cup of sweet tea. Raymond climbed out of the truck.

  C.W.’s on the way, Raymond said. You ready?

  LeBlanc drank some tea and set the cup on the car’s roof. Yep. How long you think they’ll give us for assaultin the mayor?

  If C.W. has his way, they’ll hang us. Twice.

  They leaned against the car and watched the road. Several vehicles turned into the lot—the dinner crowd. Raymond frowned. The killer would likely show no compunctions about gunning down whoever stood between him and the Roarks. Raymond’s own hand served as evidence of that. Yet they had no authority to shut the place down.

  As if LeBlanc could read his mind, the big man said, How’s the hand?

  Hurts like a son of a bitch.

  You need to sit this out?

  I’ll manage.

  Soon enough, the mayor’s Chevy turned onto Austin Street. Raymond elbowed LeBlanc. The two of them trotted to the parking lot entrance and stood a few feet apart, blocking the path. They left their guns behind, knowing that if they threatened Roark with weapons, nothing would keep them out of jail.

  The mayor slowed down, fuming over the steering wheel. Will sat beside him, wearing earbuds and plinking away on his phone. He didn’t even look up when his father stopped the Chevy in the driveway’s mouth and waved Raymond and LeBlanc aside. Raymond shook his head and gestured for the mayor to turn back. More cars pulled up behind the Chevy, the head of a traffic line that would snake all the way down Austin and back to Central if the mayor held ground. Annoyed drivers glared at Raymond and LeBlanc. Someone honked.

  The mayor rolled down his window and stuck his head out. Get the hell outta the way before I run you both down!

  No, said Raymond. We ain’t about to let my nephew die just because you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.

  Roark threw the Chevy into park and got out. Will looked up, alarmed, as his father strode the ten feet or so between the Chevy and Raymond, fists clenched. Raymond spread his feet shoulder-width apart and prepared to get punched in the nose. He would not fight back, but he could distract C.W. long enough for LeBlanc to grab him and wrestle him off the property.

  The boy started to get out.

  Will, no! Raymond yelled. You stay put!

  Will jumped back into the Chevy and closed the door.

  You’re gonna wish you had left, Ray, C.W. said. He took out his phone and dialed, waiting while Raymond and LeBlanc watched. Then he sputtered, Goddam it, Bob, I don’t know where the hell you are, but this is the second message I’ve left in the last fifteen minutes. Get your ass to the diner, and arrest these gator-eatin sons of bitches, or so help me God, I’ll have your badge. He hung up and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

  Raymond shook his head. You’re a fool, C.W. You’re gonna get that boy killed.

  Roark stepped forward. LeBlanc put a hand on the mayor’s chest. Roark ignored him, pointing at Raymond and growling
, Don’t tell me how to raise my son. Get off my property. And while you’re at it, one of you get David Roen’s piece-of-shit truck away from here before it draws flies.

  Raymond stared down the mayor, his eyes cold, his voice even. Every second y’all stay here makes it more likely somethin real bad’s gonna happen.

  You threatenin me?

  No, you hardheaded jackass, LeBlanc said. He’s tryin to help you.

  Roark seemed to see LeBlanc for the first time and pushed his hand away. But he also backed off, his eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them again, he seemed calmer.

  Look, Roark said. You got no right to stop folks from comin here. And you’re trespassin. If you’re still here when Bob Bradley shows up, Rennie won’t be able to help you.

  Raymond crossed his arms over his chest. You sound like a broken record. We ain’t goin nowhere.

  Someone honked again. Roark glanced over his shoulder. More cars had arrived. Sure enough, they stretched all the way to Central. A couple more waited to turn onto Austin, their signals blinking.

  Roark looked at Raymond. And what if I get back in and floor it? You gonna stand there and get run down?

  If you run over one of us, you better get us both, LeBlanc said, because if you don’t, the one still standin will be a hell of a lot less civil.

  Roark watched them for another moment and then spat. He got back in his truck and reversed. Then he pulled forward and down past the drive, parking halfway in the ditch. Raymond and LeBlanc stood aside and let the other cars enter, the drivers favoring them with dark looks.

  What do we do now? LeBlanc asked. They’re just gonna get out and walk.

  We tackle ’em. Will ain’t dyin on my watch.

  Frost doused the boots and gun belt with lighter fluid. Bradley held a box of matches. They looked at each other. Bradley swallowed hard. Frost stepped back ten feet and nodded.

  The chief took out a match.

  Then the air shifted behind him. Frost turned pale, as if someone had cut his throat. He dropped the can of lighter fluid. Bradley looked back, and the match snapped in his fingers, the ends flying in opposite directions.

  A gray figure stood five yards away, clad in the kind of gear you might expect to see on a wandering gunfighter in an old Western. Cannonlike six-guns rested in their holsters, slung low on the man’s hips. His arms hung limp, the long fingers tapering to dirty, ragged nails. A hat concealed his eyes. Still holding the matches, Bradley turned to face him, circling around the boots. The man did not move.

  Frost started forward.

  No. Stay put, Bradley said.

  Frost stopped. The cowboy stood still, as if carved from marble. Slowly, Bradley raised his free hand.

  Where the fuck did he come from? Frost whispered.

  Where do you think? Bradley hissed.

  The chief touched the matchbox with his right hand, never taking his eyes from the cowboy. He eased one of the matches out. His lungs burned; he had been holding his breath. Exhaling, Bradley struck the match.

  The cowboy’s arms blurred into motion. A deafening bang, and then something struck the chief’s face, knocking him backward. As he fell into darkness, he was not even aware he could not think.

  Frost believed he had accepted the possibility of a ghost’s existence, but when the gunfighter materialized, he nearly shat his pants and knew that, deep down, he had been as skeptical as the mayor. Then Bradley struck the second match, and the gray figure drew its pistols. No one had ever moved so fast. A boom, as much a force as a sound, seemed to pulse behind Frost’s eyes, and Bradley flew backward as if he had been shoved. He rolled in the dust, landing face up, where his open eyes stared at the gathering storm clouds overhead. His forehead looked sunken, as if something heavy and blunt had struck it with great force. Hematomas grew like rising dough. His face turned dark purple as blood pooled underneath the skin. Frost ran to him and knelt at his side, knowing he was dead. The professor felt for a pulse anyway. Nothing. The chief looked confused, as if he were trying to work out a difficult math theorem. The box of matches had fallen from his hand and lay on the ground a few feet away.

  Don’t vomit, Frost told himself. Don’t run.

  The man—the ghost—had not moved. His arms dangled at his sides, the guns reholstered.

  Frost leaned forward, ready to sprint. Get the box. Then evasive action.

  Another boom, and the matchbox flew into the air. Frost cried out and fell on his ass, hands held out to ward off the kill shot that never came. The matchbox lay in ruins, splinters scattered everywhere. The cardboard burst into flame, well away from the boots and gun belt. Thunder echoed through the sky, and the first fat raindrops pattered the gravel, the cows, Jacob Frost, Bradley’s corpse.

  When the rain began in earnest, the Kid faded away, as if the water had evaporated him. When he was gone, Frost turned to the heavens and screamed.

  McDowell pulled up to the diner, parking next to a Suburban. The mayor’s Chevy sat halfway in the ditch. Perhaps the Roarks might still be inside. But no, there they stood at the lot entrance, Raymond Turner nose-to-nose with the mayor. At least nobody had been shot, and the Roarks were still within spitting distance of the street. McDowell got out and ran to the men. A crowd had gathered in a loose semicircle. Some people took pictures and videos on their phones.

  Lord, the internet’s gonna have a field day.

  Will meandered a few feet from the men, his face red. He kept glancing at the crowd and looking as if he wished the earth would swallow him. McDowell gave him a sympathetic look. The boy, who had earlier seemed horny enough to squirt in his shorts if she so much as looked his way, hung his head. He was well built and handsome in a way his father was not, and yet he seemed to know that what happened here might define the next several years of his life more than anything he himself might do. He shifted from foot to foot, as if unsure of whether to help his father or duck into the truck and curl up in the seat where no one could see him.

  As she sensed the boy’s emotional torment and the men’s anger and frustration, McDowell’s own rage boiled over. She marched over and stepped between the two men, planted both hands on Raymond’s chest, and pushed him backward with all her might. He cried out in surprise and went down, trying to cradle his bad hand. Then she turned and shoved Roark, who, having seen Raymond’s fate, managed to stay on his feet, though he stumbled two steps backward.

  Mister, she said to Roark, I don’t know if you even give a shit, but your son’s watchin you act like a second grader, and so is half your town. If you want ’em to remember you lookin like a spoiled brat who didn’t get a cookie before supper, then keep on actin like one. Then she turned to Raymond, her voice kinder. Sorry, Ray. I didn’t have time to be diplomatic.

  LeBlanc pulled Raymond to his feet.

  Hell, Betsy, I wish you had shown up five minutes ago, Raymond said. Might have saved us some time.

  You heard from Jake or the chief?

  No.

  They should have called in by now. Somethin’s wrong.

  Raymond looked at his watch and frowned. To Roark, he said, Get your boy off this property. Now! Then his phone rang.

  Roark put one arm around his son. Let’s go, Will.

  He pulled the boy toward the road as Raymond answered the phone.

  Jake? Raymond said.

  Bradley’s dead, Frost said, sounding as if he might be hyperventilating. That thing shot him and destroyed the matches, and now it’s raining. Do you understand what I’m saying? Ray, we couldn’t burn the boots.

  Raymond dropped his phone. Light rain splotched the concrete and the patches where the hardpan had beaten back the grass. He turned toward the Roarks, eyes widening.

  McDowell saw his face. What is it?

  Too late, he whispered.

  Then he ran at the Roarks as fast as he could go. Images of Marie�
��s shattered body flashed through his mind, how her limp hand felt as he clutched it, the helplessness, the despair. Not again. Not Will. No matter the consequences. Footfalls behind him, too light to be LeBlanc’s. McDowell was chasing him.

  Where are you, Darrell?

  Then the Kid appeared between the Roarks and the road. His hands hung near the holstered guns. The crowd shrieked. C.W. and Will froze. They all stared at each other as if they stood on the main street of an old frontier town, waiting on the clock to strike noon.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  September 15, 2016, Evening—Comanche, Texas

  Raymond almost reached the Roarks, but the Kid’s arm blurred into motion. Too late too late too late. The guns boomed. Roark threw himself in front of Will. Something seemed to strike him, and he tumbled backward onto his son.

  As they went down, Will screamed, Dad!

  Raymond skidded to a halt near them. The mayor’s tall, thick body covered Will’s. The boy struggled to push his father off as the mayor spat blood. The Kid floated toward them, arms dangling.

  McDowell appeared beside them, her voice calm and smooth. Will, stop fightin. That thing’s after you now.

  Will’s eyes widened. Help us, he whispered.

  Hang on, Raymond said, grasping Roark, ready to pull him away.

  Roark moaned and coughed, spraying blood into McDowell’s face and hair and upper torso. She turned aside and vomited. The Kid hovered in front of Raymond. The specter’s clothes were wrinkled and stained. Three days’ stubble covered his cheeks. His hat was torn at the seam. His guns looked cartoonishly enormous. It’s your mind playin tricks. Don’t think about how you’re about to see the business ends. But he did, imagining the barrels yawning like the maw of some deep and uncrossable gulf.

  Another gun fired nearby. Raymond jumped and cried out. His ears rang, but in his mind, the Kid roared like a wounded lion. The apparition disappeared, winking out like one of those science-fiction movie holograms. People in the crowd covered their ears and held their heads as if in great pain.