Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Raymond turned. LeBlanc stood behind them, holding a shotgun. Salt rounds. We brought only salt rounds, and they hurt that thing. The other shotgun lay at LeBlanc’s feet. He must have got ’em from the car when I was helpin with C.W. and Will. LeBlanc tossed his gun to Raymond, who caught it with his good hand. His heart kept trying to pound through his chest and go hopping down the road like a frog. LeBlanc picked up the second shotgun.

  Raymond stood on one side of the Roarks. LeBlanc turned around and scanned the other direction. The crowd had dispersed in panic. Somehow no one had been trampled.

  Somebody call 911! Raymond shouted. Your mayor’s hurt!

  Uncle Ray—Will said, still underneath his father.

  Help’s comin, Raymond said. Roark gurgled.

  Now the rain started to pound them, fat drops like globs of birdshit. It diluted the blood on McDowell, though it looked as if her eyes were bleeding again, and the trickles and chunks falling from Roark’s mouth. The mayor’s eyes were closed, his face as gray as the Kid.

  Movement to Raymond’s left. He wheeled about as the Kid materialized five yards away. Raymond raised the shotgun to his shoulder, balancing it on his left forearm, and fired into the Kid’s torso. Again, that lionlike roaring as the ghost dissipated, plus the hail-on-a-tin-roof sound of salt striking parked cars. In the distance, the whine of sirens. Perhaps an ambulance. Raymond glanced at C.W. He had slipped sideways, exposing Will’s head and upper torso.

  Betsy, Raymond said, you gotta get Will off the property. We’ll cover you.

  Tucking the gun under his injured arm, Raymond bent and pushed the mayor sideways, his hand slipping in the blood and rainwater, as McDowell pulled. Roark groaned while LeBlanc wheeled about, trying to see everywhere at once. The crowd pushed its way back into the diner. Some decided to forego the line and dashed around the building, running for Central.

  Raymond helped Will up. You okay?

  The boy was as pale as his father. How’s Daddy?

  LeBlanc fired again and shouted, Hurry up! I can’t keep him off you forever!

  Get outta here, Raymond said to Will.

  McDowell tugged on the boy’s arm. He looked at his father. I can’t. Not without Daddy.

  Raymond grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him toward the road. I said get.

  Will stumbled past McDowell, who ran after him and pushed him along, saying, Move. They’ll bring your daddy.

  She and Will reached the mayor’s Chevy and leaped in, slamming the doors. McDowell fired up the engine, but before she could change gears, it sputtered out.

  The Kid appeared in the ditch beside them.

  McDowell and Will screamed. She yanked the boy down into the seat and ducked as the Kid drew and fired both guns. Nothing happened to the truck, but if they had not moved, their brains would have splattered inside their skulls.

  Up at the intersection, an ambulance turned toward the diner, three police cruisers behind it. Roen drove one. Nearby, LeBlanc fired. That animalistic roar filled Raymond’s skull again. McDowell tried to start the Chevy, its whirrs and chugs almost rhythmic amid the screams and the rain driving onto the pavement. Raymond waved the ambulance into the drive. It turned in and parked near the mayor. Roark’s eyes were closed.

  The cops pulled over on the far side of the road and exited with guns drawn. One blond-haired kid who looked about twelve years old leveled his service weapon at Raymond and said, Drop your weapon and get on your knees. Hands laced behind your head.

  Lower your weapon, you goddam idiot! Roen snapped.

  The deputy seemed not to hear. Drop the gun, or I’ll blow your head off.

  Roen shoved the kid’s weapon toward the ground, screaming in his face as the other three officers converged on LeBlanc, who raised his hands but did not drop the shotgun.

  Will opened his car door and yelled, Leave ’em alone! They’re helpin my dad!

  McDowell clawed at him, pulling him back in.

  To the men covering LeBlanc, Roen bellowed, Stand down! He’s with us! Then he sprinted to Raymond and the mayor.

  The paramedics had disembarked and knelt next to Roark.

  Gunshot to the torso, Raymond said. I think it’s his lung.

  No evidence of a wound, muttered one medic.

  You’ll have to take my word for it. Get him outta here.

  We can’t move him until we know what’s wrong.

  Raymond seized the man by his shirt. If you don’t move him, he’s gonna die. The assailant’s still here. He shoved the paramedic away.

  Roen watched them work, eyes bugging. What can we do?

  Help ’em get C.W. outta here, Raymond said. We’ll do our best to hold off the Kid.

  Wait, the who?

  The Kid appeared nearby, flickering in and out of focus, the rain passing through him. The officers’ mouths fell open. One dropped his weapon in a puddle near his feet and swayed as if he were going to pass out. Jesus Christ, said another.

  What the hell is that? Roen cried.

  Raymond whirled, still balancing the shotgun barrel on his left forearm. He fired at the Kid, who disappeared with another howl of pain. Roen covered his ears, grimacing. The Kid reappeared fifteen feet away, next to an officer who screamed and fired his service weapon at him. The bullets passed through the apparition’s head and smashed through the window of a truck. Its alarm blatted as someone screamed in surprise and terror.

  Cease fire! Raymond shouted. Your guns won’t hurt him!

  The paramedics had stopped working on Roark. They stared at the spot where the Kid had vanished. Raymond nudged the nearest one with his foot. The man shook his head and slapped his partner in the chest, saying, Get him on the goddam gurney right now.

  They loaded the mayor while Raymond covered them. LeBlanc stood near Roark’s car. A bit of McDowell’s hair was visible through the windows. Probably still layin on Will. It’s gonna get her killed if we can’t get ’em outta here soon. Behind him, the paramedics leaped into the ambulance, one in the driver’s seat, the other in back with Roark. When the driver tried to start the engine, it chugged and chugged but would not turn over.

  Raymond beckoned to some of the bystanders and the cops. We gotta get ’em past the property line, he said.

  For once, no one questioned the sanity of what Raymond said. All the officers ran over and started pushing the ambulance, Raymond walking behind them and scanning the property. Three men dashed from behind cars in the lot and joined the effort.

  Raymond spotted the Kid to his right and fired. The apparition vanished again.

  Who’s shootin? one of the civilians asked, scared out of his mind.

  Just push, Raymond said. I got you. But he was trying to reload with one hand.

  LeBlanc ran over. Take my gun, he said. I’ll reload.

  What the hell are you doin here? Protect Betsy and Will.

  I told ’em to get out and haul ass and not stop until they couldn’t hear shots anymore. If that thing’s really bound to the property, they’re safe.

  That’s just a theory. It got far enough away from here to kill Bradley.

  Fuck, LeBlanc spat.

  Go after ’em.

  I don’t even know where they went.

  Did you just say the chief’s dead? asked Roen as he pushed the ambulance.

  Raymond looked at Roen but said nothing. LeBlanc shook his head. Roen’s face screwed up as if he were going to cry, but then he clenched his jaw and looked straight ahead, still pushing. A moment later, LeBlanc’s shotgun crashed. More almost-musical sounds of salt striking metal and glass. They had nearly reached the road when two of Red Thornapple’s trucks turned onto Austin. Frost drove one. Thornapple himself piloted the second, with Joyce Johnstone sitting beside him.

  Aw, shit, LeBlanc said. What else can happen?

  He dashed t
oward the vehicles. They pulled over as he flagged them down. Frost got out of the truck, holding the boots and gun belt.

  Jake! Raymond called. Get that shit onto the property!

  Frost ran across the street and onto the parking lot. LeBlanc headed off Johnstone and Thornapple, gesticulating and pointing toward Central. They jumped back in their vehicle and backed away as the men managed to shove the ambulance onto the road under Raymond’s protection. No help if this thing don’t start. But the engine turned over, and the driver took off, siren blasting. Raymond, LeBlanc, and the men from the diner stood on the street and watched it go, the rain driving down hard enough to sting.

  Someone near the diner called, Hey, y’all, it’s back.

  Raymond turned and saw Jacob Frost holding the boots in the middle of the lot. He had stopped to watch the ambulance, too. In the meantime, the Piney Woods Kid had appeared behind him, staring at him with those merciless gray eyes.

  The ghost stood between Frost and the Dead House, hovering six inches above the ground. Frost tried to swallow, but the spit lodged in his throat like a chicken bone. Thunder rumbled. Lightning strobed behind the clouds. He gripped the boots and gun belt harder, afraid of what might happen if he dropped them, afraid of what might happen if he did not.

  The Kid made no move.

  No, Raymond said. No guns. He’ll kill Jake.

  To whom was he talking? Too dangerous to turn around and find out. And was what Raymond said true? The Kid had dispatched Bradley when the chief threatened to set the boots on fire. Then the Kid destroyed the matches, not Frost. The boots and gun belt must have comprised the key to the Kid’s existence. If so, he would protect them with a ferocity that Frost could barely imagine.

  Back on the road, LeBlanc called, Just throw the goddam things down and run.

  But Frost thought that a supremely bad idea. Any sudden move might be misinterpreted as aggression, in which case he would not stand a chance. He had to move slowly and with purpose, despite his triphammering heart, his knocking knees, his shaking hands, his rubbery legs and spine.

  Raymond and the others had found the old boots in the Dead House. That might be the best chance. Moving an inch or two at a time, Frost took the gun belt in his left hand and kept the boots in his right. Then he held them out to the Kid.

  The ghost’s mouth turned up in what might have been a snarl.

  No, no, Frost said. Nobody’s going to hurt them. I’m putting them back where they belong. Do you understand?

  The Kid said nothing, did not move.

  Frost edged toward the Dead House in an irregular parabola. He shuffled his feet side to side, crablike, watching the Kid, who rotated as Frost moved around him. The rain fell even harder, water flowing into Frost’s eyes, obscuring his vision, and he dared not even shake his head or pass a forearm across his eyes. Around him, everyone had hushed. The only sounds were his feet sloshing through puddles and cruddy runoff from the hardpan, the intermittent thunder, and the rain striking surfaces of all kinds—pavement, flesh, bare ground, shingled roof, cars. He kept shuffling until he reached the Dead House. Then he inched to the door. When he arrived, the Kid disappeared. Frost exhaled.

  He turned. The Kid hung in the air beside him.

  Now he could smell the ghost, a scent like a wet dog that had rolled in rotten meat. Frost had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming, tasting blood, hoping he could still talk when this was over. If he lived.

  He draped the gun belt over his shoulder and used his free hand to open the door. Then he stepped inside.

  According to Raymond, the boots had originally rested on one of the back shelves. Several shapes hugged the wall back there, obscured in the shadows. Frost stepped inside and picked his way around the junk on the floor, praying not to trip, knowing if he did, the rattles and thumps of falling diner detritus might be the last sounds he would ever hear. The Kid’s presence felt like a twenty-pound weight in his mind. He reached the shelves. The boots’ and gun belt’s irregular shapes were outlined in the dust. He set the boots back and then bunched up the belt and put it beside them. When Frost turned, the Kid stood in the center of the room, a man shape, gray even in the dark, the outlines of the crates on the floor visible through him. Frost held his hands up again and circled back to the door, watching the Kid, who rotated in the air, watching back.

  Frost reached the door and backed out. The Kid floated in the center of the room. The professor pulled the door shut. Then he walked to the end of the building and sat down near the corner, unmindful of the rainwater soaking into his pants and undershorts. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, his breath wavering, his pulse pounding. Spots danced in front of his eyes. Don’t faint. Just don’t. Moments later, Raymond and LeBlanc approached, people from the diner a few feet behind them, others emerging from behind cars.

  Raymond went to the window and peered inside.

  What’s he up to in there? Frost asked.

  Nothin, Raymond said. He’s gone.

  Half an hour later, the rain subsided, and the police had cleared out the customers. Raymond’s rental car and Roen’s weathered Ford Ranger were parked end to end on the west side of Austin. Frost’s truck sat amid police cars lining the east side. Raymond had called Rennie, who hung up on him. Then, thirty seconds later, she remembered McDowell had taken her keys, and she called back, asking Raymond to send Will to pick her up. Red Thornapple and Joyce Johnstone had disappeared. And Frost had conferred with Roen about Chief Bradley, after which Roen called for a second ambulance over his radio and then left. He had peeled out in reverse, burning rubber on the faded asphalt, narrowly missing the side mirrors of every vehicle, nearly T-boning an SUV on Central. Its driver swerved and honked.

  While the remaining deputies sealed off the diner with their inexhaustible supply of yellow tape, Raymond stood alone in agony, eyes watering. God, he needed a pill, a fifth of whiskey, something. He called LeBlanc and Frost over, out of the officers’ earshot.

  I say we burn ’em right now, Raymond said through clenched teeth. We can torch the whole goddam building if we have to.

  LeBlanc’s expression was savage and sharklike. We’ll need a combustible. Where’s the nearest gas station?

  Frost shook his head. No. We can’t do a damn thing right now, and if you think about it logically, you know why.

  I don’t give a shit about logic, Raymond said. You saw what happened to Bradley. C.W.’s hangin by a thread, if he ain’t dead already, and Will would have died like a dog if we hadn’t been here. Now you wanna wait?

  Frost sighed. He looked ten years older. No, I don’t want to wait. When that thing showed up there—well, I’ve never been so scared. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I’ve shit my pants. But we can’t act emotionally. That will only get us or somebody else killed.

  Killed, hell. We got enough salt rounds to keep the bastard off us till we can burn that godforsaken shed.

  It isn’t just a shed, Frost hissed. Raymond recoiled. It’s a Dead House, and it served both this depot and the town cemetery. Would you care to speculate on how many bodies that place held over the years? I’d say it would number in the hundreds, the way so many people died young back then. What if we start to burn the place down and find we’ve got more than one angry spirit to deal with? What if you or Darrell moves a bit too slowly, and one of us dies? You want that on your conscience?

  Raymond said nothing. He couldn’t stop picturing C.W. lying in the mud, Will underneath him, sobbing and choking on rainwater. Imagination furnished Raymond with other unwanted pictures—Bob Bradley sprawled on a muddy road, eyes open and glassy, flies flitting about his mouth.

  I’d trade my house for a belt of Jack Daniel’s.

  You’ve been awful quiet, Darrell, Raymond said. A little participation might be in order, since it’s your ass on the line, too.

  LeBlanc had been staring at the Dead Ho
use. I wanna see that fuckin place burn to the ground, but I think Jake’s right. We could have died fifty different times just now. Ain’t no tellin what would have happened if that thing had been after us. We don’t wanna stick our necks in a noose.

  Raymond spat. All right, goddam it. But whatever we’re gonna do, we gotta do it soon. Casper’s shot his last person.

  Frost looked relieved. You’re doing the right thing, Ray.

  Right, my ass. It’s your idea, so you’re takin the lead. What’s first?

  Well, said Frost, I think we should go to the hospital. I know you want to check on your sister, and Betsy needs to have her say. I’ll tell you more about Bradley on the way.

  They walked across the lot toward their vehicles, through the rainwater and blood and silty gunk. Raymond’s injured hand ached like a bitch.

  McDowell stepped out to get coffee. Rennie sat bolt upright in her chair in the Operating Room waiting area, Will beside her with his elbows on his knees. He had said nothing since Raymond and LeBlanc arrived. Rennie wore a sensible black dress, midcalf length, dark red lipstick, hair coiffed as if by a professional. But the makeup on her cheeks had streaked. She was removing mascara smudges with a wipe and a compact mirror. Soon, she started reapplying, filling in the holes, smoothing out the glops. Raymond and LeBlanc had taken seats in the stiff chairs across from the Roarks. Neither had said much. Frost had stepped away to phone some of his university colleagues.

  They had not heard from Roen. Raymond kept imagining the little man stepping out of his car on that gravel road and taking an invisible bullet to the forehead, falling on the rocks beside the chief.

  McDowell came back with four cups balanced in her hands. Her clothes were still wet, her hair darkened and dripping. She never wore much makeup, but what she had applied that morning had washed away. Rennie took a cup, her expression unchanging. McDowell handed two other cups to Raymond and LeBlanc.

  Sorry, she said. I’m too wet to carry sugar packets. She sat beside Rennie and leaned forward. The surgeon caught me in the hall and asked me to tell y’all. They’re givin the mayor blood and tryin to stop the internal bleedin. Doc said his left lung is pretty much gone.