Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Thornapple brought in another pot of coffee and set it on the table. LeBlanc helped himself to a cup as someone knocked on the door. Everyone stiffened. Frost looked alarmed. Johnstone swallowed hard, the gulping sound almost comical.

  Be right back, Thornapple said.

  If it looks like trouble, give us a head start, Raymond called.

  Thornapple did not reply, but Raymond meant it. If the Comanche Police Department raided Thornapple’s house to drive them out of town or hold Frost for questioning in the chief’s death, they would have to postpone the plan for God only knew how long, and then the Kid might kill again.

  But Thornapple returned, followed by a thick slab of a man in a tight white T-shirt and faded, stained jeans.

  Thornapple put a hand on the new arrival’s back. Everybody, this is Adam Garner.

  Damn if y’all don’t look like the world’s boringest family reunion, Garner said, his voice booming. Now what’s this bullshit I hear about a ghost?

  Raymond stood and shook Garner’s hand. We thought you weren’t interested in joinin our party. What changed your mind?

  Garner looked grim. I’ve been to see Pat Wayne a couple times. She’s a mess. Plus Bob Bradley gettin killed. If this asshole’s willin to gun down the chief of police, it’s gotten too crazy around here to sit on my ass. And by the way, who are you?

  During the story, Garner drank two cups of coffee and ate the last of the rolls. Now Johnstone hauled pan after pan of homemade biscuits into the room, along with slabs of butter and saucers for everyone. If she ever tired of the small-town life with Thornapple, she could make a killing as a New Orleans baker. And if anybody can fatten up Ichabod Thornapple, she can.

  Garner poured another cup of coffee. Sounds crazy to me, he said. But I’m outnumbered and surrounded, so I’ll go along. What the hell do we do?

  Rennie and Will ain’t about to leave that hospital, Raymond said, so they should be safe. Jake’s got a plan, but we need all of you if it’s gonna have half a chance. If you ain’t willin, tell us now. We can’t get there and watch you all run like hell while the Kid blows holes in our vital organs.

  Raymond would not have blamed the civilians for taking a long fishing trip or telling him to go to hell. But they held his gaze, the fear in their eyes mixed with determination and more than a little anger. This thing had risen out of the past and slaughtered Lorena Harveston, John Wayne, their chief of police. It had obliterated their mayor’s lung and turned Raymond’s left hand into a plaster-wrapped maul. It would have killed them all if they had ventured onto the diner’s lot at the wrong time. Yet their expressions told him they would see everything through. He admired that.

  All right, he said. I’m gonna turn this over to Jake. We’re gonna go over the plan until we all know it backward and forward. And then, if there’s any time left, we’re gonna get some rest. We want everybody’s head clear. Jake?

  Raymond poured himself the last of the coffee and sat back. Jacob Frost stood as if he were behind a podium at a conference, not hunting ghosts in Texas. If he lives through this, nothin in the academic world will ever scare him again.

  Okay, said the professor. We’ve got to destroy the gun belt and the boots, along with whatever blood and tissue might still cling to them. We’ve tried that before, but we’ve got to accomplish it. If the lore is anywhere close to accurate, we’ll never be rid of the ghost until we do one of two things: help it with its unfinished business or destroy its connection to our world.

  Adam Garner scratched his nose with a dirty fingernail. Doc, I understood only about half of what you just said, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say its unfinished business is killin everybody in this room.

  Well, not everybody, said Frost. Just you, Joyce, Red, the mayor, and Will Roark. The McCorkle woman, too. If all the descendants were dead, it might just fade away, but obviously, we can’t allow that.

  Thornapple snorted. I think we’re all on board with that idea.

  That leaves us with severing its connection. I still think fire is the best method. The problem, as we’ve seen, is staying alive long enough to burn something.

  Raymond held up his left hand, the cast bulky and milky white. Or in one piece.

  Frost gestured to Raymond. Right. So. We’ve tested a couple of the legends and found they’re true. Salt repels it, and it’s scared of fire getting anywhere near the boots. Here’s what I propose. Ray, Darrell, Betsy, and I go to the diner. Raymond and Darrell cover Betsy and me as we ring the Dead House with salt and douse it with gasoline. Then we toss a match on it and run like hell. That should take care of everything connecting the Kid to our world.

  And what keeps that thing from killin y’all? Red asked.

  Frost cleared his throat. Well, when I was on that back road with Chief Bradley, it didn’t come after us until we struck a match. I’m theorizing it understands the threat of fire but not the accelerant. Or that it knows the accelerant is useless without the flame. If we use the gas first, then lay the salt ring, we should be able to set the fire from just outside the circle.

  Joyce Johnstone, who had been sipping a cup of coffee, said, What do Red, Adam, and me do? Cuss at it?

  No. You stay here. Eat something. Watch a movie. Anything but come near the diner.

  And if we find it’s trapped outside the salt circle with us? asked LeBlanc.

  Frost looked grim. Then I suppose you and Ray will have to be very good shots.

  Johnstone got up and walked to a window. She pushed aside the curtains and let in the light. The sky peeked around the trees in the yard. It was overcast, the clouds dark gray and backlit. She looked over her shoulder.

  Forecast is for showers, she said. What happens if it rains?

  Then we’ll go to plan B, Frost said.

  No one replied. They waited on him to explain as if they were a group of college freshmen. He took a deep breath and detailed their backup plan, a much more dangerous gambit for the surviving descendants, one he hoped to avoid.

  Raymond, LeBlanc, Frost, and McDowell packed the guns into the rental while Garner, Johnstone, and Thornapple watched from the porch. A gumbo of hope, fear, anticipation, guilt, and shame radiated from them, straight into Elizabeth McDowell. Johnstone projected love and concern, probably for Thornapple, who projected the shame. He probably felt like less of a man for staying behind, not pulling his weight. Such archaic ideas were silly, but Red Thornapple was a traditional man living in a conservative town. He had very specific ideas of what a man should do, and hiding out while others, including a woman, risked their lives would not make the list. Adam Garner betrayed no such conflicts. He seemed content to let the so-called professionals handle the Kid. If he knew them better—that McDowell spent most of her time reading palms and tarot cards and dispensing advice on love; that Frost practically lived in the classrooms, libraries, and offices of his university; and that Raymond and LeBlanc had never faced a ghost until one shot Raymond’s hand to pieces—then he might change his mind, but they had revealed little about themselves to these people. For all the descendants knew, even McDowell was a hardened detective who might shoot you before lunch and order her steak bloody.

  She could not feel Raymond’s physical agony, but she read the heavy weight of his responsibility as if it were written in the dust on a pickup’s rear window.

  Once the guns were secured, Raymond turned to her.

  You and Jake ain’t full-time professionals, he said. If you want out, we’ll understand.

  She smiled and patted Raymond’s cheek. Hush. I’m goin.

  Raymond tried to smile back, but he was frightened half to death, his eyes as haunted as the diner grounds. Trembling, he embraced her. When he pulled away, he said, Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.

  He got behind the wheel. She climbed into the passenger seat. In front of them, LeBlanc and Frost piled into their own vehicle.
Thornapple, Johnstone, and Garner watched from the porch, shoulder to shoulder, as if the proximity could shield them from whatever might come. Thornapple raised his right hand and waved as his left arm snaked around Johnstone’s waist. McDowell waved back. Raymond started the car. They circled Thornapple’s driveway and headed for the Depot Diner.

  Half a mile down the road, the first raindrops struck the windshield. The trees by the roadside swayed. Dark clouds inched in front of the sun.

  A skinny deputy with a pencil mustache slept in his radio car beside the diner’s entrance, cap pulled over his face, dripping sweat. He had cranked down all his windows to take advantage of whatever breeze might blow, but now, everything was still, the clouds hovering low. Strobe lightning flashed like cameras at a press conference. The guy had pluck, if not professionalism. Not everyone could rest easy at the scene of two murders while a storm rolled in. LeBlanc and Frost parked across from the deputy and started unloading salt rounds from the back seat and trunk.

  Let’s try not to wake up yonder cop, LeBlanc said. We don’t know his orders, so the longer he’s asleep, the less we gotta worry about him.

  Frost glanced at the radio car but said nothing. The professor seemed to be feeling the weight of what they were about to do—take on a murderous being, defy local authorities, commit arson, and hope for the best. LeBlanc and Raymond had done some questionable things in their time—had bent laws nearly in half, had broken some—but that came with the territory. Frost, on the other hand, taught folklore and wrote dry articles nobody except other folklore scholars read. He designed lectures, directed studies, helped set policies. He was a kind of authority, a stable, safe man today’s events were likely to change, if he survived them. He would forever after be the kind of person who set fire to buildings, who subverted the edicts of mayors, who loaded shotguns, and who put himself in harm’s way. Such a sea change had to be traumatic.

  The professor unloaded boxes of ammo, stacking them in the center of the blue tarp LeBlanc had bought. Together, they lifted the tarp’s ends and folded them over the shells. Then they hefted their load and set it in the trunk amid dozens of boxes of rock salt. If anyone saw this cargo, they would probably believe Frost and LeBlanc were headed to the world’s biggest redneck ice-cream social, where shooting contests would comprise the entertainment.

  Rain began to fall. LeBlanc shut the trunk, and they got back in the car. Across the street, the deputy stirred when a fat raindrop hit his elbow, which hung out the window. He muttered and pulled the arm back in, and then he moved no more.

  Raymond and McDowell parked behind LeBlanc and Frost as light rain began to fall.

  Be right back, Raymond said. He got out and ran to LeBlanc’s door.

  LeBlanc rolled down the window. Lovely goddam weather we’re havin, ain’t it?

  Yeah. Maybe we should wait till it blows over.

  You heard Joyce. Forecast calls for showers. Frankly, that sky looks more like it’s gonna thunderstorm.

  Raymond spat. He motioned for McDowell to get out.

  LeBlanc watched her trot through the rain. I wish we’d thought to buy slickers, he said. At least we could have stayed dry while we’re gettin killed.

  Let’s get this done before it gets worse.

  Frost got out. LeBlanc popped the trunk and followed, carrying his shotgun. Raymond went to retrieve his own shotgun as McDowell and Frost unloaded the garden sprayers LeBlanc had bought at Walmart, backpack models with a pump for maintaining pressure. Raymond wanted battery-operated models, but the store had none in stock. LeBlanc leaned his gun against the car and pulled out two red plastic gas cans, both full. He took the cap from one and fixed the nozzle. Then he poured the gas into the sprayers while McDowell and Frost held them steady. Once the sprayers were full, LeBlanc helped Frost and McDowell strap the units onto their backs. He showed them how to use the pumps and wands. The professor and the medium looked like Ghostbusters, which they were.

  Don’t cross the streams, Raymond muttered.

  McDowell looked up. Huh?

  Nothin.

  By the time Raymond and LeBlanc loaded their guns and pulled out the tarp-covered boxes, Raymond toting one end with his good hand while struggling to keep the shotgun tucked under his other arm, the rain was falling harder. The group walked past the snoring deputy and across the lot. They would have little margin for error if the Kid pressed them hard.

  We better not drop our ammo in a mud puddle.

  They reached the Dead House without incident. Raymond and LeBlanc unfolded the tarp, leaving one layer over the boxes. Then they flanked Frost and McDowell, who took two boxes of rock salt apiece and started pouring a line on the ground, Frost going first, circling the building. Raymond and LeBlanc took care not to step in the salt as they panned their shotguns, back-to-back, LeBlanc walking backward, Raymond calling out whenever a slippery patch of ground presented itself. When Frost’s boxes ran out, McDowell took up where he left off, skirting the edges of the gathering puddles.

  The plan worked fine until they reached the halfway point when the rain intensified again, spattering them in great plops. In half a minute, they stood and watched as their neat barrier blossomed into off-white puddles and dissipated. At first, McDowell and Frost ran to and fro, trying to replenish the line. But after they had exhausted half a dozen boxes, the line was still barely visible in some places, obliterated in most.

  Screw it, Raymond said. Come on, Darrell.

  He and LeBlanc trotted over and laid their guns on the diner’s porch. Then they returned to the tarp and grabbed more salt.

  What are we doin? asked LeBlanc as water streamed down his face.

  Let’s set up around the building. Me in the back, you in the front, Betsy and Jake on the sides.

  They tried it that way—first walking toward each other, meeting, then turning back. Then they started at equidistant points and chased each other around the Dead House. They tried walking one behind the other and replenishing the line as they went. Nothing worked. The driving rain turned the courtyard into a swamp, and their salt line lumped up, floated away, dissolved. They had more supplies back at Thornapple’s, having emptied every grocery store for miles around, but they had exhausted most of what they had brought with them.

  Raymond turned to Frost and said, What do you think?

  Frost looked disgusted. If the line’s broken anywhere, and I mean by like a millimeter, the Kid can cross it. And so can his bullets. There’s no way we can keep it solid in these conditions.

  Frost was right. It was like writing your name in the sand at high tide. Raymond waved them back toward the cars. Frost and LeBlanc rewrapped the remaining boxes in the tarp and carried it between them. They splashed through the parking lot, Raymond and McDowell trotting behind them with the guns. When they reached the cars, LeBlanc opened the trunk, and he and Frost tossed the ammunition-filled tarp into it. Then they stood back while Raymond and McDowell unloaded and packed in the guns. Finally, LeBlanc helped McDowell and Frost out of the sprayer units and stored them. They shut the lid and got in the car, Frost and McDowell climbing in the back.

  McDowell wrung out her hair onto the floorboard. What now? she asked. Plan B?

  I reckon so, Raymond said.

  LeBlanc wiped water from his face. Well, we could gas up and haul ass back to New Orleans.

  He seemed to have meant it as a joke, but nobody laughed. They all sat there, dripping rainwater onto the seats and floorboards, watching the Dead House, only its outline visible through the pouring rain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the gray landscape. Even the sleeping deputy had awakened at some point and rolled up his windows. If he had noticed the trespassers, he had left them alone. Perhaps he saw little point in getting wet for people who were running away from the property he was supposed to guard. In any case, the rain showed no signs of letting up.

  Eventually, Raymond sighed.
Well, the day ain’t gettin no younger. Or drier. We better head on. Jake, you and Betsy take the other car. Me and Darrell need to talk.

  Frost and McDowell got out of the car and sprinted to the other vehicle. Raymond started the rental. After a moment, he asked, You think we can get through this without gettin somebody killed?

  Too quickly, as if he had no doubt, LeBlanc said, No. I don’t.

  Back at Thornapple’s house, the four of them dashed for the front door, splashing through more puddles, cursing.

  Thornapple met them in the den, his face grim. Well, we’re in trouble now.

  Rennie sat on Thornapple’s couch. Thornapple must have picked her up from the hospital. She stood as they came in and said, Y’all look like you just swam across from Mexico. Her eyes were puffy and red. The end of her nose glowed pink.

  Raymond tried to wring out his shirt with one hand. The rain caught us. We couldn’t make the salt line.

  Both Rennie and Thornapple looked as if they had expected this. A moment later, Joyce Johnstone and Adam Garner carried in a platter of sandwiches, a pitcher of iced tea, and glasses. They set their trays on the coffee table and joined the others, Garner standing with his hands in his pockets, Johnstone sidling up to Thornapple and taking his hand.

  For if you’re hungry, she said.

  LeBlanc made a beeline for the tray, tracking mud and water across Thornapple’s floor. The rest of them pulled off their muddy shoes and stood near the entryway.

  Speaking mostly to Raymond, Rennie said, The council’s gonna meet this evenin, tomorrow at the latest. I talked to Fred Deese. He expects they’ll honor C.W.’s wishes and let the police handle the case.

  Who’s Fred Deese? Raymond asked.

  Councilman. He usually knows which way the wind’s blowin.

  Hell.