Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Yep.

  Raymond looked at the others. They seemed grim, though his own people had expected no less. Ever since they hit town, the local authorities had tried everything short of tar and feathers and an old rail to make them leave. But they had stayed because Raymond’s family was in danger, and because people were dying, and because Raymond knew that, if he left, he would never be able to look at his wife’s picture without remembering his own cowardice. Now he would have to lead them all back to the Dead House—for Rennie and for himself and for Bob Bradley, who lay cold and alone in the morgue. Some of them were likely to die. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he wished he had a drink, or fifty.

  It’s on to plan B, he said.

  What about yonder flood? Garner asked. He nodded at the window. Rain streamed down the glass, obscuring the outside world. Lightning flashed.

  Raymond shrugged. We’ll try to wait it out. But Rennie says the council’s meetin, maybe as soon as tonight. If it don’t blow over, we take our shot anyway. In the meantime, I suggest we try to get some sleep.

  Thornapple scoffed. Yeah. Right. I’m sure we’ll sleep like babies, knowin what’s comin.

  I’ll stay up and watch the weather, Garner said. I’m used to pullin long hours.

  Thanks, Raymond said. Last chance—anybody wanna walk away?

  For a moment, no one said anything. Then Red Thornapple cleared his throat.

  I’m in, he said. But I don’t want Joyce out there. Me and Adam should be enough.

  Johnstone laughed without humor. That’s real sweet, hon. But you don’t speak for me. I’m goin.

  Red turned to her and held her by both shoulders, looking at her with as much intensity as he could muster.

  That goddam thing’s already killed three people. And look at Ray’s hand.

  She shook loose from his grip. I’ve seen it, darlin. But I’m no kid, and if you’re in to all that helpless-woman’s-gotta-be-protected-by-a-big-strong-man bullshit, I ain’t for you. I’m goin.

  Red hit the wall with the side of his fist. Goddam it, can’t you do what I tell you just once?

  She took his fist and uncurled it, roping her fingers into his. Nope. I might do what you ask, but I won’t ever do what you tell me. Especially not now.

  Then I’m askin.

  Good. But I’m still sayin no.

  He glared at her for a moment. Then he snatched his hand away and stalked off.

  Raymond, raising his voice so Thornapple could hear even in full retreat, said, Since my underwear’s stickin to the crack of my ass, I’m gonna make the futile gesture of puttin on some dry clothes before we go get soaked and muddy again.

  He hugged Rennie. She hugged him back, expressionless. If she minded getting wet, she said nothing about it. Raymond had already told her to stay at the hospital with Will or go back to their house or leave for Australia—be anywhere but the Depot Diner. Hopefully she would listen. He released her and headed for his room. Behind him, the others moved toward their respective parts of the house.

  Red’s a good man, Johnstone said to no one in particular, but sometimes I think he wants to bop me over the head with a club and drag me back to the cave by my hair.

  Alone in his room, Raymond’s meager confidence slipped away. He stripped and dried himself with yesterday’s shirt. Then he sat on the bed and rubbed his forehead, feeling old and tired and incompetent and afraid and alone. Soon it would be time to saddle up and lead a pack of amateurs into battle against something he did not understand. It all seemed so absurd and surreal. He kept expecting to wake up years in the past, Marie beside him, the sheets sweated through, her hand on his shoulder as she shook him awake. Then he would look into her emerald eyes until his breathing and heart rate slowed, take her in his arms, brush her auburn hair away from her face, play his fingertips over her lips and the little scar on her chin and the beginnings of crow’s-feet around her eyes. Then he would kiss her and hold her until the day’s responsibilities drove them from bed.

  But no such thing could happen. Marie was gone, and he would wake every day of his life alone, her side of the bed empty, her pillow still cool.

  He looked at the ceiling and said, I ain’t spoke to God since he took you away. I ain’t said much to you either. Reckon I’ve been a mite pissed you left me here. But if you’re up there, and you’ve got the Lord’s ear, do me a favor and ask him to let me do good. Let me make the right decisions when the time comes. I ain’t askin for my life. But if he listens to you, maybe ask him to turn his face toward us long enough to get this done. And if I see you tonight, well, that’s probably the best thing I could ask for. You take care, darlin.

  Raymond lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not dozing, not thinking, just listening to his own breath and the sounds of the house until it was time to get up and do what he was afraid to do.

  McDowell had just finished putting on dry clothes, knowing, given the conditions outside, how futile it likely was, but it made her feel better anyway. She knelt in front of the bed, rested her elbows on it, folded her hands, closed her eyes. And then, for five straight minutes, for the first time since discovering her empathic abilities, she prayed. She had been raised Catholic and had observed every ritual, every custom, until she turned thirteen. Then, at Mass one day, emotions burst forth from the congregation and battered her senseless—deep faith and the concurrent happiness and peace. Sadness and loss, hypocrisy, guilt. As if she became everyone in the room at their most vulnerable. She had thrown up on Mr. Breedlove in the next pew up, and then she had run from the chapel screaming. Her parents forced her to go back, Mass after Mass after agonizing Mass, where she sat bent over, hands pressed to her temples, concentrating on the hymnal, the floor, anything but what she felt. After turning eighteen, she had never stepped foot inside a church again, had avoided crowds whenever possible, had never been to a concert or a ball game, had never again gone to Carnival. She lived in the city because she loved it so much, but she stayed home as much as possible.

  Still, she had always associated her abilities with God. Perhaps he had cursed her. Perhaps her human mind could not comprehend the nature of his blessing. That ambiguity had haunted her, kept her off her knees and away from her rosaries. Now she pleaded for her friends’ safety, for a good end to these terrible events, for the mayor’s health, for Rennie’s peace of mind. She prayed for them all, and when she said her amen and opened her eyes, Elizabeth McDowell wept. Part of her felt relieved. Until the prayers spilled from her, she had never realized how much she missed that feeling of intimacy with the Mysteries. The rest of her was terrified. But she could not stay inside, safe from the emotions and how they flayed her mind, not when people were dying. She stood up, wiped away the tears, and looked around for her dry pair of shoes.

  Then a light knock, as if someone had dragged their knuckles across the wood. She opened the door. LeBlanc stood there, his hair wet and slicked back, his clothes dry except around his neck and shoulders.

  He entered. She closed the door and leaned against it, hands clasped behind her. No more than three feet separated them. They looked at each other, neither speaking, the sound of the rain falling outside the window somehow soothing, the intermittent thunder like voices speaking in the next room.

  Finally, LeBlanc said, Look. I just wanted to say. Um. Look.

  I’m lookin.

  LeBlanc swallowed hard. If he had not been radiating desperation, she might have laughed.

  It’s okay, Darrell. Just spit it out.

  He inhaled. Look, I ain’t very good with words, but it’s no secret how I feel about you and I wish I could talk you into sittin this one out, but I also know you ain’t gonna, so before we go get killed, I just wanna make sure you know how I really feel deep down.

  He exhaled.

  McDowell moved closer and put one hand on his bicep, feeling his tension, his strength.


  We already talked, she said. On the street in New Orleans. In the hotel. Don’t torture yourself into sayin what I already know.

  She grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him down. She pressed her lips to his, their tongues flicking out, finding each other, flicking back. It lasted almost a full minute. When it ended, they both trembled. LeBlanc put both arms around her and pulled her close.

  She laid her head on his chest.

  They sat on the bed together, their bodies touching, his right arm around her, his left hand in hers. He kissed the top of her head, and they lay down together, still holding hands. It was still raining when they fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  September 16, 2016, Dusk—Comanche, Texas

  The rain fell all day, flooding Thornapple’s driveway. Twice, it had nearly stopped. Garner had awakened them all both times, but by the time they had gathered, it was pouring again. On TV, a flash flood warning cautioned against trying to cross standing water on roads, especially in low-lying areas.

  It was still raining when everyone gathered in the den just before 7 p.m., Raymond and LeBlanc in the center of their half circle. That was the price of having your name on the agency letterhead—or would have been if the agency had any letterhead. Thornapple, Johnstone, and Garner had procured shotguns of their own. The weapons lay on the table, pointed toward a wall. It’s like they grow on trees around here.

  LeBlanc nudged Raymond. He had been woolgathering.

  All right, Raymond said. Let’s go over it one more time. I’m real sorry it’s come to this, but we’re outta time.

  Ain’t nobody blamin you, Turner, Garner said. Just get on with it.

  The others nodded.

  Okay, said Raymond. The plan’s divide and conquer. Me and Mr. Garner here—

  Adam, said Garner.

  Raymond took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. If Garner kept interrupting him, he might lose his nerve and run for New Orleans as fast as he could go.

  Me and Adam here will flank Jacob and Betsy. Since we can’t ring the place with salt, they’ll douse it with gas. Once that’s done, they’ll light it up, and we should be able to watch the place burn down. As for the rest of you, we’re gonna make the Kid choose between killin his targets and protectin himself. You’ll be on the far side of the property, actin as decoys. Darrell will run things on your end. Your job’s to stay alive. If the Kid keeps hittin us and only us, come a-runnin and help. If not, stay where you are, and keep him distracted. Just don’t shoot each other. And don’t shoot us.

  Thornapple raised his hand. How come y’all only got two, guns and we got three?

  Because we’re hopin the Kid will come after us, LeBlanc said. If we can keep him busy, the others can set the fire quicker and safer.

  Garner nodded. Sounds okay so far. But what happens if we manage to set the buildin on fire and this ghost keeps comin at us?

  Raymond frowned. Then we get off the diner property and stay off. Jake will look for another solution, but I don’t know that we’ll get to try it. This is our best shot, and it’s all we know to do with the time we got. Any more questions?

  There were none.

  Raymond smiled, trying to be reassuring, but it felt false. Okay. Let’s saddle up. And if any of you are prayin folks, send up a few on the way. We need all the help we can get.

  The motorcade arrived at the Depot Diner with Raymond and LeBlanc leading, McDowell and Frost riding with Adam Garner in the middle, and Thornapple and Johnstone bringing up the rear. They had stopped by Brookshire’s, where LeBlanc bought cheap slickers for everyone except Thornapple and Johnstone, who had honest-to-God raincoats at the house. Then they drove straight for the depot.

  As they turned onto Austin and parked on the side of the road, they all saw exactly what they had hoped not to see—three CPD cruisers parked in the diner’s driveway, blockading the entrance. Raymond assessed the landscape. The ditch on either side of the drive was too deep for the rental car and Thornapple’s truck. Either one would likely bottom out before the front tires could make the other side. Garner’s extended cab had a chance, but if it got stuck, they would be completely at the Kid’s mercy, and he seemed to have none. Acting Chief Roen stood in front of two taller, beefier officers, one white and one Latinx, all three of them wearing slickers, their arms folded across their chests. They looked like men intent on guarding the entrance with their lives. Raymond sighed. He had never seen a town so intent on allowing its citizens to die.

  Raymond and company piled out of their vehicles, leaving their weapons behind. The cops stood between Raymond’s group and the squad cars, and for a moment, they sized each other up, Raymond calculating the distance and the logistics and the likely consequences of jumping the three of them right there in the street.

  Roen nodded at him. Mr. Turner.

  Raymond said, Chief Roen.

  Roen grimaced. I’d appreciate you not usin that title with Bob not even cold yet. The council’s meetin again tomorrow. They’ll probably give it to somebody else, and that’s damn fine with me.

  My apologies. So what now?

  Roen’s officers said nothing, their faces expressionless, their eyes hooded in the rain and fading evening light.

  I reckon you know what the council wants, Roen said.

  We heard. Don’t seem like the smartest play.

  The rain spattered on them and puddled in the street. Thunder grumbled like a sleeping god in the grip of a nightmare.

  Red Thornapple stepped forward and said, The best way to honor Bob’s memory is to finish what he started.

  One of the deputies began to speak, but Roen shook his head. That fella could break your arm off and tie it in a bow around your neck, Raymond thought. Yet the deputy closed his mouth. Roen still held Raymond’s gaze.

  I don’t need you or nobody else tellin me about Bob, he said to Thornapple.

  To his credit, the newspaperman said nothing. Adam Garner cleared his throat. LeBlanc tensed. If Raymond gestured, at least one of the cops would be unconscious before hitting the ground. But it should not come to that. At best, it would lead to their arrest. At worst, they might all shoot each other and save the Kid’s ammunition.

  We just wanna help, Raymond said. It’s all we ever wanted.

  Roen rubbed the bridge of his nose and squinted, as if his head were pounding. I know it is, he said. And I got no idea how to arrest a ghost. So me and my boys here, we’re just gonna drive our cruisers up the road a piece and block off this street at both ends. Last thing we need is some lookie-lou gettin his ass shot off. You folks need anything, you just holler.

  Shit, Garner muttered. I reckon we’ll holler even if we don’t need nothin.

  One of the deputies leaned in and said, The council’s gonna have our heads if any of these townsfolk get killed.

  Roen looked about and shrugged. Then let ’em come down here and deal with this shit their own selves. If you boys wanna leave, go on, but block the road first and walk.

  The Latinx deputy, whose badge read Gomez, said, We’ll stay. We seen what happens when our chief goes off by hisself.

  Officer Roen, Raymond said, if we don’t make it, stoppin this thing will fall to you. Use salt rounds to drive it off. Then burn that storage buildin. Make sure them old boots and gun belt go up with the rest.

  Roen stuck out his hand. Raymond shook it. Good luck, Roen said.

  The three officers turned and walked to their cars. Roen opened his trunk. He took out half a dozen long flares and fired up three of them, placing them across the road ten yards north of the diner’s driveway. The deputies set up a redundant roadblock at Austin and Central, their lights flashing. One man stood on Central’s shoulder with a flashlight, waving the sporadic southbound traffic toward the east. Then Roen got back in his car and pulled out of the drive, turning south on Austin. He stoppe
d after ten or twelve yards and got out, setting three more flares across the road. Then he drove to the intersection, where he maneuvered the vehicle to block access. He got out and stood with his back to the diner, ready to redirect any northbound traffic.

  The Depot Diner had been cut off.

  Raymond’s group fell back to their own vehicles.

  Did that really just happen? Frost asked.

  Johnstone grinned. That little fella probably don’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soakin wet, but eighty of it is guts and nuts.

  Raymond burst out laughing. They looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  I’m glad you’re gettin a kick outta this, LeBlanc said.

  Once his laughter tapered off, Raymond said, Okay. Red, you and Ms. Johnstone park way over there by the east fence. Darrell will ride shotgun and call the shots. Once they’re in position, Adam, back your truck close to the building. Remember you’re carryin all the combustibles. I’ll park about halfway between Adam and Red. Everybody be ready for anything. If you see the Kid, shoot him. That means we’ll have to watch each other, too. All that salt’s gotta go someplace, and it would just as soon bury itself in our asses. Let’s don’t get killed.

  They helped McDowell and Frost into the sprayers. Getting in and out of the vehicles while wearing them would be a pain in the ass, but it could not be helped. Who knew when the Kid would appear? After McDowell and Frost struggled into the truck, everyone else embarked. The drivers started the engines and waved to each other. Then they drove across Austin and onto the Depot Diner grounds.

  Thornapple zipped across the lot, past the diner and the Dead House, all the way to the chain-link fence separating the lot from the feed mill. His tires splashed through puddles in the parking area and made shallow imprints in the soaked caliche. The water spilling back into them looked like gravy. He parked the truck with its grille inches from the fence and jumped out, a salt-loaded shotgun in hand. LeBlanc and Johnstone piled out of the other side. LeBlanc yanked down the tailgate, their half of the ammunition sitting on top of one blue tarp and covered by another. They readied their guns. Dusk was falling like a curtain, the air almost as gray as the clouds overhead.