Comanche

by Brett Riley

  I don’t even wanna mention what people are sayin.

  I love gossip.

  She sighed. You’ll think this town is nuts.

  Try me.

  Well, some folks—the ones with too much time to flap their gums and not enough brains to stop, if you ask me—some folks claim the Piney Woods Kid shot ’em.

  The which? Raymond asked.

  An old outlaw. The Kid and John Wesley Hardin made a lot of noise in these parts back in the 1800s. Some say the Kid was worse. The legend goes that after the Kid died, townsfolk saw him around the depot.

  Raymond let out a low whistle. I’ll be damned. So you’re sayin this town’s got a killer ghost.

  Not me. But if you threw a rock, you’d probably hit somebody sayin it. The cops tried to hush it up, but you know small towns.

  I sure do.

  Silky Redheart had made her way back around to their side of the restaurant and stopped by the jukebox.

  Y’all okay? she asked.

  Doin fine, Polyester Pants said. Just passin the time.

  Silky looked at Raymond. Your friends are ready to order, mister.

  She walked away as Raymond turned back to Polyester Pants. I reckon I better get back. Good meetin you.

  The woman’s gold incisor winked in the afternoon light. Always nice to meet a gentleman.

  Raymond walked back to the booth. LeBlanc and McDowell sipped their coffee. He slipped into his seat and picked up his coffee cup. They watched him, waiting.

  Finally, LeBlanc said, So. When’s the wedding? Can I be your best man?

  Raymond flipped him off, and then Silky Redheart appeared again, ready to take their orders.

  Later, McDowell went back to her room, while Raymond and LeBlanc sat on their beds, LeBlanc watching a Rangers game, Raymond studying the paper that Chief Bob Bradley had slipped him the day before. A phone number had been printed in a tiny, neat script. Raymond squinted. If Bradley ever gets tired of police work, he could write secret messages for spies. You need a goddam electron microscope to read this. When he finally puzzled out the number, he programmed it into his phone and shredded the note.

  Gonna make a call, he said.

  Uh-huh, LeBlanc said, watching the game.

  In the hall, Raymond dialed the number. It rang twice before the chief said, Hello.

  This is Raymond Turner.

  Hang on.

  Sounds in the background—phones ringing, muffled voices, laughter, a low clunking that might have been a stapler crunching through thick documents. Sounds like he’s at the station. Bradley mumbled to the people on his end, probably some excuse for leaving. Soon Raymond heard cars on asphalt, the occasional diesel engine roaring in the distance.

  Any day now, he muttered.

  You there? Bradley asked.

  Yeah.

  Sorry about that. I had to step out. If the mayor finds out I’m talkin to you about this case, my ass is grass.

  I’d think y’all would welcome the help.

  Some of us do. I’m okay at my job, but this one’s got me stumped, and I don’t cotton to seein no more bodies.

  But my brother-in-law handcuffed you.

  He’s worried about tourism.

  Raymond walked to the nearest window and looked out on a parking lot with a half dozen cars in it. Beyond, yellowing grass stretched into the distance. The other window revealed a stretch of nondescript road and a few buildings, more grass in between. A town with a couple of grocery stores, a smattering of fast-food places, not even a goddam Walmart.

  Tourism? Raymond asked, trying not to laugh.

  I know what you’re thinkin, the chief said. But the mayor’s tryin to jump-start it. Got a town website and everything. Plus, we got the Pow Wow. That’s a festival we have every year. Got a barbecue cook-off and a car show, some Old West cowboy shit, Indian dancers, and such. It’s more popular than you might think.

  And C.W. thinks the murders will ruin all that.

  Right.

  I can understand that. Well, like I told y’all before, we’re here to help. We ain’t callin CNN.

  Bradley sighed. Might not matter anyway. People are makin up their own stories and spreadin ’em like bedbugs.

  You mean this ghost hogwash.

  People are dead, and we got no suspects. I guess any explanation will do in a pinch. Me, I don’t care if we’re after a ghost or a man or Wile E. Coyote. I just wanna keep my people safe.

  Good to know somebody in this town’s got sense. What can you tell me about the case?

  What did you hear at the diner?

  Raymond laughed. Jesus, remind me not to kill anybody while I’m here. I reckon you can’t fart in church without everybody knowin about it by dinnertime.

  That’s a small town for you.

  I heard the victims’ insides got torn up, even though they didn’t have external wounds.

  Yep. Weirdest damn thing I ever seen. I’d like to know how that information got out.

  Like you said. Small town. Raymond had no intention of revealing to anyone in authority that Rennie had told him about the wounds.

  You hear about the article?

  Rennie sent me a copy. Anything else connectin the victims?

  No phone calls or emails, except between Adam Garner and John Wayne. They were old buddies from way back. No canoodlin in the sheets with each other’s wives or husbands, no financial red flags. It’s like somebody killed ’em just for bein in that article, and it don’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out yourself at a library.

  This Garner—you looked into him, I guess.

  Yeah. He was drivin his truck up north when Wayne got killed. And he was one of the folks that found Lorena Harveston. He ran outta the diner with the others.

  I’ll need to talk to all of ’em.

  If C.W. finds out you’re buttin in, he’ll order me to run you outta town, brother-in-law or not. Hold your water till I can figure out the best way forward.

  But—

  Mayor’s callin. I gotta go. I’ll call you when I can, but don’t tell nobody we talked or that you’ve got this number.

  Bradley hung up before Raymond could reply. Raymond stuck the phone in his shirt pocket and leaned against the wall. What kind of weapon or accident could tear up a person’s insides and leave the outside untouched? It’s like they were shot with a goddam science fiction ray gun. Or a magic ghost bullet, I reckon. He shook his head and walked back to his room, where he learned the Rangers were four runs down in the bottom of the eighth.

  So what’s our next move? LeBlanc asked.

  Raymond thought for a moment. We check out the diner grounds. Maybe the locals missed somethin. After that, we talk to the families, as soon as Bradley’s ready to hold our hands.

  He went to brush his teeth. LeBlanc turned back to his game. Eventually, they went to bed. Raymond slept like a dead man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  September 3, 2016—Comanche, Texas

  Raymond studied the diner’s clientele. Small-town, lower-middle-class people. Lots of white folks and people who might have been Latinx or Native American or mestizo. Some worked office jobs, judging from their clean clothes, their dress shoes, their ties. Some looked like truck drivers and mechanics. But they seemed at ease with each other and friendly. No one seemed suspicious, and if McDowell was feeling any odd vibes, she did not say.

  The chief walked in. Bradley nodded to Raymond and sat at the counter. Silky Redheart brought Bradley a cup of coffee. He said something to her. She laughed and slapped her thigh. The chief spoke again, and she disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, Morlon Redheart came out and talked with the chief. Redheart looked toward Raymond’s table and said something to Bradley. The two men shook hands, and then Redheart went back to the kitchen. Silky reappeared and set a plate in
front of Bradley.

  Wonder what that was all about, LeBlanc said.

  Us, said Raymond.

  If they don’t get we’re here to help, screw ’em.

  They aren’t mad, McDowell offered. They’re afraid.

  She had a better handle on other people’s emotions than Raymond had on his own. But in the end, it mattered little. The Turner Agency would do its job. He drank his sweet tea and finished his chili cheeseburger, which tasted of poblanos. He mopped up the excess chili with his fries. McDowell picked at the remains of her food and alternated between her fourth glass of tea and her third cup of coffee.

  Fifteen minutes after his food arrived, Bradley paid his check. He took a toothpick from the clear plastic dispenser on the counter and stuck it in his mouth as he approached Raymond’s table.

  Afternoon, he said.

  Raymond nodded. Chief Bradley.

  McDowell sat against the wall on her side of the booth, so Bradley squeezed in beside her.

  Okay. I spoke to Morlon, Bradley said. Told him y’all were helpin me out on the sly. He won’t lie for us, but he won’t run and tattle either.

  Good, Raymond said.

  McDowell’s voice was like tinkling silver bells. We’ll be discreet.

  If you cost ’em one customer, C.W. will hear about it, and then we’re all in a world of shit. Pardon my French, ma’am.

  Don’t worry. I got a dirty fuckin mouth, too.

  Bradley laughed and shook his head. By the way, C.W.’s gonna be in his office all afternoon. If you wanna swing by and talk to Benny Harveston, now’s the time. Just remember, if C.W. catches y’all out there, I don’t know nothin about it. He stood up and stretched, his hands in the small of his back.

  Don’t worry, Raymond said. I’ve been round and round with C.W. before. If it comes to that, I’ll take all the heat.

  Bradley seemed at ease. Holler at me if you find anything my people missed, you hear?

  We will, said Raymond.

  The chief looked at them a moment longer. Then he turned and walked out of the diner, waving to Silky Redheart as he went. She waddled around the counter and up to their table, where she folded a ticket in half and tore it off the pad and laid it down next to Raymond’s plate.

  Y’all want anything else?

  Raymond patted his belly. No, ma’am. That was the best chili cheeseburger I ever ate, and I live in a town that takes its food mighty serious.

  ’Preciate it. Y’all come back. She turned and walked to her register, stopping by each table and booth to check on her customers.

  Raymond unfolded the check. Inside it lay a key on which someone had Scotch-taped a white label reading Strg. Bldg. Raymond pocketed it and said, Come on. Let’s go get hot and sweaty in yonder desert.

  An hour later, they had completed a sweep of the porch, the parking lot, and the outlying fields. No one had paid them much attention. They found nothing of note: dried and crumbling footprints from the last rain, discarded trash, tire tracks, all business as usual at a diner, all of it so mashed together that not even a TV detective could draw any conclusions. The only hope lay in the storage building. If nothing presented itself there, it would be time to interview witnesses, which would lessen their lead time exponentially.

  Raymond whistled and waved McDowell and LeBlanc to the storage building. It was about the length of a railroad car and made of ancient, rough-hewn boards. It had been painted red last summer to match the diner, but somehow the new coat seemed to have aged. The place looked like a deep bruise. As far as Raymond could see, no one had installed an electric light. The ash-gray curtains on the other side could have been decades old. Only the windowpanes looked new.

  I don’t wanna go in there.

  From behind him, her voice shaking, McDowell said, This place is bad.

  Raymond did not look at her. If he did, he might take her by the elbow and pull her away, because he felt it, too—a tickling at the base of his skull, swelling and itching like an infected mosquito bite, worse than the voice that had told him to drink after Marie died. The storage building seemed like one of those places where danger slept in every weakened board and vicious splinter protruding from the walls like broken teeth. He had seen a lot of those places in south Louisiana. He had even gone into some of them. And he had hated it the whole time, feeling as if the very air pressed down on him like a malevolent hand.

  He would have to enter this one, too. The job required it. So he forced himself to stand in front of the door.

  Up close, the knob and lock looked new. Raymond fished in his pocket and dug out the key. Jesus. It feels like my throat’s closin up. Still, he stuck the key in the hole and turned, hearing the tumblers clack. He took the key out and put it back in his pocket and turned the knob, hating the feel of it, oily and warm like rotting meat.

  I reckon it’s too late to be roofers or somethin, LeBlanc said, his voice strained.

  Raymond pushed open the door, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dim, hot interior.

  The northern wall was lined with shelves that were empty save for a pair of ancient boots and some kind of belt. Wooden folding tables were stacked in the middle of the floor. On these lay bulk-wrapped packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and napkins. On the floor to the east, gallon-size cans of corn and beans and tomatoes and pie fillings in towers of irregular heights, grouped according to content. Around the tables and cans, extra chairs and disassembled booths. Nothing appeared interesting or helpful.

  From behind him, LeBlanc said, You gonna let us in, too?

  Betsy, see what you make of them boots over yonder, Raymond said. Darrell, you take the right side. I’ll take the left, and we’ll meet in the middle. Remember we’re lookin for anything unusual.

  You mean like an expired can of purple-hull peas? LeBlanc asked. I mean, I don’t even get why we’re in here. No sign of forced entry.

  Maybe the killer had a key, Raymond said.

  That would mean somebody at the diner’s our man, LeBlanc said.

  Let’s try to rule it out.

  They spread out. The windows provided some illumination, but LeBlanc left the door open for extra light. He and Raymond poked around their areas, picking up cases of plastic and metal cutlery, moving stacked cans around, kneeling to inspect every inch of the floor before walking on it. Nothing seemed out of place, or, rather, everything seemed haphazard, so they could not know one way or the other. Sweat poured from Raymond’s brow. LeBlanc huffed and puffed like a marathon runner in the last quarter mile. Their curses filled the air as they tripped over bric-a-brac.

  McDowell had not made a single noise.

  After ten minutes, during which he stubbed his toe three times and cut his finger on the edge of a can, LeBlanc stood to his full height, the top of his head only inches from the ceiling, and said, Well, this sucks ass. Nothin more interestin than that box of glow-in-the-dark condoms. And they expired in 2003.

  Raymond straightened up, his spine aching. Only thing I’ve found is my tolerance for heat and bad air, which, as it turns out, ain’t too high. Betsy?

  McDowell stood at the back wall, staring at the items on the shelves, not moving. LeBlanc raised his eyebrows. They began picking their way around the clutter.

  When they reached her, she was staring at the old, scuffed boots. They were splotched with dark stains that might have been blood or ancient mud or some of the Redhearts’ barbecue sauce. No insects or vermin had chewed them up over the years, a minor miracle for something that old. An ancient gun belt lay coiled around the boots like a snake sunning itself on a rock. It was covered in those same crusty splotches.

  LeBlanc started to touch McDowell’s shoulder, but Raymond stopped him. Her eyes were wide and unblinking and distant. Raymond had seen this before, when she read for clients. He had always believed her trance to be an act, but if that were so, where was
the audience now? Her bottom lip quivered.

  He leaned in close. What is it, Betsy?

  So angry, she whispered. So much pain.

  Whose pain?

  McDowell did not reply.

  Raymond motioned for LeBlanc to step back. They maneuvered their way to the front wall and watched her, speaking in whispers.

  Jesus Christ, Ray. I ain’t never seen her this intense before, LeBlanc said. What do we do? Poke her? Leave her alone?

  Hell if I know. Whoever them boots belonged to, they wasn’t happy.

  You thinkin the Piney Woods Kid?

  They look old enough.

  That’d be weird, LeBlanc said. The Kid’s shit at the murder site.

  Weird, yeah. But proof that he’s back from the dead and killin folks with his ghost revolvers?

  I didn’t say that. Can’t we pull her away from there now?

  Whatever she’s feelin might be useful, Raymond said. She’s always handled herself before. We gotta let it play out.

  They leaned against the rough, splintery wall. LeBlanc shifted from foot to foot, clenching his fists. He’d chew through steel to protect her.

  Come on, Betsy, LeBlanc muttered.

  Easy, Raymond whispered. This is what she does.

  Minutes later, though, she still had not moved. Hell with it. He motioned LeBlanc forward.

  She looked exactly as she had before—eyes wide, mouth working as if she were struggling to form words. Then her brows knitted. She scowled. She trembled as her eyes filled with tears.

  They cut and chop and slice like they’re slaughterin a pig, she whispered. They got no respect. They wanna damn the spirit to wander the earth, but they got no idea what real hate can do. And if they knew, they wouldn’t care. This is a bad place.

  LeBlanc goggled. Raymond shivered, as if his spine had been stroked with the tip of a feather. He wanted a drink, and not a beer, either—whiskey, at least a pint, maybe even a gallon.

  McDowell trembled harder. And then a single drop of blood oozed out of her right eye and mixed with her tears, thin streams of red cascading down her face and dripping onto her shirt.