Comanche

by Brett Riley

  Betsy, LeBlanc cried. What are you doin?

  He let go of Raymond and raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

  Raymond stumbled back a few paces, where he bent to one knee and tried not to pass out.

  McDowell held the matchbook between her thumb and forefinger.She ripped a match out and tried to strike it, but her hands shook, and she kept dropping it, picking it up, dropping it again.

  Dammit to hell, she muttered.

  LeBlanc tried to see everywhere at once.

  Not to put any more pressure on you, he said, but you need to hurry.

  Shut up, Darrell! McDowell barked.

  She tore out another match and struck it. This time it flared to life.

  The pale figure materialized in front of them. He drew his revolver with blinding speed and fired. McDowell cried out and dropped the match, which extinguished itself as the matchbook flew out of her hands. Pieces of it rained everywhere.

  Even though McDowell seemed unharmed, LeBlanc roared in anger and fired at the apparition, which was only five or six feet away.

  Nothing happened.

  LeBlanc grabbed McDowell’s wrist and pulled her away from the boots. Her face, neck, and upper torso were covered in her own blood, all of it pouring from her eyes. Raymond stood, holding his injured hand against his abdomen, and together the three of them ran for the rental car. When Raymond looked back, the pale man was gone, but LeBlanc covered their retreat anyway, ejecting the spent shell and reloading.

  They reached their car and jumped in, but before they could pull away, they found themselves boxed in by two Comanche police cars, red-and-blues rotating, sirens they had not even heard blaring in the night.

  Bradley arrived just as Austin’s streetlamps winked on. He took one look at Raymond’s mangled hand and sent him to the emergency room with Deputy Roen. Five minutes later, as Bradley took LeBlanc’s statement, C.W. Roark arrived, wearing a coat and tie and looking mad enough to chew glass. He barreled through the onlookers and ducked under the police tape, ignoring the deputies’ protests.

  Of course, the mayor spat, eyeing LeBlanc as he approached. Brushing past McDowell, he poked LeBlanc’s chest with his index finger. I knew it was y’all. Who else would fire weapons inside the city limits and stick around until the police showed up? Even the goddam meth heads got more sense than that.

  LeBlanc scowled. Stop pokin me, you dick, or I’ll rip that finger off and feed it to you.

  McDowell stepped between them as Roark said, You heard him threaten me, Bob. I want this half-assed Sam Spade arrested.

  Yeah, Bradley said. And I saw you poke him, which is technically assault. I don’t think we should bring charges against each other. We got bigger problems.

  Roark glared at Bradley. You wanna be careful which side you pick.

  What sides? Seems like we’re all fryin in the same skillet. Listen to what the man has to say.

  Roark stared a hole in Bradley, but the chief did not back down. Finally, the mayor turned to LeBlanc and said, Get on with it.

  LeBlanc gritted his teeth. Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him.

  He told Roark the story, sparing no detail, but might as well have saved his breath. The mayor’s face filled with contempt, as if he were listening to a lunatic recount a fever dream.

  So let me get this straight, he said. You don’t think we’re dealin with a psychopath or mass hysteria. You really believe you saw a ghost. And that it shot Raymond.

  LeBlanc sighed and tried to stay calm. I don’t know what I believe right now. I just can’t explain what I saw. Ray’s hand is proof somebody was here. And I shot the sumbitch at close range. With a shotgun. Ask your boys if they found any blood. I’m bettin they won’t, unless it’s Betsy’s.

  Uh-huh. Don’t sound nuts in the least.

  The chief’s men kept well away from the boots and gun belt. LeBlanc pointed in the direction of the Dead House, which was how he had come to think of it—a proper noun, never just a storage building again.

  Head over yonder, and look at the matches scattered everywhere. He shot the book right outta Betsy’s hand.

  You could have tore it up yourself.

  LeBlanc spat. Fine. Maybe if you keep your head up your ass, nothin can put a bullet in your brain. You done with us, Chief?

  Bradley nodded. Y’all go on and see about Raymond. I know where to find you if I need anything else.

  LeBlanc and McDowell walked to the rental. They got in the car and pulled away. LeBlanc looked up the hospital on the GPS. Another of this hole-in-the-road town’s many inconveniences—the hospital was five miles down Highway 16 toward De Leon. Someone had told him that, just a few years back, it had stood right across the street, but that would have been far too convenient for their particular brand of luck.

  McDowell sat in silence, looking straight ahead, still pale. With all the blood drying on her face and neck, she looked like she had lost a fistfight. Hopefully she would be okay. They would need all their resources if they chose to stay after all this. Darrell LeBlanc felt like a man driving headlong toward an unseen cliff. He hoped he could brake in time.

  The ER doctor nearly choked when he saw Raymond’s X-rays. The metacarpals of the middle and ring fingers were shattered. Shards lay against intact bones. The trapezium, capitates, and hamates were dislodged. The injured fingers’ proximal phalanges were unstable at best. It looked as if Raymond had been precisely struck a hundred times with a ball-peen hammer—or shot with a large-caliber bullet. Even the uninjured digits had swollen like overstuffed sausages. His ring finger puffed around his thick wedding band. The upper digit had turned deep purple.

  We’re gonna have to cut this ring off, the doctor said.

  No, said Raymond.

  If we don’t, you’re liable to lose the finger.

  I don’t give a shit.

  Mr. Turner—

  You try to cut it off and I’ll rip out your balls by the roots. One-handed or not.

  The doctor looked at LeBlanc, who frowned and held up one finger—Give us a minute or two here. The doctor backed away.

  Ray, said LeBlanc. Losin a finger over that ring is dumb.

  Piss on you, Raymond croaked. He had turned pallid.

  If I have to hold you down, I will. It ain’t Marie. It’s just a piece of metal.

  No.

  Please, said McDowell. She laid a hand on his shoulder. You can have the ring melted down and fixed.

  Raymond locked eyes with her. They can’t fix the engravin.

  You really need that to feel what she wanted you to feel?

  He held her gaze for several moments. The doctor stood back, saying nothing. Finally, Raymond turned away, tears in his eyes.

  Get it over with, he said. The doctor moved forward.

  As they drove back to the hotel, Raymond held the broken ring in his good hand. He had refused to let it go ever since they handed it to him.

  Back at the hospital, the doctor had said, You’ll need more than one surgery to repair all this damage, and probably some plates and screws. We should schedule you right away.

  No thanks, Raymond said. I don’t live here. Just make me a copy of the records and X-rays and whatnot. I’ll take care of it in New Orleans.

  The doctor protested, but he could not make Raymond check himself in. They set the bones as best they could, gave Raymond a cast and some kind of pain reliever and a prescription for Percocet, and sent him on his way. At the hotel, Raymond tucked the misshapen ring in a pocket of his suitcase, refusing all help.

  LeBlanc stood with his arms crossed. They had dropped Raymond’s prescription off at a local pharmacy, barely making it before the place closed for the night. How long could Raymond focus with his bones shattered? What would happen if he used the painkillers? I don’t want to see him suffer, but I don’t want to find him layin half d
ead under a tree again either. Hellfire.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  September 14, 2016—Comanche, Texas

  When the pharmacy called, LeBlanc drove over and picked up the Percocet. Back in the room, he handed the bag to McDowell. She read the instructions and shook out a pill. Miserable and exhausted, Raymond watched her like the chicken watches the fox prowling about the coop, looking for an entryway.

  McDowell held out the pill, but as Raymond reached for it, her hand closed over it. She put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

  You can’t take more than the recommended dose, she said. And you gotta stop as soon as the pain does, no matter how hard it is.

  Raymond’s eyes watered. His voice low and quivering, he said, I know. Believe me. I don’t wanna start in the first place.

  You could always fly home. Get your surgery. We’ll handle things from here.

  He shook his head. We’re already stretched thin. And I ain’t leavin my sister.

  So have the surgery in Texas. You can work through the pain after it’s fixed.

  No time. Somebody else could die any day. If I get hooked, you’ll have to sober me up when this is over. Sorry, Darrell.

  McDowell opened her hand. Raymond took the pill and looked at it for a long time. Then he turned to LeBlanc, trembling. He’s not just miserable. He’s scared. He knows takin that pill could mean hittin the same rock bottom that nearly broke him before. He sat beside Raymond and put an arm around him.

  I know what I said when you were drinkin. But this is different. Your hand is wrecked. You can’t sleep. You can barely think. I’ll respect whatever decision you make, and we won’t walk away if you take that thing.

  A tear fell down Raymond’s cheek. He nodded. Then he took the pill, chasing it with a plastic cup of water McDowell brought him. When it was done, he closed his eyes for a bit.

  When he opened them again, McDowell said, You okay?

  He tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. Good enough. I think it’s time to call Frost. His ideas ain’t theoretical anymore. Can y’all do it?

  Sure, LeBlanc said. Get some rest.

  Raymond lay back. Soon his breathing evened out. McDowell left to shower and change. When she returned, Raymond was snoring, the sound so buzz saw–loud that LeBlanc had to roll him over onto his side just to hear himself think.

  LeBlanc and McDowell headed through the lobby to their car. She carried the pills in her pocket, just in case. LeBlanc drove them to Sonic, where they bought a few double cheeseburgers and brought them back to the room. LeBlanc put a burger in the mini-fridge for Raymond and laid out their own repast on the desk. They ate in silence, McDowell’s face pale and drawn. LeBlanc finished his first burger before she had eaten half of hers. He took her hand.

  Are we gonna talk about what happened? she asked.

  LeBlanc wrapped up his second burger and stuffed it back in the sack. Sure.

  Ray’s left hand got blown to hell by a real live ghost.

  Well, if it’s a ghost, it ain’t alive. But I take your meanin.

  McDowell tried the burger again. She swallowed a couple of bites. LeBlanc took that cue and reopened his sandwich. He was chewing when McDowell said, What’s worse is how mad it was. I felt like I’d stuck my head in a beehive. Just this angry buzz. No compassion, no love, no regret. No guilt. Nothin but pure rage.

  LeBlanc had nothing to say. They did not need to parse the Kid’s anger. They only had to look at Raymond’s cast.

  Someone rapped on the door. McDowell got up and looked out the peephole and then opened the door. Bradley entered, took off his hat, and said, He looks down for the count.

  Percocet, LeBlanc said.

  Bradley sat at the foot of Raymond’s bed and said, Well, we’re in a fine mess now.

  McDowell turned her chair to face Bradley as LeBlanc asked, When were we ever in good shape?

  Bradley ran his fingers through his thinning hair. When C.W. figured out what you were doin, he ordered one of the boys to confiscate the boots. He plans on displayin ’em in the diner durin the Pow Wow. You know what that is?

  LeBlanc groaned. Ray told me. I didn’t know C.W. was such a goddam fool. Don’t he know he’s puttin everybody at risk?

  He don’t believe in ghosts. Come to that, I don’t either. But I don’t aim to take any chances. If tryin to burn that shit flushed our man once, maybe it could happen again.

  LeBlanc sat up straighter. You think you can get the boots outta evidence?

  I’m the chief of police. If I can’t do it, nobody can. The real question is how we’re gonna live long enough to burn ’em.

  We’ve got some ideas about that. We might have more if our folklore expert ever answers his phone. Say, how’d you explain the shotgun? Or us havin Roen’s truck?

  Bradley winked. Your shotgun found its way back into the Ranger, which was blocked off with squad cars by the time the mayor arrived. Far as I know, C.W. never noticed either of ’em.

  McDowell shook her head. You boys, she said.

  LeBlanc laid a hand on Bradley’s shoulder. Know anybody with a reloadin press?

  Later, a filled-to-bursting Walmart sack in one hand, LeBlanc knocked at the address Bradley had given him. A grizzled old man opened the door. This fellow had not shaved in at least three days, his graying stubble like a thin coating of frost. His gossamer white hair stood up in corkscrews.

  Who the hell are you, and what the hell you want? he asked.

  Name’s Darrell LeBlanc. You Tidewater?

  I ain’t sayin shit until you tell me what you’re doin here.

  LeBlanc reached into the sack and pulled out a box of rock salt. If you’re Ollie Tidewater, I want you to load this into some shotgun shells.

  The old man scratched his head with long, yellowed fingernails. He looked LeBlanc up and down and shook his head.

  You want to put rock salt into shotgun shells, he said. What are you, a nut?

  Yeah. The kind that’ll pay you.

  The old man scratched his head again. Then he moved to the side, motioning LeBlanc into the house. LeBlanc stepped in, the old man’s body odor curdling in his nostrils. He wiped his watering eyes and prayed Ollie Tidewater loaded a shell better than he groomed.

  Back in Comanche, LeBlanc phoned Frost. The call went straight to voicemail. He tried three more times with the same result. Hell and damnation. LeBlanc showered, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed. Drifting off to sleep, he thought, Well, with the CPD combin over the diner, at least I don’t have to spend all night in that nasty-ass Ranger.

  Raymond woke that afternoon feeling as if he had set his hand on fire and then stuck it in an industrial press. He pushed himself out of bed with his right hand, moaning. LeBlanc was eating a Sonic cheeseburger. It smelled fantastic. Raymond’s stomach gurgled and cramped. He felt like vomiting from the pain, and yet he could not remember being this hungry since the agency’s earliest days, before LeBlanc’s time, when he sometimes sat alone for sixteen hours in a stakeout car.

  Afternoon, sleepyhead, LeBlanc said. He put his sandwich on the side table and grabbed Raymond’s pills, popping the top and shaking one out.

  Raymond dry-swallowed it. Thanks, he said.

  What did you do that for? We got Cokes, coffee, and a quart of orange juice.

  I’d appreciate a glass of water. I think that pill stuck halfway down.

  LeBlanc got up and grabbed a plastic cup from the dresser. He stepped around the corner into the bathroom. Water gurgled from the sink. LeBlanc returned and handed the water to Raymond, who drank it in one gulp.

  I got you a couple burgers in the fridge, LeBlanc said. I can microwave ’em if you’re hungry.

  Raymond rubbed his eyes. Yeah. Just give me a minute to let this water settle. I only wanna taste it once.

  LeBlanc poured Raymon
d some coffee from the little two-cup pot and set it on the side table. Then he plopped down on the bed and resumed eating. Light spilled from a crack in the curtains. Piles of dirty clothes lay in the corners. Soon someone would have to hit the laundromat on the other side of town. McDowell had gone once but had let them know she had not flown all the way to Texas to mother anybody. The coffee, strong and bitter, made Raymond’s stomach roil. If only LeBlanc had bought some half-and-half. The injured hand sung, hitting the high notes with shattering volume. Lord, let me get through this without losin the use of it. And help me keep a handle on the drugs. On television, one of the SportsCenter anchors joked about a football player’s contract holdout. Raymond had not thought about the Saints in days. Had the season started?

  His head swam, so he leaned against the headboard. LeBlanc finished his sandwich and got up, taking Raymond’s out of the fridge and sticking them in the microwave. I probably should have eaten before takin the meds, but my hand’s killin me. And if we’re gonna make any real progress, I can’t be stumblin about, high as a kite. I’m gonna have to tough it out till bedtime. I just hope I can be useful one-handed.

  The microwave dinged. LeBlanc reached into a drawer and pulled out a paper plate. He set the sandwiches on it and took them to the desk and pulled up the chair. Raymond got up, LeBlanc supporting him, and eased into it. He unwrapped the first burger, picked it up, and bit in, groaning with pleasure.

  McDowell knocked on the connecting door. When LeBlanc opened their side of it, she stepped inside, looking bright and radiant, her freshly washed hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a blue T-shirt and cutoff jeans. LeBlanc whistled. She grinned and hit him on the shoulder before hugging Raymond’s neck.

  How’s the patient? she asked.

  Raymond held up his injured hand. At least he missed the one I jack off with.

  McDowell burst into laughter. LeBlanc sputtered, dribbling coffee onto the carpet.

  She grabbed LeBlanc by the arm and pulled him toward the bathroom. They stood close, whispering. Raymond let this go on for a minute or so. Then he said, Okay, boys and girls. What’s goin on?