by Brett Riley
They rejoined him.
It’s Frost, LeBlanc said. Been tryin to call him. He ain’t answerin.
Raymond swallowed the food and drank the last of his water.
That could mean anything, he said. Maybe he got laid and turned off his phone. It happens, even to English professors. Just then, Raymond’s phone rang, making them all jump. Raymond banged his hand on the desk and cried, Fuck! He doubled over, cradling it.
LeBlanc grabbed the phone and looked at the readout. Speak of the devil, he said. He answered and listened for a moment. Then he laughed. Yeah, that’s the road. No, just stay on it until you hit town. Okay, talk to you then.
The big man hung up and winked at McDowell. Guess what? The professor’s passin through Stephenville. He should be here in forty minutes or so.
McDowell smiled, but Raymond could only look up, his eyes leaking tears. Great, he croaked.
Frost arrived drenched in sweat, his face nearly as red as his T-shirt. He wore blue jeans that clung to his crotch in ways that looked both uncomfortable and unnecessary. He wore sandals, no socks.
Dragging his suitcase inside, he said, This isn’t a state. It’s a brick kiln. He shook hands with Raymond and LeBlanc and started to hug McDowell but then backed off, indicating his clothes.
What about our messages? LeBlanc asked. Did you drop your phone down the airplane toilet?
I called as soon as I got them, Frost said. I turned the phone off before I left New Orleans. Just grabbed it and the charger and threw them in my bag. I remembered to turn it on in Stephenville. What’s with your hand, Ray?
I got shot by a ghost.
Frost laughed. When no one else did, his eyes narrowed. You’re shitting me.
I shit you not. Go get a shower, and put on some clothes that don’t smell like a stray dog wiped its ass on ’em, and we’ll tell you about it.
One shower later, McDowell gave Frost the hug he had postponed. He had changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a white T-shirt bearing the slogan Caution: Absent-Minded Professor at Large. He still wore the sandals, which Raymond would not have recommended, given the hellish nature of the Texas sun. Burnt feet made for poor concentration.
Everyone got comfortable. It took Raymond twenty minutes to tell the story. Frost pulled a small notepad and pen out of his back pocket and scribbled away the whole time.
When Raymond finished, he asked to Frost, What made you decide to light out for the territories anyway?
Once I told my chair about this case, Frost said, she helped arrange guest lecturers for a couple of weeks. It’s not every day one of us gets to work on a murder case. Or a ghost sighting.
Raymond scowled as if someone had farted. Great. Now everybody thinks we’re some half-ass Ghostbusters tribute band.
The department doesn’t care about you, Frost said. There’s probably a book in this for me, which means another line for their recruiting materials. Everybody wins.
Except our reputation. Now we’re gonna field calls from every old lady who hears a noise in her attic and all the tinfoil-hat-wearin loonies who think Martians are beamin death rays into their brains.
Frost frowned. You want me to go back home?
McDowell touched his arm. No. Ray’s just grumpy because he got shot.
Raymond sighed. McDowell was right. Having Frost with them was better than spending half the day on the phone with him, assuming you could find a spot in Comanche with decent service. Thus far, he could discern no logical pattern to when or where he could get a signal.
I can tell you this much, Raymond said. That sumbitch was holdin a gun, and he did somethin to my hand, but nothin broke the skin—just like the murder victims. Tore my muscles and bones all to hell. We gotta be real careful. I mean red-alert, two-minutes-to-midnight careful.
Frost looked more excited than cautious. Did you tell them about my ideas for fighting a ghost? Raymond started to speak, but Frost went on. Apparently, those old boots and that gun belt anchor the spirit. It must have felt threatened when you tried to torch them. It acted in self-defense.
Raymond held up his mangled hand. Surgeries. Pins and plates and God knows what else. Now you’re sayin it was my fault for provokin him?
No, no. I’m just explaining how this stuff works. The lore I’ve read confirms spirits can be awfully protective of the objects tethering them to the mortal plane.
LeBlanc laughed. Tetherin ’em to the mortal plane. Where do you get this shit?
Literature. History. Folklore. It’s all there. I suggest using the boots as bait to draw him out. Maybe we can even make contact and find out what he wants.
That’s already crossed our minds, LeBlanc said.
Besides, we know what he wants, McDowell said. He wants to kill the descendants of the men who butchered him.
Sure, right, said Frost. But perhaps we can find a solution that doesn’t involve further trauma to Ray’s extremities. Besides, we’ve got an opportunity that may well be unprecedented—the chance to contact a spirit and document the experience. Once I’ve seen the locations, I think I can requisition a couple of high-def video cameras from the film department—
We ain’t interested in palaverin or startin a goddam sewin circle, Raymond said. We just want him caught or gone.
But—
Now LeBlanc leaned forward and interrupted. Ray’s right. This idea of talkin to that thing—look, you didn’t see him. He ain’t gonna talk. He’s more like to shoot us all between the eyes. Hell, what am I sayin? He ain’t even a he. It’s an it.
But I think we’d be safe if we didn’t threaten the boots, Frost insisted. Until you tried to burn them, he hadn’t gone after anyone but the descendants.
We’re not takin chances, Raymond said. Besides, there’s another problem.
LeBlanc told Frost about the mayor’s confiscating the boots and belt, how he wanted to haul them out for the Pow Wow, and how Bradley planned to liberate the items from lockup.
So we can’t do anything unless this Bradley comes through with the boots, Frost said. Bloody hell.
Someone pounded on the door, uptempo, like the bass drum in a speed metal song. Frost started. McDowell looked at the men. She got up and walked over to the door and looked through the peephole.
Aw, shit, she said.
Before anyone could ask a question, the pounding began again, and they heard a gruff, angry voice—C.W. Roark’s.
We know you’re in there, the mayor boomed. Open this goddam door.
What do I do? McDowell asked.
Let him in, Raymond said. It’s that or jump out the window.
McDowell opened the door, and Roark pushed past her, nearly knocking her into the wall. Chief Bradley followed close behind, his expression unreadable. LeBlanc stood and started forward, looking like he might knock the mayor’s teeth through the back of his skull. Frost saw it and tried to get between the two men before LeBlanc did something they would all regret. Raymond stood.
But before anyone could say anything, Rennie Roark forced her way into the crowded room, her hair and lipstick as red as ever, her alley-cat-in-heat voice rising as she cried, C.W. Roark, you behave yourself. Don’t make me cut a switch.
Roark turned on her. Dammit, you’re my wife, not my momma. Quit talkin at me like I’m a twelve-year-old.
Rennie did not flinch. Well, then stop actin like one. I swear, I never seen such a man.
Roark turned away from her, his face red, and glared at Raymond.
I knew you’d make things worse. We should have run you outta town the first night.
C.W., Rennie called.
Raymond tugged on LeBlanc with his good hand. Frost continued to push on the big man’s chest. With only one hand and a skinny professor to help him, Raymond never could have moved LeBlanc unless he wanted to be moved, but by that time, McDowell had joined in, climbing
over the bed around Roark and grasping LeBlanc’s hand. She whispered something in his ear, and he backed away a step, nudging Raymond to the side, still staring a hole in Roark.
The expression would have frightened any man with a sense of self-preservation, but Roark was focused on Raymond.
I left you alone long enough to get your hand doctored and leave, but here you are, after firin a gun within the city limits. What would you have done if you’d killed somebody?
Nobody was there but us and the killer, Raymond said. I reckon you’d be fine if he’d shot more than my hand.
I want you all outta my town by sundown. You understand me?
Raymond said nothing. He held Roark’s stare so long that Frost transferred his hand from LeBlanc’s chest to Raymond’s.
He’s my brother, Rennie said. You can’t just make him leave.
Yes, I can, Roark said. If you wanna visit, make him give you the name of his next hotel. If he’s got any sense, it’ll be in Dallas, near the airport.
C.W. Roark, you come outta this room, she said.
She dragged Roark back toward the door, detouring around Bradley, who had said nothing. The chief turned sideways so they could pass, his thumbs hooked into his belt, his expression passive and disinterested.
As the Roarks headed out the door, the mayor said, See ’em gone, Bob, or I’ll have your badge as a paperweight. Then he turned back to Raymond. We’re gonna reopen the diner tomorrow. I plan to be there myself, and I better not see any of y’all. You get me, Ray? If I so much as hear a rumor you’re still in town, you’ll be countin our jail’s ceilin tiles till your arraignment.
The Roarks bickered all the way out of the hotel.
Bradley turned to the rest of them, shaking his head. Frost looked stunned. Raymond sat in his desk chair and said, Well, that sure was fun. Maybe next time he’ll bring a game of Twister with him.
This ain’t a joke, said Bradley. Then someone knocked on the still open door. Officer Roen stood in the hall. Come on in, the chief said.
Roen entered.
What the hell’s this? Raymond asked.
Roen puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his belt, just like Bradley. We’re takin you outta town.
Shut up, Bradley said.
Roen blushed, his expression hangdog, as if Bradley had just stuffed him in a locker in front of the prettiest girl in school. Frost looked from Raymond to the chief as if he were watching a tennis match.
Ray, what’s going on? Frost asked.
Before Raymond could reply, Bradley said, What’s goin on, mister, is y’all are gonna get dressed, and then we’re gonna escort you outta town. Pack up.
McDowell stood up and put her hand on the chief’s shoulder. Mister Bradley, be reasonable. We—
Bradley’s expression was cold. Don’t try none of that with me, ma’am. Looking taken aback, McDowell took her hand away. LeBlanc glared at Bradley. And don’t you mean-mug me, boy. I got my orders from the man who signs my paychecks. I aim to follow ’em. Y’all hurry up now.
He and Roen left, closing the door behind them. Raymond’s hand throbbed. McDowell got up and began gathering their things.
Frost paced about, fuming. This is fucking bullshit. I just got here. Now I’m supposed to turn around and go home? Don’t these idiots care about the killings?
Let’s get outta here before they come back, said Raymond.
LeBlanc and Frost helped McDowell gather up the dirty clothes and personal items in the room and stuff them into suitcases. A piece of red shirtsleeve hung out of LeBlanc’s bag like a hound dog’s tongue. Frost kept grousing until LeBlanc finally threatened to stuff a wet towel down his throat. McDowell left to gather her things. Frost followed suit. LeBlanc went to gas up the car. Raymond sat alone in the room, all his things packed, his hand aching. He got up to piss and stared at the water for several moments, lost in his thoughts, the swirling diluted-mustard patterns of his urine lazing through the water. He put on the pants and pullover T-shirt McDowell had laid out for him, easing his bad hand through the armhole. Then he sat on the bed and turned on the television.
You good to go? LeBlanc asked when he returned. He still looked ready to cave in someone’s skull.
Raymond stood and followed LeBlanc into the hall. They left the room disheveled, covers rumpled in piles like relief maps of mountain ranges. LeBlanc pulled two suitcases behind him. Raymond hauled one with his good hand. McDowell came out of her room with her arms loaded down. Both she and Raymond would have to make more than one trip. When they got to the stairs, Frost was already there. He had not even had time to unpack. He took a couple of McDowell’s bags without a word and stomped down the staircase.
Jake, this ain’t over, Raymond said. They told us we had to leave town. They didn’t say we couldn’t ever come back. Frost did not reply.
They reached the lobby and found Bradley and Roen waiting for them. Raymond approached the chief. Look, we—
Bradley held up his hand. Save it, Ray. Nothin we can do. Y’all ready?
Me and Ray got some more stuff to fetch, McDowell said.
Bradley nodded at the little deputy. Officer Roen can grab those. When he gets back, we’re gonna make a nice little caravan. I’ll lead. The rest of you follow me. Officer Roen will bring up the rear and make sure none of you make a wrong turn. Get goin.
LeBlanc looked as if he wanted to punch a hole in Bradley’s chest, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing. Frost’s face had turned nearly purple with rage, but somehow he held his tongue as well. They walked to the cars, Bradley not offering to help with anybody’s luggage. They loaded the bags.
Then, after watching Roen disappear into the hotel, Bradley glanced around. No one stood nearby.
Once me and Roen turn back to town, he said, wait ten minutes. Then head back to Red Thornapple’s. He’s got plenty of room and some cars you can borrow. Park your rentals out back of his place so nobody sees ’em.
Raymond and the others looked at each other, surprised. For a moment, no one seemed to know how to respond.
Why are you doing this? asked Frost.
Bradley glanced at him. I ain’t got time to explain. If y’all got a plan, we need to make it happen yesterday. Got me?
Raymond nodded. We’re workin on somethin. But no guarantees.
Bradley shook his head. Ain’t that always the way?
When the meal began, Raymond promised to reimburse Thornapple, but the newspaperman waved him off.
Bullshit, he said. My family’s been loaded ever since we built this ranch back in the 1880s. My ancestor, the one that worked at the depot and got me into this mess—he died there, too, not long after the Kid—he was dirt poor. But his brother Nat, my great-great-grandfather, made a killin on cattle. We’ve been doin pretty well ever since.
So why the newspaper? LeBlanc asked.
Because I believe in the First Amendment, Thornapple said. And I hate starin at cow pies all day. Point is, I can afford a little barbecue now and then. Besides, keepin you in town’s gonna drive C.W. up the wall.
Joyce Johnstone ate more brisket than Frost and McDowell put together and then excused herself, explaining she had to work in the morning and had never been much of a night owl anyway. They bid her good evening and gathered in the den, where the night devolved into a session of grown-ups telling campfire stories. Raymond gave them an abridged version of the Myrtle’s Ghost legend and the story of Caroline, the helpful spirit of Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carre. All the while, he winced and grunted whenever he jolted his hand. Around 11 p.m., LeBlanc gave him a Percocet. He washed it down with iced tea and sat back, praying he truly sought relief and not the dulling of his heartache that came with the high.
McDowell told a tale about a bayou medium who could predict locals’ deaths by casting the entrails of stray cats.
LeBlanc described a c
ertain house in north New Orleans that was allegedly haunted and how he once went inside on a dare.
And, finally, Red Thornapple narrated how his own grandfather claimed to have seen a ghost at the depot one night in the 1940s.
LeBlanc leaned forward and said, Now wait a minute. Your granddaddy saw somethin out there nearly eighty years ago? Why didn’t you tell us this before?
Thornapple laughed. Pappaw spun a lot of tall tales. I reckon it’s part of why I wanted to be a writer myself. He told me the depot story when I was maybe eight, a week or so after the one about this old witch who used to live in the woods outside Granbury, and a month before he swore his old sergeant saved his life by fightin a Panzer one-on-one outside a little French village. What I’m sayin is, he was prone to exaggeration.
Raymond understood. His own father had been fond of fish stories, folklore, legends, lies, and half-truths. The old man had prefaced every tale by swearing he had seen it with his own eyes, and even though everyone in the family had known he was full of shit, he had always taken pride in his knowledge of local arcana. Raymond had first heard about some of New Orleans’s haunted houses and restless spirits from men like his father, in the dim and often dingy bars dotting the city, places locals tried to keep secret from the tourists who populated the Quarter’s taverns like termites. The truth mattered less than how the tale made you feel in your gut.
He asked Thornapple to tell them the depot story.
Ain’t much to tell, I’m afraid, Thornapple said. Pappaw was ridin home on his bicycle around dusk. Claimed he had been playin baseball across town, but they lived way out here, and I doubt his daddy would have let him ride that far on his own, even back then, when you didn’t have to worry about some pervert yankin you into a van and carryin you God knows where to do God knows what. Plus, he didn’t mention nothin about a bat or a glove. He was probably sparkin some girl. That, or he never came at all. Wouldn’t be the first time one of his true stories never happened.
Thornapple took a long swig of Shiner Bock and belched. Good one, said LeBlanc as he raised his own bottle in tribute and drank. Raymond licked his lips. Frost was taking notes on a legal pad, his beer sitting on the coffee table, barely touched. McDowell sat beside LeBlanc.