Comanche Page 2

  Calm down. This ain’t the fella to spook.

  P.D. tried to spit, but his mouth had gone dry.

  The Kid stood silent, staring.

  McCorkle must have killed the wrong man and claimed it was the Kid. No wonder the posse drove P.D. away from the dead house that night. How had the deputy managed to fool everybody at the Half Dollar? Somebody should have noticed. Maybe Johnstone’s mania scared them all shitless.

  Damn McCorkle and Johnstone. Damn my luck.

  Still, P.D. Thornapple did not intend to stand out here all night with some murderous asshole who was supposed to be worm food.

  Jesus God, Kid, you scared the shit outta me, he said, his laugh rising in pitch until it disappeared. You better get on before old Noseless sees you.

  Actually, if McCorkle had come along, that would have been just fine. Whatever got P.D. away from this maniac and back to his nice, safe cot. But you had to handle these gunfighter types a certain way, mainly by kissing their asses until they left.

  The Kid said nothing. His eyes were the color of clouds on a moonless night.

  In town, someone fired two shots in the air and whooped. P.D. jumped.

  The Kid did not move.

  Tiny slivers of spit and phlegm stuck in P.D.’s throat. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, its fabric coarse on his damp skin.

  Word has it you’re killed, he said, but I guess Johnstone’s tellin tall tales. That sumbitch always had a mouth on him.

  Maybe an unkind word about the local law would afford P.D. some favor. The Kid had been standing there a full minute, maybe two, and had not even blinked.

  That was some damn good shootin here, that day you took McCorkle’s nose. Them laws thought they had you, but you blasted right through ’em. Never seen nothin like it.

  The Kid stared. He might have been someone’s displaced scarecrow.

  P.D. shivered, even as sweat dripped down his forehead and coated his back.

  Say somethin, he whispered. Don’t just stare at me thataway. Talk to me. Please.

  The Kid seemed not to have heard.

  Someone fired another shot near the main thoroughfare. Then they whooped again. Who was it, and what were they up to? If only P.D. were there, or anywhere else. The middle of the ocean would have been fine. The Kid had always been a motormouthed lunatic but seemed even worse now that he had turned mute. If only somebody, anybody, would come along. They could piss, shit, vomit, or squirt all over the depot floor for all P.D. cared.

  But no one came.

  When P.D. looked back, the Kid stood two inches away. And his eyes were the gray, empty sockets of a skull.

  P.D. cried out and stumbled again, falling onto his ass this time, feet over his head. The lantern flew out of his hand and landed near the dead house, where it shattered and burst into flame. P.D. crawfished backward through the dust. The Kid moved with him, arms slack.

  P.D. screamed, clutching the reeking clothes like a shield.

  The Kid stared straight ahead. He might have been looking into hell.

  The broken lantern’s fire flickered and ebbed. Shadows stretched across the grounds and onto the platform, where they danced up the depot walls like the furtive movements of desert creatures. A wedge of light spilled from the main building’s door. But the Kid cast no shadow. His feet hovered an inch above the dust.

  P.D. Thornapple opened his mouth to scream again. And then the Kid slapped leather, drawing both pistols and firing.

  Slugs drove into P.D.’s belly. He flopped backward through the dust, the garments flying from his hands and landing in the fire behind him. The moon, a waxing crescent, grinned at him. His guts burned. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he had no strength. He coughed and spat a mouthful of bright blood into the dust. With arms made of lead, he searched his abdomen for bullet holes.

  He found nothing.

  The Kid floated closer, watching P.D. with those empty holes where his eyes should have been.

  Pain blotted out all conscious thought. Darkness closed in. When he tried to speak, blood erupted from his mouth, some pattering onto his face, the rest raining around him. He turned his head and spat.

  What’d you do that for? he whispered. I didn’t kill you.

  But the Kid had vanished. The fire began to die out, and the rest of P.D.’s strength went with it. His head fell back to the earth, and he lay staring at the glimmering stars. They were cold and far away, like the eyes of dead gods.

  Chapter Two

  February 14, 2013—New Orleans, Louisiana

  The headache was a dagger in Raymond Turner’s brain. His stomach spasmed, and he rolled over and vomited into the grass. Then he straightened, wincing against the sunlight. The ground felt frigid, the dead grass like dull needles. His Kia Optima’s grille sat only inches from the front steps of his little one-story house. Above, the bare branches of an oak thrust toward the sky.

  His partner, Darrell LeBlanc, leaned against the tree trunk, trimming his fingernails with a pocketknife.

  Raymond hocked and spat. His mouth tasted like something slimy had died in it. His leg ached.

  What’d you do? he asked, rubbing it. Kick me?

  LeBlanc glanced at him. Yep.

  Well, what the hell did you do that for?

  You looked like you needed kickin.

  Raymond struggled to his feet, his stomach flip-flopping. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground near the Optima’s driver’s-side door.

  Shit. I guess I drove myself home last night.

  I reckon so, LeBlanc said. Almost parked in the middle of the den, too.

  Just about. When Raymond bent to retrieve the bottle, the world swam out of focus. LeBlanc grabbed him. Thanks, he said. I feel like the Saints used me for a tacklin dummy.

  Let’s get you inside, LeBlanc said.

  Raymond sat at his kitchen table. Morning sunlight winked in through the blinds. Had LeBlanc parted the teal curtains, or had Marie left them that way months ago? The aroma of eggs and frying bacon and coffee made Raymond’s mouth water and his stomach gurgle as LeBlanc stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

  I don’t know how much of that I can eat, Raymond said, rubbing his temples. His pants were grass stained and dirty.

  It ain’t for you. LeBlanc took the bacon out of the skillet and dropped it on a paper towel–covered plate.

  What are you doin here this early, anyway?

  Early, hell. I’ve been up since two, lookin for you. Billy Jackson over at the River Ridge called. Said you could barely stand up. He tried to take your keys. You threatened to shoot off his pecker. I half expected to find you in the goddam river.

  Well, you didn’t.

  Yep. You made it. And for all you know, you killed somebody’s wife on the way.

  Raymond recoiled as if LeBlanc had slapped him. For a moment, he said nothing as the blood drained from his face. Then the anger came.

  Maybe you better get the hell outta my house before we do somethin we’ll regret.

  LeBlanc pulled the paper towels from under the bacon. Then he dumped eggs beside the strips, set the skillet back on the stove, turned off the gas, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Plate and cup in hand, he joined Raymond and ate three forkfuls of eggs and sipped coffee.

  Raymond sat there, fists clenched, watching.

  Finally, LeBlanc looked at him. This has gotta stop.

  What? You eatin me outta house and home?

  Marie died eleven months ago, and you’ve been drunk damn near every night since.

  I’m grievin.

  No. You’re wallowin. And I’ve been carryin the agency alone.

  I miss my dead wife. I’m sorry it’s inconvenienced you.

  You’re killin yourself. And if you keep drinkin and drivin, you’re gonna take somebody with you. Last night, a mother of t
hree got T-boned at an intersection. The other driver was drunk as hell. He walked away. She didn’t. That fella could have been you. Then you’d be no better than the piece of shit that killed Marie.

  Raymond’s guts churned. His head thundered. Don’t say that. Just don’t.

  Or you’ll what? Puke on my shoes?

  Get outta my house, Raymond whispered. Get out, or I’ll kill you.

  LeBlanc ate his bacon and drank his coffee. His expression did not change. The Gradney case, he said. You remember that one? We took it right after Marie’s funeral. Missin teenager, just run off from home one night. I got stumped, and you had already crawled inside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  When did you become such a goddam mother hen?

  With the family breathin down my neck and you AWOL, I got desperate and called a psychic. Local woman, name of McDowell. She talked to the parents. Seemed to calm ’em down. Then she went in the boy’s room and felt—I don’t know—somethin. She said he was safe, near water, someplace with stairs and a fishin boat. Wasn’t much. I got me a guide and hit the bayous and swamps in a fan boat. Found the kid holed up in an old stilt house, eatin campfire-charred fish and workin his way through a keg of beer he stole from somewhere. Got no idea how he toted it all the way out yonder. Anyway, McDowell. I’ve used her on two cases since then. She’s good.

  Why do I give a fuck? Raymond said. The coffee smelled glorious, but damned if he would ask LeBlanc to fetch him a cup.

  Well, for one thing, she’s helpin keep our business above water, LeBlanc said. For another, you met her. In the office, three weeks back. I reckon you were too drunk to remember.

  What’s your point, Darrell? My head hurts.

  LeBlanc pushed the empty plate away and drained his cup. Your life’s passin by. You’re tryin to follow Marie, but you ain’t got the sack to shoot yourself. Well, I’ve had enough. If you’re gonna pussy out, you ain’t takin the agency with you.

  Raymond gestured toward the door. If you’ve had enough, get gone. I don’t see an anchor tied to your ass.

  I’m your friend. If I just walked away, I couldn’t live with myself. Not until I try one last thing.

  Nope, Raymond said. I’m sick of your tryin. And since you don’t seem to remember where the door is, let me help you out.

  He stood up, circled the table, and grabbed LeBlanc by the shirt.

  LeBlanc let Raymond pull him to his feet. Then he grasped both of Raymond’s wrists and headbutted him across the bridge of his nose.

  Raymond awoke in bed, his nose throbbing in time with his head. He sat up, groaning, and rubbed his eyes. His mouth tasted like blood and spoiled meat. He hocked and spat, not caring where it landed. LeBlanc sat on a kitchen chair against the far wall.

  Jesus, Raymond said. You didn’t have to do that.

  LeBlanc shrugged. Seems like I did.

  I need a drink.

  You’ve just about drunk yourself outta your own agency and probably half pickled your liver. It ends here. I can’t watch you do this anymore.

  The room was in shambles. Soiled clothes piled in the corners, smelling of old sweat and desperation. Empty bottles poking out from under the bed. Sheets rumpled and sweat stained. The rest of the house was no better, some parts even worse. When had Raymond last cleaned his bathrooms, or even opened a window? Eventually, if he kept living this way, the neighbors would call the police, complaining of a terrible stench. The cops would find him in bed, maybe on the floor, rotting away with dried vomit clogging his throat, another empty bottle nearby. If he went out like that, what would Marie say when he saw her again?

  LeBlanc sat silent, watchful.

  Raymond licked his dry lips. Help me, he said.

  LeBlanc exhaled. He looked relieved, but there was steel in his eyes. Okay, he said. Let’s get started.

  Chapter Three

  June 16, 2014—Comanche, Texas

  Within Comanche’s city limits, Highway 16, running north to De Leon and south to Goldthwaite, was called Austin Street. Interstate 67, leading west to Brownwood and east all the way to the Fort Worth Mixmaster, was known as Central Avenue. When these two roads intersected only yards from the county courthouse, they formed one corner of the town square. Turning south onto Austin from Central, any traveler looking east would see Comanche First National Bank and its parking lot and, when passing Oak Avenue, a feed-and-seed store.

  One block south, the old Comanche Depot sat within shouting distance of a feed mill. Steel silos jutted against the sky. A small, widely spaced copse of live oak trees grew to the north between Mill Road and the Central Texas Railroad tracks, which ran only feet from the depot’s rear walls. The old rails snaked through this part of town like a dry riverbed, the prosperity and health and cattle drives of olden times long gone. South of the building, buffalo grass grew all the way to Fleming avenue, beyond which Austin Street wound past a brand-new apartment complex.

  For nearly 130 years, the elements had worked their will on the depot’s paint and wood. Bored teenagers and tweakers had vandalized the place with sticks and sharp rocks and knives and spray paint. Its yard was overgrown, the calcium carbonate of the undersoil poking through in spots.

  Mayor C.W. Roark stood in front of the depot at dusk, the sun blood-red in an orange sky lined with strips of gray clouds. He was six feet, two inches and weighed 220 pounds—fit and solid for a fiftyish politician. His black hair had salted at the temples and was slicked straight back from a tanned face adorned with a bushy mustache. Despite the heat, he wore black slacks, black cowboy boots, a black coat, and a dark gray tie as he considered the yard’s bare spots.

  Goddam caliche. May have to resod. Time for that later, if we get the land.

  He had submitted his final bid on Friday. Today, a Monday, had come and gone with no word. If the city refused to sell him the lot and buildings, the county historical society would secure its newest landmark. What a waste.

  This part of the lot would be perfect for a concrete parking area. They could lay a three-foot-wide walk leading to the front steps. Rennie, Roark’s wife, insisted on keeping as much of the grass as possible. She liked the green, and C.W. had been married long enough to know which battles to pick. Besides, he could hardly refuse her the grass when he had already decided to keep the live oaks. They could add more parking later, if business required it, but for now, he liked the place’s isolated feeling—trees behind, grass before, a ditch to the west, and a fence to the east.

  Morlon Redheart’s rattletrap Ford pickup turned onto Austin and parked behind Roark’s white Chevy extended cab. Redheart got out, shut his door, and jumped the ditch. Perspiration glistened on his dark skin. His braided black hair descended to the small of his back, swaying in the sporadic breeze. He was mestizo, half Comanche and half Mexican.

  When Redheart approached, Roark stuck out his hand. Morlon. How do?

  Redheart shook with him. Can’t complain, and even if I did, nobody would care. What’s the word?

  The town council’s leanin toward the historical society. They think Comanche needs more landmarks for the tourists.

  Redheart spat. Tourists. They come once a year for the Pow Wow. We’re offerin steady commerce.

  It’s hard to sell ’em on a restaurant. Too unstable, they say.

  They ain’t tasted my cookin.

  Maybe they should.

  Roark and Redheart listened to the traffic on Central, the crickets, the last birdsongs as the sun edged over the horizon. In the dusky light, the mayor studied the outbuilding ten yards from the depot proper. It was half as big as the main structure—one door, dusty and spider-webbed or broken windows, the wood’s paint flaked away in places, faded to no color in others.

  So what now? Redheart asked.

  The mayor ran one hand over his face and flung away the sweat. I’ll handle the council, like I always do. Fred Deese wouldn’t w
ipe his ass unless I handed him the White Cloud. Bill McAllister owes me a few favors. And Mary Jones will vote my way if I promise to find her dumbass nephew a city job. You and Silky just get ready to cook. Hire eight or ten folks at minimum wage, less for the servers.

  Rich white people. Y’all hang onto your money like it’s your liver and kidneys.

  The mayor grinned. That’s how we stay rich. Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of paleface cash.

  Redheart sneered. You’ve seen too many John Wayne movies.

  Maybe. But I keep my word.

  Where’s your wife? She didn’t want to look at the grand empire you’re buildin?

  Rennie was at home, on the phone with her drunkard brother’s partner. C.W. Roark had once loved Raymond Turner like a real brother, but the man had carved too many worry lines around Rennie’s eyes. Now he could crawl into a Jack Daniel’s bottle and stay there, for all Roark cared.

  She’s seen it before, he said.

  You want me to handle supplies?

  Roark clapped him on the back. Yep. My accountant will call you with the budget specifics. But first, get a crew on that there shed.

  Morlon glanced at it. Tear it down?

  Hell, no. Get it in usable shape. That’s our storage overflow.

  Redheart crossed his arms, his expression cold. Storage, he said. You’re gonna leave that abomination standin. Worse, you want me and my wife to go in and outta there a dozen times a day.

  Didn’t take you for a superstitious man.

  It’s a bad place. You know what happened there.

  I’m countin on it. People love Old West stories. The bloodier, the better.

  It ain’t gonna make your family look good.