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  LeBlanc commandeered the rest of Raymond’s sandwich and wolfed it down. He finished another glass of tea.

  Well, he said as he came up for breath, when do we leave?

  ASAP.

  Does C.W. know we’re comin?

  Nope. In fact, he pretty much ordered Rennie not to call anybody. I reckon that was his first mistake.

  LeBlanc needed to piss, so he excused himself.

  C.W.’s gonna breathe fire and spit broken glass, Raymond thought. And that’s before he finds out we’re there to poke around in his business.

  Maybe Betsy McDowell could help with that. Whenever she stopped by or consulted, she added something Raymond had not even realized was missing—a soothing voice, a third perspective that juxtaposed with his and LeBlanc’s more jaded viewpoints. Theory-swapping sessions in the office, late nights in stakeout cars, greasy pizza and Chinese takeout and cold po’ boys on stale bread—it reminded Raymond of what life was like when Marie’s friends and whomever LeBlanc was seeing at the time would join the agency boys for beers and gumbo, and they would stay up all night, laughing and joking. Beyond that, McDowell could calm you down with a touch and a few words. She might even affect a grumpy bear like C.W. Roark.

  Raymond had barely seen her in a month. Her tarot readings and such did little good with divorce cases. But something like this ran right up her alley. Two deaths, two grieving families, even a ghost.

  Plus, a few months back, she had mentioned reading for a professor of folklore at the University of Louisiana at New Orleans. A guy like that might make a good source of information about a gunfighter from the late 1800s—and ghost legends, if it actually seemed relevant. McDowell already knew the man, so they could help each other while Raymond and LeBlanc did the legwork.

  LeBlanc and their server returned at the same time.

  Did you gentlemen save any room for dessert? the server asked.

  Yeah, LeBlanc said. One key lime pie and one bread pudding. You want anything, Ray?

  Sure. Bring me another shrimp po’ boy. Some asshole ate most of mine.

  When the new order arrived, Raymond watched LeBlanc destroy the desserts. If we take Betsy, maybe spendin that much time with her will spark Darrell’s kindling. God knows he deserves a little happiness.

  LeBlanc wiped his mouth with his napkin. About our nonexistent Texas license, he said. If we ain’t takin a fee, then we’re just concerned private citizens helpin out your family.

  I reckon that’s how we’ll play it. But C.W. loves to throw his weight around. We’re gonna have to be political.

  LeBlanc groaned. Can’t we just hog-tie him and throw him in the trunk until we’re done?

  Raymond laughed. Call Betsy while I finish this sandwich. Ask her about that folklore guy at ULNO.

  LeBlanc grinned.

  Chapter Twelve

  August 30, 2016—New Orleans, Louisiana

  They gathered in the Turner Agency offices at 10 a.m. Raymond had made an 11 a.m. reservation, but LeBlanc had already rooted in the cupboards of their shoebox-sized kitchenette five times. The problem with LeBlanc’s hunger lay not so much in its omnipresence but in his accompanying attitude. Whenever his blood sugar dropped too low—in other words, if he had not eaten in two hours or more—he snarled when spoken to and tossed furniture when questioned or teased. Despite that, Raymond said, Darrell, everything in that kitchen was in there the first four times you looked.

  LeBlanc came back into the office, muttering dark words, and leaned against the wall near Professor Jacob Frost and Elizabeth McDowell, who were seated in Raymond’s visitors chairs.

  Frost looked different than Raymond had imagined. Thin and just under six feet tall, he wore faded blue jeans and a wrinkled powder-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His light brown hair was flecked with gray at the temples and had not seen a brush all day. His brown eyes were bloodshot.

  In contrast, McDowell looked radiant and celestial. Her long blond hair cascaded down her back in four braids. Her bright blue eyes sparkled, as did her skin, which seemed speckled with glitter. In a deep-purple tie-dyed T-shirt, she might have stepped out of 1968. She wore a short skirt and high-heeled sandals, her legs crossed right over left. When she smiled at LeBlanc, some of the clouds around him seemed to lift.

  Frost was nodding off.

  Darrell and me appreciate y’all comin down, Raymond said. We fly out tomorrow. If you’re comin, we gotta make the arrangements.

  Frost sighed and looked at the floor. Because life had taught him what disappointment bordering on depression looked like, Raymond knew the professor would say no, even if it hurt. Back at LSU, Raymond had been an all-Southeast Conference strong safety, drafted in the fifth round by the Green Bay Packers, but, when leaping for an interception during his very first training camp, he had landed awkwardly and obliterated every ligament in his right knee. Aimless, his life’s plan as shredded as his medial collateral, and holding a criminal justice degree, he joined the New Orleans Police Department. He rehabbed the knee, pushing harder than anyone thought advisable, and still the injury almost disqualified him from joining the academy. As he had watched his first career implode and then nearly missed his second, Raymond had seen an expression similar to Frost’s in every mirror he passed.

  I really appreciate the offer, Frost said. And I want to come. It’s as close to field research as I’ll probably ever get. A murderer who dresses like an Old West gunfighter? That’s the stuff of urban legend. Folklore in the making. But the fall semester just started. I can’t leave.

  Well, Raymond said, I’m sorry to hear that. But we understand.

  I’ll be happy to help with any research from here.

  Thanks. We’ll take you up on that. Don’t worry about it.

  Frost nodded, but he still looked like he might step on his own bottom lip. Based on the five minutes Raymond had known him, Frost seemed like a good man. But only LeBlanc was essential, and of the other two, McDowell would likely prove more useful. In the past, some of their conservative clients and suspects had assumed she was just a hippy-dippy weirdo, but soon enough, they were offering her a bowl of jambalaya and asking about rates. Those people skills could prove invaluable. Raymond turned to her.

  What about you, little miss? You game for a trip to the land of cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and Dallas Cowboys?

  She grinned. Her teeth were even, a little yellowed from the coffee and tea she drank every waking moment.

  I reckon folks around here can live without me for a while.

  LeBlanc beamed. If his smile stretched any wider, the top of his head might fall off. He saw Raymond watching, and the smile disappeared. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, tugging at his open shirt collar.

  Well, LeBlanc said. Now that that’s all settled, let’s go. I’m so hungry, I could eat a raw nutria.

  Forty-five minutes later, the foursome sat at an outdoor table in Brennan’s, LeBlanc slurping turtle soup while they awaited their Eggs Bayou Lafourche and crabmeat omelets. Frost still looked crestfallen. He had barely glanced at the menu and seemed most interested in drinking glass after glass of red wine, despite the hour. Raymond patted him on the arm. Frost looked up with watery eyes—exhaustion, the wine, or both? He pushed his glass away but said nothing.

  He’s really takin it hard, Raymond thought. Reckon his no came after a lot of lost sleep. I don’t often meet folks who love their work this much.

  LeBlanc finished his soup. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. When McDowell smiled at him, his eyes lit up like his brain was on fire. Raymond had not seen so much red-faced grinning since junior high.

  He turned to Frost. Look at it this way. At least you probably won’t get shot at.

  It just would have been nice to see the lore take root, Frost said.

  Maybe next time.

  The hell of
it is, I think I could have helped. And it would have been a damn interesting line on my vitae.

  I reckon so.

  The professor made a the hell with it expression and drained his wineglass again. A word of warning, he said, setting the glass down. The killer won’t be your only problem. From what Betsy tells me, you and Mr. LeBlanc have spent your entire lives in cities. Things are different in small towns—the food, the values, the attitudes, even the weather. The phrase fish out of water comes to mind. And I have no idea what they’ll make of Betsy.

  Raymond laughed. I’ve been on jobs in half the parishes in this state, from New Orleans to places you’d miss if you blinked. I ain’t never stepped in a pile of shit I couldn’t wipe off my shoes.

  Central Texas isn’t south Louisiana. And then there’s the Piney Woods Kid.

  What about him? In case you ain’t heard, he’s dead.

  Frost picked up his napkin and spread it across his lap. Yes. Your case may have nothing to do with him.

  I sense a but comin.

  The professor leaned closer. But I saw a History Channel documentary on him a few years back. He was a mean, murdering bastard. If what happened at this truck stop—

  It’s a diner.

  If what happened at this diner was perpetrated by somebody modeling themselves after the Piney Woods Kid, you might need a life jacket to float through all the blood you’ll find.

  That’s damn poetic and all, but we’re goin to Comanche, Texas, not Baghdad.

  You’re probably right. But watch each other’s backs.

  One server refilled Frost’s glass as another arrived with the food. Plates were distributed as Raymond felt the same tickle in the back of his brain that vacationers feel when they forget to feed the cat or turn off the iron. But then McDowell laughed, and as he took a bite of andouille in hollandaise sauce, he decided he would have plenty of time to think about it in Texas.

  Later, they exited onto Royal Street, Raymond and Frost chatting, McDowell and LeBlanc hanging back ten yards or so, dodging map-carrying tourists and street peddlers. Occasionally, their arms touched. They probably looked like a couple in the early stages of infatuation, too nervous to speak much, unaware of each other’s rhythms. By the time LeBlanc found his courage, they had reached the intersection of Royal and St. Phillip. Raymond and Frost had gone ahead.

  McDowell started to turn left toward the office when LeBlanc took her arm. She raised her eyebrows. Around them, pedestrians ebbed and flowed. A tourist in a Cadillac stopped at the intersection and rolled down her window, asking passersby if they knew the quickest way to the Garden District. From somewhere nearby, a trumpet burst into life, a jazz tune LeBlanc had never heard before. His face burned. He had grabbed McDowell like she had stolen something, and now he was acting like a sheepish teenager sliding into second base for the first time. She watched him with curiosity and something like amusement.

  Finally, she took one of his hands in hers and said, Don’t be so nervous. I won’t bite.

  LeBlanc swallowed hard, trying to unstick the words that had lodged in his traitor throat.

  I don’t know why I’m actin like such a doofus, he said. But look. I was wonderin if you’d like to get a drink with me sometime. Or maybe dinner.

  She looked coy. You mean another business meetin, Mr. LeBlanc?

  You know what I mean. Just you and me.

  McDowell smiled and twirled one of her braids. I’d like that. What took you so long, anyway?

  And just like that, LeBlanc fell for her. Not love yet, but not just lust either. A kind of deep affection and a sense of propriety, as if he had made a pact with an honorable personage. She had surmounted his defenses so easily she had not even needed to try—so discomfiting, so glorious.

  I reckon I’m just slow, he said.

  McDowell slipped her arm into his. I’m sweatin through my shirt. How about escortin a lady back to the air-conditioning?

  Yes, ma’am, he said. Maybe by the time we get there, your friend Jake will feel better.

  They set off down St. Phillip, arm in arm.

  Chapter Thirteen

  September 1, 2016—Central Texas

  McDowell woke with a jolt, her head banging against the window hard enough to make her ears ring. Her vision swam, the pain sharp as an icepick. In the front seats, the men shouted at each other. She, Raymond Turner, and Darrell LeBlanc were driving over a bumpy road somewhere in Texas. Emanating from the front seat, nervous energy mixed with edgy, bordering-on-angry humor. Whatever happened had been brief but intense. She rubbed the right side of her head. No blood.

  Her voice still thick with sleep, she said, What’s goin on? I about fractured my skull on this window.

  From the passenger seat, Raymond turned, looking concerned. Sorry. We need to get you looked at?

  Nah. But it sounds like y’all might need a time-out.

  Raymond turned back around. We were just havin a difference of opinion about what makes a good driver. Darrell’s definition seems to be whatever he’s doin at the time, while mine steers more toward somebody who watches the goddam road instead of the scenery.

  From the driver’s seat, LeBlanc growled, I was watchin. It ain’t my fault if nobody tends to this highway.

  A lot of Louisiana roads looked like they had been shelled by heavy artillery, but McDowell let the remark pass. Besides, she knew what LeBlanc meant. Most of the road looked fine, pavement the color of faded blue jeans lined with bright whites and yellows, but sometimes they swerved around a pothole big enough to swallow a tire or rumbled over patches of black asphalt, which stood out like oil stains on a white shirt. LeBlanc must have hit one of the potholes. The resulting jerk had banged her head on the window and, if she imagined the situation correctly, yanked the wheel out of LeBlanc’s hands for a split second. She doubted they had ever been in real danger, but Raymond hated any sort of hiccup whenever someone else controlled his fate. She had seen it on the approach into Dallas/Fort Worth International, when their 727 hit some turbulence and shook them hard enough to rattle teeth. Raymond had cursed darkly and threatened to beat the shit out of the pilot. Luckily, he kept his voice down, or they would all still be at DFW, cuffed and stuffed and trying to prove they were not terrorists.

  They had rented a 2012 Toyota Corolla the color of a ripe red plum. They passed flat fields and light poles, remnants of crops, the occasional herd of grazing cattle or horses, single-story houses with peeling white paint and two-tone cars in the yard, two-story homes with wraparound porches overlooking farmland, low and rolling hills full of thick, waving grass set beside acres of brush and mesquite, and bare patches like desert. As if a tornado had blown through and shuffled the landscape. Everything looked, in other words, like central Texas.

  So how much longer? she asked.

  LeBlanc shrugged. Maybe fifteen minutes.

  Good. I’m starvin. I hope one of you boys will buy a lady a burger.

  Soon they drove into town on Central Avenue. They spotted their hotel, a Best Western, and pulled in. Raymond went inside to make their arrangements while McDowell and LeBlanc parked the car. They got out. LeBlanc locked the doors and opened the trunk. Then he and McDowell dug out six bags. They struggled into the hotel just as a tall, rail-thin desk clerk with a whisper of a mustache handed Raymond their keys.

  They set the bags on the floor. Raymond took his. LeBlanc wiped his brow. God, it’s hot.

  We’re on the second floor, Raymond said.

  He handed LeBlanc a room key and gave two to McDowell. She handed one back. In case I lose mine, she said. No sense misplacin ’em both. Just don’t come bustin in without knockin. You never know when a lady’s steppin outta the shower.

  LeBlanc reddened and looked away.

  Raymond winked. We weren’t raised in a barn. I reckon we’ll knock.

  If we don’t all melt first, LeBlanc gr
owled. Then he stalked off, carrying his bags.

  Wait’ll he finds they ain’t turned on the air yet, Raymond said.

  The hotel elevator was busted, so they dragged their luggage upstairs. McDowell opened the door to number 216, stowed her things, and turned on her air conditioner. Then she opened her side of the doors that connected the two rooms and waited for the men.

  The room looked like every other Best Western room she had ever seen—short hallway with a bathroom and closet. Stark white walls decorated with paintings of bull skulls half-buried in desert landscapes and lone Native Americans—Comanches, she assumed—looking over water. Two queen-size beds with triple white sheeting and turquoise coverlets at the bottom, pillows piled against the headboard like models of cumulonimbus clouds. Striped carpet that looked as if it cost five dollars an acre. Between the beds, a night stand with a beige telephone and a clock radio, probably a phone book, a Bible, and some stationery in the drawers. A couple of chairs, one stuffed, one straight-backed. A desk with enough space for a laptop and your wallet, keys, spare change. Black mini-fridge, microwave oven, coffee pot big enough to hold a half cup or so. Curtains pulled together.

  Raymond opened their side of the connector, and McDowell stepped into an identical room. On the bed nearest the window, LeBlanc lay sprawled out with his head on a pillow, dozing, his mouth open, his shoes off. Sweat stains expanded from his armpits. One hand was tucked behind his head. The other lay across his stomach. Raymond’s duffel sat on the other bed.

  Watch this, Raymond said. Then he turned to LeBlanc and shouted, Hey!

  LeBlanc’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, eyes wide, a thin line of drool hanging from his mouth like a spider’s web. He stared at Raymond and McDowell for a moment, uncomprehending. Then his eyes focused, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  You asshole, he said, running his hand through his hair and straightening his shirt.