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Man, McDowell said, you must have been exhausted if you fell asleep that hard and that fast in this oven.

  Flyin does it to me. Don’t matter if I’m in the air thirty minutes. I crash as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  I wouldn’t say flyin and crash that close together, Raymond said. Then he patted the bed. Relax, Betsy.

  McDowell sat on the end of the bed, cross-legged.

  We should check out Rennie’s diner, LeBlanc said. I could eat a horse right now.

  You could always eat a horse, Raymond said.

  LeBlanc gave him the finger. McDowell pulled open a nightstand drawer and found a phone book only marginally bigger than a pamphlet. She turned to the Yellow Pages and looked up restaurants. Raymond flipped channels.

  We got a Subway, a Dairy Queen, a pizza place, a couple of chicken joints, and a Mexican restaurant, McDowell said. No diners. Guess it’s too new.

  Well, LeBlanc said, why not kill two birds with the same double cheeseburger?

  Raymond shook his head. I need to touch base with Rennie first. Besides, I’ve had enough of that car for one day. What’s closest?

  McDowell shut the phone book and put it back in the drawer. Sonic it is.

  How do you know it’s closest?

  Well, we passed it on the way in.

  In the hall, they passed no one, heard nothing. They might have been the only people on the second floor. When they reached the lobby, two men stood near the front desk. One wore a police uniform. The clerk looked like he might shit himself. He said something to the two men. The newcomers turned, and the taller one scowled.

  Hello, C.W., Raymond said. How’d you know we was here?

  We’re on the lookout for any outta-towners.

  Roark wore a gray suit that looked too hot for the weather. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. Occasionally one would break free and streak down his face, merging with shallow wrinkles and curving across his cheeks so he appeared to be crying. Look at that hair and that suit, Raymond thought. He looks like a movie wise guy. Somebody ought to tell him he lives in Texas.

  The other man stood six or eight inches shorter than the mayor and a good thirty pounds heavier, most of it in his belly. His dirty-blond hair receded from his sunburned forehead and face. His black uniform looked new and stiff.

  The two groups met in the center of the lobby. Raymond shook hands with Roark, who let go as soon as decorum allowed and wiped his hand on his trousers, and then turned to the cop.

  I reckon you’re the chief of police, Raymond said.

  Bob Bradley, the cop said. They shook. Bradley’s grip felt strong but sweaty.

  This here’s my partner, Darrell LeBlanc. And our associate, Elizabeth McDowell.

  My friends call me Betsy, McDowell said as everyone shook hands.

  Roark looked at her clothes with distaste, as if he had never seen a tie-dyed shirt before. She looked him straight in the face until he turned away.

  Thatta girl.

  The chief opened his mouth to speak with McDowell, but a glance from Roark quieted him. The mayor’s eyes were chips of slate sharp enough to cut bone. Raymond held his gaze. Roark was used to getting his way, cowing people with his power when he could, intimidating them physically when politics failed. But Raymond had spent his adult life dealing with criminals, junkies, prostitutes, adulterers, thieves, murderers, and the New Orleans Police Department. His brother-in-law did not scare him in the least and never had.

  We know why y’all came, Roark said.

  That should make things easier, Raymond said.

  No. It won’t. You’re my wife’s brother, so I’ve gotta put up with you, even after all you’ve done. Visitors are welcome to shop in our stores and eat in our restaurants. But as for what’s goin on at the diner, we don’t need help. If that’s all the business you got, you might as well pack up and head back to DFW right now.

  The chief looked at the floor. He thrust his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat, shuffled his feet—everything but take Raymond by the lapels and beg for help.

  He’s outta his league, and he’s got enough sense to put away his pride, Raymond thought. We need to get him away from C.W.

  LeBlanc kept silent and crossed his arms, expressionless. McDowell smiled, as if they were discussing kittens or babies.

  Nobody’s sayin you can’t handle your business, Raymond said, careful to keep his tone neutral. But Rennie thinks a fresh eye might help. That’s all.

  Roark stepped closer to Raymond, sneering. LeBlanc started to move in, but Raymond motioned him away.

  If you butt in, you’ll get acquainted with our jailhouse bunks, Roark said. Obstruction of justice and whatever else we can think of.

  Harsh words and anger swelled in Raymond’s mind like a blister about to burst. You stubborn jackass. You’d rather somebody else die than work with me.

  He was about to mention the newspaper article, the linked deaths, when a sharp, high-pitched voice cried, C.W. Roark, you better quit it.

  They all turned, wincing. Rennie approached, looking madder than an old wet hen. God, I’ll never get used to her mad voice if I live to be two hundred. Her red hair was pulled back in a bun. She wore rimless glasses and bright red lipstick, a free-flowing taffeta dress the color of arterial blood, red high-heeled shoes. She looks like a movin wound.

  You stay outta this, Roark said.

  She shook her finger at him. We ain’t seen Ray in two years. You ain’t runnin him off.

  The mayor glared at her. They ain’t here to visit. And I know who called ’em.

  Rennie poked him in the chest with one bony finger tipped with a long red nail. And I’d do it again since you’ve lost whatever sense God gave you.

  Roark looked away, hands on his hips like a parent trying to reason with a petulant child. They’re just gonna get in the way. Besides, they got no jurisdiction. Hell, they ain’t even licensed.

  Raymond cleared his throat. This ain’t our first rodeo. We can poke around without makin you trip over us.

  The mayor turned on Raymond. You got a lot of nerve. Rennie’s been trippin over you ever since Marie died.

  Something twisted in Raymond’s gut. Keep my wife’s name outta your mouth.

  Then stay away from mine. You done enough to her already.

  Stop it, both of you, Rennie snapped.

  Raymond’s fists clenched. His jaw tightened. He stepped toward Roark.

  The mayor’s face turned deep red, as if someone had chopped his head off and sculpted a new one out of the world’s largest beet.

  Don’t bother actin indignant, Roark said. We both know you got no shame.

  You gonna do somethin, Raymond said, or am I just waitin for your fat head to explode?

  Roark came at him.

  Bradley stepped between them, grabbing the mayor around the waist.

  Come on, C.W., he said. I reckon your blood pressure reads like an SAT score.

  Roark kept clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, eyes blazing.

  Raymond, Rennie said.

  He sighed and backed up a step. I don’t wanna fistfight you in a hotel lobby, C.W. Or anywhere else. We’re family, even if you are a puckered asshole.

  Roark stared at him. Then his shoulders sagged, and his bloodshot eyes lost their intensity. The redness drained from his face. Rennie took his arm and pulled him backward three steps.

  That’s good, Bradley said. I don’t see horns or cloven hooves on these folks. I reckon the town will survive ’em.

  Roark looked weary. He nodded. Let me loose. I need to say somethin.

  Rennie locked eyes with him. Then she nodded once and let him go, watching him like a schoolmarm who expects her students to hurl spit wads as soon as she turns her back.

  We’re under a lot of pressure here, Roark said. We got the Pow Wow comin up. Ju
st stay outta our way, and keep a low profile. People are scared. Don’t make it worse.

  Like I said, this ain’t our first rodeo. Raymond still wanted to fracture Roark’s jaw. We was headin over to the Sonic. You’re welcome to join us.

  I got business, Roark said. He turned to LeBlanc and McDowell. You look well, Darrell. Nice to meet you, ma’am. Sorry for the dustup.

  I’ve seen worse, McDowell said.

  Stone-faced, LeBlanc said nothing.

  Roark turned and headed for the door. Rennie squeezed his shoulder as he passed. Then she embraced Raymond. It’s good to see you, she said.

  You, too, said Raymond.

  She kissed his cheek. I need to go mend some fences. I’ll call you.

  Okay.

  She followed the mayor outside.

  McDowell exhaled. LeBlanc’s eyes were still cold. If C.W. had swung on me, Darrell would have mopped the floor with him and his police chief. I gotta keep my temper.

  The chief stood there with his hands still in his pockets. He looked embarrassed.

  You boys sure do know how to make a body feel welcome, LeBlanc said.

  The chief smiled without humor or mirth. He’s the boss. If he wants me to back his play, I gotta do it.

  He looked around the empty lobby and saw the clerk watching them, his eyes wide, leaning so far over the desk he seemed in danger of tumbling onto his head. The chief grunted.

  Raising his voice a bit, Bradley said, Y’all stay outta trouble. You got that?

  Sure, Raymond said.

  The chief nodded. Then he turned and walked across the lobby and out the door.

  What kind of read you get on that guy? LeBlanc asked.

  I think he’s okay, Raymond said.

  How come?

  Because he slipped me a piece of paper when we shook. Raymond raised his voice. Come on. Let’s go get Betsy that hamburger.

  I could use a beer, LeBlanc said.

  Me, too, Raymond said.

  You can have some sweet tea or ice water.

  Water? Raymond said. Now you’re goin too far.

  Back in the room, Raymond had barely gotten his shoes off when his cellphone rang. He took it out of his shirt pocket and answered it.

  Hey, Rennie said.

  Hey. He turned down the television. Behind him, LeBlanc grabbed some clothes from his suitcase and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  Sorry about this afternoon, said Rennie. C.W.’s never been much for lettin things go.

  No shit.

  Don’t be too hard on him. He’s doin the best he can.

  So am I.

  I know. I just wanted to tell you I’ll keep him off your back as much as I can. And how much I appreciate you doin this.

  I’ll always come when you call. Can we get together? Talk? Maybe spend some time with Will?

  Soon. After C.W. calms down.

  Okay. How is Will, anyway?

  He’s a teenage boy. It’s all I can do not to wring his neck.

  He know I’m in town?

  Yeah. C.W. wishes he didn’t.

  I’m unlikely to corrupt him in one visit.

  Like I said. Give it time.

  Okay.

  Soon LeBlanc came out of the shower, wearing only a pair of shorts. He combed his hair, water dripping down his torso.

  Everything okay?

  As much as it can be.

  While LeBlanc brushed his teeth. Raymond lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, hands linked behind his head. Tomorrow he would have to go out and hunt a killer. Rennie sounded strained, as if she had been fighting off tears. And his brother-in-law wanted to kick his ass.

  Nothin’s okay, but it don’t pay to say so.

  Chapter Fourteen

  September 2, 2016—Comanche, Texas

  At 3 p.m., the Depot Diner served mostly truck drivers and kids trickling in from school and people passing through on their way to bigger places. McDowell and LeBlanc sat in a booth near the back, looking over a menu featuring bright pictures of too-perfect-to-be-true entrées, two pages printed on both sides and laminated. Across the table, Raymond fiddled with his notebook and pen. He had taken six pages of notes so far, none of which seemed related to the case.

  They had first come by the diner around 9 so he could interview Morlon and Silky Redheart. Morlon had loomed over the counter, barrel chest bulging against his wife beater and stained white apron. When Raymond introduced himself, Redheart nodded and said nothing, stoic. They went over the usual background questions, Redheart answering in monosyllables and grunts. They talked about the diner, its construction, whether anyone had noticed anything odd. Then Raymond asked about the deaths.

  I ran out there when we heard the Harveston girl scream, Morlon said. We all saw a white fella standin by the road, but I didn’t see him do nothin. Next thing I knew, he was gone.

  What about Wayne? Raymond asked.

  We were home that night. I drove up here after I heard what happened, but the cops didn’t tell me shit except I had another corpse in the parkin lot.

  Any idea why somebody might target these folks?

  Nope.

  Why go after ’em here?

  Who knows?

  Can you elaborate?

  How?

  Never mind.

  Silky had been just as elusive. She might have stood five feet tall if you spotted her two or three inches, and she outweighed Morlon. She grimaced all the time. Rennie had mentioned a lower back problem stemming from years of dragging full pallets of groceries around the Brookshire’s storeroom—and wore an unfortunate orange-and-black shirt that made her look like a basketball with legs.

  When Raymond mentioned Lorena Harveston and John Wayne, she shook her head and said, Shame what happened to them folks, but I don’t know anything.

  So what about this Piney Woods Kid business?

  Never met him.

  Raymond had poked around a bit more, sidling up to a booth full of old-timers and striking up a conversation, but when he brought up the murders, they glanced at each other and shut their mouths like a passel of snapping turtles. Perhaps they had come to the same conclusion as Roark—that such doings were best kept in-house. After striking out with the breakfast crowd, Raymond and the others retreated to their hotel long enough for the old patrons to skedaddle and the new ones to get comfortable. Then they drove back out, parked in the grass near the concrete lot, and took the corner booth.

  Silky Redheart brought them water in red plastic glasses. McDowell and LeBlanc rolled the straw wrappers into balls and tossed them at each other like schoolkids. Silky raised her ticket pad.

  Somethin else to drink? she asked.

  Coffee all around, please, ma’am, Raymond said.

  Silky nodded and went away. A few booths over, five old-timers—not the same ones from that morning, though their John Deere caps and faded pants and ragged button-down shirts made it hard to tell—sat discussing the day’s events in too loud voices. Raymond considered trying them, but one was holding court, telling a convoluted tale about a swap meet where a vendor had cheated him. Doubt they’ll appreciate an interruption. So he got up and went to the jukebox, where a middle-aged woman wearing gray polyester pants and a bright blue shirt plugged quarters into the slot. He sidled in and leaned against the box, studying the selections. She glanced at him and nodded. He nodded back.

  I hope you like country music, mister, because that’s all they got, she said. I never saw so much George Strait in one place.

  Raymond chuckled. I’m a blues man. Jazz, too.

  She scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. You ain’t from Texas.

  I’m from the great city of New Orleans.

  Never been there.

  You should go.

  She laughed. I don’t
like hurricanes.

  Well, they don’t stay all year. Besides, word is y’all had some trouble of your own, right here at this restaurant.

  The woman looked sad. I knew the Harveston girl’s family my whole life. She was a nurse. The Wayne fella was real nice, too. I reckon bein from New Orleans, you’re used to folks killin each other, but it don’t happen here much.

  You never get used to killin, Raymond wanted to say. And it ain’t like I walk out my front door and trip over bodies. But he let her comment pass.

  I hear the circumstances were weird, he said.

  She laid her hand on his upper arm and squeezed. You durn right. Folks are tellin some crazy stories.

  Silky Redheart walked by carrying a tray piled high with greasy cheeseburgers and mounds of steaming fries. The woman at the jukebox picked a song. Raymond steeled himself for a four-and-a-half-minute assault of twanging voices and fiddles and lyrics about rodeos and cowboy boots. Then the music started, and he recognized it, a song about a vengeful woman and her philandering man, sung by one of those kids who won a TV reality show.

  Raymond smiled at Polyester Pants. Good choice. That girl sure can sing.

  The woman winked. You ain’t tellin me nothin I don’t already know.

  What were we talkin about?

  John Wayne and poor Lorena Harveston and the stories goin around. Though I reckon that’s rude talk among strangers.

  Raymond looked about, as if making sure no one was listening. I like a little rude talk.

  The woman reddened and grinned, hiding it behind her hand. She slapped his arm. Oh, you.

  Tell me, he said. I’m hard to scare off.

  She considered for a moment. Then she leaned close, as if to whisper in Raymond’s ear. He leaned down to accommodate.

  Folks say their insides looked like they got shot, only there wasn’t no bullet wounds.

  Raymond tried to look surprised, though Rennie had already told him that.

  Well, that don’t make no sense, he said in a hushed tone. What killed ’em if not bullets?

  Nobody knows, the woman whispered.

  No theories at all?

  She looked pained, as if she were about to divulge a dark family secret.