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.

I don’t even wanna mention what people are sayin.

I love gossip.

She sighed. You’ll think this town is nuts.

Try me.

Well, some folks—the ones with too much time to flap their gums and not enough brains to stop, if you ask me—some folks claim the Piney Woods Kid shot ’em.

The which? Raymond asked.

An old outlaw. The Kid and John Wesley Hardin made a lot of noise in these parts back in the 1800s. Some say the Kid was worse. The legend goes that after the Kid died, townsfolk saw him around the depot.

Raymond let out a low whistle. I’ll be damned. So you’re sayin this town’s got a killer ghost.

Not me. But if you threw a rock, you’d probably hit somebody sayin it. The cops tried to hush it up, but you know small towns.

I sure do.

Silky Redheart had made her way back around to their side of the restaurant and stopped by the jukebox.

Y’all okay? she asked.

Doin fine, Polyester Pants said. Just passin the time.

Silky looked at Raymond. Your friends are ready to order, mister.

She walked away as Raymond turned back to Polyester Pants. I reckon I better get back. Good meetin you.

The woman’s gold incisor winked in the afternoon light. Always nice to meet a gentleman.

Raymond walked back to the booth. LeBlanc and McDowell sipped their coffee. He slipped into his seat and picked up his coffee cup. They watched him, waiting.

Finally, LeBlanc said, So. When’s the wedding? Can I be your best man?

Raymond flipped him off, and then Silky Redheart appeared again, ready to take their orders.

Later, McDowell went back to her room, while Raymond and LeBlanc sat on their beds, LeBlanc watching a Rangers game, Raymond studying the paper that Chief Bob Bradley had slipped him the day before. A phone number had been printed in a tiny, neat script. Raymond squinted. If Bradley ever gets tired of police work, he could write secret messages for spies. You need a goddam electron microscope to read this. When he finally puzzled out the number, he programmed it into his phone and shredded the note.

Gonna make a call, he said.

Uh-huh, LeBlanc said, watching the game.

In the hall, Raymond dialed the number. It rang twice before the chief said, Hello.

This is Raymond Turner.

Hang on.

Sounds in the background—phones ringing, muffled voices, laughter, a low clunking that might have been a stapler crunching through thick documents. Sounds like he’s at the station. Bradley mumbled to the people on his end, probably some excuse for leaving. Soon Raymond heard cars on asphalt, the occasional diesel engine roaring in the distance.

Any day now, he muttered.

You there? Bradley asked.

Yeah.

Sorry about that. I had to step out. If the mayor finds out I’m talkin to you about this case, my ass is grass.

I’d think y’all would welcome the help.

Some of us do. I’m okay at my job, but this one’s got me stumped, and I don’t cotton to seein no more bodies.

But my brother-in-law handcuffed you.

He’s worried about tourism.

Raymond walked to the nearest window and looked out on a parking lot with a half dozen cars in it. Beyond, yellowing grass stretched into the distance. The other window revealed a stretch of nondescript road and a few buildings, more grass in between. A town with a couple of grocery stores, a smattering of fast-food places, not even a goddam Walmart.

Tourism? Raymond asked, trying not to laugh.

I know what you’re thinkin, the chief said. But the mayor’s tryin to jump-start it. Got a town website and everything. Plus, we got the Pow Wow. That’s a festival we have every year. Got a barbecue cook-off and a car show, some Old West cowboy shit, Indian dancers, and such. It’s more popular than you might think.

And C.W. thinks the murders will ruin all that.

Right.

I can understand that. Well, like I told y’all before, we’re here to help. We ain’t callin CNN.

Bradley sighed. Might not matter anyway. People are makin up their own stories and spreadin ’em like bedbugs.

You mean this ghost hogwash.

People are dead, and we got no suspects. I guess any explanation will do in a pinch. Me, I don’t care if we’re after a ghost or a man or Wile E. Coyote. I just wanna keep my people safe.

Good to know somebody in this town’s got sense. What can you tell me about the case?

What did you hear at the diner?

Raymond laughed. Jesus, remind me not to kill anybody while I’m here. I reckon you can’t fart in church without everybody knowin about it by dinnertime.

That’s a small town for you.

I heard the victims’ insides got torn up, even though they didn’t have external wounds.

Yep. Weirdest damn thing I ever seen. I’d like to know how that information got out.

Like you said. Small town. Raymond had no intention of revealing to anyone in authority that Rennie had told him about the wounds.

You hear about the article?

Rennie sent me a copy. Anything else connectin the victims?

No phone calls or emails, except between Adam Garner and John Wayne. They were old buddies from way back. No canoodlin in the sheets with each other’s wives or husbands, no financial red flags. It’s like somebody killed ’em just for bein in that article, and it don’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out yourself at a library.

This Garner—you looked into him, I guess.

Yeah. He was drivin his truck up north when Wayne got killed. And he was one of the folks that found Lorena Harveston. He ran outta the diner with the others.

I’ll need to talk to all of ’em.

If C.W. finds out you’re buttin in, he’ll order me to run you outta town, brother-in-law or not. Hold your water till I can figure out the best way forward.

But—

Mayor’s callin. I gotta go. I’ll call you when I can, but don’t tell nobody we talked or that you’ve got this number.

Bradley hung up before Raymond could reply. Raymond stuck the phone in his shirt pocket and leaned against the wall. What kind of weapon or accident could tear up a person’s insides and leave the outside untouched? It’s like they were shot with a goddam science fiction ray gun. Or a magic ghost bullet, I reckon. He shook his head and walked back to his room, where he learned the Rangers were four runs down in the bottom of the eighth.

So what’s our next move? LeBlanc asked.

Raymond thought for a moment. We check out the diner grounds. Maybe the locals missed somethin. After that, we talk to the families, as soon as Bradley’s ready to hold our hands.

He went to brush his teeth. LeBlanc turned back to his game. Eventually, they went to bed. Raymond slept like a dead man.