Chapter Fifteen

September 3, 2016—Comanche, Texas

Raymond studied the diner’s clientele. Small-town, lower-middle-class people. Lots of white folks and people who might have been Latinx or Native American or mestizo. Some worked office jobs, judging from their clean clothes, their dress shoes, their ties. Some looked like truck drivers and mechanics. But they seemed at ease with each other and friendly. No one seemed suspicious, and if McDowell was feeling any odd vibes, she did not say.

The chief walked in. Bradley nodded to Raymond and sat at the counter. Silky Redheart brought Bradley a cup of coffee. He said something to her. She laughed and slapped her thigh. The chief spoke again, and she disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, Morlon Redheart came out and talked with the chief. Redheart looked toward Raymond’s table and said something to Bradley. The two men shook hands, and then Redheart went back to the kitchen. Silky reappeared and set a plate in front of Bradley.

Wonder what that was all about, LeBlanc said.

Us, said Raymond.

If they don’t get we’re here to help, screw ’em.

They aren’t mad, McDowell offered. They’re afraid.

She had a better handle on other people’s emotions than Raymond had on his own. But in the end, it mattered little. The Turner Agency would do its job. He drank his sweet tea and finished his chili cheeseburger, which tasted of poblanos. He mopped up the excess chili with his fries. McDowell picked at the remains of her food and alternated between her fourth glass of tea and her third cup of coffee.

Fifteen minutes after his food arrived, Bradley paid his check. He took a toothpick from the clear plastic dispenser on the counter and stuck it in his mouth as he approached Raymond’s table.

Afternoon, he said.

Raymond nodded. Chief Bradley.

McDowell sat against the wall on her side of the booth, so Bradley squeezed in beside her.

Okay. I spoke to Morlon, Bradley said. Told him y’all were helpin me out on the sly. He won’t lie for us, but he won’t run and tattle either.

Good, Raymond said.

McDowell’s voice was like tinkling silver bells. We’ll be discreet.

If you cost ’em one customer, C.W. will hear about it, and then we’re all in a world of shit. Pardon my French, ma’am.

Don’t worry. I got a dirty fuckin mouth, too.

Bradley laughed and shook his head. By the way, C.W.’s gonna be in his office all afternoon. If you wanna swing by and talk to Benny Harveston, now’s the time. Just remember, if C.W. catches y’all out there, I don’t know nothin about it. He stood up and stretched, his hands in the small of his back.

Don’t worry, Raymond said. I’ve been round and round with C.W. before. If it comes to that, I’ll take all the heat.

Bradley seemed at ease. Holler at me if you find anything my people missed, you hear?

We will, said Raymond.

The chief looked at them a moment longer. Then he turned and walked out of the diner, waving to Silky Redheart as he went. She waddled around the counter and up to their table, where she folded a ticket in half and tore it off the pad and laid it down next to Raymond’s plate.

Y’all want anything else?

Raymond patted his belly. No, ma’am. That was the best chili cheeseburger I ever ate, and I live in a town that takes its food mighty serious.

’Preciate it. Y’all come back. She turned and walked to her register, stopping by each table and booth to check on her customers.

Raymond unfolded the check. Inside it lay a key on which someone had Scotch-taped a white label reading Strg. Bldg. Raymond pocketed it and said, Come on. Let’s go get hot and sweaty in yonder desert.

An hour later, they had completed a sweep of the porch, the parking lot, and the outlying fields. No one had paid them much attention. They found nothing of note: dried and crumbling footprints from the last rain, discarded trash, tire tracks, all business as usual at a diner, all of it so mashed together that not even a TV detective could draw any conclusions. The only hope lay in the storage building. If nothing presented itself there, it would be time to interview witnesses, which would lessen their lead time exponentially.

Raymond whistled and waved McDowell and LeBlanc to the storage building. It was about the length of a railroad car and made of ancient, rough-hewn boards. It had been painted red last summer to match the diner, but somehow the new coat seemed to have aged. The place looked like a deep bruise. As far as Raymond could see, no one had installed an electric light. The ash-gray curtains on the other side could have been decades old. Only the windowpanes looked new.

I don’t wanna go in there.

From behind him, her voice shaking, McDowell said, This place is bad.

Raymond did not look at her. If he did, he might take her by the elbow and pull her away, because he felt it, too—a tickling at the base of his skull, swelling and itching like an infected mosquito bite, worse than the voice that had told him to drink after Marie died. The storage building seemed like one of those places where danger slept in every weakened board and vicious splinter protruding from the walls like broken teeth. He had seen a lot of those places in south Louisiana. He had even gone into some of them. And he had hated it the whole time, feeling as if the very air pressed down on him like a malevolent hand.

He would have to enter this one, too. The job required it. So he forced himself to stand in front of the door.

Up close, the knob and lock looked new. Raymond fished in his pocket and dug out the key. Jesus. It feels like my throat’s closin up. Still, he stuck the key in the hole and turned, hearing the tumblers clack. He took the key out and put it back in his pocket and turned the knob, hating the feel of it, oily and warm like rotting meat.

I reckon it’s too late to be roofers or somethin, LeBlanc said, his voice strained.

Raymond pushed open the door, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dim, hot interior.

The northern wall was lined with shelves that were empty save for a pair of ancient boots and some kind of belt. Wooden folding tables were stacked in the middle of the floor. On these lay bulk-wrapped packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and napkins. On the floor to the east, gallon-size cans of corn and beans and tomatoes and pie fillings in towers of irregular heights, grouped according to content. Around the tables and cans, extra chairs and disassembled booths. Nothing appeared interesting or helpful.

From behind him, LeBlanc said, You gonna let us in, too?

Betsy, see what you make of them boots over yonder, Raymond said. Darrell, you take the right side. I’ll take the left, and we’ll meet in the middle. Remember we’re lookin for anything unusual.

You mean like an expired can of purple-hull peas? LeBlanc asked. I mean, I don’t even get why we’re in here. No sign of forced entry.

Maybe the killer had a key, Raymond said.

That would mean somebody at the diner’s our man, LeBlanc said.

Let’s try to rule it out.

They spread out. The windows provided some illumination, but LeBlanc left the door open for extra light. He and Raymond poked around their areas, picking up cases of plastic and metal cutlery, moving stacked cans around, kneeling to inspect every inch of the floor before walking on it. Nothing seemed out of place, or, rather, everything seemed haphazard, so they could not know one way or the other. Sweat poured from Raymond’s brow. LeBlanc huffed and puffed like a marathon runner in the last quarter mile. Their curses filled the air as they tripped over bric-a-brac.

McDowell had not made a single noise.

After ten minutes, during which he stubbed his toe three times and cut his finger on the edge of a can, LeBlanc stood to his full height, the top of his head only inches from the ceiling, and said, Well, this sucks ass. Nothin more interestin than that box of glow-in-the-dark condoms. And they expired in 2003.

Raymond straightened up, his spine aching. Only thing I’ve found is my tolerance for heat and bad air, which, as it turns out, ain’t too high. Betsy?

McDowell stood at the back wall, staring at the items on the shelves, not moving. LeBlanc raised his eyebrows. They began picking their way around the clutter.

When they reached her, she was staring at the old, scuffed boots. They were splotched with dark stains that might have been blood or ancient mud or some of the Redhearts’ barbecue sauce. No insects or vermin had chewed them up over the years, a minor miracle for something that old. An ancient gun belt lay coiled around the boots like a snake sunning itself on a rock. It was covered in those same crusty splotches.

LeBlanc started to touch McDowell’s shoulder, but Raymond stopped him. Her eyes were wide and unblinking and distant. Raymond had seen this before, when she read for clients. He had always believed her trance to be an act, but if that were so, where was the audience now? Her bottom lip quivered.

He leaned in close. What is it, Betsy?

So angry, she whispered. So much pain.

Whose pain?

McDowell did not reply.

Raymond motioned for LeBlanc to step back. They maneuvered their way to the front wall and watched her, speaking in whispers.

Jesus Christ, Ray. I ain’t never seen her this intense before, LeBlanc said. What do we do? Poke her? Leave her alone?

Hell if I know. Whoever them boots belonged to, they wasn’t happy.

You thinkin the Piney Woods Kid?

They look old enough.

That’d be weird, LeBlanc said. The Kid’s shit at the murder site.

Weird, yeah. But proof that he’s back from the dead and killin folks with his ghost revolvers?

I didn’t say that. Can’t we pull her away from there now?

Whatever she’s feelin might be useful, Raymond said. She’s always handled herself before. We gotta let it play out.

They leaned against the rough, splintery wall. LeBlanc shifted from foot to foot, clenching his fists. He’d chew through steel to protect her.

Come on, Betsy, LeBlanc muttered.

Easy, Raymond whispered. This is what she does.

Minutes later, though, she still had not moved. Hell with it. He motioned LeBlanc forward.

She looked exactly as she had before—eyes wide, mouth working as if she were struggling to form words. Then her brows knitted. She scowled. She trembled as her eyes filled with tears.

They cut and chop and slice like they’re slaughterin a pig, she whispered. They got no respect. They wanna damn the spirit to wander the earth, but they got no idea what real hate can do. And if they knew, they wouldn’t care. This is a bad place.

LeBlanc goggled. Raymond shivered, as if his spine had been stroked with the tip of a feather. He wanted a drink, and not a beer, either—whiskey, at least a pint, maybe even a gallon.

McDowell trembled harder. And then a single drop of blood oozed out of her right eye and mixed with her tears, thin streams of red cascading down her face and dripping onto her shirt.

What the hell? LeBlanc said.

Raymond grunted. He had never seen anything like that, had never even heard tell of it. He grabbed McDowell by the shoulder and turned her around. Blood dripped from both her eyes.

Raymond shook her. Betsy. Snap out of it, darlin, he said.

LeBlanc’s eyes bugged. Is she okay?

Wake up, Raymond said. Come on back.

McDowell’s eyes focused. Then she burst into sobs. She fell against LeBlanc, turned, and buried her face in his shirt. He held her and stroked her hair and made shushing sounds as she gasped and wracked tears up from the deep well of her soul, smearing blood and sweat all over LeBlanc.

We’re leavin, LeBlanc said.

Yeah, Raymond said. Come on, Betsy. Watch your step.

Screw that, LeBlanc snapped. He picked her up and carried her, kicking pieces of booth and disassembled stools out of his way. He toted her out the door, and Raymond followed them back into the light of the Texas afternoon.

Everyone was thirsty, and LeBlanc insisted they take McDowell away from the diner, so they drove to Dairy Queen and bought her a Coca-Cola and a Blizzard. Raymond sat across from her, sipping Coke. LeBlanc took the seat beside her. He watched her as if she might burst into flame. The air conditioner blasted out of the vent over their heads, and a couple of ceiling fans twirled nearby, but the heat still pressed them like an iron. The décor hardly helped. With its mix of what Raymond hoped were fake cow skulls and potted cacti and warm-hued paint, it looked like a desert. Raymond reached over and patted LeBlanc’s right hand. The big man nodded but did not relax.

McDowell spooned the Blizzard into her mouth with metronomic regularity. How long before she got brain freeze? After a while, she put down her plastic spoon and smiled.

Much better, she said. Felt like I was about to melt.

LeBlanc still looked stricken. You sure you’re okay? We were really worried about you.

I’m fine.

LeBlanc seemed unconvinced. And McDowell did seem out of sorts. The fear in her voice, the blood dripping from her eyes like something from a horror film—what had they witnessed?

Betsy, Raymond said. I hate to ask you—

It’s okay. I can talk about it.

LeBlanc glanced at Raymond. We can do this later.

She shook her head. Now’s better, while it’s still fresh. Though I can’t tell you much.

Whatever you can give us will help, Raymond said.

McDowell pushed her hair behind her ears and drank more soda.

The boots, the belt—it was like a black swarm of bees hung over ’em and buzzed around my head, McDowell said. This high-pitched whine that tickled my throat just under my ears. And the feelin—like a wall of pure hate. The anger—no, more like rage. It felt murderous. Somethin bad happened in that storeroom. And we better hope it ain’t connected to our case, because if it is, we’re in for some rough times.

LeBlanc wanted McDowell to stay in the hotel while he and Raymond talked to Lorena Harveston’s family. But as they wound through town following Google Maps, McDowell drove. After she showered and changed her clothes, she had argued her skills were best used in situations like this. LeBlanc had gritted his teeth and complained, but it was McDowell’s decision. Besides, she was right. They had brought her along to help deal with people, and in any murder case, you had to look at the family. According to Bradley, the Harveston woman’s mother and father still lived in the house where she had grown up. The agency had to persuade the parents to talk.

Soon they pulled up to the curb of a white house with flaking paint and a rusty pickup in the drive. A grill sat in the middle of the yard, wisps of smoke curling from the vents on top and carrying the sweet smell of barbecue. They walked through the front yard, and as they passed the grill, LeBlanc raised the lid and waved away the smoke and steam. Leg quarters and a couple of breasts.

If I can do this without a beer, you can get your mind off your stomach, Raymond said.

LeBlanc stuck out his tongue. McDowell laughed.

The temperature had not abated. Even the ankle-deep grass felt hot. At the front door, they arranged themselves strategically—McDowell in front, Raymond behind her, and LeBlanc with his imposing figure in the rear. McDowell knocked. From within, the sound of a television turned to deafening levels. McDowell knocked again, harder this time. Nothing. Finally, LeBlanc stepped past her and rapped on the door hard enough to shake it in its frame. The television volume decreased. A moment later, the door opened, a blast of cool air washing over them. The man who stood before them looked to be in his midfifties. He wore a short but ill-kept beard, a white T-shirt with drops of barbecue sauce on the chest, and a pair of bright red shorts. He held an open Shiner Bock, the bottle sweating in his hand. Raymond licked his lips.

Benny Harveston looked them over and said, I already took a copy of The Watchtower this week.

McDowell favored him with her 200-watt smile. Mr. Harveston, I believe Chief Bradley told you we’d be stoppin by.

Harveston’s eyes narrowed. He might have.

Well, sir, first of all, I hope you’ll accept our condolences—

Hold up, Harveston broke in, looking at each of them as he spoke, his eyes cold. I ain’t speakin about Lorena with strangers unless I know what you want. And if you’re startin a sales pitch for some goddam magazine article, you’ll have about a two-minute head start before I can fetch my shotgun.

LeBlanc tensed. Raymond shook his head, hoping LeBlanc saw him. McDowell reached out and took Harveston’s free hand in both of hers. The man’s face went slack. His eyes widened. McDowell was sending now—sympathy, calmness, whatever—and it seemed to be working. Harveston’s watery red eyes softened.

We ain’t journalists, McDowell said, her voice gentle. And we would never disrespect your daughter’s memory. We want to catch whoever took her away from you. Will you let us help?

Harveston looked at McDowell for a moment more, then at Raymond and LeBlanc. He blinked as if he had just noticed them.

Scuse my manners. We done had too many buzzards flappin around. And forgive the mess. We ain’t been much on housekeepin since Lorena passed.

Harveston led them into the living room—a couch and glass-topped coffee table, an easy chair, a flat-screen television on which the Houston Astros were beating the Cincinnati Reds 4-1. Harveston took one end of the couch and set his beer on the coffee table. He did not use a coaster.

Y’all have a seat, he said. My wife’s at the store.

McDowell sat on the other end of the sofa. Raymond and LeBlanc stood.

Raymond made the introductions. I’m Raymond Turner. These are my partners, Darrell LeBlanc and Elizabeth McDowell. We’re private detectives.

Harveston’s brow furrowed. Who hired you?

Raymond glanced at LeBlanc. Somebody who wants to make sure nobody else gets hurt. We’d like to ask you some questions.

Harveston looked at McDowell. She nodded.

All right, Harveston said. But let’s get this done before my wife gets back. She’s been through enough.

Raymond nodded. Can you think of anybody that might have wanted to hurt your daughter?

Harveston ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. Like I told the cops, I can’t think of a single person. The folks she worked with liked her. She hadn’t dated since she came home from school.

LeBlanc took notes. McDowell focused on Harveston.

All right, Raymond said. Did anything unusual happen around the time of your daughter’s death? Any strangers in your neighborhood, any prank phone calls?

Naw. Nothin we don’t see and hear every goddam day.

Raymond pretended to think for a minute while LeBlanc scribbled. Then he asked, You got any opinion on this Piney Woods Kid business? I’ve been private eyein for a long time now, and I never heard somethin so far-fetched.

Harveston gestured dismissively. It’s disrespectful. Crazy bastards. It ain’t like my daughter was the first person that ever got killed in this town. No, that shit’s spreadin because them folks out at the diner’s got too much imagination. And because of my family’s connection to the Kid.

Tell us about that.

My great-great-granddad, name of Roy, was a member of the posse that killed the Kid and brought him back to Comanche.

Raymond looked at LeBlanc. Huh.

Only reason I know what Roy did was because of that article Red Thornapple wrote.

Thornapple. Seems like I heard that name before, Raymond said, hoping Harveston would tell him something Bradley had not discovered.

Red runs the town newspaper. He’s the one that got everybody together at the diner. Took their picture. I was supposed to be in it, but I had to work that evenin, so Lorena went instead. If I’d been there instead of her, she’d still be alive. My little girl.

Harveston wiped his eyes. LeBlanc wrote.

It’s not your fault, said McDowell. The only person to blame is the killer.

Harveston snuffled. If it wasn’t for the Wayne fella dyin there, too, I’d say some tweaker needed money and Lorena was just in the wrong place. I mean, why would somebody come after us? We ain’t done nothin. We ain’t got nothin.

And your wife doesn’t have any ideas about why… Raymond said.

Harveston’s expression darkened. No, he said. And I won’t drag her through the whole thing again.

I understand. We’re just lookin at every angle.

Well, you’ll have to look at this angle without my wife.

Ten minutes later, they were driving back to the hotel. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Kids played in yards and splashed in plastic swimming pools. One man in a swimsuit washed his truck in his driveway, the sudsy water snaking into the street.

Betsy, Raymond said. Anything?

Grief. Pain, McDowell said from the back seat. Some anger when you asked about his wife. Survivor’s guilt.

There’s gotta be somethin more that connects these people, LeBlanc said.

Yeah, said Raymond. Two descendants buy it on damn near the same spot the posse brought the Kid’s body. It can’t be a coincidence.

Well, what next? McDowell asked.

Three things. One, we call the chief and see if he’s got our copies of the case files yet. Two, we talk to the other descendants. Maybe one of ’em knows somethin, even if they don’t know they know. Three, we find out everything we can about the Piney Woods Kid. Our connection might be in the history.

From what I felt earlier, McDowell said, I’d say there’s a really good chance you’re right.

LeBlanc glanced at Raymond. Time to call Betsy’s friend Jake?

He wanted to help, Raymond said, and professors like libraries.