Chapter Nineteen

September 13, 2016—Comanche, Texas

Adam Garner could barely keep his eyes open. He had slept ten hours over the last three days and wanted nothing more than a sandwich, a long piss, and fourteen hours in bed. And now, finally, he had almost reached home.

When Pat Wayne called him with the news of John’s death, she had been in shock or hysterical or both, rambling about how a ghost shot John in the guts. Garner could not follow most of it and, in truth, could barely recall it now. He must have drifted off while she talked, remembering John in his high-school football uniform, on his couch with a beer in hand, at Cowboys Stadium when Dallas lost their first game there to the New York Goddam Giants back in ’09. Garner had wanted to hightail it back to Comanche, but he had been driving through upstate New York on the way to Minneapolis. By the time he offloaded and headed southwest, he had missed the funeral. He called Pat and apologized, and then he phoned his boss, asking for another assignment. He needed time, just enough for the worst of his grief and anger to subside. Pat would need a good friend. He had picked up a load of electronics in Fargo and hauled it to Salt Lake City, and when that was done, he pushed on to Vegas and spent nearly a week at an off-Strip casino, playing poker and slots and drinking beer and watching the whole sad press of humanity rumble by. When he felt like he could look at Comanche without punching someone, he got in his truck and headed home.

Now, nearing his house in the rig’s cab, he geared down and tugged on the wheel, every muscle in his arms and shoulders protesting. Jesus God, I ain’t never been so tired. Even my hair hurts. He did not notice the squad car parked across the street and paid no attention when two deputies got out. As he killed the engine, removed his keys, and stumbled out of the truck, he did not hear them approach or when they called his name three times. Heading for his front door, trying to find the house key on his overloaded ring, Garner finally acknowledged the cops’ presence when one of them tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around, eyes bleary, bladder aching, and said, Huh?

He recognized one of the cops, a sawed-off little prick named Roen who had given him four speeding tickets over the years. After that last one, I promised myself I’d break your little rat face if I ever caught you outta uniform, but here you are again, all dressed up. It’s like you turn invisible or teleport to the moon as soon as you unbutton that black shirt. What the hell are you doin here at one thirty in the mornin? The other cop, a Latino Garner had never seen before, stood a head taller than Roen and looked as if he could eat the little bastard for supper with room left over. But Adam Garner was bigger than both. His beer gut protruded well past his belt. His biceps were the size of country hams, his graying beard cascading down his chest so far that more than one truck stop hoochie had asked if he were one of those ZZ Top guys. Maybe that was why the little rat-faced cop kept glancing around, one hand hovering near his service weapon. Even the bigger guy looked like he would jump a mile in the air, if anybody said boo.

Now, lookahere, Garner said. I did thirty-five ever since I hit the city limits. And don’t give me no bull about crossin the center line. I kept my eye on it all the way home.

Roen’s hand rested on his service weapon’s butt. Chief sent us to pick you up.

He grabbed Garner’s arm.

The bigger cop held out one hand like he expected Garner to skip through a field of flowers with him. But Garner pulled away.

I ain’t done nothin. Y’all got no right to drag me off my own porch unless you’re chargin me with somethin.

We’re takin you in to protective custody, said Roen.

Garner laughed. You? Protect me from what, bunny rabbits and rainbows?

The bigger cop pulled a can of pepper spray out of his belt. Garner stopped laughing.

If you try to use that on me, you’re gonna get a pepper enema.

The man looked like he might try it anyway until Roen said, No. Put that up.

That made Garner stop and think. Roen had always exuded Little Cop Syndrome like stink off a landfill, the kind of guy who used the badge and gun to bully people who could have folded him up like a wallet. He never warned, always ticketed, and took every attempt at friendly small talk as disrespect. If a son of a bitch like that was trying to keep things calm, he must be under strict orders from the chief, and that could mean nothing good for Adam Garner.

The bigger cop put the spray back in his belt. Roen turned back to Garner and said, Look. The chief believes you might be in danger.

Garner sighed. Why don’t you boys come in and let me take a piss before I gotta do it in public and get arrested?

The cops looked at each other. Then Roen said, Gotta be better than standin out here where any damn fool can shoot at us. But we’re goin in first.

Adam Garner unlocked his door and stepped aside, bowing like a prince before a lady.

Bradley’s bedside landline rang seven times before his wife elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to wake him. Helen muttered something about turning down the ringer and rolled over. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed the handset off the cradle.

Bradley, he said, stifling a yawn.

The voice of David Roen blasted out of the earpiece. Sorry to get you up, but I thought you’d wanna know Adam Garner came home.

All right. You told him the plan?

Yessir. He ain’t exactly inclined.

Put him on.

Roen talked with someone, but Garner did not pick up for nearly a minute, during which time Bradley considered hanging up and letting the man take his chances. But Momma Bradley had raised her kids to finish their jobs and do them well, no matter the pay or the circumstance, so he waited as Helen snored beside him.

Finally, Garner’s gruff voice said, Hello.

Mr. Garner. Officer Roen tells me you won’t cooperate.

Well, now, he walked up on me when I was half dead. Plus, he won’t explain why I’m supposed to go stay with Red Thornapple. It ain’t like me and Red eat breakfast together.

I expect my officer mentioned our reasonin relates to the deaths at the diner. That would be a whale of an omission if he didn’t.

He did. But I don’t know what that has to do with me.

You knew the Harveston girl.

I spoke to her at the diner when they took our picture for that article. Some months back, she helped fix me up after I burned the shit outta my forearm changin my oil. That’s how well I knew her.

And what about John Wayne?

Garner went silent for a bit. Then he said, We was good friends. Played ball together in high school. Worked on old hot rods when we could spare the time. Drinkin buddies. Garner’s voice broke.

A second later, the big man was snorting and snuffling, the sound muffled as if he held the phone to his chest. A loud goose honk suggested he had blown his nose. Bradley waited.

Sorry, Garner said. I thought it was all out of my system. Don’t reckon I can do much for Pat, cryin like a little girl every time I think about Johnny. I’d like to get hold of the sumbitch that killed him.

Bradley mustered all his sleep-deprived sympathy. I’m sorry for your loss. We think somebody’s after the folks in Red’s article.

Bradley told Garner as much of the story as he could, leaving out the ghost angle. He would not mock the man’s grief.

When Bradley finished, Garner said, I got no plans to eat at the diner anytime soon. Not when I could probably look out the door and still see John’s blood on the ground.

Bradley exhaled. Good, he said.

Did Pat tell you what she thinks about all this?

Bradley cleared his throat. Yeah. A lot of folks saw somethin weird.

A lot of folks think they’ve seen Bigfoot and flyin saucers, too. Don’t make ’em right.

It sure don’t.

I hope somebody’s been out to check on Pat.

One of my deputies goes by there every couple days. As for you, it’d be best if you cleared out until all this blows over.

I’m too tired to run. And I ain’t gonna hide out at Red’s place either. If somebody wants to kill me, I got a little somethin for ’em in my gun cabinet.

Don’t you do nothin stupid.

I’m not lookin for trouble. I’ll be sittin right here until it’s time to hit the road again. Good night, Chief.

Garner must have handed the phone back to Roen, who said hello again just as Bradley hung up. The chief slipped back under the covers and curled up. He would have to assign someone to patrol Garner’s neighborhood, especially at night, until they closed the case. It would be a pain in his ass and his budget. But the CPD could hardly leave the man unprotected. With any luck, the killer would move on to somebody else’s town or slip up, and if Turner’s group caught the bastard, that would suit Bradley right down to the ground.

So thinking, he drifted off and dreamed of a ghostly face—haggard and soiled, stubbled and gray. It stared at him, unblinking, unmoving, its faded eyes mesmerizing. And when it finally opened its mouth, Bradley woke up screaming, pouring sweat. He turned on the bedside lamp and clutched his chest, his heart pounding, until Helen sat up beside him, one breast poking out of her nightgown. She watched him with eyes the size of silver dollars, her hands bunched in the bedclothes. When he finally found his voice, he patted her on the leg and told her to go back to sleep. It had just been a nightmare, one that would fade in the light of day.

The next morning, at Larry’s Grill on West Grand Avenue, Raymond sat across from LeBlanc and McDowell, eating an omelet and drinking a cup of strong coffee, when his phone buzzed. He plucked it out and saw Frost’s name on the readout.

Hello, Jake, he said.

A deep yawn from the other end. Morning.

You sound beat.

Sorry. I’ve been up all night researching the history of the Comanche Depot, and holy shit, did I find something.

Yeah? What?

Okay, so I’ve been using a couple of those public records search companies, right?

Raymond sipped coffee. Uh-huh.

Well, it took quite a bit of digging, but I found it, buried in a defunct Fort Worth paper from the late nineteenth century.

Found what?

An account of what happened to the Piney Woods Kid. That posse didn’t just gun him down. They brought him to the Comanche Depot dead house. Then they fucking dismembered it. The body, not the building. They chopped it into bits.

Raymond’s stomach flip-flopped. To LeBlanc and McDowell, he said, I gotta take this outside. LeBlanc nodded, looking puzzled.

Raymond stood and pushed his chair under the table. He walked out and leaned against the rough brick wall, took a deep breath, and said, I’m back. Who wrote that article—Stephen King?

The time period’s closer to Poe, but I know what you mean.

Did it say what happened to the pieces?

No, but people saw the posse ride out that morning covered in gore.

Christ.

A lot of people believe blood is life. Look at Christian communion rites. Look at vampire lore. Even if those men hauled in tubs to catch the runoff, they would have almost certainly spilled some. If you’ve started to believe in ghosts, that might be enough to anchor one to the depot.

Raymond laughed without humor. I’m not ready to call in the Winchesters just yet. Did you turn up anything about a pair of boots? Maybe the Kid’s guns or gun belt?

Several moments of silence elapsed before Frost asked, How did you know?

Oh, shit. Raymond shivered. Tell me.

The Kid’s gore dripped all over them when that posse shot him. The people who ran the depot displayed them near the ticket window for years. Can you believe this shit? They talk about it in the paper like it’s as normal as Sunday brunch.

What happened to the boots after that?

No idea.

Raymond thought about the stains on the old boots and gun belt in the storage building. About McDowell’s reaction. About what she said—this is a bad place. He told Frost what they had seen.

Her eyes bled, Frost said. They actually bled, and you saw it?

I wish I hadn’t. You said earlier they took the Kid’s body to the dead house. What the hell’s a dead house?

It’s like a morgue. You often find them near older cemeteries. Some train depots from that period have one, since bodies were often transported by rail.

There’s an old cemetery just a few blocks from the depot. We’ve passed it a couple of times. I didn’t see anything like that.

Maybe it never had one, Frost said. Maybe it got torn down. Or maybe nineteenth-century Comanche just had the one.

You think the diner’s storage building used to be a dead house?

I don’t know what the hell I think. But it fits the narrative. It would be where the Kid’s remains were desecrated. Plus, dead houses weren’t exactly secure or sanitary by our standards. Rats, flies, and so forth could find their way in. If the storage building was a dead house, it probably saw a lot of corrupted remains. It’s exactly the kind of place a ghost would haunt. And if your killer knows the building’s history, it makes sense he’d focus on that location.

Raymond swallowed hard. Again, he felt like vomiting. They had stomped around in a bad place all right. And although Frost had no doctorate in criminal psychology, he was probably right. Somebody who wanted to be the Kid or his ghost, or sought revenge for whatever the hell, would know the history and home in on the diner. Plus, it fit the nut jobs’ revenge theory of why the killer had come after the posse’s descendants. But who in Comanche might hatch such an unnecessarily convoluted response to an obscure historical moment?

God, he needed a whiskey. Frost had cleared up some questions but raised even more.

Thanks, Raymond said. I’ll be in touch.

He hung up and rubbed his temples. He wanted another cup of coffee and twelve Tylenol.

He walked back inside and sat down. Their waitress refilled his coffee. LeBlanc ordered a slice of apple pie. McDowell sat beside him, watching Raymond, her brow furrowed like a worried mother’s. She fished in her purse and pulled out a bottle of Excedrin Migraine and handed it to Raymond. He opened the bottle and shook out three pills, not caring about the recommended dosage. He dry-swallowed them and dumped a couple of sugar packets in his coffee.

Finally, LeBlanc said, Well? You gonna tell us what he said, or do we gotta guess?

Raymond leaned over the table as far as he could and waved them in. They huddled, elbows on the table, and in hushed tones Raymond summarized his conversation with Frost. In the middle of the story, the waitress brought LeBlanc’s pie. It sat untouched until Raymond finished. Then LeBlanc wolfed it down in three bites. When the server brought the check, Raymond paid it as McDowell and LeBlanc stood at the register behind him, silent. They exited the restaurant, Raymond leading them back to their rental. They got in, and he started the car but did not pull away from the curb.

Well, McDowell said. On the practical side, it sounds like our guy is doing what he thinks an angry spirit would do.

LeBlanc nodded, though Raymond suspected he would have agreed with McDowell if she had said Yankees had two heads.

If that’s the practical side, Raymond said, I’d hate to hear the whacko perspective.

I’m more open to the idea of spirits than you are. Back home, I’ve felt some things I can’t explain. Not just on the ghost tours they advertise to the out-of-towners, either. Things that happened, people that lived and died—they leave echoes, some piece of themselves and whatever they felt. Pride, anger, love, desperation, guilt. And if the emotions are still there, then how much of a stretch is it to believe somethin’s generatin those feelings? We’re probably dealin with a man—a sick one, a vicious one, but just a man. Still—what if it is somethin else?

LeBlanc just about nodded himself into a concussion. Better safe than sorry, he said.

They drove back to the hotel and went to their rooms. Raymond wanted to stake out the diner, now that all the descendants were accounted for. He did not know what else to do. But given nothing had happened in the daytime yet, he felt reasonably safe in lying down for an hour or two, just long enough to get rid of his headache. After that, he supposed they would have to organize watches. The CPD lacked manpower. The Turner Agency would have to take up the slack. And he would not send McDowell alone after what had happened to her in the storage building. In short, the group would have to split up.

Shit, he muttered. This is more like Scooby-Doo all the time.

LeBlanc, lying on his bed and watching SportsCenter, said, Huh?

I said, I should have stayed in New Orleans. Wake me up in two hours, unless somethin happens.

He lay on his bed and settled in as an anchorman rattled off statistics from a ball game Raymond had not seen and did not care about.

After LeBlanc woke him, Raymond went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face. He combed his hair. Too much gray. I’m gettin old. It seemed like fifty years since Marie had died, and if she saw him today, she might mistake him for his father. He needed a shave and a bottle of whiskey and a goddam bowl of gumbo, and in Comanche, he would likely find only the shave. He took a long piss and grabbed an empty water bottle for the stakeout. No telling when a man might need to relieve himself, and the diner sat too close to the main drag to go behind a tree. Another problem—they had only the one car, meaning that the off man would have to leave the other to the elements or sit in the hotel with no way to get anywhere. The other choice—beg Bradley to lend them a vehicle. He certainly could not ask Rennie and C.W.

Raymond dialed Bradley and asked.

I know where we can get you a low-profile ride. I’ll meet you at the diner, the chief said.

The grounds were still cordoned off with sawhorses and police tape. Bradley leaned against his cruiser, parked on the west side of Austin, directly across from the diner. Behind it sat an early ’90s Ford Ranger, black and beaten to shit, covered in mud. The back bumper was missing, the bed filled with junk and garbage—rusty spare parts, at least three rimless tires, loose bottles and cans.

LeBlanc pulled up behind the Ranger and got out, looking over the truck with disdain. Raymond joined him.

It looks like a burned-out Chevy took a shit, and that shit built this truck, LeBlanc said.

The inside was in only marginally better shape. The seat covers were split, the padding puffing out. An overflowing ashtray had spilled a fine coating of black ash all over the gearshift and the emergency brake. Raymond winced. He hated smoke even worse than divorce cases.

Someone sat in the passenger seat of Bradley’s radio car, a balding, wispy man who looked about as happy as a pit bull with the clap. Raymond nodded in the little man’s direction and said, That gent’s truck, I take it.

Bradley grinned. That’s Officer Roen. The truck belongs to his ex-wife. She wanted to sell it for parts but didn’t have a title, so she hauled it to his house in the middle of the night and dumped it in his driveway. Nobody would suspect it for a stakeout car.

That’s for sure, Raymond said. Looks like somethin a hobo wouldn’t bother pissin in.

Bradley tossed the keys to Raymond. If you’re lookin to watch both sides at once, you ought to stay here. Otherwise I’d park in the lot. If you see or hear anything, give me a call, and I’ll come runnin.

He walked away. Roen never looked at them. When Bradley got in, Roen turned to him and said something. Bradley shook his head and started the car. Roen faced forward again. The cruiser pulled away.

Raymond and LeBlanc watched it go.

I wish he’d arm us, Raymond said. What the devil are we gonna use if the killer shows up? Irony?

LeBlanc grinned. He led Raymond to the rental’s trunk and opened it. Inside were two 20-gauge pump-action shotguns and two cartons of shells. Raymond raised his eyebrows.

Borrowed ’em from Thornapple while you was nappin, LeBlanc said.

Raymond whistled. Jesus. I bet he owns stock in Lockheed Martin.

Nah. I think Texans are legally required to stockpile shootin irons.

LeBlanc picked up one of the guns and loaded it and handed it to Raymond. He left the second one in the trunk and gave Raymond a box of shells. Raymond walked back to the Ranger and opened the door. He climbed in and set the gun on the seat, its barrel pointed toward the passenger door. The smell of stale cigarettes assaulted him, making his nose burn and his eyes water. The ashtray would not shut.

I hate to do another man’s work, Raymond said, but we need to clean this thing up. I’m scared I’m gonna catch hepatitis.

Yeah. Mrs. Roen must have been a real peach.

LeBlanc left Raymond at the diner and drove to Thornapple’s place. Joyce Johnstone was napping. You could hear her snoring all the way down the hall. Thornapple reddened.

She had a rough night, so she took off work early, the newspaperman said. She’s, uh, got a sinus problem. Anyway, the shells I gave you ought to get y’all started. You can pick up more at the Stephenville Walmart.

We really appreciate everything you’re doin, LeBlanc said. You and Joyce both.

Woman snores like a lumberjack, but God help me, I love her.

When LeBlanc returned to the hotel, he left the guns and shells in the car. He looked at his watch—6 p.m., enough time for a nap before he relieved Raymond at eight. They had something planned that they had not cleared with Bradley.

He had barely closed his eyes when someone rapped on the door three times, sharp and staccato. LeBlanc groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. When he opened the door, McDowell stood there holding a couple of Cokes. LeBlanc blinked, feeling stupid and thick. For the first time since they had gotten off the plane in Dallas, he had been too busy to think about McDowell. She had been stuck in her room all day, watching talk shows or soap operas or God only knew what, subsisting off whatever crap she could find in the vending machines.

Hey, Betsy, he yawned. I was just layin down for a nap.

She stepped past him into the room. Mind if I join you? I’ve been lonesome all day.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Then she jumped onto Raymond’s bed and rolled onto her stomach, her bare feet near the pillows, her arms tucked underneath her head. LeBlanc shut the door and went back to his bed. He sat down, back against the headboard. McDowell turned to an episode of Dr. Phil. The host sat between a crying mother and her thirteen-year-old daughter, who, according to the graphic on screen, had become sexually active and drank alcohol.

McDowell looked at LeBlanc over her shoulder. Can you believe the shit this kid does? What were you doin when you were thirteen?

At that age, LeBlanc had been a head taller than most of his classmates and skinny. He endured nicknames like Slim and Treetop and Ichabod Crane—a gangly and clumsy kid who had the passion and brains for playing football and basketball but also tripped over his own feet. When he ran, he looked like a cartoon character, arms and legs akimbo, all knees and knobby elbows. Around sixteen, he began to gain weight. Exercise produced muscle mass, and some of what he ate actually stuck to his ribs. If his thirteen-year-old self could see him now, the boy would probably jump for joy.

But why go into all that? It was over.

I hung out with my friends and talked about girls all day. What about you?

McDowell turned onto her side. I don’t remember. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been this age my whole life. I’ve always sensed what other people felt, so I could never really tell what was mine and what was theirs.

You ever try to turn it off?

It just gave me a headache. She rolled off the bed and sat beside him on his. You know, we’ve been here all this time, and we’ve hardly been alone.

God knows I’ve wanted to. But we ain’t even had that dinner we talked about. I—

She shushed him, putting a finger over her lips. Just kiss me.

LeBlanc obliged. They explored each other, hips and breasts and inner thighs. Soon they fell sideways and fumbled with buttons and zippers. The air conditioner hummed along as Dr. Phil dispensed advice in the background.