Chapter Twenty-One

September 14, 2016—Comanche, Texas

When the pharmacy called, LeBlanc drove over and picked up the Percocet. Back in the room, he handed the bag to McDowell. She read the instructions and shook out a pill. Miserable and exhausted, Raymond watched her like the chicken watches the fox prowling about the coop, looking for an entryway.

McDowell held out the pill, but as Raymond reached for it, her hand closed over it. She put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

You can’t take more than the recommended dose, she said. And you gotta stop as soon as the pain does, no matter how hard it is.

Raymond’s eyes watered. His voice low and quivering, he said, I know. Believe me. I don’t wanna start in the first place.

You could always fly home. Get your surgery. We’ll handle things from here.

He shook his head. We’re already stretched thin. And I ain’t leavin my sister.

So have the surgery in Texas. You can work through the pain after it’s fixed.

No time. Somebody else could die any day. If I get hooked, you’ll have to sober me up when this is over. Sorry, Darrell.

McDowell opened her hand. Raymond took the pill and looked at it for a long time. Then he turned to LeBlanc, trembling. He’s not just miserable. He’s scared. He knows takin that pill could mean hittin the same rock bottom that nearly broke him before. He sat beside Raymond and put an arm around him.

I know what I said when you were drinkin. But this is different. Your hand is wrecked. You can’t sleep. You can barely think. I’ll respect whatever decision you make, and we won’t walk away if you take that thing.

A tear fell down Raymond’s cheek. He nodded. Then he took the pill, chasing it with a plastic cup of water McDowell brought him. When it was done, he closed his eyes for a bit.

When he opened them again, McDowell said, You okay?

He tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. Good enough. I think it’s time to call Frost. His ideas ain’t theoretical anymore. Can y’all do it?

Sure, LeBlanc said. Get some rest.

Raymond lay back. Soon his breathing evened out. McDowell left to shower and change. When she returned, Raymond was snoring, the sound so buzz saw–loud that LeBlanc had to roll him over onto his side just to hear himself think.

LeBlanc and McDowell headed through the lobby to their car. She carried the pills in her pocket, just in case. LeBlanc drove them to Sonic, where they bought a few double cheeseburgers and brought them back to the room. LeBlanc put a burger in the mini-fridge for Raymond and laid out their own repast on the desk. They ate in silence, McDowell’s face pale and drawn. LeBlanc finished his first burger before she had eaten half of hers. He took her hand.

Are we gonna talk about what happened? she asked.

LeBlanc wrapped up his second burger and stuffed it back in the sack. Sure.

Ray’s left hand got blown to hell by a real live ghost.

Well, if it’s a ghost, it ain’t alive. But I take your meanin.

McDowell tried the burger again. She swallowed a couple of bites. LeBlanc took that cue and reopened his sandwich. He was chewing when McDowell said, What’s worse is how mad it was. I felt like I’d stuck my head in a beehive. Just this angry buzz. No compassion, no love, no regret. No guilt. Nothin but pure rage.

LeBlanc had nothing to say. They did not need to parse the Kid’s anger. They only had to look at Raymond’s cast.

Someone rapped on the door. McDowell got up and looked out the peephole and then opened the door. Bradley entered, took off his hat, and said, He looks down for the count.

Percocet, LeBlanc said.

Bradley sat at the foot of Raymond’s bed and said, Well, we’re in a fine mess now.

McDowell turned her chair to face Bradley as LeBlanc asked, When were we ever in good shape?

Bradley ran his fingers through his thinning hair. When C.W. figured out what you were doin, he ordered one of the boys to confiscate the boots. He plans on displayin ’em in the diner durin the Pow Wow. You know what that is?

LeBlanc groaned. Ray told me. I didn’t know C.W. was such a goddam fool. Don’t he know he’s puttin everybody at risk?

He don’t believe in ghosts. Come to that, I don’t either. But I don’t aim to take any chances. If tryin to burn that shit flushed our man once, maybe it could happen again.

LeBlanc sat up straighter. You think you can get the boots outta evidence?

I’m the chief of police. If I can’t do it, nobody can. The real question is how we’re gonna live long enough to burn ’em.

We’ve got some ideas about that. We might have more if our folklore expert ever answers his phone. Say, how’d you explain the shotgun? Or us havin Roen’s truck?

Bradley winked. Your shotgun found its way back into the Ranger, which was blocked off with squad cars by the time the mayor arrived. Far as I know, C.W. never noticed either of ’em.

McDowell shook her head. You boys, she said.

LeBlanc laid a hand on Bradley’s shoulder. Know anybody with a reloadin press?

Later, a filled-to-bursting Walmart sack in one hand, LeBlanc knocked at the address Bradley had given him. A grizzled old man opened the door. This fellow had not shaved in at least three days, his graying stubble like a thin coating of frost. His gossamer white hair stood up in corkscrews.

Who the hell are you, and what the hell you want? he asked.

Name’s Darrell LeBlanc. You Tidewater?

I ain’t sayin shit until you tell me what you’re doin here.

LeBlanc reached into the sack and pulled out a box of rock salt. If you’re Ollie Tidewater, I want you to load this into some shotgun shells.

The old man scratched his head with long, yellowed fingernails. He looked LeBlanc up and down and shook his head.

You want to put rock salt into shotgun shells, he said. What are you, a nut?

Yeah. The kind that’ll pay you.

The old man scratched his head again. Then he moved to the side, motioning LeBlanc into the house. LeBlanc stepped in, the old man’s body odor curdling in his nostrils. He wiped his watering eyes and prayed Ollie Tidewater loaded a shell better than he groomed.

Back in Comanche, LeBlanc phoned Frost. The call went straight to voicemail. He tried three more times with the same result. Hell and damnation. LeBlanc showered, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed. Drifting off to sleep, he thought, Well, with the CPD combin over the diner, at least I don’t have to spend all night in that nasty-ass Ranger.

Raymond woke that afternoon feeling as if he had set his hand on fire and then stuck it in an industrial press. He pushed himself out of bed with his right hand, moaning. LeBlanc was eating a Sonic cheeseburger. It smelled fantastic. Raymond’s stomach gurgled and cramped. He felt like vomiting from the pain, and yet he could not remember being this hungry since the agency’s earliest days, before LeBlanc’s time, when he sometimes sat alone for sixteen hours in a stakeout car.

Afternoon, sleepyhead, LeBlanc said. He put his sandwich on the side table and grabbed Raymond’s pills, popping the top and shaking one out.

Raymond dry-swallowed it. Thanks, he said.

What did you do that for? We got Cokes, coffee, and a quart of orange juice.

I’d appreciate a glass of water. I think that pill stuck halfway down.

LeBlanc got up and grabbed a plastic cup from the dresser. He stepped around the corner into the bathroom. Water gurgled from the sink. LeBlanc returned and handed the water to Raymond, who drank it in one gulp.

I got you a couple burgers in the fridge, LeBlanc said. I can microwave ’em if you’re hungry.

Raymond rubbed his eyes. Yeah. Just give me a minute to let this water settle. I only wanna taste it once.

LeBlanc poured Raymond some coffee from the little two-cup pot and set it on the side table. Then he plopped down on the bed and resumed eating. Light spilled from a crack in the curtains. Piles of dirty clothes lay in the corners. Soon someone would have to hit the laundromat on the other side of town. McDowell had gone once but had let them know she had not flown all the way to Texas to mother anybody. The coffee, strong and bitter, made Raymond’s stomach roil. If only LeBlanc had bought some half-and-half. The injured hand sung, hitting the high notes with shattering volume. Lord, let me get through this without losin the use of it. And help me keep a handle on the drugs. On television, one of the SportsCenter anchors joked about a football player’s contract holdout. Raymond had not thought about the Saints in days. Had the season started?

His head swam, so he leaned against the headboard. LeBlanc finished his sandwich and got up, taking Raymond’s out of the fridge and sticking them in the microwave. I probably should have eaten before takin the meds, but my hand’s killin me. And if we’re gonna make any real progress, I can’t be stumblin about, high as a kite. I’m gonna have to tough it out till bedtime. I just hope I can be useful one-handed.

The microwave dinged. LeBlanc reached into a drawer and pulled out a paper plate. He set the sandwiches on it and took them to the desk and pulled up the chair. Raymond got up, LeBlanc supporting him, and eased into it. He unwrapped the first burger, picked it up, and bit in, groaning with pleasure.

McDowell knocked on the connecting door. When LeBlanc opened their side of it, she stepped inside, looking bright and radiant, her freshly washed hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a blue T-shirt and cutoff jeans. LeBlanc whistled. She grinned and hit him on the shoulder before hugging Raymond’s neck.

How’s the patient? she asked.

Raymond held up his injured hand. At least he missed the one I jack off with.

McDowell burst into laughter. LeBlanc sputtered, dribbling coffee onto the carpet.

She grabbed LeBlanc by the arm and pulled him toward the bathroom. They stood close, whispering. Raymond let this go on for a minute or so. Then he said, Okay, boys and girls. What’s goin on?

They rejoined him.

It’s Frost, LeBlanc said. Been tryin to call him. He ain’t answerin.

Raymond swallowed the food and drank the last of his water.

That could mean anything, he said. Maybe he got laid and turned off his phone. It happens, even to English professors. Just then, Raymond’s phone rang, making them all jump. Raymond banged his hand on the desk and cried, Fuck! He doubled over, cradling it.

LeBlanc grabbed the phone and looked at the readout. Speak of the devil, he said. He answered and listened for a moment. Then he laughed. Yeah, that’s the road. No, just stay on it until you hit town. Okay, talk to you then.

The big man hung up and winked at McDowell. Guess what? The professor’s passin through Stephenville. He should be here in forty minutes or so.

McDowell smiled, but Raymond could only look up, his eyes leaking tears. Great, he croaked.

Frost arrived drenched in sweat, his face nearly as red as his T-shirt. He wore blue jeans that clung to his crotch in ways that looked both uncomfortable and unnecessary. He wore sandals, no socks.

Dragging his suitcase inside, he said, This isn’t a state. It’s a brick kiln. He shook hands with Raymond and LeBlanc and started to hug McDowell but then backed off, indicating his clothes.

What about our messages? LeBlanc asked. Did you drop your phone down the airplane toilet?

I called as soon as I got them, Frost said. I turned the phone off before I left New Orleans. Just grabbed it and the charger and threw them in my bag. I remembered to turn it on in Stephenville. What’s with your hand, Ray?

I got shot by a ghost.

Frost laughed. When no one else did, his eyes narrowed. You’re shitting me.

I shit you not. Go get a shower, and put on some clothes that don’t smell like a stray dog wiped its ass on ’em, and we’ll tell you about it.

One shower later, McDowell gave Frost the hug he had postponed. He had changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a white T-shirt bearing the slogan Caution: Absent-Minded Professor at Large. He still wore the sandals, which Raymond would not have recommended, given the hellish nature of the Texas sun. Burnt feet made for poor concentration.

Everyone got comfortable. It took Raymond twenty minutes to tell the story. Frost pulled a small notepad and pen out of his back pocket and scribbled away the whole time.

When Raymond finished, he asked to Frost, What made you decide to light out for the territories anyway?

Once I told my chair about this case, Frost said, she helped arrange guest lecturers for a couple of weeks. It’s not every day one of us gets to work on a murder case. Or a ghost sighting.

Raymond scowled as if someone had farted. Great. Now everybody thinks we’re some half-ass Ghostbusters tribute band.

The department doesn’t care about you, Frost said. There’s probably a book in this for me, which means another line for their recruiting materials. Everybody wins.

Except our reputation. Now we’re gonna field calls from every old lady who hears a noise in her attic and all the tinfoil-hat-wearin loonies who think Martians are beamin death rays into their brains.

Frost frowned. You want me to go back home?

McDowell touched his arm. No. Ray’s just grumpy because he got shot.

Raymond sighed. McDowell was right. Having Frost with them was better than spending half the day on the phone with him, assuming you could find a spot in Comanche with decent service. Thus far, he could discern no logical pattern to when or where he could get a signal.

I can tell you this much, Raymond said. That sumbitch was holdin a gun, and he did somethin to my hand, but nothin broke the skin—just like the murder victims. Tore my muscles and bones all to hell. We gotta be real careful. I mean red-alert, two-minutes-to-midnight careful.

Frost looked more excited than cautious. Did you tell them about my ideas for fighting a ghost? Raymond started to speak, but Frost went on. Apparently, those old boots and that gun belt anchor the spirit. It must have felt threatened when you tried to torch them. It acted in self-defense.

Raymond held up his mangled hand. Surgeries. Pins and plates and God knows what else. Now you’re sayin it was my fault for provokin him?

No, no. I’m just explaining how this stuff works. The lore I’ve read confirms spirits can be awfully protective of the objects tethering them to the mortal plane.

LeBlanc laughed. Tetherin ’em to the mortal plane. Where do you get this shit?

Literature. History. Folklore. It’s all there. I suggest using the boots as bait to draw him out. Maybe we can even make contact and find out what he wants.

That’s already crossed our minds, LeBlanc said.

Besides, we know what he wants, McDowell said. He wants to kill the descendants of the men who butchered him.

Sure, right, said Frost. But perhaps we can find a solution that doesn’t involve further trauma to Ray’s extremities. Besides, we’ve got an opportunity that may well be unprecedented—the chance to contact a spirit and document the experience. Once I’ve seen the locations, I think I can requisition a couple of high-def video cameras from the film department—

We ain’t interested in palaverin or startin a goddam sewin circle, Raymond said. We just want him caught or gone.

But—

Now LeBlanc leaned forward and interrupted. Ray’s right. This idea of talkin to that thing—look, you didn’t see him. He ain’t gonna talk. He’s more like to shoot us all between the eyes. Hell, what am I sayin? He ain’t even a he. It’s an it.

But I think we’d be safe if we didn’t threaten the boots, Frost insisted. Until you tried to burn them, he hadn’t gone after anyone but the descendants.

We’re not takin chances, Raymond said. Besides, there’s another problem.

LeBlanc told Frost about the mayor’s confiscating the boots and belt, how he wanted to haul them out for the Pow Wow, and how Bradley planned to liberate the items from lockup.

So we can’t do anything unless this Bradley comes through with the boots, Frost said. Bloody hell.

Someone pounded on the door, uptempo, like the bass drum in a speed metal song. Frost started. McDowell looked at the men. She got up and walked over to the door and looked through the peephole.

Aw, shit, she said.

Before anyone could ask a question, the pounding began again, and they heard a gruff, angry voice—C.W. Roark’s.

We know you’re in there, the mayor boomed. Open this goddam door.

What do I do? McDowell asked.

Let him in, Raymond said. It’s that or jump out the window.

McDowell opened the door, and Roark pushed past her, nearly knocking her into the wall. Chief Bradley followed close behind, his expression unreadable. LeBlanc stood and started forward, looking like he might knock the mayor’s teeth through the back of his skull. Frost saw it and tried to get between the two men before LeBlanc did something they would all regret. Raymond stood.

But before anyone could say anything, Rennie Roark forced her way into the crowded room, her hair and lipstick as red as ever, her alley-cat-in-heat voice rising as she cried, C.W. Roark, you behave yourself. Don’t make me cut a switch.

Roark turned on her. Dammit, you’re my wife, not my momma. Quit talkin at me like I’m a twelve-year-old.

Rennie did not flinch. Well, then stop actin like one. I swear, I never seen such a man.

Roark turned away from her, his face red, and glared at Raymond.

I knew you’d make things worse. We should have run you outta town the first night.

C.W., Rennie called.

Raymond tugged on LeBlanc with his good hand. Frost continued to push on the big man’s chest. With only one hand and a skinny professor to help him, Raymond never could have moved LeBlanc unless he wanted to be moved, but by that time, McDowell had joined in, climbing over the bed around Roark and grasping LeBlanc’s hand. She whispered something in his ear, and he backed away a step, nudging Raymond to the side, still staring a hole in Roark.

The expression would have frightened any man with a sense of self-preservation, but Roark was focused on Raymond.

I left you alone long enough to get your hand doctored and leave, but here you are, after firin a gun within the city limits. What would you have done if you’d killed somebody?

Nobody was there but us and the killer, Raymond said. I reckon you’d be fine if he’d shot more than my hand.

I want you all outta my town by sundown. You understand me?

Raymond said nothing. He held Roark’s stare so long that Frost transferred his hand from LeBlanc’s chest to Raymond’s.

He’s my brother, Rennie said. You can’t just make him leave.

Yes, I can, Roark said. If you wanna visit, make him give you the name of his next hotel. If he’s got any sense, it’ll be in Dallas, near the airport.

C.W. Roark, you come outta this room, she said.

She dragged Roark back toward the door, detouring around Bradley, who had said nothing. The chief turned sideways so they could pass, his thumbs hooked into his belt, his expression passive and disinterested.

As the Roarks headed out the door, the mayor said, See ’em gone, Bob, or I’ll have your badge as a paperweight. Then he turned back to Raymond. We’re gonna reopen the diner tomorrow. I plan to be there myself, and I better not see any of y’all. You get me, Ray? If I so much as hear a rumor you’re still in town, you’ll be countin our jail’s ceilin tiles till your arraignment.

The Roarks bickered all the way out of the hotel.

Bradley turned to the rest of them, shaking his head. Frost looked stunned. Raymond sat in his desk chair and said, Well, that sure was fun. Maybe next time he’ll bring a game of Twister with him.

This ain’t a joke, said Bradley. Then someone knocked on the still open door. Officer Roen stood in the hall. Come on in, the chief said.

Roen entered.

What the hell’s this? Raymond asked.

Roen puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his belt, just like Bradley. We’re takin you outta town.

Shut up, Bradley said.

Roen blushed, his expression hangdog, as if Bradley had just stuffed him in a locker in front of the prettiest girl in school. Frost looked from Raymond to the chief as if he were watching a tennis match.

Ray, what’s going on? Frost asked.

Before Raymond could reply, Bradley said, What’s goin on, mister, is y’all are gonna get dressed, and then we’re gonna escort you outta town. Pack up.

McDowell stood up and put her hand on the chief’s shoulder. Mister Bradley, be reasonable. We—

Bradley’s expression was cold. Don’t try none of that with me, ma’am. Looking taken aback, McDowell took her hand away. LeBlanc glared at Bradley. And don’t you mean-mug me, boy. I got my orders from the man who signs my paychecks. I aim to follow ’em. Y’all hurry up now.

He and Roen left, closing the door behind them. Raymond’s hand throbbed. McDowell got up and began gathering their things.

Frost paced about, fuming. This is fucking bullshit. I just got here. Now I’m supposed to turn around and go home? Don’t these idiots care about the killings?

Let’s get outta here before they come back, said Raymond.

LeBlanc and Frost helped McDowell gather up the dirty clothes and personal items in the room and stuff them into suitcases. A piece of red shirtsleeve hung out of LeBlanc’s bag like a hound dog’s tongue. Frost kept grousing until LeBlanc finally threatened to stuff a wet towel down his throat. McDowell left to gather her things. Frost followed suit. LeBlanc went to gas up the car. Raymond sat alone in the room, all his things packed, his hand aching. He got up to piss and stared at the water for several moments, lost in his thoughts, the swirling diluted-mustard patterns of his urine lazing through the water. He put on the pants and pullover T-shirt McDowell had laid out for him, easing his bad hand through the armhole. Then he sat on the bed and turned on the television.

You good to go? LeBlanc asked when he returned. He still looked ready to cave in someone’s skull.

Raymond stood and followed LeBlanc into the hall. They left the room disheveled, covers rumpled in piles like relief maps of mountain ranges. LeBlanc pulled two suitcases behind him. Raymond hauled one with his good hand. McDowell came out of her room with her arms loaded down. Both she and Raymond would have to make more than one trip. When they got to the stairs, Frost was already there. He had not even had time to unpack. He took a couple of McDowell’s bags without a word and stomped down the staircase.

Jake, this ain’t over, Raymond said. They told us we had to leave town. They didn’t say we couldn’t ever come back. Frost did not reply.

They reached the lobby and found Bradley and Roen waiting for them. Raymond approached the chief. Look, we—

Bradley held up his hand. Save it, Ray. Nothin we can do. Y’all ready?

Me and Ray got some more stuff to fetch, McDowell said.

Bradley nodded at the little deputy. Officer Roen can grab those. When he gets back, we’re gonna make a nice little caravan. I’ll lead. The rest of you follow me. Officer Roen will bring up the rear and make sure none of you make a wrong turn. Get goin.

LeBlanc looked as if he wanted to punch a hole in Bradley’s chest, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing. Frost’s face had turned nearly purple with rage, but somehow he held his tongue as well. They walked to the cars, Bradley not offering to help with anybody’s luggage. They loaded the bags.

Then, after watching Roen disappear into the hotel, Bradley glanced around. No one stood nearby.

Once me and Roen turn back to town, he said, wait ten minutes. Then head back to Red Thornapple’s. He’s got plenty of room and some cars you can borrow. Park your rentals out back of his place so nobody sees ’em.

Raymond and the others looked at each other, surprised. For a moment, no one seemed to know how to respond.

Why are you doing this? asked Frost.

Bradley glanced at him. I ain’t got time to explain. If y’all got a plan, we need to make it happen yesterday. Got me?

Raymond nodded. We’re workin on somethin. But no guarantees.

Bradley shook his head. Ain’t that always the way?

When the meal began, Raymond promised to reimburse Thornapple, but the newspaperman waved him off.

Bullshit, he said. My family’s been loaded ever since we built this ranch back in the 1880s. My ancestor, the one that worked at the depot and got me into this mess—he died there, too, not long after the Kid—he was dirt poor. But his brother Nat, my great-great-grandfather, made a killin on cattle. We’ve been doin pretty well ever since.

So why the newspaper? LeBlanc asked.

Because I believe in the First Amendment, Thornapple said. And I hate starin at cow pies all day. Point is, I can afford a little barbecue now and then. Besides, keepin you in town’s gonna drive C.W. up the wall.

Joyce Johnstone ate more brisket than Frost and McDowell put together and then excused herself, explaining she had to work in the morning and had never been much of a night owl anyway. They bid her good evening and gathered in the den, where the night devolved into a session of grown-ups telling campfire stories. Raymond gave them an abridged version of the Myrtle’s Ghost legend and the story of Caroline, the helpful spirit of Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carre. All the while, he winced and grunted whenever he jolted his hand. Around 11 p.m., LeBlanc gave him a Percocet. He washed it down with iced tea and sat back, praying he truly sought relief and not the dulling of his heartache that came with the high.

McDowell told a tale about a bayou medium who could predict locals’ deaths by casting the entrails of stray cats.

LeBlanc described a certain house in north New Orleans that was allegedly haunted and how he once went inside on a dare.

And, finally, Red Thornapple narrated how his own grandfather claimed to have seen a ghost at the depot one night in the 1940s.

LeBlanc leaned forward and said, Now wait a minute. Your granddaddy saw somethin out there nearly eighty years ago? Why didn’t you tell us this before?

Thornapple laughed. Pappaw spun a lot of tall tales. I reckon it’s part of why I wanted to be a writer myself. He told me the depot story when I was maybe eight, a week or so after the one about this old witch who used to live in the woods outside Granbury, and a month before he swore his old sergeant saved his life by fightin a Panzer one-on-one outside a little French village. What I’m sayin is, he was prone to exaggeration.

Raymond understood. His own father had been fond of fish stories, folklore, legends, lies, and half-truths. The old man had prefaced every tale by swearing he had seen it with his own eyes, and even though everyone in the family had known he was full of shit, he had always taken pride in his knowledge of local arcana. Raymond had first heard about some of New Orleans’s haunted houses and restless spirits from men like his father, in the dim and often dingy bars dotting the city, places locals tried to keep secret from the tourists who populated the Quarter’s taverns like termites. The truth mattered less than how the tale made you feel in your gut.

He asked Thornapple to tell them the depot story.

Ain’t much to tell, I’m afraid, Thornapple said. Pappaw was ridin home on his bicycle around dusk. Claimed he had been playin baseball across town, but they lived way out here, and I doubt his daddy would have let him ride that far on his own, even back then, when you didn’t have to worry about some pervert yankin you into a van and carryin you God knows where to do God knows what. Plus, he didn’t mention nothin about a bat or a glove. He was probably sparkin some girl. That, or he never came at all. Wouldn’t be the first time one of his true stories never happened.

Thornapple took a long swig of Shiner Bock and belched. Good one, said LeBlanc as he raised his own bottle in tribute and drank. Raymond licked his lips. Frost was taking notes on a legal pad, his beer sitting on the coffee table, barely touched. McDowell sat beside LeBlanc.

Anyway, Thornapple said. He passed by the depot, and his bike chain broke. Just busted open. He managed not to fall over and break his neck, and while he tried to fix it, the sun went down. The moon was full, though, so he had enough light to work. He cobbled the chain together and was tryin to work it back on the bike when he looked up and saw this pale man standin ten or twelve feet away, watchin. Pappaw was sittin by the road, not on the depot grounds, and when he saw that fella just standin there like that, he got scared and dove into the ditch. He crawled through the mud—it had rained just the day before, he said—and ran like hell once he got past the depot. Swore he didn’t know why. His daddy brought him back for the bike the next day, but it was gone. Said the ghost he seen was the only one in the world that moonlighted as a bike thief. I never figured there was much to it.

Raymond, McDowell, and LeBlanc exchanged nervous, interested glances. Frost kept writing.

That’s some story, Raymond said.

I’ve never believed in ghosts, Thornapple said. But what y’all saw matches my Pappaw’s yarn. Maybe it’s coincidence. But if it ain’t, that means my line could have ended in the forties if not for that ditch. It’s literally a soberin thought. He drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he finished, he set the bottle on the table and stared at his shoes.

Frost cleared his throat. In my research, I came across the name P.D. Thornapple. He was on duty at the depot when the posse brought in the Kid.

Thornapple nodded. Yeah. Like I was sayin earlier, I’m descended through P.D.’s brother, Nat.

Given the parameters of this story, I assume Nat must have avoided the depot, Frost said.

From what I’ve heard and read about him, he avoided most everything. Hardly ever left this property, and when he did, it was usually for church or a quick trip to the general store. He liked God and cows and not much else. But I reckon his wife charmed him well enough because they had kids, and those kids had kids, and so on, each eldest child passin the estate to their eldest. I’m the last. Ain’t got no kids. Probably never will.

He looked toward his bedroom, to which Johnstone had retired earlier that evening. McDowell sipped her iced tea and said, Not everybody needs ’em to make a full life.

Now that I think of it, everybody descended from that posse was pretty lucky just to be born. Some of our ancestors died not long after the Kid, and if they hadn’t already started their own families, we wouldn’t be here.

Who died? Raymond asked.

Noseless McCorkle passed away on the depot grounds a couple years after they brung in the Kid.

Noseless, said LeBlanc.

Yeah. Somebody found him layin against that storage buildin, blood runnin from his mouth and eyes and the hole where his nose used to be. Then old Beeve Roark died on the tracks, right behind the main buildin. Train run over him, though nobody ever found out what he was doin there in the first place.

A heavy pall settled in the room. McDowell stirred the cold food on her plate.

Raymond thought about his hand. The man, or spirit, had pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. They had all heard the report in their minds, not with their ears like you would with any self-respecting gunshot. And then his hand had exploded from the inside. Add to all that McDowell’s bleeding eyes, and now this, the possibility the Kid had been appearing for decades whenever some descendant of that long-ago posse wandered onto the depot grounds and turned him on like someone flipping a light switch. Or maybe it was more like a battery. Maybe the psychic energy had to build. Perhaps Thornapple’s grandfather had brought the Kid back to the world gradually, the charge growing a little stronger each time he biked past the grounds. Cut to the present—several descendants ate at the diner multiple times. One of them owned the place. They all met for an evening of interviews, which is when the ghost appeared again, and this time it had remained.

I got a theory, if anybody cares to hear it, Raymond said. He recounted his ideas for them and finished by saying, It all sounds batshit to me, but at this point, I’m about ready to believe anything.

No one stepped forward to say that his idea made perfect sense, but nobody broke out the chains and butterfly nets either, so it turned out better than he had hoped.

Frost cleared his throat. I think your reasoning follows. If ghosts can be connected to certain locations or objects, why couldn’t they be tied to people, too?

LeBlanc snorted. Are we really talkin about this?

Frost smiled without humor and drank some beer. If you read different cultures’ folklore, you find variations on the basic ghost story. Spirit of the departed can’t cross over. Unfinished business, overwhelming anger or sadness, violent death, poor burial, whatever. All of that is true here, according to you guys.

Raymond held up his ruined hand. This is all I know, he said. And that Darrell shot him point-blank without producin a body, or even any blood.

I want to see these grounds, Frost said. What we’re doing right now will become part of the future’s folklore, even if the Kid kills us all.

No one said anything for a long time. They drank. McDowell got up to pee.

Finally, his expression sour, LeBlanc said, Shit, Doc, you sure do know how to make a body feel good and confident.

Raymond knew how LeBlanc felt. Here’s what I don’t get. If the Kid’s a ghost, how the hell is he shootin people? It ain’t like he could hold a real gun or run to wherever you buy ammunition around here.

Frost shook his head. No, but if he’s an angry spirit, a manifestation of the living man’s psychic or spiritual energy, then it logically follows—and I admit I’m using the term logic loosely—it follows that the ghost has to focus that energy somehow. The guns and bullets might just be a symbol of the spirit’s memory echoes.

LeBlanc looked confused. Huh?

I mean its energy is lashing out in a form that would have been familiar to the Kid. If we were dealing with his Native American companion’s ghost, it might be skewering people with a phantom spear.

Phantom spear? Now you’re just makin shit up.

Wait, said Raymond. That’s a good point. That same posse killed the Kid’s Comanche runnin buddy. Where’s his ghost?

The posse didn’t dismember the Comanche’s body, said Frost. At least nothing I’ve read suggests they did. Maybe they were so used to Native Americans and white people killing each other they didn’t see any need for extra brutality. Or maybe they just used up all their time and effort on the Kid.

So if the ghost uses its energy like the Kid used his guns, why ain’t it ever pistol-whipped anybody? asked LeBlanc as McDowell returned and sat next to him.

It probably could, said Frost. I’d wager it controls how its energy manifests, which might also explain why its so-called bullets can pass through skin or muscle but blow apart internal organs and matchbooks. He shoots only what he wants to hit. If he had been more famous for barroom brawls than gunfights, we might see death from blunt-force trauma.

Maybe we should stop lookin for more crazy bullshit to deal with, McDowell said.

The deep throbbing in Raymond’s hand had eased. It now felt like a second fevered heartbeat, painful but bearable. I think we gotta move on this tomorrow, he said.

What’s the plan? asked Thornapple. You ain’t got the boots or the gun belt, and C.W. will call the goddam National Guard if he sees any of you inside the city limits.

Raymond stood and stretched. Bradley will get the boots. I’ll call him before I turn in and let him know he’s gotta move. As for C.W., I can think of only one thing, short of kidnappin him or blowin up his car. Betsy, you feel up to a little errand tomorrow?

Sure, she said. Her eyes looked hollow and tired. They had all been on edge since they first set foot in the Dead House, McDowell most of all.

Good. Since you’ve offended C.W. the least, I’d like you to sit with Rennie and help her keep him at home. Me and Darrell will go to the diner in case he gets past you. Jake and Bradley can torch the boots, and the hell with usin ’em as bait—sorry, Jake, but my hand says we ain’t got that luxury.

LeBlanc drained his beer and set the bottle on the coffee table, which bore the weight of over a dozen empties. Sounds like a plan, he said. But we’re gonna need those salt rounds. If Tidewater delivers when he promised, they’ll be ready in the mornin.

Raymond smiled. He felt as if he were floating.

The good feeling did not last long. As they walked down the hall, Raymond took LeBlanc by the elbow and said, Listen, I could use another pill tonight. That last one took the edge off, but I’m still hurtin.

LeBlanc looked hard at Raymond, his eyes cold, his face expressionless. No, he said.

Raymond furrowed his brow. That prescription says every four to six hours as needed. Well, I need some good sleep before I ruin my relationship with my brother-in-law once and for all.

Right, said LeBlanc. Just like you used to need all that whiskey. Just like you needed them beers you stared at all evenin.

Anger flared in Raymond’s belly. That ain’t fair. I never asked for a drink. And I don’t want a pill to get high. I’m thinkin about tomorrow. I can’t sleep with an elephant steppin on my hand.

McDowell clutched his shoulder. We said we’d keep an eye on you. That’s what Darrell is doin.

It was my idea to stretch out the doses, remember?

And now you’re askin to increase ’em, said LeBlanc. With all this shit goin on, we need you sober.

Tomorrow, I’ll be as sober as a nun.

Those people out there, McDowell said. Their lives are in our hands.

I know that, goddam it.

Would Marie wanna see you like this? Beggin for a fix?

All the blood drained from Raymond’s face. He pushed McDowell’s hand away. How fuckin dare you? he croaked. You don’t know a damn thing about her.

Don’t talk to her like that, LeBlanc said. She’s just tryin—

I’m goin to bed, Raymond said, backing into his room. He slammed the door and fell onto the bed, his head swimming, his mouth dry. Water would feel so good—beer, even better. And as that thought crossed his mind, he knew they were probably right. It was best not to strain his tenuous sobriety, even for good reasons. If only he had the energy to get up, go find them, and apologize. But then, he had been right, too. He just wanted sleep, needed it. That was all.

Soon Raymond fell into a fitful slumber, still fully dressed, his hand aching. If he dreamed, he did not remember.

McDowell stared at the ceiling for a long time, her mind running a hundred miles an hour. Raymond had never spoken to her that way before, but it had come from an honest place. She had felt the pain and the worry radiating off him like fever. McDowell worried, too—about Raymond, about going back to the diner and how she would handle whatever happened there, about the people they were trying to protect. So much stress, so little peace of mind—how did Raymond and LeBlanc do it every day?

All those ghost stories, especially Red Thornapple’s, seemed to show their lives depended so much on chance—this person meeting that one, accident A avoided, relationship B consummated. If one variable were changed, whole existences might never be. What did that mean for the decisions they were making here? What world were they ensuring? What lives were they devastating without even realizing it?