Chapter Twenty-Four

September 15, 2016, Evening—Comanche, Texas

Raymond almost reached the Roarks, but the Kid’s arm blurred into motion. Too late too late too late. The guns boomed. Roark threw himself in front of Will. Something seemed to strike him, and he tumbled backward onto his son.

As they went down, Will screamed, Dad!

Raymond skidded to a halt near them. The mayor’s tall, thick body covered Will’s. The boy struggled to push his father off as the mayor spat blood. The Kid floated toward them, arms dangling.

McDowell appeared beside them, her voice calm and smooth. Will, stop fightin. That thing’s after you now.

Will’s eyes widened. Help us, he whispered.

Hang on, Raymond said, grasping Roark, ready to pull him away.

Roark moaned and coughed, spraying blood into McDowell’s face and hair and upper torso. She turned aside and vomited. The Kid hovered in front of Raymond. The specter’s clothes were wrinkled and stained. Three days’ stubble covered his cheeks. His hat was torn at the seam. His guns looked cartoonishly enormous. It’s your mind playin tricks. Don’t think about how you’re about to see the business ends. But he did, imagining the barrels yawning like the maw of some deep and uncrossable gulf.

Another gun fired nearby. Raymond jumped and cried out. His ears rang, but in his mind, the Kid roared like a wounded lion. The apparition disappeared, winking out like one of those science-fiction movie holograms. People in the crowd covered their ears and held their heads as if in great pain.

Raymond turned. LeBlanc stood behind them, holding a shotgun. Salt rounds. We brought only salt rounds, and they hurt that thing. The other shotgun lay at LeBlanc’s feet. He must have got ’em from the car when I was helpin with C.W. and Will. LeBlanc tossed his gun to Raymond, who caught it with his good hand. His heart kept trying to pound through his chest and go hopping down the road like a frog. LeBlanc picked up the second shotgun.

Raymond stood on one side of the Roarks. LeBlanc turned around and scanned the other direction. The crowd had dispersed in panic. Somehow no one had been trampled.

Somebody call 911! Raymond shouted. Your mayor’s hurt!

Uncle Ray—Will said, still underneath his father.

Help’s comin, Raymond said. Roark gurgled.

Now the rain started to pound them, fat drops like globs of birdshit. It diluted the blood on McDowell, though it looked as if her eyes were bleeding again, and the trickles and chunks falling from Roark’s mouth. The mayor’s eyes were closed, his face as gray as the Kid.

Movement to Raymond’s left. He wheeled about as the Kid materialized five yards away. Raymond raised the shotgun to his shoulder, balancing it on his left forearm, and fired into the Kid’s torso. Again, that lionlike roaring as the ghost dissipated, plus the hail-on-a-tin-roof sound of salt striking parked cars. In the distance, the whine of sirens. Perhaps an ambulance. Raymond glanced at C.W. He had slipped sideways, exposing Will’s head and upper torso.

Betsy, Raymond said, you gotta get Will off the property. We’ll cover you.

Tucking the gun under his injured arm, Raymond bent and pushed the mayor sideways, his hand slipping in the blood and rainwater, as McDowell pulled. Roark groaned while LeBlanc wheeled about, trying to see everywhere at once. The crowd pushed its way back into the diner. Some decided to forego the line and dashed around the building, running for Central.

Raymond helped Will up. You okay?

The boy was as pale as his father. How’s Daddy?

LeBlanc fired again and shouted, Hurry up! I can’t keep him off you forever!

Get outta here, Raymond said to Will.

McDowell tugged on the boy’s arm. He looked at his father. I can’t. Not without Daddy.

Raymond grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him toward the road. I said get.

Will stumbled past McDowell, who ran after him and pushed him along, saying, Move. They’ll bring your daddy.

She and Will reached the mayor’s Chevy and leaped in, slamming the doors. McDowell fired up the engine, but before she could change gears, it sputtered out.

The Kid appeared in the ditch beside them.

McDowell and Will screamed. She yanked the boy down into the seat and ducked as the Kid drew and fired both guns. Nothing happened to the truck, but if they had not moved, their brains would have splattered inside their skulls.

Up at the intersection, an ambulance turned toward the diner, three police cruisers behind it. Roen drove one. Nearby, LeBlanc fired. That animalistic roar filled Raymond’s skull again. McDowell tried to start the Chevy, its whirrs and chugs almost rhythmic amid the screams and the rain driving onto the pavement. Raymond waved the ambulance into the drive. It turned in and parked near the mayor. Roark’s eyes were closed.

The cops pulled over on the far side of the road and exited with guns drawn. One blond-haired kid who looked about twelve years old leveled his service weapon at Raymond and said, Drop your weapon and get on your knees. Hands laced behind your head.

Lower your weapon, you goddam idiot! Roen snapped.

The deputy seemed not to hear. Drop the gun, or I’ll blow your head off.

Roen shoved the kid’s weapon toward the ground, screaming in his face as the other three officers converged on LeBlanc, who raised his hands but did not drop the shotgun.

Will opened his car door and yelled, Leave ’em alone! They’re helpin my dad!

McDowell clawed at him, pulling him back in.

To the men covering LeBlanc, Roen bellowed, Stand down! He’s with us! Then he sprinted to Raymond and the mayor.

The paramedics had disembarked and knelt next to Roark.

Gunshot to the torso, Raymond said. I think it’s his lung.

No evidence of a wound, muttered one medic.

You’ll have to take my word for it. Get him outta here.

We can’t move him until we know what’s wrong.

Raymond seized the man by his shirt. If you don’t move him, he’s gonna die. The assailant’s still here. He shoved the paramedic away.

Roen watched them work, eyes bugging. What can we do?

Help ’em get C.W. outta here, Raymond said. We’ll do our best to hold off the Kid.

Wait, the who?

The Kid appeared nearby, flickering in and out of focus, the rain passing through him. The officers’ mouths fell open. One dropped his weapon in a puddle near his feet and swayed as if he were going to pass out. Jesus Christ, said another.

What the hell is that? Roen cried.

Raymond whirled, still balancing the shotgun barrel on his left forearm. He fired at the Kid, who disappeared with another howl of pain. Roen covered his ears, grimacing. The Kid reappeared fifteen feet away, next to an officer who screamed and fired his service weapon at him. The bullets passed through the apparition’s head and smashed through the window of a truck. Its alarm blatted as someone screamed in surprise and terror.

Cease fire! Raymond shouted. Your guns won’t hurt him!

The paramedics had stopped working on Roark. They stared at the spot where the Kid had vanished. Raymond nudged the nearest one with his foot. The man shook his head and slapped his partner in the chest, saying, Get him on the goddam gurney right now.

They loaded the mayor while Raymond covered them. LeBlanc stood near Roark’s car. A bit of McDowell’s hair was visible through the windows. Probably still layin on Will. It’s gonna get her killed if we can’t get ’em outta here soon. Behind him, the paramedics leaped into the ambulance, one in the driver’s seat, the other in back with Roark. When the driver tried to start the engine, it chugged and chugged but would not turn over.

Raymond beckoned to some of the bystanders and the cops. We gotta get ’em past the property line, he said.

For once, no one questioned the sanity of what Raymond said. All the officers ran over and started pushing the ambulance, Raymond walking behind them and scanning the property. Three men dashed from behind cars in the lot and joined the effort.

Raymond spotted the Kid to his right and fired. The apparition vanished again.

Who’s shootin? one of the civilians asked, scared out of his mind.

Just push, Raymond said. I got you. But he was trying to reload with one hand.

LeBlanc ran over. Take my gun, he said. I’ll reload.

What the hell are you doin here? Protect Betsy and Will.

I told ’em to get out and haul ass and not stop until they couldn’t hear shots anymore. If that thing’s really bound to the property, they’re safe.

That’s just a theory. It got far enough away from here to kill Bradley.

Fuck, LeBlanc spat.

Go after ’em.

I don’t even know where they went.

Did you just say the chief’s dead? asked Roen as he pushed the ambulance.

Raymond looked at Roen but said nothing. LeBlanc shook his head. Roen’s face screwed up as if he were going to cry, but then he clenched his jaw and looked straight ahead, still pushing. A moment later, LeBlanc’s shotgun crashed. More almost-musical sounds of salt striking metal and glass. They had nearly reached the road when two of Red Thornapple’s trucks turned onto Austin. Frost drove one. Thornapple himself piloted the second, with Joyce Johnstone sitting beside him.

Aw, shit, LeBlanc said. What else can happen?

He dashed toward the vehicles. They pulled over as he flagged them down. Frost got out of the truck, holding the boots and gun belt.

Jake! Raymond called. Get that shit onto the property!

Frost ran across the street and onto the parking lot. LeBlanc headed off Johnstone and Thornapple, gesticulating and pointing toward Central. They jumped back in their vehicle and backed away as the men managed to shove the ambulance onto the road under Raymond’s protection. No help if this thing don’t start. But the engine turned over, and the driver took off, siren blasting. Raymond, LeBlanc, and the men from the diner stood on the street and watched it go, the rain driving down hard enough to sting.

Someone near the diner called, Hey, y’all, it’s back.

Raymond turned and saw Jacob Frost holding the boots in the middle of the lot. He had stopped to watch the ambulance, too. In the meantime, the Piney Woods Kid had appeared behind him, staring at him with those merciless gray eyes.

The ghost stood between Frost and the Dead House, hovering six inches above the ground. Frost tried to swallow, but the spit lodged in his throat like a chicken bone. Thunder rumbled. Lightning strobed behind the clouds. He gripped the boots and gun belt harder, afraid of what might happen if he dropped them, afraid of what might happen if he did not.

The Kid made no move.

No, Raymond said. No guns. He’ll kill Jake.

To whom was he talking? Too dangerous to turn around and find out. And was what Raymond said true? The Kid had dispatched Bradley when the chief threatened to set the boots on fire. Then the Kid destroyed the matches, not Frost. The boots and gun belt must have comprised the key to the Kid’s existence. If so, he would protect them with a ferocity that Frost could barely imagine.

Back on the road, LeBlanc called, Just throw the goddam things down and run.

But Frost thought that a supremely bad idea. Any sudden move might be misinterpreted as aggression, in which case he would not stand a chance. He had to move slowly and with purpose, despite his triphammering heart, his knocking knees, his shaking hands, his rubbery legs and spine.

Raymond and the others had found the old boots in the Dead House. That might be the best chance. Moving an inch or two at a time, Frost took the gun belt in his left hand and kept the boots in his right. Then he held them out to the Kid.

The ghost’s mouth turned up in what might have been a snarl.

No, no, Frost said. Nobody’s going to hurt them. I’m putting them back where they belong. Do you understand?

The Kid said nothing, did not move.

Frost edged toward the Dead House in an irregular parabola. He shuffled his feet side to side, crablike, watching the Kid, who rotated as Frost moved around him. The rain fell even harder, water flowing into Frost’s eyes, obscuring his vision, and he dared not even shake his head or pass a forearm across his eyes. Around him, everyone had hushed. The only sounds were his feet sloshing through puddles and cruddy runoff from the hardpan, the intermittent thunder, and the rain striking surfaces of all kinds—pavement, flesh, bare ground, shingled roof, cars. He kept shuffling until he reached the Dead House. Then he inched to the door. When he arrived, the Kid disappeared. Frost exhaled.

He turned. The Kid hung in the air beside him.

Now he could smell the ghost, a scent like a wet dog that had rolled in rotten meat. Frost had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming, tasting blood, hoping he could still talk when this was over. If he lived.

He draped the gun belt over his shoulder and used his free hand to open the door. Then he stepped inside.

According to Raymond, the boots had originally rested on one of the back shelves. Several shapes hugged the wall back there, obscured in the shadows. Frost stepped inside and picked his way around the junk on the floor, praying not to trip, knowing if he did, the rattles and thumps of falling diner detritus might be the last sounds he would ever hear. The Kid’s presence felt like a twenty-pound weight in his mind. He reached the shelves. The boots’ and gun belt’s irregular shapes were outlined in the dust. He set the boots back and then bunched up the belt and put it beside them. When Frost turned, the Kid stood in the center of the room, a man shape, gray even in the dark, the outlines of the crates on the floor visible through him. Frost held his hands up again and circled back to the door, watching the Kid, who rotated in the air, watching back.

Frost reached the door and backed out. The Kid floated in the center of the room. The professor pulled the door shut. Then he walked to the end of the building and sat down near the corner, unmindful of the rainwater soaking into his pants and undershorts. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, his breath wavering, his pulse pounding. Spots danced in front of his eyes. Don’t faint. Just don’t. Moments later, Raymond and LeBlanc approached, people from the diner a few feet behind them, others emerging from behind cars.

Raymond went to the window and peered inside.

What’s he up to in there? Frost asked.

Nothin, Raymond said. He’s gone.

Half an hour later, the rain subsided, and the police had cleared out the customers. Raymond’s rental car and Roen’s weathered Ford Ranger were parked end to end on the west side of Austin. Frost’s truck sat amid police cars lining the east side. Raymond had called Rennie, who hung up on him. Then, thirty seconds later, she remembered McDowell had taken her keys, and she called back, asking Raymond to send Will to pick her up. Red Thornapple and Joyce Johnstone had disappeared. And Frost had conferred with Roen about Chief Bradley, after which Roen called for a second ambulance over his radio and then left. He had peeled out in reverse, burning rubber on the faded asphalt, narrowly missing the side mirrors of every vehicle, nearly T-boning an SUV on Central. Its driver swerved and honked.

While the remaining deputies sealed off the diner with their inexhaustible supply of yellow tape, Raymond stood alone in agony, eyes watering. God, he needed a pill, a fifth of whiskey, something. He called LeBlanc and Frost over, out of the officers’ earshot.

I say we burn ’em right now, Raymond said through clenched teeth. We can torch the whole goddam building if we have to.

LeBlanc’s expression was savage and sharklike. We’ll need a combustible. Where’s the nearest gas station?

Frost shook his head. No. We can’t do a damn thing right now, and if you think about it logically, you know why.

I don’t give a shit about logic, Raymond said. You saw what happened to Bradley. C.W.’s hangin by a thread, if he ain’t dead already, and Will would have died like a dog if we hadn’t been here. Now you wanna wait?

Frost sighed. He looked ten years older. No, I don’t want to wait. When that thing showed up there—well, I’ve never been so scared. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I’ve shit my pants. But we can’t act emotionally. That will only get us or somebody else killed.

Killed, hell. We got enough salt rounds to keep the bastard off us till we can burn that godforsaken shed.

It isn’t just a shed, Frost hissed. Raymond recoiled. It’s a Dead House, and it served both this depot and the town cemetery. Would you care to speculate on how many bodies that place held over the years? I’d say it would number in the hundreds, the way so many people died young back then. What if we start to burn the place down and find we’ve got more than one angry spirit to deal with? What if you or Darrell moves a bit too slowly, and one of us dies? You want that on your conscience?

Raymond said nothing. He couldn’t stop picturing C.W. lying in the mud, Will underneath him, sobbing and choking on rainwater. Imagination furnished Raymond with other unwanted pictures—Bob Bradley sprawled on a muddy road, eyes open and glassy, flies flitting about his mouth.

I’d trade my house for a belt of Jack Daniel’s.

You’ve been awful quiet, Darrell, Raymond said. A little participation might be in order, since it’s your ass on the line, too.

LeBlanc had been staring at the Dead House. I wanna see that fuckin place burn to the ground, but I think Jake’s right. We could have died fifty different times just now. Ain’t no tellin what would have happened if that thing had been after us. We don’t wanna stick our necks in a noose.

Raymond spat. All right, goddam it. But whatever we’re gonna do, we gotta do it soon. Casper’s shot his last person.

Frost looked relieved. You’re doing the right thing, Ray.

Right, my ass. It’s your idea, so you’re takin the lead. What’s first?

Well, said Frost, I think we should go to the hospital. I know you want to check on your sister, and Betsy needs to have her say. I’ll tell you more about Bradley on the way.

They walked across the lot toward their vehicles, through the rainwater and blood and silty gunk. Raymond’s injured hand ached like a bitch.

McDowell stepped out to get coffee. Rennie sat bolt upright in her chair in the Operating Room waiting area, Will beside her with his elbows on his knees. He had said nothing since Raymond and LeBlanc arrived. Rennie wore a sensible black dress, midcalf length, dark red lipstick, hair coiffed as if by a professional. But the makeup on her cheeks had streaked. She was removing mascara smudges with a wipe and a compact mirror. Soon, she started reapplying, filling in the holes, smoothing out the glops. Raymond and LeBlanc had taken seats in the stiff chairs across from the Roarks. Neither had said much. Frost had stepped away to phone some of his university colleagues.

They had not heard from Roen. Raymond kept imagining the little man stepping out of his car on that gravel road and taking an invisible bullet to the forehead, falling on the rocks beside the chief.

McDowell came back with four cups balanced in her hands. Her clothes were still wet, her hair darkened and dripping. She never wore much makeup, but what she had applied that morning had washed away. Rennie took a cup, her expression unchanging. McDowell handed two other cups to Raymond and LeBlanc.

Sorry, she said. I’m too wet to carry sugar packets. She sat beside Rennie and leaned forward. The surgeon caught me in the hall and asked me to tell y’all. They’re givin the mayor blood and tryin to stop the internal bleedin. Doc said his left lung is pretty much gone.

Raymond looked at his clublike hand. Jesus, he muttered.

Well, at least it missed his heart, said LeBlanc.

They drank more coffee. And they waited. Frost returned and sat next to Raymond, who turned to him, eyebrows raised. Frost glanced at Rennie.

Maybe I should tell you later, he said.

Rennie regarded him. Her eyes were moist, but no tears fell.

My husband’s layin on a table gettin his chest cut open. My son almost got killed. Anything you got to say, you say it in front of us.

Frost cleared his throat. Raymond looked at him with sympathy. McDowell took Rennie’s hand and squeezed.

Well. Um, yes, Frost said. I’ve consulted with a colleague at the University of Southeast Arkansas. He specializes in occult legends of the American Southwest. He’s never read anything about the Piney Woods Kid in connection with ghost sightings, but he did confirm some things I already knew.

Such as? Rennie asked.

Um. Well. I’ve been through this with Ray, but for the rest of you: Salt and cold iron repel ghosts. And spirits of those who died violently or whose bodies weren’t respected—both of which seem to apply here—tie themselves to a certain locale or an object. Our ghost seems connected to the diner grounds, particularly the Dead House, but mostly to those old boots. The stains on them must really be the Kid’s blood, like that old article claimed.

Rennie’s eyes were almost as cold as the Kid’s. How do we kill it?

Well, the legends suggest that if you destroy the focal object or consecrate the ground, the spirit’s links to this plane will break. Burning the bones also works, but we have no idea where they are.

Sounds like you ain’t sure anything will work at all, Rennie said.

I have no way of knowing. If at least some of the legends are true, there’s a good chance. If not… Frost trailed off and shrugged.

Raymond sipped coffee and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. His hands shook, the ruined one on fire. He needed a pill or a half dozen BCs, and soon.

We find a way to burn the storage shed with the boots inside and stay alive, Raymond said. Two birds, one stone. But if he’s tied to the property itself and not just that building, I don’t know what we’ll do. Call a priest, I reckon.

If we could get our hands on some holy water, some hosts, and a whole bunch more salt, we could try it ourselves, Frost mused.

Raymond stared at him. You mean literally salt the earth?

Just to keep it away from us. But I’m no priest. I’d probably fuck up the Latin and get us killed. So that leaves burning.

Deputy Roen arrived, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from his hat brim. Seeing Rennie and Will, he blushed, and his bottom lip quivered. His eyes moistened. Rennie stood and went to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed. Roen could not look her in the eye. Rennie hugged the little man, knocking his hat askew, not caring that he soaked her clothes. He laid his head on her shoulder and sobbed.

Now, now, she whispered. It ain’t your fault. She pushed him away, not unkindly. This town needs you. You’re the chief, at least until the town council finds somebody permanent.

Roen looked at her as if she were crazy. Me? In charge? I ain’t sure that’s such a good idea.

Rennie patted his cheek. Nobody’s expectin you to be Bob. Just do the job you’ve been trained for.

Roen sat. He stared into space, as if he had been bopped on the head with a sledgehammer. Rennie had no authority to make appointments, but it seemed unlikely anybody would argue with her for at least another day.

The council’s gonna run the city until C.W.’s up and about, Raymond said.

She turned to him. Two members are outta town. Another one’s in this very hospital with her ulcer. The other two can’t get a quorum until one of the others gets back. And we ain’t got a deputy mayor.

How much time do we have before they stick their noses in?

No tellin.

Raymond squeezed her hand and looked at everyone in the room, one at a time. We need to talk about what’s next, he said. Right now.

An hour later, they had concocted a plan that, Raymond hoped, was too simple to screw up. But they needed supplies, so they could not implement it for at least a day. LeBlanc and Frost had already left, bound for the Walmart Supercenter in Stephenville, with instructions to head on to Granbury or even Fort Worth, if necessary.

Raymond and McDowell stayed behind with Rennie, who had begun a de facto mayoral administration from the waiting room. She made phone calls, sent texts, and took more calls on the waiting room landline. Her husband was fighting for his life on an operating table, and here she was, barking out orders and taking notes on the backs of old magazines and shedding nary a tear, as if she had allowed herself one cry and would not indulge in another until she had squared away the town. She’s stronger than me. It ain’t even close.

Roen had left to secure the diner, having promised to assign at least one car to sit on the place until the agency arrived.

Rennie had given Raymond some aspirin. They dulled the pain a bit, but it was still with him, festering and boiling.

Raymond turned to Will. Walk with me?

Will got up. Raymond led him into the hall. They walked side by side down the corridor, the chirpings of monitors emanating from every room with an open door. Raymond followed the signs until they found the cafeteria and went inside, where Raymond bought them coffee. They sat at a round table with four ratty chairs. Raymond’s was unbalanced. Every time he shifted his weight, the chair’s off leg struck the floor, jarring his hand. He grimaced.

Will blew steam from the top of the cup and nodded at the hand. How is it?

Only hurts when I’m conscious. Raymond drank the scalding coffee, wincing as it outraged his tongue and soft palate. Maybe it would take his mind off the hand.

The kid looked like he had done two or three hypodermics’ worth of bad heroin, all saucer eyes with bruised-looking bags under them, his hair corkscrewed and dirty.

You think Daddy’s gonna be okay?

I think he’s tougher than hell and too stubborn not to walk outta here.

Will looked Raymond in the eye. The guy that shot him—

Raymond held his gaze. Wasn’t no guy. But I guess you figured that out.

I just wanted somebody to say it. I thought maybe I was goin crazy.

Not unless we all are. I wonder if psych hospitals give group discounts.

Will laughed, but it sounded hollow and brittle. So. Did you know?

Did I know what? That y’all was bein haunted? Or that a ghost could shoot you?

Will shrugged. Either. Both.

Not until it did this, Raymond said, holding up his cast. I mean, we knew what folks was sayin, but we didn’t believe it. Who would?

The boy’s jaw tightened. But you did know. Before it shot Daddy.

Raymond sighed. He felt a hundred years old. I reckon I did. Look, son, we thought we had a plan. But ain’t none of us ever done this kind of thing before. And we tried to get your daddy to stay away from the diner.

So it’s his fault?

No. But you know how he is. Especially with me.

Will looked away and nodded. I guess I do. I want to be mad at you, but you didn’t shoot him.

Be mad at me if that’s what you need. I’ll still love you.

Will drank his coffee. I wanna help kill that thing.

No, sir.

It’s my daddy in there.

I know. But it’s your momma in the waitin room. She needs you. And if I’m watchin you, I can’t do my job.

You don’t gotta watch me. I’m almost a grown-up, legally.

It don’t work that way. I’ll worry about you when you’re fifty. That’s family.

Will laughed again. Shit. So I just sit around. What if you get killed while I do nothin?

You’re takin care of your momma. That’s the most important job of all. It’s the one your daddy would want you to do.

A tear formed in the boy’s eye, but he wiped it away. He sniffled. This sucks.

It surely does. After they finished their coffee, they went back to the others.

Another hour passed. Raymond managed not to drive to the nearest liquor store and stockpile whiskey and bourbon, even though it would have been easier to face the coming hours drunk. Instead, he ran to Dairy Queen, catching them just before they closed, and pissed off the manager and teenage staff by ordering enough food for a dozen people. He swung by the hotel and grabbed his Percocet. When he returned, Rennie ate two burgers and a fistful of fries. Raymond took his pill. McDowell wolfed down her food, but Will barely touched his. He sprawled on the floor, using his mother’s purse as a pillow, and fell asleep.

At some point, someone started a ruckus down the hall. Raymond and Rennie investigated, leaving McDowell in case the boy woke up or the surgeon returned with news. At the end of the corridor, Police Chief Bob Bradley’s body had arrived. His uniform was soiled. His eyes were closed, his face pale, his forehead sunken in places and lumpy in others and deep purple. Comanche’s off-duty officers stood around the gurney, heads bowed, holding their hats. Some of them prayed. Raymond and Rennie joined them. The mud caked on his own pants and shoes shamed Raymond. You ought to mourn when you’re clean. Somewhere a woman wept, her wracking sobs reverberating through the corridors like thunder in a canyon. Probably Bradley’s wife, whom Raymond had not met. What might the woman look like? Did she have children? What kind of house did she live in? Raymond had worked beside Bradley for days and days, had conspired with him and argued with him, but had never bothered to find out who he was or what his life was like. That kind of self-centered behavior had been common when he was drinking. What was his excuse now?

Percocet dulled only a certain kind of pain.

He walked down the hall and leaned against a doorjamb. His hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Another hospital, another corridor, another death. Nothing about it ever changed. The nurses’ sympathetic looks. The doctors’ voices and movements, as brisk and efficient as automatons. Once he had stood in an ER waiting room as a short man in light blue scrubs approached, a surgical mask dangling from his neck. This doctor wore an expression akin to sympathy, but his eyes remained alert, detached. Mister Turner, we did everything we could. We’ve stabilized her, but I’m afraid your wife has slipped into a vegetative state. Yes, sir, I understand. Time will tell us a lot more, but we’re reading only minimal brain activity. Most people with this kind of damage never wake up. Yes, sir. You should inform your family. Later, a second neurologist stood over Marie’s smashed and withering body and said much the same. That woman’s eyes seemed softer than the first doctor’s, her sympathy more genuine, but it made no difference. There is no nice, polite, conciliatory way to tell someone his wife is brain dead, that the most he can hope for is a future of suppurating bedsores and bags full to bursting with piss and shit. Then came the orderlies, who had pulled Raymond out of Marie’s room after she died, big men with strong arms and powerful thighs who had nevertheless found it nearly impossible to drag him away. The prick high on his upper arm as someone shot him full of sedative. The droning voice of the priest someone called in, spouting his useless words.

Raymond had hated hospitals ever since. He had not even gone to see Dwayne Hirsch, his old NOPD partner, after he got shot breaking up a domestic disturbance. The bullet had passed through Hirsch’s outer abdomen, missing every major organ. The hospital kept him for only two days, mostly monitoring the wound for infection, but Raymond could not bring himself to cross the building’s threshold.

Now it was Mrs. Bradley’s turn to fall down grief’s bottomless hole. Her turn to wake in the night, blissfully unaware, just for a moment, of the absence beside her. And she would live through that nightmare because Raymond had failed again. He had not been with Marie when she crashed, and who knew how he might have altered things? Now he had let Frost and Bradley out of his sight, and the chief lay as dead and cold as ancient stone.

An orderly arrived and muttered his condolences to the men and women gathered there. Everyone stepped back so he could push the gurney to the morgue. A crying woman came in through another door. She was five and a half feet tall and probably 180, with shoulder-length brunette hair and a small white scar across the bridge of her nose. Mrs. Bradley, Raymond presumed. He wanted to kick himself for noticing details at such a time. The woman was not a suspect. She was a widow. A nurse walked with her, arm around her waist.

Rennie hugged Mrs. Bradley. Helen. I’m so sorry.

Helen Bradley tried to speak but only sobbed harder, the words lost in grunts and expostulations. The nurse nodded at Rennie and pulled Mrs. Bradley through the doors. Roen followed. Were they going to make that poor woman identify the body when everybody in town knew the chief? Or perhaps the chapel lay in that direction.

Rennie returned to Raymond’s side.

They got two girls, she said, one of ’em in junior high. Bob just bought a bass boat, too. They loved their fishin. Poor woman.

Yeah, Raymond said. But she ain’t the only one whose husband got shot. How are you?

Mine’s alive, so I’m feelin pretty good, all things considered. We better get on back before Will wakes up. Together, they turned and walked back down the hallway. But when they reached the waiting area, Rennie stopped him.

I know you did your best. You and yours risked your lives, and I love you all for it. But this can’t happen to Will. It just can’t. I need you to be your best self now. The brother I grew up with. The one who was willin to drive to Austin and kick C.W.’s ass after we had our first fight in college. The one who dug himself out from under his grief and got his life back. I need the fighter. And I need him right now. If the council decides to shut you down, I won’t have a say in it.

Raymond nodded. For the first time, they had a hard deadline. He rubbed his temples and sighed, knowing the coming night would be long and stressful, that he could not risk taking any pills past a certain point.

He walked outside to call Red Thornapple and was only mildly surprised to find the man interviewing the two medics from the diner. Raymond waited until Thornapple shook hands with the men and started toward the hospital doors.

A word? Raymond said.

Yeah. Off the record, I reckon.

That’s right. We need equipment.

Thornapple looked weary. Like what? A tank?

No, Raymond said. More shotguns. 20-gauges. One for you, your lady friend, and Adam Garner.

So we’re all gonna fight.

I hope not. But if you have to, you’ll need guns that fit our salt rounds. Can you do that?

Thornapple laughed, a hollow, exhausted sound. If I can’t scare up a few shotguns, I’m a jackrabbit.

At 2 a.m., Roark’s surgeon entered the waiting room. Rennie sat still, composed. Will lay on a cot someone had brought in. LeBlanc and Frost had not returned. They were likely still waiting on Ollie Tidewater to reload more rounds with rock salt. Raymond stood up with Rennie and McDowell, who put one hand on Rennie’s shoulder.

Yes? Rennie said.

The surgeon, whose name Raymond never heard, crossed his arms and said, Mr. Roark was rolled out of surgery twenty minutes ago. He’s critical, but we’re optimistic.

Rennie’s lips quivered, but her voice was steady. What’s the damage?

He lost most of a lung, and his system’s had quite the shock, but he’s stable. In the short term, he’s going to hurt, and I doubt he’ll ever run a marathon or deep-water free dive. But unless something unexpected happens—and you have to realize it’s always a possibility—his long-term prognosis looks good.

The doctor left the room. McDowell hugged Rennie, who looked at Raymond.

You want us to wake up Will? he asked.

I’ll do it. Just give me a minute.

She walked past them and down the corridor, as if she were pursuing the surgeon. Raymond and McDowell looked at each other. Raymond raised his eyebrows and nodded in Rennie’s direction. McDowell shook her head. Raymond deferred. When it came to emotions, she always knew best. Just then, deep, throaty sobs echoed along the hall, the sounds of someone either falling through chasms of sadness or finding a nearly bottomless relief, perhaps both. A nurse passed by. She did not look in the waiting room and did not seem alarmed at the noise. In hospitals, people lost control all the time, the sounds as familiar as the beeps of machines and the low-frequency mutter of the PA system and the whispers of relatives making plans for events they probably expected but never sought.