Comanche. Brett Riley
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hips, she said something Roark could not make out. The boy scowled, put the phone in his pocket, and got in his truck. As he drove away, Rennie ducked under the police tape, ignoring the calls of the deputies to stop, to get back on the other side of the barrier. Roark sighed. They all knew her and would not restrain her, though who knew whether they feared losing their jobs by his hand or their heads by hers?
Rennie trooped past the chief and the coroner, who stopped talking long enough to watch. The coroner shook his head and laughed. The chief did not. Rennie stamped up and regarded C.W., hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side, as if he were their son come home two hours after curfew with liquor on his breath. Roark steeled himself for the onslaught and hoped his temper would hold.
C.W., she said, I wonder if you understand what this means.
He frowned. I understand we’ve had two people dead in our goddam front yard. You shouldn’t be here. You ain’t a town official.
I don’t give a rat’s ass. Is that really John Wayne over yonder?
Not the one you’re thinkin of. He’s been dead a lot longer.
That’s about as funny as a broken knee. We’re in trouble here.
He snorted. Don’t I know it. Sayin this is bad for our business is like callin Niagara Falls a campground shower. Plus, we can kiss the Pow Wow goodbye if we don’t catch this fella. And if I can’t keep the Pow Wow goin, I might as well clear out my office, because our merchants will remember next Election Day.
I couldn’t care less about the diner or the Pow Wow. Or your job either.
Then what?
She reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it to him. He took it and stepped closer to the streetlights, pulling his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. It was Red Thornapple’s article on the Piney Woods Kid. Roark looked at the black-and-white photograph with the names under it. He saw himself and Garner, the big truck driver, and the Johnstone lady, who was, if memory served, somebody or other’s secretary. The sluttish McCorkle woman, whose pants had been tight enough to trace the creases in her ass. Red Thornapple himself. The young girl, dark hair falling past her shoulders—Lorena Harveston. And John Wayne.
Rennie’s point was obvious, but why would anybody target the folks in that picture? Most of them had done little in their lives beyond ordinary living. Only he was of any particular importance to the community. Only he and Thornapple had money. No one could be jealous of their publicity; the Warrior-Tribune did not exactly enjoy national circulation. Rennie was seeing connections where only happenstance existed, but he did not have that luxury. Not now, when his town needed him and would remember, for better or worse, how he handled this crisis.
He folded the article. If you’re tryin to show me two people in this picture have died here, I kind of noticed.
She touched his arm. I heard those men say the killer disappeared. Like he was a ghost.
Oh, for God’s sake.
Listen to me, she hissed. I don’t know what those people saw, but how did he get away? How did he do it twice?
We don’t even know if it was the same person.
She groaned. Are you really arguin we should worry less because maybe there’s two killers in town? We gotta call somebody. Bob Bradley don’t know how to deal with a serial killer. Maybe the state police or the FBI—
Damn the state police, he said. This town needs every single dollar we can get, and to attract more dollars, we need the Pow Wow. If anybody so much as hears the words serial killer, we can kiss it goodbye. And if the diner goes under, we’ll lose our investment. Is that what you want?
I told you. I don’t give a damn about that. I’d rather be the wife of a live ex-mayor than a widow.
Bradley and the coroner stopped talking and glanced at them. So did some of the deputies.
Keep your voice down, C.W. urged. People are lookin. I’m tellin you, this town can’t afford to let this shit go statewide. This killer ain’t no goddam ghost or a criminal genius. He’s just a man, and he’ll slip up. So we’re gonna handle this ourselves. I mean it, Rennie. If you so much as breathe a word to any law enforcement official—local, state, or federal—you and me are gonna go round and round.
They scowled at each other, their eyes locked. Finally, C.W. looked away. Rennie could stare down a rabid bull when she put her mind to it.
Then she poleaxed him by saying, What about Raymond? We could call him.
Anger welled up in C.W.’s throat like acrid vomit. His expression hardened. What’s he gonna do? Drink the killer under the table?
He’s been sober for months now. You know that.
What I know is that he near about broke your heart and probably gave himself cirrhosis while he was at it.
Rennie looked like she could rip out C.W.’s liver with her teeth. Marie died, she said. She was his whole world. He’s human.
He’s weak is what he is. No. We ain’t callin Raymond. He’d just muck things up even worse. Now please. Get on home, and let our people earn their salaries.
He walked away. I never talked to her that way before. I’ll be in the doghouse at least a week. She tromped back toward the car. The deputies backed away like she was a grizzly bear.
Rennie pulled into her driveway and killed the engine, yanking the keys out of the ignition and slamming the door behind her. On the drive home, one thought flashed like a neon sign: God, that man can be an ass. She unlocked the front door and dropped the keys on the coffee table while passing through the living room. In the bedroom, she sat down and leaned against the headboard, looking at the family picture on her nightstand—her, C.W., and Will, all sitting on a bench in front of an oak tree. Everyone looked happy.
She dug her phone out of her purse, opened her contacts, and selected Raymond.
He answered on the second ring. What’s wrong? he asked.
Chapter Eleven
August 29, 2016—New Orleans, Louisiana
When Raymond reached the office, he had already sweated through his clothes, which felt fused to his skin. He had not eaten breakfast. The agency’s waiting room, on a busy day, looked like a doctor’s office, with prospective clients reading old magazines. Today it was empty. Good. Anytime the sun glared down like the wrathful eye of God, slow days felt like a blessing. He opened the heavy oak door and walked into the office proper.
Raymond’s desk sat near the far wall in front of a framed Dali poster. To its right stood the door to the back rooms—storage, a restroom, and sleeping quarters he and LeBlanc sometimes used and sometimes hid their clients in. His desk looked sloppy as hell—papers spilled everywhere, a dirty coffee cup on one corner, an empty in-and-out box, a laptop buried somewhere. Two padded red chairs faced it. Two more stood in front of LeBlanc’s desk near the left wall. LeBlanc sat behind it, snoring, his feet planted on the burgundy carpet, his head tilting over the back of his chair like the lid of a teapot. Raymond laughed. LeBlanc, a good six inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than Raymond, looked like a grown-up in a third grader’s seat.
Raymond tiptoed into the room and shut the door. Then he rooted around until he found a phone book. He walked over to LeBlanc and savored the big man’s peaceful look before slamming the phone book down with a sound like a shotgun blast.
LeBlanc’s eyes flew open, and he overbalanced, his arms pinwheeling, his mouth open in a surprised yawp that doubled Raymond over in laughter even before LeBlanc fell onto his right side. He jumped up, eyes wild. Raymond stepped away in case LeBlanc took a swing before all his senses returned. But when his eyes focused, LeBlanc just said, You asshole.
You should have seen your face, said Raymond, still laughing.
LeBlanc