Comanche. Brett Riley
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The broken lantern’s fire flickered and ebbed. Shadows stretched across the grounds and onto the platform, where they danced up the depot walls like the furtive movements of desert creatures. A wedge of light spilled from the main building’s door. But the Kid cast no shadow. His feet hovered an inch above the dust.
P.D. Thornapple opened his mouth to scream again. And then the Kid slapped leather, drawing both pistols and firing.
Slugs drove into P.D.’s belly. He flopped backward through the dust, the garments flying from his hands and landing in the fire behind him. The moon, a waxing crescent, grinned at him. His guts burned. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he had no strength. He coughed and spat a mouthful of bright blood into the dust. With arms made of lead, he searched his abdomen for bullet holes.
He found nothing.
The Kid floated closer, watching P.D. with those empty holes where his eyes should have been.
Pain blotted out all conscious thought. Darkness closed in. When he tried to speak, blood erupted from his mouth, some pattering onto his face, the rest raining around him. He turned his head and spat.
What’d you do that for? he whispered. I didn’t kill you.
But the Kid had vanished. The fire began to die out, and the rest of P.D.’s strength went with it. His head fell back to the earth, and he lay staring at the glimmering stars. They were cold and far away, like the eyes of dead gods.
Chapter Two
February 14, 2013—New Orleans, Louisiana
The headache was a dagger in Raymond Turner’s brain. His stomach spasmed, and he rolled over and vomited into the grass. Then he straightened, wincing against the sunlight. The ground felt frigid, the dead grass like dull needles. His Kia Optima’s grille sat only inches from the front steps of his little one-story house. Above, the bare branches of an oak thrust toward the sky.
His partner, Darrell LeBlanc, leaned against the tree trunk, trimming his fingernails with a pocketknife.
Raymond hocked and spat. His mouth tasted like something slimy had died in it. His leg ached.
What’d you do? he asked, rubbing it. Kick me?
LeBlanc glanced at him. Yep.
Well, what the hell did you do that for?
You looked like you needed kickin.
Raymond struggled to his feet, his stomach flip-flopping. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground near the Optima’s driver’s-side door.
Shit. I guess I drove myself home last night.
I reckon so, LeBlanc said. Almost parked in the middle of the den, too.
Just about. When Raymond bent to retrieve the bottle, the world swam out of focus. LeBlanc grabbed him. Thanks, he said. I feel like the Saints used me for a tacklin dummy.
Let’s get you inside, LeBlanc said.
Raymond sat at his kitchen table. Morning sunlight winked in through the blinds. Had LeBlanc parted the teal curtains, or had Marie left them that way months ago? The aroma of eggs and frying bacon and coffee made Raymond’s mouth water and his stomach gurgle as LeBlanc stood at the stove, spatula in hand.
I don’t know how much of that I can eat, Raymond said, rubbing his temples. His pants were grass stained and dirty.
It ain’t for you. LeBlanc took the bacon out of the skillet and dropped it on a paper towel–covered plate.
What are you doin here this early, anyway?
Early, hell. I’ve been up since two, lookin for you. Billy Jackson over at the River Ridge called. Said you could barely stand up. He tried to take your keys. You threatened to shoot off his pecker. I half expected to find you in the goddam river.
Well, you didn’t.
Yep. You made it. And for all you know, you killed somebody’s wife on the way.
Raymond recoiled as if LeBlanc had slapped him. For a moment, he said nothing as the blood drained from his face. Then the anger came.
Maybe you better get the hell outta my house before we do somethin we’ll regret.
LeBlanc pulled the paper towels from under the bacon. Then he dumped eggs beside the strips, set the skillet back on the stove, turned off the gas, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Plate and cup in hand, he joined Raymond and ate three forkfuls of eggs and sipped coffee.
Raymond sat there, fists clenched, watching.
Finally, LeBlanc looked at him. This has gotta stop.
What? You eatin me outta house and home?
Marie died eleven months ago, and you’ve been drunk damn near every night since.
I’m grievin.
No. You’re wallowin. And I’ve been carryin the agency alone.
I miss my dead wife. I’m sorry it’s inconvenienced you.
You’re killin yourself. And if you keep drinkin and drivin, you’re gonna take somebody with you. Last night, a mother of three got T-boned at an intersection. The other driver was drunk as hell. He walked away. She didn’t. That fella could have been you. Then you’d be no better than the piece of shit that killed Marie.
Raymond’s guts churned. His head thundered. Don’t say that. Just don’t.
Or you’ll what? Puke on my shoes?
Get outta my house, Raymond whispered. Get out, or I’ll kill you.
LeBlanc ate his bacon and drank his coffee. His expression did not change. The Gradney case, he said. You remember that one? We took it right after Marie’s funeral. Missin teenager, just run off from home one night. I got stumped, and you had already crawled inside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
When did you become such a goddam mother hen?
With the family breathin down my neck and you AWOL, I got desperate and called a psychic. Local woman, name of McDowell. She talked to the parents. Seemed to calm ’em down. Then she went in the boy’s room and felt—I don’t know—somethin. She said he was safe, near water, someplace with stairs and a fishin boat. Wasn’t much. I got me a guide and hit the bayous and swamps in a fan boat. Found the kid holed up in an old stilt house, eatin campfire-charred fish and workin his way through a keg of beer he stole from somewhere. Got no idea how he toted it all the way out yonder. Anyway, McDowell. I’ve used her on two cases since then. She’s good.
Why do I give a fuck? Raymond said. The coffee smelled glorious, but damned if he would ask LeBlanc to fetch him a cup.
Well, for one thing, she’s helpin keep our business above water, LeBlanc said. For another, you met her. In the office, three weeks back. I reckon you were too drunk to remember.
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