Comanche. Brett Riley

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      That sounded good, but if he walked away for even a week, he might never come back. He might find a shack on the beach or a cabin near a lake and let the world pass him by. He was not ready for that.

      What was Betsy McDowell up to these days? Her charms, like Marie’s, made the world seem lighter.

      LeBlanc had reintroduced them back in the summer of 2013. Expecting a flighty, annoying fraud, Raymond found her both charming and capable. She had consulted on six or eight cases since then and often stopped by the offices to shoot the shit. While her histrionics resembled every other medium’s he had ever seen—the trancelike state, the muttering of information just specific enough to hook you, head lolling, eyes that shut tight or opened wide and refused to blink—he had never felt like she played anyone false. In fact, as far as he could tell, she was genuinely uninterested in money. Her presence made people feel better, just as LeBlanc had said.

      Plus, there was the way LeBlanc looked at her when he thought she was not looking back. If Raymond had any right to give advice, he would have told LeBlanc to stop wasting time. Life was short.

      Reckon I ought to call Rennie tonight. But not until after supper. I don’t want to get yelled at on an empty stomach. Hell, maybe I’ll even cook.

      That last part was a lie. He kept very little food in the house these days. It gave him a reason to leave. Otherwise, he would stay here, alone with his pain and his guilt, and one night he would find a bottle in his hand. Better to leave and come back only when exhausted enough to fall straight into bed. Somebody else could make the gumbo or the stuffed red snapper.

      He sighed and took a drink. His crotch was freezing. Soon enough, the sun would go down, and then he would have to fill the long evening.

      Chapter Seven

      July 4, 2016, 7 p.m.—Comanche, Texas

      Red Thornapple—owner, editor in chief, publisher, and staff writer for Comanche’s local paper, the Warrior-Tribune—set in motion the events leading to the first death. In prepping his long-promised article about the Piney Woods Kid and the local descendants of the men who killed him, Thornapple had researched the outlaw, dug in to old family documents, and used an online ancestry program to create family trees. At least one direct descendant of each man who had handled the Kid’s body still lived in town. The McCorkles and Johnstones had left Comanche in the early 1900s, but one of them came back and planted seeds in the town’s soil—the McCorkles in the fifties, the Johnstones in the midseventies. For every other family on the list, some members had moved on—as close as Stephenville and Granbury, as far away as Fargo, North Dakota—but someone had stayed. A small miracle.

      Roark had asked for a picture and a fluff piece about the diner, but Thornapple smelled a real story—a historical think piece about how these families had been tied together through violent Old West justice. It took quite a bit of effort to gather the descendants together, especially when you had to get the mayor in the same room, at the same time, with a long-haul trucker and a shift worker like Benny Harveston. In fact, it had proved impossible. Thornapple found a day when everyone but Harveston could make it, and he scheduled the interview for that evening—the Fourth of July. Harveston sent his daughter, Lorena, in his place.

      Everyone arrived around 7 p.m.—Thornapple, the Harveston girl, Mayor Roark, Sue McCorkle, Adam Garner, John Wayne and his wife, Pat, and Joyce Johnstone. The town no longer provided a fireworks display, so there was nothing to see in the sky except the occasional arc of someone’s Roman candle or bottle rocket. Inside the diner, the jukebox played classic country and country pop. McCorkle flirted with the men, while Garner and Wayne, old high-school friends, spent half their time arm wrestling or laughing at each other’s jokes. Joyce Johnstone sat near Thornapple, answering questions with grace and humor. He returned to her over and over and ignored some of the others, like Sue McCorkle, too often.

      John Wayne showed genuine interest in their shared history. The mayor seemed bored.

      In the following days, though, Thornapple would mostly remember Lorena Harveston, who was not even supposed to be there.

      It started with a question he asked her just after Garner and Wayne recounted several amusing but useless stories about their days playing football for Comanche High, their nights prowling the back roads with a bootlegged case of beer, and their literal pissing contests. Thornapple laughed and pretended to take notes. Then, as Wayne turned to the mayor and began a lecture on why the town should hire fewer Mexicans, Thornapple looked to Lorena Harveston and said, So. Tell your daddy we sure do wish he could have come.

      She sipped her Coke. He’s workin twelves. He’s either at work or in bed.

      Tell me about you then. What’s kept you in town?

      She ate a French fry. The University of Miami.

      Pardon?

      I’m twenty-six and livin with my parents.

      Okay.

      I used to hate it here. There’s nothin to do. So when I got a full ride at the U, I thought I’d never see this town again, except on holidays. But I didn’t even last two years.

      Thornapple took one of her fries and dipped it in gravy. How come?

      Because I majored in vodka and minored in smokin blunts with frat boys. I was on academic probation after my freshman year. Daddy like to killed me, so I settled down. Took a couple of summer courses, came home for six or seven weeks, and headed back in the fall. One day, I got invited to a party. Figured, what the hell, I’ve been good. They had enough Jell-O shots to get most of Dallas drunk. I barely remember the rest of that semester. They suspended me for the spring, but I could tell I’d never make it there. Too much temptation. So I came home and worked at Brookshire’s for a year and a half. Got into Tarleton and majored in nursin. After graduation, Community Hospital hired me. And you know what? I’m happy. I like my job. I know most everybody. And I love the cheeseburgers here. They’ll probably put me in my own ER one day.

      She smiled. Her teeth were white and straight, her skin tan. Her long, dark hair spilled over her shoulder.

      Thornapple took a long swallow of tea and then said, So what do you think about this business with our ancestors?

      It’s pretty cool that somethin happened in this town once.

      The mayor shook hands all around and excused himself. John Wayne tapped Garner on the shoulder and launched into a dirty joke about a Baptist minister, a farmer, and an automatic milking machine. Garner laughed so hard, his belly shook the table. Pat Wayne rolled her eyes and started a conversation with Joyce Johnstone. A few minutes later, Thornapple joined them. Wayne eventually turned back to her husband, but Thornapple and Johnstone kept chatting. At some point, Lorena Harveston left, too. Red Thornapple did not think of her again until he heard her scream.

      Chapter Eight

      July 4, 2016, 9:05 p.m.—Comanche, Texas

      Lorena Harveston left the diner alone, with her purse slung over her shoulder. She had not wanted to spend her off evening with people at least twenty years older than her, but their stories and their laughter had been entertaining, even though that Thornapple guy had barely written down anything she said. The big truck driver—Garner? Garland?—and that John Wayne guy, whose parents must have hated him if they saddled him with that name, had made her cackle and blush with their awful jokes. The woman named Joyce had complimented Lorena’s skin and СКАЧАТЬ