LITMIR.BIZ

      They both ordered a shrimp po’ boy with fries and tea, despite the early hour. At their table facing Decatur, LeBlanc read a printout of the article from the Comanche Warrior-Tribune. At the top were two pictures. On the left, a grainy photograph of an old gunfighter standing on an empty street, his hat tipped back, his expression inscrutable, both thumbs tucked into his gun belt. The caption read The Piney Woods Kid c. 1884. The other showed several people sitting in a restaurant booth. Their names were listed: Mayor C.W. Roark, Sue McCorkle, Adam Garner, Joyce Johnstone, Red Thornapple, John M. Wayne, and Lorena Harveston.

      So. It’s an article about your sister’s new business, LeBlanc said.

      Raymond took it back and folded it. Two people in that picture are dead. Lorena Harveston and John Wayne. Both died right outside the diner, the girl on the very night they took that picture.

      I can see why Rennie’s concerned. Any other connections between the victims?

      Nope.

      So the question’s whether they died because of the diner or their ancestors, LeBlanc said.

      Can’t imagine there’s much about the diner worth killin for. It just started up.

      Maybe C.W. crossed a mob contractor or somethin.

      Raymond laughed. If they were in New Jersey, maybe, but I doubt even the Dixie Mafia’s ever heard of Comanche. Besides, C.W. wouldn’t get involved in somethin shady. Some folks got a stick up their ass. C.W.’s got a whole tree.

      LeBlanc took a huge bite of his sandwich. Mouth still full, he said, So no problems with gettin the land or anything?

      Rennie said somethin about the county historical society wantin it, but those ain’t generally the kind of folks that resort to killin nurses.

      But the posse angle seems pretty thin, too. I mean, this is Texas we’re talkin about. Somebody in your family tree had to be part of a posse at some point.

      Or the one the posse chased.

      Where the hell is Comanche anyway? Is it closer to Dallas or El Paso? Or goddam Lubbock?

      Closer to Dallas than them other two, Raymond said. Oh, I haven’t even told you the best part. Eyewitnesses say the killer wasn’t human.

      That surprised the big man so much, he almost stopped chewing. What was it then? A coyote or a Bengal tiger? What lives in Texas?

      Raymond sipped his tea and, just for fun, waited until LeBlanc bit off another hunk of sandwich before he said, Word is a ghost killed ’em.

      LeBlanc nearly choked. He sputtered and coughed, crumbs and bits of half-chewed shrimp and tomato and lettuce spewing onto the table and Raymond’s fries. Raymond frowned and pushed his plate away.

      Are you serious? LeBlanc croaked.

      I’m just tellin you what Rennie told me.

      LeBlanc drained his glass and signaled a server for another, his face still red, crumbs dotting his chin. A ghost. Just when you think you’ve heard everything.

      Maybe we can get us a ghost-huntin TV show.

      They already got a few of those. They all suck.

      Don’t I know it.

      They stopped talking while LeBlanc ate. They would take the case, of course, even though they were not licensed in Texas. With all the worry Raymond had put Rennie through, he owed her that much, and more. He would miss New Orleans, though. He had visited Comanche before and had seen no sign of beignets and po’ boys and crawfish and shrimp and beer and strippers and shitfaced tourists taking their pants off in the streets. In fact, it was hard to remember just what he had seen—a hardware store, maybe, and some car-repair joints and a motel or two. If he and LeBlanc had to stay more than a few days, how would they stand it?

      LeBlanc commandeered the rest of Raymond’s sandwich and wolfed it down. He finished another glass of tea.

      Well, he said as he came up for breath, when do we leave?

      ASAP.

      Does C.W. know we’re comin?

      Nope. In fact, he pretty much ordered Rennie not to call anybody. I reckon that was his first mistake.

      LeBlanc needed to piss, so he excused himself.

      C.W.’s gonna breathe fire and spit broken glass, Raymond thought. And that’s before he finds out we’re there to poke around in his business.

      Maybe Betsy McDowell could help with that. Whenever she stopped by or consulted, she added something Raymond had not even realized was missing—a soothing voice, a third perspective that juxtaposed with his and LeBlanc’s more jaded viewpoints. Theory-swapping sessions in the office, late nights in stakeout cars, greasy pizza and Chinese takeout and cold po’ boys on stale bread—it reminded Raymond of what life was like when Marie’s friends and whomever LeBlanc was seeing at the time would join the agency boys for beers and gumbo, and they would stay up all night, laughing and joking. Beyond that, McDowell could calm you down with a touch and a few words. She might even affect a grumpy bear like C.W. Roark.

      Raymond had barely seen her in a month. Her tarot readings and such did little good with divorce cases. But something like this ran right up her alley. Two deaths, two grieving families, even a ghost.

      Plus, a few months back, she had mentioned reading for a professor of folklore at the University of Louisiana at New Orleans. A guy like that might make a good source of information about a gunfighter from the late 1800s—and ghost legends, if it actually seemed relevant. McDowell already knew the man, so they could help each other while Raymond and LeBlanc did the legwork.

      LeBlanc and their server returned at the same time.

      Did you gentlemen save any room for dessert? the server asked.

      Yeah, LeBlanc said. One key lime pie and one bread pudding. You want anything, Ray?

      Sure. Bring me another shrimp po’ boy. Some asshole ate most of mine.

      When the new order arrived, Raymond watched LeBlanc destroy the desserts. If we take Betsy, maybe spendin that much time with her will spark Darrell’s kindling. God knows he deserves a little happiness.

      LeBlanc wiped his mouth with his napkin. About our nonexistent Texas license, he said. If we ain’t takin a fee, then we’re just concerned private citizens helpin out your family.

      I reckon that’s how we’ll play it. But C.W. loves to throw his weight around. We’re gonna have to be political.

      LeBlanc groaned. Can’t we just hog-tie him and throw him in the trunk until we’re done?

      Raymond laughed. Call Betsy while I finish this sandwich. Ask her about that folklore guy at ULNO.

      LeBlanc grinned.

      Chapter Twelve

      August 30, 2016—New Orleans, Louisiana

      They gathered in the Turner Agency offices at 10 a.m. Raymond had made an 11 a.m. reservation, but LeBlanc had already rooted in the cupboards of their shoebox-sized kitchenette five times. The problem with LeBlanc’s hunger lay not so much in its omnipresence but in his accompanying attitude. Whenever his blood sugar dropped too low—in other words, if he had not eaten in two hours or more—he snarled when spoken to and tossed furniture

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