LITMIR.BIZ

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pistol at her. If she stared into its cavernous barrel long enough, she might fall headlong into its depths. Her leg throbbed and pulsed.

      Footsteps on the concrete. Beyond the apparition, three shadowed forms made their way down the walk and among the cars on the paved lot.

      Where are you? one of them called.

      Look, said another. You hurtin a woman, shithead?

      Lorena opened her mouth to cry for help again, but as soon as her lips parted, another shot thundered—the sound seemed to come from inside her head—and then her guts exploded.

      One of the men cried out.

      What the hell was that? shouted another.

      Lorena gripped her abdomen and moaned. When she pulled her hands away, she expected them to be covered with gore.

      They were scraped and dirty but otherwise bare.

      Her head spun. Her stomach churned. She looked at the man who had shot her and found she had no capacity for surprise left when he faded before her eyes. She could see right through him.

      A ghost. A ghost shot me.

      The apparition disappeared. Lorena closed her eyes.

      The pain seemed to be lessening. Perhaps the ghost took it with him. Or maybe she had not seen him at all, had not been shot. Maybe she had stumbled in the lot and hit her head, and the rest had been a concussion-induced dream. But then nausea struck again, and she vomited a column of blood. It coated the Buick’s dirty, leaking tire. The footsteps had gotten much closer now, but she no longer cared. She felt tired, sleepy.

      Men surrounded her, their faces blocking out the stars. Red Thornapple, the trucker whose name might have been Garland, the Indian man who worked the grill. They looked frightened.

      The grillman leaned over her. From a thousand miles away, he said, Aw shit—hey, you okay?

      Strong hands grabbed her arm and shook her, but she closed her eyes, too tired to talk.

      Hang on, lady, the cook said. I’m callin 911—yeah, hello, this is Morlon Redheart down at the Depot Diner. There’s a woman hurt in the parkin lot. Looks like she’s in bad trouble. Naw, I can’t see nothin. Look, just send somebody, okay? I ain’t a goddam doctor.

      Chapter Nine

      August 12, 2016—New Orleans, Louisiana

      Raymond groaned and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His new alarm clock could double for an ambulance siren on its day off. Its puke-green digital readout said it was 7 a.m. Wonder if I can get away with a couple more hours? He sat for a while, his phone in one hand, ready to text LeBlanc some excuse.

      No. You already missed too much work.

      He got up and went to the kitchen, where he made coffee and drank a cup, pouring the rest of the pot into his silver thermos. Then he showered, brushed his teeth and tongue, and got dressed. No need to shave. Given all the pulp fiction and film noir most people had consumed, his customers would look with suspicion or outright distrust on any private detective without a five o’clock shadow. Besides, even one more task seemed like too much. Maybe it’s depression. I hear that makes you feel tired all the time. I wonder if it makes you feel old, too. Raymond Turner was only forty-one years old but felt twice that age, like a man who has outlived his family and most of his friends.

      That goddam picture.

      He had found the photo in his office desk while cleaning out a drawer a few weeks back, and it had hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes—a years-younger Raymond and Marie standing in front of the old capitol building in Baton Rouge. Seeing it somehow underscored his loneliness in a way even the empty house did not. Back then, they had still believed they would have children, three or four at least. So much hope in the photograph, two lives stretching out and intertwining, hope that had survived the discovery that Raymond was sterile, that local adoption agencies disapproved of his transient and dangerous profession. He had seen them all in that photo—Marie and the children who never were—felt the vacuum of their absence, and then he had made some piss-poor excuse to LeBlanc and left, dropping the photo, not even thinking about where it might land or who might see it. On the way home, he bought a case of Shiner Bock and felt only mild surprise when LeBlanc was waiting on his porch. The big man had unfolded himself from the swing and stood with his hands in his pockets as Raymond hesitated, afraid to take out the beer, afraid not to.

      Might as well bring it on in, LeBlanc said. Using the spare key Raymond kept under the welcome mat, he let himself in.

      Raymond followed him, carrying the beer and wondering if he would weep when LeBlanc resigned from the agency and left.

      This about that picture I found on the floor this afternoon? LeBlanc said.

      Yeah.

      LeBlanc sighed. I get it, but we’re not doin all that shit again. Hand it over.

      I wish Betsy McDowell was here. She always made Raymond feel better, just like she did with the clients.

      LeBlanc poured the beer down the sink and stayed until bedtime. But Raymond had awakened from dreaming of the bridge every night since.

      Now, he locked up the house and got in his car. Then he looked at his left hand and saw his ring finger was naked. He got back out and went inside. In his bedroom, the ring lay on his nightstand, where he had left it before taking his shower. It was a silk-fit gold ring filigreed with palm leaves and tiny doves—Marie’s idea, to remind him of the inner peace everyone should seek. He picked it up and slipped it on, as he had done every day for sixteen years, thinking, as he always did, of the words ’til death do us part.

      He intended to do better than that.

      Chapter Ten

      August 27, 2016—Comanche, Texas

      Morlon and Silky had gone home at five. The staff planned to close around ten. Of course, sometimes around ten became one in the morning when the truckers and shift workers rolled in, and while the night cooks and manager liked the extra hours, both servers rolled their eyes and griped to each other. They never gave back their tips, though.

      At 9:30 p.m., John and Pat Wayne pulled into the parking lot. It seemed like a slow night—only seven or eight cars, most of them probably the workers’. John smiled. Perhaps he and Pat would get their food faster than usual and be home in time for the news. Beside him, Pat looked skittish, probably thinking about how that poor Harveston girl had died not five minutes after saying goodbye. That had been sad and strange, and the cops had no leads on the man spotted in the lot that night. John had come back to the diner since then, but this was Pat’s first time.

      He drove his brand-new Ford Mustang GT, royal blue with gray interior. He had driven the old one until you could damn near see through parts of the chassis that had rusted away. He had bought that car as a kid and had kept it up as best he could over the years. He had driven it to his senior prom and to his wedding and to the hospital when Pat miscarried the only child they ever conceived; he had picked up his first date in it and lost his virginity in its back seat and drove Pat to Dallas for what they called a honeymoon, squirreling away a little money every month toward his next Mustang. John Wayne paid his bills on time and owned a nice house, a bass boat he pulled behind his crummy work truck, a savings account, a sixty-inch television, and a growing retirement fund. When the old Mustang had finally decayed beyond his powers to repair it, he took a big chunk of his savings and paid almost a third of the $32,000 price on the spot. The salesman had nearly choked.

      Now John parked on the lot’s fringe, sure that if he pulled in next to another car, someone would back into the ’Stang or sit on it and leave their ass prints on his hood. He killed the engine, and they got out, the night’s heat descending on them like a wave. The recently mown grass clumped around their feet. Shit fire. I just washed her, too.

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