Comanche. Brett Riley

would come on, and for as long as Raymond slept, he would watch a lower-stakes contest play out according to a set of defined rules and a clear time limit, a moment in which everyone would know it was over and who had won.

      In the easy chair, Raymond twitched and groaned, his unkempt dark hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead. He was probably six inches shorter than LeBlanc but only thirty pounds lighter. The booze had gone to his belly, which distended over his belt. A graying, three-day, patchy beard covered his sallow cheeks and chin. Hard living made you old. Nightmares did not help either.

      The dream never changed. Raymond tried to save Marie. He failed.

      Marie had been driving on the Mississippi River bridge in Baton Rouge when a truck tried to change lanes and clipped her rear bumper. She spun and crashed into the railing, the grille crumpling all the way into the back seat, crushing her. The truck had never been found, and for a long time, Raymond wept and thought about the vanished vehicle and its faceless operator and drank himself to sleep. It was as if God himself had plucked the driver and the truck off the earth. Witnesses could not even agree on whether the truck had been maroon or navy blue or black, brand-new or an early ’90s model. Raymond had no one to punch, no one to shoot, so he dove into every bottle of booze he could find. He took cabs to Armstrong Park at 2 in the morning and sat against the statues, watching the ebb and flow of forgotten people with no place else to go. Friends told him it was just a matter of time before he joined Marie in the family mausoleum.

      Well, yeah, he thought. That’s the point.

      Still, no matter how blackout drunk he got, the dream visited him at least three times a week. In it, he stood on the bridge as traffic zipped by. He leaned against the railing, the same one that would drive the engine block through Marie’s abdomen. The winter wind screamed off the water. The night sky was pitch black. When Marie’s Pontiac shimmered into view, Raymond recognized the truck that would kill her, even though it was never the same one—sometimes a Ford, sometimes a Chevy, sometimes an amorphous blob. He tried to warn her, but nothing ever worked. His feet were lead, fused to the bridge, and his arms might have weighed three tons each. His voice disappeared, too. No matter how he tried to shout, nothing came out except a shrill whine.

      Tonight, as he stood on the dream bridge again, Marie’s car appeared just as the truck, dark green this time, struck it. She spun and careened straight for Raymond, her face floating above the steering wheel. Just as she was about to run him down, she opened her mouth and said, Ray.

      When he jerked forward, awake and roaring, tears on his face, LeBlanc had already reached him. The big man gave him a bottle of water and rubbed his shoulders and held him as he wept, until he fell asleep again.

      A week later, after Raymond returned to work, he studied some financial documents at his desk. LeBlanc goofed around on the computer. It was nearing five o’clock. They would have to grab dinner soon, or LeBlanc might start eating the drywall.

      Raymond dropped the papers on his desk and sighed, rubbing his bleary eyes.

      I can’t look at this shit anymore, he said.

      LeBlanc did not look up. You called Rennie lately?

      Raymond stood up and stretched. Not since the last time you made me.

      Reckon you better in the next day or two.

      She’s still callin you.

      Don’t get mad. She’s worried.

      That’s an understatement. She’s been scared half to death. I reckon C.W.’s gonna punch me in the nose the next time I see him.

      Raymond and his brother-in-law used to call each other twice a week. They fished the Louisiana waters and Texas rivers and ponds, hunted squirrel and duck and deer, made idiotic wagers every time the Saints played the Cowboys—loser must dye his hair the winner’s team colors for a week—that sort of nonsense. But once Raymond’s drinking spiraled out of control and Rennie cried herself to sleep enough times, Roark’s phone calls ceased. The few times he answered the phone, his responses were curt, bordering on hostile, and when Rennie came to the phone, she sounded tense.

      I need to check my email one more time, LeBlanc said.

      Do it on your phone, Raymond said. I got a hankerin for a catfish po’ boy. I’m buyin.

      LeBlanc grinned. He shut down the computer and stood up. Now you’re talkin my language. I could eat a horse.

      Chapter Five

      May 8, 2015—Comanche, Texas

      Morlon Redheart finally seemed happy. He’s sick of landscapin, C.W. Roark thought, and Silky’s gettin too old to drag pallets around Brookshire’s. They need this. The contractors had installed the new front walk and lights and windows and an alarm system but left the depot’s more picturesque scrapes and dings alone. They laid a small concrete parking lot but didn’t bother with a light pole. The ambient light from Austin Street would suffice.

      As the renovations progressed, Roark sometimes stopped on Austin and watched, leaning against his truck with his arms and ankles crossed. Gotta make sure Red gets a good picture when it’s finally time to run his article. The newspaperman had decided to make it part of a group. Other photos would show Old Cora—the authentic frontier cabin that had served as the original county courthouse and now squatted on the town square as if a bored god had scooped it out of the past and dropped it in the twenty-first century—and the Fleming Oak, the old gnarled tree in which a white boy had once hidden from a Comanche attack. Tourists eat that kind of shit for breakfast, especially the ones who think every town west of the Mississippi used to be like Dodge City or Tombstone.

      As for the outbuilding, they installed no extra lights and protected it with only a padlock. Why bother with much else, when the best any thieves could hope for might be a big can of corn or a broken stool? Morlon had ordered the workers to toss all the old shit into the courtyard, where he stuffed smaller items into trash bags, larger ones into the bed of his pickup. He planned to haul it all to the dump.

      One day, Roark stopped by as Morlon was dropping half a dozen pewter plates into a Hefty.

      Hang on, the Mayor said. He pulled out the plates and then dug through the bag. He found a few more dishes, a set of tarnished forks and knives, a pair of busted cowboy boots, and a gun belt that looked older than Moses. Both the boots and the belt were stained with what might have been mud a century old. Roark spread these items on the ground. You find any other stuff like this?

      Nope, Redheart said. Just trash.

      Get somebody to clean these up, the mayor said, indicating the dishes and cutlery. Maybe we can hang ’em around the diner. Give the place more authenticity.

      What about that cowboy shit?

      When Roark picked up the boots and gun belt, he shivered. His arms broke into gooseflesh despite the heat. He dropped the junk and wiped his hands on his pants. Felt like stickin my hand into ice water. Maybe I’m comin down with somethin.

      Redheart raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

      Just put ’em back on a shelf, Roark said. I’ll figure out a place for ’em.

      Redheart shrugged and resumed loading trash.

      Roark left. Tomorrow, I’ll call around and see if anybody works on leather that old.

      The next day, however, meetings took up most of his time. When he got home that night, he was exhausted, and he had forgotten all about the boots and belt.

      After the building passed inspection, Roark announced the grand opening of the Depot Diner. It seated about as many people as your average Waffle House and served authentic Texas and Mexican cuisine, from family-recipe posole to Americanized dishes