spaced copse of live oak trees grew to the north between Mill Road and the Central Texas Railroad tracks, which ran only feet from the depot’s rear walls. The old rails snaked through this part of town like a dry riverbed, the prosperity and health and cattle drives of olden times long gone. South of the building, buffalo grass grew all the way to Fleming avenue, beyond which Austin Street wound past a brand-new apartment complex.
For nearly 130 years, the elements had worked their will on the depot’s paint and wood. Bored teenagers and tweakers had vandalized the place with sticks and sharp rocks and knives and spray paint. Its yard was overgrown, the calcium carbonate of the undersoil poking through in spots.
Mayor C.W. Roark stood in front of the depot at dusk, the sun blood-red in an orange sky lined with strips of gray clouds. He was six feet, two inches and weighed 220 pounds—fit and solid for a fiftyish politician. His black hair had salted at the temples and was slicked straight back from a tanned face adorned with a bushy mustache. Despite the heat, he wore black slacks, black cowboy boots, a black coat, and a dark gray tie as he considered the yard’s bare spots.
Goddam caliche. May have to resod. Time for that later, if we get the land.
He had submitted his final bid on Friday. Today, a Monday, had come and gone with no word. If the city refused to sell him the lot and buildings, the county historical society would secure its newest landmark. What a waste.
This part of the lot would be perfect for a concrete parking area. They could lay a three-foot-wide walk leading to the front steps. Rennie, Roark’s wife, insisted on keeping as much of the grass as possible. She liked the green, and C.W. had been married long enough to know which battles to pick. Besides, he could hardly refuse her the grass when he had already decided to keep the live oaks. They could add more parking later, if business required it, but for now, he liked the place’s isolated feeling—trees behind, grass before, a ditch to the west, and a fence to the east.
Morlon Redheart’s rattletrap Ford pickup turned onto Austin and parked behind Roark’s white Chevy extended cab. Redheart got out, shut his door, and jumped the ditch. Perspiration glistened on his dark skin. His braided black hair descended to the small of his back, swaying in the sporadic breeze. He was mestizo, half Comanche and half Mexican.
When Redheart approached, Roark stuck out his hand. Morlon. How do?
Redheart shook with him. Can’t complain, and even if I did, nobody would care. What’s the word?
The town council’s leanin toward the historical society. They think Comanche needs more landmarks for the tourists.
Redheart spat. Tourists. They come once a year for the Pow Wow. We’re offerin steady commerce.
It’s hard to sell ’em on a restaurant. Too unstable, they say.
They ain’t tasted my cookin.
Maybe they should.
Roark and Redheart listened to the traffic on Central, the crickets, the last birdsongs as the sun edged over the horizon. In the dusky light, the mayor studied the outbuilding ten yards from the depot proper. It was half as big as the main structure—one door, dusty and spider-webbed or broken windows, the wood’s paint flaked away in places, faded to no color in others.
So what now? Redheart asked.
The mayor ran one hand over his face and flung away the sweat. I’ll handle the council, like I always do. Fred Deese wouldn’t wipe his ass unless I handed him the White Cloud. Bill McAllister owes me a few favors. And Mary Jones will vote my way if I promise to find her dumbass nephew a city job. You and Silky just get ready to cook. Hire eight or ten folks at minimum wage, less for the servers.
Rich white people. Y’all hang onto your money like it’s your liver and kidneys.
The mayor grinned. That’s how we stay rich. Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of paleface cash.
Redheart sneered. You’ve seen too many John Wayne movies.
Maybe. But I keep my word.
Where’s your wife? She didn’t want to look at the grand empire you’re buildin?
Rennie was at home, on the phone with her drunkard brother’s partner. C.W. Roark had once loved Raymond Turner like a real brother, but the man had carved too many worry lines around Rennie’s eyes. Now he could crawl into a Jack Daniel’s bottle and stay there, for all Roark cared.
She’s seen it before, he said.
You want me to handle supplies?
Roark clapped him on the back. Yep. My accountant will call you with the budget specifics. But first, get a crew on that there shed.
Morlon glanced at it. Tear it down?
Hell, no. Get it in usable shape. That’s our storage overflow.
Redheart crossed his arms, his expression cold. Storage, he said. You’re gonna leave that abomination standin. Worse, you want me and my wife to go in and outta there a dozen times a day.
Didn’t take you for a superstitious man.
It’s a bad place. You know what happened there.
I’m countin on it. People love Old West stories. The bloodier, the better.
It ain’t gonna make your family look good.
Or yours. That Comanche runnin with the Piney Woods Kid was a Redheart.
My ancestor was an outlaw, but he wasn’t no blasphemer like yours.
Roark laughed. Back then it wasn’t called blasphemy. They called it frontier justice. Red Thornapple’s gonna write an article about it for the Warrior-Tribune. We’ll hang a copy on our wall. Make it part of the place’s ambience.
Redheart shook his head. Ambience. Well, it’s your money. But me and Silky ain’t goin in that shed.
After Redheart left, Roark turned back to the depot. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It’ll be nice to have a place of our own where we can eat a bite and drink coffee with our friends after we retire. Maybe Rennie and me can talk Will into workin here on weekends. Get his hands dirty before college. Who knew? The boy might even want to run the place one day.
C.W. started toward his truck as the wind kicked up, blowing grit from the yard.
Near the old storage building, the air shimmered for a moment, like heat wafting off a summer highway. Then the shimmer faded, and everything lay in shadow. Somewhere nearby, the first cricket chirped.
Chapter Four
October 7, 2014—New Orleans, Louisiana
Rennie Roark sobbed. The sound seemed to imbue Darrell LeBlanc’s Samsung with physical weight. He had just told her that Raymond had refused professional help again. It had been about eighteen months since her brother had admitted his drinking problem, but in that time, he had fallen off the wagon twice. Whenever LeBlanc found Raymond unconscious under the tree or face down on the floor or slumped over the toilet, the agency had to close while they played cards or checkers or watched television cooking competitions. Raymond shook and trembled and groaned and sometimes upset the board or threw the remote at LeBlanc’s head and dashed for his car, intending to find the nearest liquor store and drink himself into a stupor. LeBlanc tackled him, fought him hand to hand, and sat on his chest until the fit passed. Today Raymond slept in his easy chair, an old episode of Gilligan’s Island on TV, as LeBlanc gave Rennie the details. She wept and offered to fly out and beat Raymond’s ass like their momma should have done. LeBlanc told her it would be all right.
When they hung up, Raymond still slept, his brow furrowed, his nails digging in to the armrests. He was coming to the worst of it again. LeBlanc might be forced to restrain him, which could technically be called kidnapping. That, or try to have him committed.
No. Underneath his grief, he’s still strong. I hope.
LeBlanc sat on the couch, the springs creaking under his six-foot-three, 260-pound defensive end’s