Читать книгу Comanche - Brett Riley - Страница 8

Chapter Two

February 14, 2013—New Orleans, Louisiana

The headache was a dagger in Raymond Turner’s brain. His stomach spasmed, and he rolled over and vomited into the grass. Then he straightened, wincing against the sunlight. The ground felt frigid, the dead grass like dull needles. His Kia Optima’s grille sat only inches from the front steps of his little one-story house. Above, the bare branches of an oak thrust toward the sky.

His partner, Darrell LeBlanc, leaned against the tree trunk, trimming his fingernails with a pocketknife.

Raymond hocked and spat. His mouth tasted like something slimy had died in it. His leg ached.

What’d you do? he asked, rubbing it. Kick me?

LeBlanc glanced at him. Yep.

Well, what the hell did you do that for?

You looked like you needed kickin.

Raymond struggled to his feet, his stomach flip-flopping. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground near the Optima’s driver’s-side door.

Shit. I guess I drove myself home last night.

I reckon so, LeBlanc said. Almost parked in the middle of the den, too.

Just about. When Raymond bent to retrieve the bottle, the world swam out of focus. LeBlanc grabbed him. Thanks, he said. I feel like the Saints used me for a tacklin dummy.

Let’s get you inside, LeBlanc said.

Raymond sat at his kitchen table. Morning sunlight winked in through the blinds. Had LeBlanc parted the teal curtains, or had Marie left them that way months ago? The aroma of eggs and frying bacon and coffee made Raymond’s mouth water and his stomach gurgle as LeBlanc stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

I don’t know how much of that I can eat, Raymond said, rubbing his temples. His pants were grass stained and dirty.

It ain’t for you. LeBlanc took the bacon out of the skillet and dropped it on a paper towel–covered plate.

What are you doin here this early, anyway?

Early, hell. I’ve been up since two, lookin for you. Billy Jackson over at the River Ridge called. Said you could barely stand up. He tried to take your keys. You threatened to shoot off his pecker. I half expected to find you in the goddam river.

Well, you didn’t.

Yep. You made it. And for all you know, you killed somebody’s wife on the way.

Raymond recoiled as if LeBlanc had slapped him. For a moment, he said nothing as the blood drained from his face. Then the anger came.

Maybe you better get the hell outta my house before we do somethin we’ll regret.

LeBlanc pulled the paper towels from under the bacon. Then he dumped eggs beside the strips, set the skillet back on the stove, turned off the gas, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Plate and cup in hand, he joined Raymond and ate three forkfuls of eggs and sipped coffee.

Raymond sat there, fists clenched, watching.

Finally, LeBlanc looked at him. This has gotta stop.

What? You eatin me outta house and home?

Marie died eleven months ago, and you’ve been drunk damn near every night since.

I’m grievin.

No. You’re wallowin. And I’ve been carryin the agency alone.

I miss my dead wife. I’m sorry it’s inconvenienced you.

You’re killin yourself. And if you keep drinkin and drivin, you’re gonna take somebody with you. Last night, a mother of three got T-boned at an intersection. The other driver was drunk as hell. He walked away. She didn’t. That fella could have been you. Then you’d be no better than the piece of shit that killed Marie.

Raymond’s guts churned. His head thundered. Don’t say that. Just don’t.

Or you’ll what? Puke on my shoes?

Get outta my house, Raymond whispered. Get out, or I’ll kill you.

LeBlanc ate his bacon and drank his coffee. His expression did not change. The Gradney case, he said. You remember that one? We took it right after Marie’s funeral. Missin teenager, just run off from home one night. I got stumped, and you had already crawled inside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

When did you become such a goddam mother hen?

With the family breathin down my neck and you AWOL, I got desperate and called a psychic. Local woman, name of McDowell. She talked to the parents. Seemed to calm ’em down. Then she went in the boy’s room and felt—I don’t know—somethin. She said he was safe, near water, someplace with stairs and a fishin boat. Wasn’t much. I got me a guide and hit the bayous and swamps in a fan boat. Found the kid holed up in an old stilt house, eatin campfire-charred fish and workin his way through a keg of beer he stole from somewhere. Got no idea how he toted it all the way out yonder. Anyway, McDowell. I’ve used her on two cases since then. She’s good.

Why do I give a fuck? Raymond said. The coffee smelled glorious, but damned if he would ask LeBlanc to fetch him a cup.

Well, for one thing, she’s helpin keep our business above water, LeBlanc said. For another, you met her. In the office, three weeks back. I reckon you were too drunk to remember.

What’s your point, Darrell? My head hurts.

LeBlanc pushed the empty plate away and drained his cup. Your life’s passin by. You’re tryin to follow Marie, but you ain’t got the sack to shoot yourself. Well, I’ve had enough. If you’re gonna pussy out, you ain’t takin the agency with you.

Raymond gestured toward the door. If you’ve had enough, get gone. I don’t see an anchor tied to your ass.

I’m your friend. If I just walked away, I couldn’t live with myself. Not until I try one last thing.

Nope, Raymond said. I’m sick of your tryin. And since you don’t seem to remember where the door is, let me help you out.

He stood up, circled the table, and grabbed LeBlanc by the shirt.

LeBlanc let Raymond pull him to his feet. Then he grasped both of Raymond’s wrists and headbutted him across the bridge of his nose.

Raymond awoke in bed, his nose throbbing in time with his head. He sat up, groaning, and rubbed his eyes. His mouth tasted like blood and spoiled meat. He hocked and spat, not caring where it landed. LeBlanc sat on a kitchen chair against the far wall.

Jesus, Raymond said. You didn’t have to do that.

LeBlanc shrugged. Seems like I did.

I need a drink.

You’ve just about drunk yourself outta your own agency and probably half pickled your liver. It ends here. I can’t watch you do this anymore.

The room was in shambles. Soiled clothes piled in the corners, smelling of old sweat and desperation. Empty bottles poking out from under the bed. Sheets rumpled and sweat stained. The rest of the house was no better, some parts even worse. When had Raymond last cleaned his bathrooms, or even opened a window? Eventually, if he kept living this way, the neighbors would call the police, complaining of a terrible stench. The cops would find him in bed, maybe on the floor, rotting away with dried vomit clogging his throat, another empty bottle nearby. If he went out like that, what would Marie say when he saw her again?

LeBlanc sat silent, watchful.

Raymond licked his dry lips. Help me, he said.

LeBlanc exhaled. He looked relieved, but there was steel in his eyes. Okay, he said. Let’s get started.