Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  “They know he’s on the run. And they know H & H made his bond.” She took a deep breath. “The person I talked to was real interested in where you were.”

  “Wait a minute,” Keller said. “They think I had something to do with this?”

  “They said they just wanted to talk to you. See if you knew anything.”

  “I hope you told them that I wasn’t going to commit murder over a ten percent recovery fee for a fifty thousand dollar bond.”

  “They never outright accused you. There was nothing for me to deny. Like I said, they claimed they only wanted to talk to you.”

  “Damn it,” Keller said. “This I don’t need.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You tell then where I was?”

  Her voice was hurt. “Of course not.” She paused. “Keller, something’s screwy here. There’s somebody else out there who wants to find DeWayne Puryear. Somebody willing to torture a seventy-year old man to find out where he is and then kill him. I want you off this job. Call the local cops and let them handle it. It’s not worth it.”

  He looked back at the pickup truck. “It is to me.”

  “You just said you weren’t going to kill someone over five grand. Now you’re telling me you want to die for it?”

  “I took the job. I want to finish it.”

  “What are you, the Mounties all of a sudden? You always get your man?”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “That must be it.”

  “Damn it, Keller,” she said. “Call the cops and let them handle it.”

  “I’m not exactly fond of the local constabulary right now. Besides, if the cops bring him in, you still going to pay me for it?”

  There was a brief pause. “Would you take it if I did?”

  “No.”

  Angela made an exasperated sound that sounded almost like a growl. “Jesus,” she said. “It’s not the money. You’ve just got the worst case of testosterone poisoning in human history. You ought to have your head examined, Keller, you know that?”

  “I tried that,” he said. “It didn’t work. You going to run that plate for me?”

  He heard her sigh, heard the click of computer keys. “Go ahead.”

  He gave her the license number. He heard the keys clicking again, then silence as she waited. He wished she would say something. She didn’t. Finally, she spoke.

  “Vehicle is a 1987 Ford Pickup registered to one Leonard Puryear,” she said. Her voice was flat.

  “DeWayne’s cousin,” Keller said.

  “Yeah. Where’s the truck?”

  “It’s parked at that address you gave me. Crystal Puryear’s house.” He smiled. “Jackpot.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. Jackpot.”

  “Maybe it’s a family reunion,” he said. He wished she would make a joke back.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Except for Mom and Dad.” There was a short pause. “Just be careful, Jack,” she said.

  “I will,” he said, but she had already hung up.

  Keller glanced over at the stubby black shotgun nestled in the rack by the seat. Re-arming himself had not been a problem. Fayetteville was a military-base town. There were a hundred pawnshops where a man with a valid credit card could buy enough guns to outfit a platoon. It had taken Keller only an hour or so to find a weapon that suited him, a Mossberg 500 “cruiser” model combat shotgun with a shoulder rig, no stock, and a barrel short enough that it flirted with the edge of legality. Keller had modified the weapon by covering the hard plastic pistol grip with a rubberized one; other than that, the lethal little shotgun had been good to go. Though Keller always carried a handgun, he preferred a shotgun for takedowns. There was something about the unmistakable sound of a pump shotgun being cocked that made even the most hardened criminal think twice. A handgun carried more ammo and had a faster rate of fire and reload, but Keller was going to try to stay out of any situation where that would be a factor. “Wanted Dead or Alive” was a concept that had long passed out of vogue.

  Handcuffs and restraints had been another problem. There were a couple of stores in town that sold police gear, but they had gotten sticky in the last few years about selling to people without law enforcement or government credentials. Keller didn’t have the time or the cash to persuade them that bail enforcement would fit the mold, despite the lack of official standing. He had settled for stopping by a hardware store and purchasing a roll of duct tape. Crude and messy, but effective. He sighed. At least they hadn’t thought to pull the police scanner out, or they hadn’t had time. The numbers pulsed fluorescent green across the front screen of the scanner slung beneath the dash, running rapidly through the freqs he had obtained for the local cops. There was only the occasional squawk of static and brief burst of clipped chatter as the various cars checked in with the dispatcher. It was a quiet night.

  He considered his options. He didn’t know for certain if DeWayne Puryear was inside. Besides, he didn’t know the interior layout of the sister’s house. The possible addition of Leonard Puryear was another wild card. He decided to wait and see if DeWayne would come out where Keller could take him in the open, preferably alone. He leaned back in the seat and crossed his hands over his chest. He watched the house through half-closed eyes. To a casual observer, he would have appeared to be asleep.

  Angela was right. There was something screwy going on here. He should cut and run. But he knew he wasn’t going to.

  For years, Keller had felt like an observer in his own life, as if he had been severed from himself and he was watching someone else go through the motions of getting up and walking through each day. He thought of a poem he had heard in high school. We are the hollow men, the poem read, we are the stuffed men, headpiece filled with straw… It hadn’t made much sense to him in school, especially since his English teacher had read it in a rich, fruity voice that was supposed to be dramatic, but succeeded only in making the class snicker. Now, he wished he hadn’t tuned out. He wished he could remember more of the poem. Only two things made him feel anything anymore: being with Angela and the takedown. Since it looked like the first one wasn’t going to happen, the second one was really all he had left. He sat motionless, like a predator by a waterhole, and waited.

  He had been sitting like that for almost an hour when he saw the brown pickup in his rearview mirror. The big truck was crawling down the street like a tank rolling through an unknown town. Keller could see the outlines of three men in the front seat, but it was too dark to make out their faces. The truck pulled down to the end of the street and parked across from the Puryear vehicle. No one got out.

  “That’s the address,” Raymond said. “Sanchez, that look like the truck the feller was drivin’?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “I can’t tell,” he mumbled. “I didn’t get a good look at what he was driving.Only the man.”

  Raymond drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “John Lee,” he said. “Get out and look it over.”

  Sanchez got out first and John Lee followed. Sanchez stood by the front fender as John Lee walked across the street and peered in the driver’s side window. After a few moments, he came trudging back, head down.

  “Can’t see nothin,’” he said. “‘Course, I ain’t real sure what I’m supposed to be lookin’ for.”

  Raymond was silent for a moment. Another set of headlights appeared at the entrance to the street. A dented blue Chevy Nova rattled its way down the street towards the three men. There was a white triangular sign perched on top of the car on the driver’s side. The sign was lit from within so it looked like a the sign on top of a taxi, but running lengthwise to the car. The sign read “Domino’s Pizza. Free Delivery.” The Nova pulled up and double-parked beside the truck. A thin young man in a red white and blue uniform got out, holding a large vinyl pizza-delivery case.

  “I got an idea,” Raymond said.

  Keller had been watching the scene unfold before him. He hadn’t moved because he was still unsure of what was going on. He saw two men get out of the brown t
ruck. One of them stayed there while the other walked over and examined the Puryear truck. Keller heard another car engine and saw a flash of headlights. It was a pizza delivery car.

  As the delivery boy got out, Keller saw a big curly-haired man in a suit get out of the driver’s side of the truck and approach. In the dim light of the lighted car-top sign, Keller saw the man approach the pizza guy. There was a brief conversation, and some money changed hands.

  “Looks like we got perfect timing,” Raymond told the tall kid in the deliveryman’s uniform. The kid backed away slightly as Raymond advanced. He looked suspiciously from the big Indian dude to the other two leaning on the truck. “Huh?” he said. Then he saw the wad of bills in the Indian dude’s hand and relaxed slightly. It no longer looked like a potential robbery to him. He had been robbed twice already, and neither time had the crooks approached him with money in hand.

  Raymond gave the kid his most amiable grin. “Guy who ordered this is a friend of ours,” he said. “Tell you what, why don’t I get this, and we can take it in. He’s expectin’ us.”

  A look of doubt crossed the kid’s pimply face. “I don’t know,” he said. Raymond began pulling off bills. The kid looked back into his car at the stack of pizzas still to be delivered. “Twenty-two fifty,” he said. Raymond paid him and threw in a five-dollar tip.

  “Wow,” the pizza guy said. “Thank you, sir, and have a good night.” He got back in his car. As he drove away, Raymond motioned to Sanchez.

  Keller saw the pizza car drive off. The curly-haired guy called a shorter Latino man over and spoke to him for a moment. The Latino nodded, but from the slump of his shoulders and the way he trudged towards the front door, pizza in hand, he didn’t appear happy. As the Latino rang the doorbell, Keller eased the shotgun out of its rack.

  “About damn time,” DeWayne said as the doorbell rang. He looked out the small window next to the door and saw a Mexican standing on the front steps holding a pizza. He opened the door.

  The Mexican looked him in the face for a moment, then thrust the pizza forward. “T-twenty-two fifty,” he stuttered.

  “You bring the beers?” DeWayne said. The Mexican smiled and shrugged. “Twenty-two fifty,” he repeated.

  “The beers,” DeWayne said. “Cervezas? Dos six packs de Budweiser?”

  Another smile and shrug. “No comprende.”

  DeWayne sighed. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Cain’t get decent service anywhere. “ The smell of the pizza reached him and his mouth began to water. “Ah, what the hell,” he said. “Not your fault if the order guy didn’t tell you about the beer.” DeWayne reached over beside the door and picked up the canvas bag full of cash. He reached in and rummaged around, finally coming up with a fifty-dollar bill. He handed it to the Mexican guy, grinning at the look on the guy’s face. “Keep the change,” he said magnanimously. Before the guy could say anything else, DeWayne took the pizza and closed the door.

  They watched Sanchez as he came back across the street. “Well?” Raymond snapped when he reached them.

  Sanchez nodded slightly, his head down. “It is him.” He looked back up, his face solemn. It was the face of a man pronouncing a death warrant. “And he has a bag full of money.”

  “Did he recognize you?” Raymond said. Sanchez shook his head.

  Raymond opened the door of the truck. He took out his pistol and handed another one to John Lee. Both men held their pistols down along their legs.“Come on,” Raymond said. “It’s time.”

  “I will wait here,” Sanchez said.

  “I don’t think so,” Raymond said. “We need you to get him to open the door again. Go back and knock. Tell him you gave him the wrong change or something. We’ll be on either side of the door.”

  “Wait,” Sanchez said. There was a note of pleading in his voice.

  Raymond smiled. “Don’t worry, buddy-ro. We’ll be doin’ all the hard stuff.”

  “And then you will kill me,” Sanchez said. “Like you killed the old man. So there will be no witnesses.”

  Raymond’s face hardened. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said. “I tell you one thing, though, Sanchez. You don’t get a move on, I will shoot you.”

  Sanchez bowed his head. He turned back towards the house, shuffling like a man walking in his sleep. He was muttering something underneath his breath.

  “Dios te salve, Maria,” he was saying, “Llena eres de gracia..” Hail Mary, full of grace…

  Keller saw what looked like an argument between the three men standing in the street. Suddenly, the argument seemed to resolve, with the Latino turning and heading back towards the house. The other two men followed. He held the shotgun across his lap, waiting to see what developed. He eased the driver’s side door open and set his foot on the asphalt, ready to move. As soon as I figure out what the hell’s going on, he told himself.

  “You go knock on the door,” Raymond said. “He knows you, sorta. When the sumbitch opens the door, step back. We’ll take it from there.”

  Sanchez didn’t look up. “Santa Maria,” he murmured. “Ruega por nosotros pecadores…” Holy Mary, pray for us sinners.

  Raymond looked over at John Lee. “What the fuck’s he talking about?” he whispered.

  John Lee shrugged. He looked as nervous as Sanchez. Raymond briefly regretted not bringing a couple of professional hitters along, but dismissed the idea after a second. This was a family affair.

  They had reached the front steps. Raymond and John Lee moved to opposite sides of the door, out of sight of anyone inside. They raised their pistols. Sanchez reached up and took a deep breath. “Ahora y en la hora de nuestra meurte.” Now, and in the hour of our death.

  He knocked on the door.

  In the dim yellow glow of the bug-light on the porch, Keller saw the glint of guns in the hands of the men on either side of the door. He realized at that instant that he had waited too long. He swore under his breath and got out of the car. He held the shotgun across his chest and began to run.

  The knock on the door was loud inside the house “Who the hell could that be?” DeWayne said. With a mouth full of pizza, it came out as “oof ell at mee?”

  “I’ll get it,” said Leonard. He got up and walked down the hallway. He peered out of one of the narrow side windows that framed the door. “It’s some Mexican dude.”

  “Aw right!” DeWayne crowed. “He musta come back with the beer. Let ‘im in, cuz.”

  Leonard opened the door.

  Keller was at the foot of the walkway leading to the house when he saw the door swing open. He saw the curly-haired man beside the door reach out and yank the Latino off the narrow stoop. The curly-haired man stepped into the Hispanic’s place. Keller saw a look of surprise cross the face of the man who answered the door. There was a bang and the face disappeared as the heavy-caliber handgun punched the man back into the shadows behind the doorway. The last thing Keller saw of it was the mouth opened in a silent “O” of amazement.

  “Police!” Keller yelled. It wasn’t true, but people instinctively knew what it meant, unlike “Bail Enforcement!” which people had to think about. “Put the gun down!”

  The man in the doorway ignored him and moved forward into the house. The man on the other side of the door turned, his face registering the same shock as the guy who had just been blown backwards into the hallway. He raised the pistol in his hand. “Put it down!” Keller bellowed. The man looked stupidly at him, the gun in his hand still moving upwards towards Keller. Keller’s reflexes took over. The shotgun in his hands roared. Keller couldn’t recall having pulled the trigger. The blast of the gun was followed by the crack of the man’s body as it met the wall of the house, slammed back by a full load of #4 buckshot. Keller reflexively jacked another round into the chamber and swung the shotgun to bear on the Latino who had knocked on the door. That one was panting in fear and crawling away on his hands and knees. He stopped crawling and vomited into the grass. No target. Keller swung back to the man he had sho
t. He had slid downwards into a sitting position, his back against the building. His entire front was chopped meat. He stared at Keller. He shook his head as if trying to shake off a hallucination. When Keller failed to vanish, he only looked more bewildered.

  The front door yawned wide open, inviting Keller into the darkness beyond. He heard screaming from inside. He swore softly and moved into the darkness.

  DeWayne heard the door open, then the pistol shot. There was a muffled scream, then the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Instinctively, he leaped to his feet, picking up the flimsy coffee table as he rose. In the room’s dim illumination, he saw a large man with curly hair come through the doorway from the hall. DeWayne saw the dark skin and thought at first it was the Mexican pizza guy. This man, however, was much taller and broader and dressed in a suit. He was holding a pistol in his hand. DeWayne heaved the table at him. The impact spoiled the man’s aim and knocked him on his ass. The first shot went wide and blew out the curtained picture window behind the couch.

  A high pitched rhythmic sound came from the hallway, like some great mechanical bird. It was Leonard screaming. “Leonard?” DeWayne said. The curly-haired man was picking himself up. He had lost the tinted glasses. DeWayne saw his eyes for the first time. They were a pale green. As the stranger raised his gun, DeWayne remembered the old Indian man they had killed. He looked down the barrel of the upraised gun and saw his death there.

  Keller advanced down the hallway, his shotgun at the ready. He heard a crash, saw a confused tangle of movement in the dimly lighted room. “Freeze, goddamn it!” he yelled.

  Raymond heard the voice behind him, realized that it wasn’t John Lee come to back him up. He whirled and fired almost in the same motion. The dark figure in the hallway dropped to the floor. When Raymond turned back, DeWayne was gone.