DeWayne didn’t know who the voice from the hallway belonged to, and he was too terrified to care. When the big Indian turned away and fired, he hurled himself towards the kitchen. He scooped his own gun off the kitchen table as he passed. He fumbled with the door, almost sobbing with frustration as his fear-numbed fingers refused to work. Finally, he was able to yank the door open and stumble into the back yard.
The tiny back yard was overgrown with weeds. A rusting metal shed, barely six feet tall, sagged in one corner. DeWayne ran towards it, hoping to hide out inside. He yanked at the shed door. It was padlocked. Behind him, the kitchen door slammed open. DeWayne shrieked in panic and fired blindly back towards the sound. Glass shattered in the window. The figure silhouetted in the doorway didn’t fall, but it did pull back.
As the man in the living room had turned, Keller had instinctively dropped and sought cover. The only thing to get behind was to be the body of the man from the doorway. Now Keller lay full length on the floor, trying not to look at the eyes of the dead man. The body was close enough to touch. There was a sticky wetness under him and the familiar sharp metallic smell of blood. Keller realized that he was lying in a huge smear of it where the man had tried to drag himself down the hallway, his life flowing out of him and onto the floorboards. There was too much blood gone for any man to survive. Keller looked into the man’s eyes. Those eyes were becoming more inanimate with each passing second. The man had lost the strength to scream. At first Keller thought that a blessing, but the pitiful sight of the man’s mouth moving, trying to form words was worse. Finally a word came out, expelled like a sob on the man’s dying breath.
“Who…?”Keller didn’t see any need to answer. There was no one left to hear. Keller heard faraway sirens drawing closer. Someone had called the cops. There was a shot from outside, then the sound of glass shattering. Someone swore from inside the kitchen.
Keller took stock of the situation. Behind him were the cops. Before him, there were two men with guns. He wasn’t sure where they were. For that matter, he wasn’t completely sure who they were.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud. He started backing down the hallway, sliding on his belly, the shotgun held out in front of him.
He felt a sudden touch of metal on the back of his neck. “Stop there,” a voice said in a soft Spanish accent.
“We didn’t mean to kill him,” DeWayne called out. “I swear it, man. We didn’t know he was carrying a gun.”
The figure behind the door made no answer. DeWayne crouched deeper in the shadows beside the shed. “You can even have the money back, man, it’s in the bag in the hallway. Just let me go get some help for my cousin.”
“Your cousin’s dead,” came the voice from inside the house. “I kilt him.”
DeWayne put a hand to his forehead. “Okay, man,” he said. “Okay. So we’re, like, even, right? An eye for an eye?” There was no answer.
His eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now. There was a chest-high chain link fence at the back of the lot, where the yard of the house behind backed up to this one. He began edging his way back, then leaped up and turned towards the fence. He threw one leg onto a narrow metal tube running along the top of the fence and tried to vault over. The metal tube collapsed under his weight. He landed atop the points of the chain link. DeWayne screamed as the crudely twisted ends of wire gouged him. He dropped the gun. The Indian came running out, firing on the run. The muzzle flash of his pistol lit up the yard. DeWayne rolled off the fence and the bullets passed over him. DeWayne sobbed in fear and rage as he scrambled to his knees. His hand closed over something hard and metallic. His gun. The shadowy bulk of the big man was approaching the chain link fence. DeWayne raised the gun and pulled the trigger again and again, barely aiming. He fired in blind panic, the muzzle flashes ruining his night vision. “Leave me alone, you sumbitch,” he screamed. “Just leave me the fuck alone!” Then he was no longer firing. The firing pin clicked on the empty chamber. DeWayne tensed, waiting for the bullet that would tear out his heart or shatter his brain. It never came. There was silence. His night vision began to return slowly. The big Indian was lying on the ground. DeWayne leaped to his feet.
“Ha-haaaaa!” he crowed in triumph. “I killed you! I killed you!” He heard the sound of approaching sirens. He threw down the gun and ran.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’m not moving,” Keller said.
“Good,” the man behind him said. “Now slide the shotgun away from you, backwards. I am tired of having guns pointed at me.”
Keller shoved the shotgun away from him across the floor. It slid in the pool of blood, leaving a ripple in the rapidly congealing liquid.
“Now,” the voice said. “Tell me who you are and why you are here.”
“My name’s Keller,” he replied. “I work for a bail bondsman down in Wilmington. DeWayne Puryear disappeared a few weeks ago and my boss got a little worried about him showing up for court.” He paused. “And who are you,” he said, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
There was no answer. Keller could hear the man’s harsh breathing. Then the man chuckled. It was a strained sound, the sound of barely tethered hysteria.
“Right now,” he said. “I am a man with a bag of money and a gun. Soon I will have a big truck. It is the American dream, no?” Keller felt the gun pressed more firmly into the back of his neck. “No moving until I am gone,” he said. The pressure of the gun was suddenly gone. Keller heard the sound of footsteps. After a moment, he heard the sound of a large truck starting up and driving away.
Keller got slowly to his knees. His shirt clung to his body, sticky and heavy with blood. His pants were soaked as well. The smell of it filled the air, mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder. He fought down the urge to retch. The sirens were much closer now. He staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the door. He stopped there for a moment, hanging on, taking deep breaths to clear his nostrils of the slaughterhouse reek inside. After a few moments, he straightened up. He walked, then ran down the walkway to his car. He passed the first cop cars on the way out, watching in his rear-view mirror as they screeched to a stop in front of the house.
He turned the corner, went down a few blocks, turned another. He had no idea where he was going. After a few random turns, he spotted an abandoned gas station. The doors and windows were boarded up with graffiti covered plywood. But it was the tall hedges on three sides of the building and the driveway that led to the back of the building that got Keller’s attention. He whipped the car into the driveway and pulled behind the building.
There was a jumble of old tires and parts piled haphazardly in the narrow alleyway. Keller got out and pulled a gym bag from the back seat. Quickly, he stripped off the bloody shirt and pants and exchanged them for the pair in the bag. He toweled the residue of blood off his face as best he could. He knew he was probably missing some, but at least the smell wasn’t so bad anymore. He leaned against the car for a moment.
Puryear, he thought, he’s back there. It was crazy to go back. He knew it. But he could almost feel the nearby presence of his quarry. The siren promise of the takedown sang again in his ear, overriding everything. He got in and started the car.
Every nerve in DeWayne’s body was demanding that he lie down on the pavement and curl up in pain, but he knew that would only attract attention. He held himself upright by sheer force of will as he staggered down the street. The distant sirens had come closer and closer, then stopped. He wondered what they would make of what they found at the house. The sudden thought of his cousin made him stop. He crossed his arms across his torn stomach, leaning over in pain. He felt the heat of tears on his face. Leonard was dead. He had told himself at first that the Indian dude had been lying, but DeWayne knew in his heart that he wasn’t. And it was his fault. He never should have gotten them into this mess. He stumbled along, weeping, no longer caring how he looked. He wondered how they would break the news to Crys. And his aunt and uncle. The thought made him cry eve
n harder. They had been good to him, and he had fucked everything up.
After a few minutes he reached the main road. He was going to have to pull himself together, unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in prison. Or worse. The thought of being strapped to a gurney in Central Prison while a doctor injected him with poison stiffened his resolve. He straightened up and wiped his eyes. A big car was slowing down. At first he was terrified that it was a cop car, but there were no lights on the top or radios on the dash. The car pulled to a stop and a man got out. He was a big guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He had shoulder length blonde hair. Definitely not a cop, DeWayne thought with relief.
“Hey, pal,” the man said. “You okay?”
“I just racked up my bike,” DeWayne lied.
“Need a ride to the hospital?” the guy asked.
“Naw,” DeWayne said. “I could use a ride home, though.” He wasn’t sure where he was going to say home was; the important thing was just to get out of the area.
“Sure,” the guy said. “Hop in.” DeWayne turned towards the car. Suddenly he noticed something about the blonde guy.
“Dude,” he said. “Did you just have a wreck too?”
“Why do you say that?” the guy said as he came closer.
“Because you’ve got blood on you.” DeWayne said. “It’s, like, even in your hair.”
“Sorry, DeWayne,” the guy said. “Didn’t have time to shower.”
“Hey,” DeWayne said, “how do you know my—” he never got to finish the sentence before the guy slugged him across the jaw. Everything went all blurry. When DeWayne’s vision cleared, he was shoved face-first over the hood of the car with his hands pinned behind his back.
Keller bound DeWayne’s hands with the duct tape. DeWayne had struggled briefly at first until Keller had smacked his face against the hood. After that, he was docile. Keller pulled his prisoner to his feet and marched him towards the back of the car. He unlocked the trunk.
“Hey,” DeWayne whined. “You ain’t no cop.” He seemed offended.
“That’s right, DeWayne,” Keller said. “I work for your bondsman. You forget your court date? Down in Brunswick County?”
DeWayne stared at him. “You gotta be kidding me, dude,” he said. “You’re picking me up on a fuckin’ B & E? That was, like, a million years ago.”
“Three weeks actually.”
“Like I said. Man, I ain’t gettin’ in no trunk. I’ll suffocate.”
“I drilled air holes. I do this for a living, DeWayne. A lot of guys have ridden in there, and I haven’t lost one yet. Now get in, or I’ll stuff you in. Your choice.”
“Awww, maaaan,” DeWayne whined. Keller took that as the choice. He grabbed DeWayne by the back of his belt, grunting with effort as he lifted the smaller man off the ground. Keller used DeWayne’s waist as a fulcrum to tip him over and into the trunk headfirst. He stuffed DeWayne’s legs in next and slammed the trunk lid. “Hey!” DeWayne yelped. “Hey, man, lemme out!” There was a drumming of feet on the inside of the trunk. Keller cursed. Normally, he would have the prisoner shackled down, but he didn’t have his gear. Keller slammed his hand down on the lid and the noise stopped.
“Quiet,” Keller snarled, “or I’ll plug the air holes. I mean it, asshole.” There was silence.
As Keller drove away, he picked up the cell phone and dialed Angela. “I got him,” he said.
“Any trouble?” she asked.
He thought of lying or minimizing what had just happened, but he needed help. “Yeah,” he said. “Whoever was after DeWayne got there before I did. There were three guys. Two Indians and a Latino. One of the Indians drew on me.” He thought about the man he had left lying beside the door. He took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure that one’s dead. I don’t know about the other one. I saw him shoot someone, probably DeWayne’s cousin. The Latino guy drove off.”
There was a brief silence, broken only by the crackle of static in the cell phone. “You still there?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said after a moment. Her voice sounded choked. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Listen,” he said. “I need you to get on the phone. Talk to some of your contact people. Anybody you know who can find out what the hell is going on. Call me back.”
Another brief silence. Then simply, “Okay,” and the line went dead.
Keller drove carefully, keeping slightly under the speed limit. He was heading south on Highway 301 near the Coliseum when the police car fell in behind him. He swore under his breath and reduced his speed slightly, hoping the car would pull around and pass him. The only response was an explosion of flashing blue lights. He gritted his teeth and pulled over on the shoulder.
“Not a word, DeWayne,” he yelled back, not sure if he could be heard from inside the trunk. “Not a fucking peep, you understand?” He reached into the glove box and pulled out his license and registration. He rolled the window down and heard the crunch of heavy shoes on the gravel shoulder as the cop approached. “License and registration,” a familiar voice said. Keller’s stomach tightened as he turned and looked at the cop. It was Eddie Wesson.
Wesson grinned. “Out of the car, smart-ass,” he said. “Hands behind your head.”
Keller got out slowly, his hands in the air. He looked back at the cop car behind him. Marie Jones stood at the left front fender, one hand on her gun. “Eddie,” she said. “Why don’t you let me—”
“Shut up,” Wesson said. He grabbed Keller by the back of the shirt and slammed him against the car, face first. Keller felt the bone of his nose crunch against the roof support. Wesson yanked him off the car and slammed his knee into the back of Keller’s leg, propelling him to the ground. Wesson put his knee in the small of Keller’s back and leaned on him with his full weight. Keller gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Cut it out, Eddie!” he heard Marie yell. Wesson ignored her. He yanked Keller’s wrists behind his back. Keller heard the snap of the handcuffs as Wesson secured him. Wesson gave the cuffs an extra squeeze to tighten them to the point of pain. Then he heard another sound.
DeWayne Puryear was hammering his feet against the trunk lid. “Hey!” he yelled. “Help!” Wesson stood up and drew his pistol. He pointed it at Keller on the ground. “Give me an excuse, asshole,” he snarled. He turned to Marie. “Get the trunk open,” he said. Keller, his face to the ground, heard the snap as Marie unbuttoned her holster and drew her own weapon. He turned his head to try to talk to her. “The guy in the trunk is DeWayne Puryear,” he said. “Bail jumper from down in—” his words were cut off by a grunt of pain as Wesson kicked him in the ribs. “I didn’t ask you anything, asshole,” Wesson said. Keller could see Marie’s shoes as she walked past him to get the keys out of the ignition. She walked back to the rear of the car and opened the trunk.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” he heard DeWayne say. He sounded hysterical. “He’s crazy, officer! I was mindin’ my own business when this sumbitch grabs me off the street and stuffs me in the trunk. I ain’t done nothin’ I swear it, I was just—”
“Okay, okay,” Marie said.“ Just calm down, sir.” Keller looked. She had helped DeWayne clamber out of the trunk and was guiding him back to the side of the police car.
“Get that tape off his wrists,” Wesson ordered.
“I don’t know, Eddie,” she said. “What if he’s…”
“Just do it, Marie,” Wesson snapped.
Marie holstered her weapon and produced a small knife from her belt. She began sawing through the duct tape binding DeWayne’s hands behind his back. DeWayne was still babbling thanks.
“Don’t do it, Marie,” Keller said. He was rewarded with a another kick in the ribs.
Finally, Marie sawed through the last of the duct tape and DeWayne’s hands were free. He threw his arms around Marie in a bear hug. “Thank you, pretty lady,” he said, his voice choked with tears of gratitude. She tried to push him off. “Sir,” she was saying, “Sir, you need to let—”
>
DeWayne sprang back from her. He was holding her pistol clutched in his hand. Keller heard Wesson’s shoes grinding on the gravel as he tried to turn, simultaneous with the report of the gun and the wet smacking sound of the bullet striking Wesson.
“EDDIE!” Marie screamed. Wesson’s limp body thudded into the ground behind Keller. There was a brief scuffle of gravel as Wesson’s body twitched and writhed in its death throes. Keller kept his eyes fixed on DeWayne, willing himself not to look back. Marie leaped towards DeWayne, but he had already swung the pistol back to point at her face. She drew up short, her hands in front of her. Her mouth moved soundlessly. DeWayne was panting like a long-distance runner, but his hands were steady.
“Don’t do anything stupid, lady,” he said. He motioned with his head towards Wesson lying beside Keller on the ground. “This gets easier every time I do it. It ain’t like I want to do it, but the way I figger it, I ain’t got nothin’ to lose now, y’know? Now get your hands up. Behind your head.” Slowly, like a person moving in a nightmare, Marie complied. “Now down on the ground,” he ordered. She sank to her knees. Her face looked blank and dead in the harsh glare of the headlights. DeWayne backed away from her, then turned the gun towards Keller. He smiled for the first time, but the smile was a rictus, devoid of pleasure or humor. The blue lights of the police car still flashing behind him gave the scene a surreal, nightmare quality. DeWayne looked like a fun-house clown turned insane. Keller looked down the barrel of the gun.
Burning, they were burning. He could hear the screams as they died. Keller tried to stand, stumbled, then crawled towards the Bradley on his hands and knees. The gravel beneath him cut into the palms of his hands and shredded the knees of his uniform. Twenty feet away from the burning hulk, the heat pushed him back like a force field. He sobbed in frustration. The screams were abruptly cut off, drowned in the hammering series of explosions as the ammo inside the Bradley cooked off. The sky was filled with white flashes and streaks of red and yellow. Keller sank to the ground. Helpless. Useless.
Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand Page 7