Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Do it,” Keller snarled up at DeWayne. “Get it over with.” He looked into DeWayne’s mad eyes for a long moment. The gun held steady on Keller, then wavered. Then DeWayne stepped back and lowered the gun.

  “I cain’t do it,” he said. His shoulders sagged as if under a great weight. He looked over at where Marie knelt on the ground. “I cain’t shoot you while you’re just layin’ there helpless.” He shook his head. “Reckon I still got that much good left in me. ‘Sides,” he said with a high-pitched giggle, “don’t reckon I can kill nobody crazier’n I am.” He edged past where Keller lay on the ground. Keller attempted to turn his head to watch where DeWayne was going. He couldn’t see, but he heard DeWayne’s voice. “But this is for lockin’ me in a fuckin’ car trunk.” Keller caught a glimpse of a heavy boot headed for the side of his head, looking absurdly large. There was a blinding flash of white light and an explosion of pain in Keller’s skull, then darkness.

  There were three of them, two majors and a light colonel. They were sitting behind the table, looking immaculate in their class “A” uniforms. They made him wait a long time at attention before speaking. “Sergeant Keller,” the youngest of the two majors began. “We have investigated your claim of casualties caused by so-called friendly fire. The conclusion of this board of inquiry is that your vehicle became separated from the rest of the unit and came under attack by an Iraqi anti-tank platoon.”

  “No sir,” Keller said flatly. “It was a helicopter. I heard—”

  “Sergeant,” the major on the other end of the table spoke up, “we’ve checked thoroughly. Except for the Blackhawk that saw your vehicle burning and picked you up, there were no Coalition air assets reported in the area at the time of the attack—”

  “Then either someone was as lost as I was,” Keller replied, looking the major in the eye, “Or someone is lying. Sir.” The major looked down and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but the colonel in the middle purpled.

  “Or maybe, Sergeant,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you fucked up, got out of your assigned area, and led your squad into an ambush.” He stood up. “You’ve got a good record so far, Sergeant,” he said. “Don’t throw away your career.”

  Keller stared at him. He couldn’t control the hysterical laugh that bubbled up unbidden from his chest. “My career?” he said, almost choking with the laughter. “My CAREER?” he laughed harder. Then he noticed that the three officers’ faces were changing, melting like candle wax. As Keller stared, flames erupted from their eyes and mouths. They fell to the floor, burning. The air was filled with the stench of burned flesh and hair. They were screaming. Keller tried to go to them, but he couldn’t move his feet. He looked down and saw that his feet had sunk up to the ankles in the floor. He began screaming as well…

  “Honey,” a voice was saying, “Honey, wake up.” There was a hand on Keller’s shoulder, shaking gently. He tried to reach up and grab the hand, but his right arm wouldn’t respond. He opened his eyes.

  He was in a hospital bed. He noticed that his vision was obscured by a mass of bandage across the bridge of his nose. The entire front of his face was throbbing with pain.

  A middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s uniform was standing over him. As Keller’s eyes focused on her concerned, kind face, she stopped shaking him. Her hand remained on his shoulder. “Bad dreams?” she said. Keller nodded. She withdrew her hand, patting him on the shoulder as she did so. “Well, you’re all right now. You’re safe.”

  Keller tried to raise his hand again, but couldn’t. “Then why am I handcuffed to the bed?”

  The nurse’s mouth drew into a disapproving line. “Not my idea, believe me. There’s some po-lice outside that want to talk to you as soon as you wake up. I say you’re going to see a doctor first. You want some water?” Keller nodded again. She poured him a cup from a plastic pitcher at the bedside and he took it with his free hand. She patted him on the shoulder again and went out the door. There was a brief conversation outside, ending with the nurse’s raised voice saying “I SAID, after he’s seen a DOCTOR”. He heard her heavy footsteps going away. No one entered.

  After a few minutes, the door opened again and a man in a white coat came in. He was short, no more than five-two or -three, with dark skin and jet-black hair ineptly combed, giving him an absent-minded look that was enhanced rather than contradicted by his round wire-rimmed glasses. A curlicue of elaborately embroidered lettering above the pocket of his white coat identified him as Dr. Ahmad.

  “Good morning,” he said in a precise, almost British accent. “I am Doctor Ahmad. And how are we feeling today?”

  “Like someone tried to kick our head in,” Keller said.

  “Ha Ha,” the doctor said, pronouncing each syllable as if he had learned to laugh from a language text. He withdrew a small penlight from the pocket of his white coat and leaned over. He shined the light into first one eye, then the other. “Are you experiencing any blurred vision, slurred speech—”

  “I’m fine,” Keller said.

  Ahmad leaned back. “Your nose was broken,” he said. “I’ve called for a plastic surgery consult—”

  “I’m fine,” Keller repeated.

  Ahmad looked annoyed at the interruption. “We’ve been hesitant to give you anything for the pain until we determined whether there was any skull fracture or closed head injury. That danger seems to have passed. You’re quite lucky.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “Lucky.” He raised his right hand a few inches and the handcuff chain clinked. Ahmad looked at the cuffs and swallowed nervously. “Yes. Well,” he said. “There are a couple of policemen outside who wish to talk to you.” The nurse re-entered the room, holding a small cup of water in one hand and a small paper container in the other. “Of course,” the doctor said, “if you would like some pain medication, I can tell them to come back later.”

  “No,” Keller said. “I don’t want anything that’ll make me sleep.”

  “He has bad dreams,” the nurse said. Keller felt a flash of annoyance and embarrassment, as if she had informed the doctor that she had caught him picking his nose.

  “Ah,” the doctor said, nodding as if that explained everything. He picked up the clipboard from the foot of Keller’s bed and made a note. “That sort of thing is not unusual after a frightening experience like yours. It’s called—”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Keller said.

  “You’ve heard of it,” Ahmad said, making another note.

  “Yeah,” Keller said. There was an uncomfortable silence. “Okay,” Ahmad finally said. “I can still tell the men outside that you’re not to be disturbed. If you wish.”

  Keller thought for a moment, then sighed. “No,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.” He looked at Ahmad. “Thanks, doc.”

  Ahmad smiled for the first time. “Don’t mention it.” He and the nurse left the room. After a few moments, two men came in.

  They were the classic Mutt and Jeff cop team. The older one was small and wiry, with a pockmarked face and a bad comb-over. He had a short, brushy moustache that was saved from being Hitlerian by only a quarter-inch of extra length. His face was set in lines of weariness as if his feet hurt. The other cop was taller and broader, with a flushed face and short, brush cut blonde hair. The bigger cop leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. The older one pulled up a chair beside the bed.

  “Detective Barnes,” he said. He gestured at his partner. “This is Detective Stacy.” Stacy didn’t respond. Neither did Keller.

  “We want to ask you a couple of questions about the shooting of Officer Wesson,” Barnes said.

  “How’s Marie?” Keller said. “Officer Jones, I mean.”

  The two detectives looked at each other. “You know Officer Jones?” Barnes said.

  “A little,” Keller said, inwardly cursing himself for letting slip that he knew her first name. Now they’d never let it go. “We’d met before.”

  “She’s doing okay, I guess,” Stacy
said. “For someone who fucked up and got her partner killed,” he added.

  Keller started to sit up. “That’s not what happened,” he said. “She was doing what Wesson told her to do.”

  “You seem awful interested in Jones’ welfare,” Barnes observed mildly.

  “I just don’t want to see her get blamed for this. Wesson was a fucking maniac. He hated me so much he couldn’t see straight. He ordered Jones to let my prisoner go. That’s why he got killed.”

  “You were seen leaving the courthouse yesterday with Officer Jones. In her car,” Barnes said.

  “She gave me a ride to the impound lot to pick up my car,” Keller said. “She felt bad about Wesson roughing me up.”

  Stacy had been standing with his arms across his chest, his face growing redder and redder as Keller and Barnes talked. Finally he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

  “Eddie Wesson was a friend of mine, you son of a bitch,” he growled.

  Keller looked at him. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  Stacy leaned over the bed, grabbing a rail in each meaty hand. He brought his face within inches of Keller’s. “Let me tell you what I think,” Stacy said. Keller noticed for the first time that his eyes were red. There was beer on his breath. “I think you and Eddie were both banging her,” Stacy said. “You didn’t like her doing it with Eddie. So you and your little buddy Puryear engineered this somehow to get rid of Eddie.” Stacy’s face twisted in a sickening leer. “How was she, anyway? I bet she can really move that tight little ass when she gets going. How about it, Keller? She one hot piece?”

  Keller looked him in the eye. “Your mom was better.”

  Stacy’s face grew slack for a moment. Then he screamed in rage and grabbed the front of Keller’s hospital gown with one hand. He yanked Keller up off the bed. He balled up his fist and pulled it back.

  “What the hell you think you’re doin’?” a voice bellowed from the doorway. The nurse Keller had seen first came charging into the room like an avenging black angel. “You put my patient down!”

  “Back off, bitch,” Stacy snarled. “Police business.”

  “Uh-huh,” the nurse said, standing with her hands on her hips. “I seen your kind of po-lice business. What’s the matter, a man got to be cuffed an’ in a hospital bed before you can take him on?”

  “Well,” a deep voice said from the doorway. “This is an interesting scene.”

  Scott McCaskill stood slightly inside the door. Despite the hour, the attorney was dressed as if he was entering a courtroom. He strode into the room, his eyes riveted on Stacy.

  “Interrogating another prisoner, Stacy?” he said mildly. “I’m sure you’ve read him his rights first.”

  “Don’t need to, Stacy said. “He’s not in custody.”

  McCaskill gestured at the bed. “He’s handcuffed to the bed.”

  “And this man was getting’ ready to hit my patient,” the nurse said.

  McCaskill cocked an eyebrow. “Really,” he said. “So I think we can safely assume that anything my client has said will be inadmissible in court.” He gave Stacy a nod of the head that was almost a bow. “Thank you, Detective Stacy,” he said. “You always make a defense lawyer’s job so much easier.” Stacy looked like he was about to go for McCaskill, but Barnes stood up. “C’mon, Stace,” he said. His voice sounded tired. “Let’s let Mister McCaskill have a word with his client.” Stacy stepped back from the bed. He gave Keller a murderous glare. “This isn’t over, asshole,” he said. Keller opened his mouth to reply. McCaskill silenced him with a hand wave. The two detectives left.

  McCaskill sat down. looked at the nurse. “I know you, I think.”

  She smiled at him. “I reckon you do. I’m Robbie Duke’s Aunt Emma.”

  McCaskill snapped his fingers. “Of course.” He stood up and shook her hand. “How is Robbie?”

  Her smile broadened. “Graduates from Fayetteville State next semester,” she said. “We got you to thank for that. You hadn’t got him out of that trouble, things would have turned out real different. Once we got him away from those boys he was runnin’ with, he straightened right out.”

  McCaskill shook his head. “No, he has you to thank for that. Tell him I asked after him, would you?”

  “I surely will,” Emma said. She turned to Keller. “You need anything before I go?” Keller shook his head. She left.

  McCaskill sat back down. “My daughter wants me to thank you.”

  Keller thought for a moment. “I don’t think I know her.”

  “You don’t,” McCaskill said. “But with all the work you and Angela are throwing my way, we’re going to be able to send her to Europe for her senior year.”

  “Hilarious,” Keller said. He lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

  McCaskill smiled. “Tell me what happened.”

  Keller started to describe the traffic stop. McCaskill silenced him with a raised hand. “Start with the house,” he said. His tone was mild, but his eyes were sharp.

  Keller took a deep breath. He didn’t know how much Angela might have told him. He decided to play it straight. “I had information that a bail jumper named Dewayne Puryear might be holed up there. Three guys got there before I did. One of them was a Latino, maybe a Mexican, I don’t know. The other two looked to be Indians. Lumbees. One of the Indians shot the first guy that answered the door. I think the one that got shot must have been Puryear’s cousin Leonard. They hang out together. When I yelled at them, the other Indian, the one standing beside the door, drew on me.” Keller paused. “I shot him.” He looked at McCaskill. “I didn’t have any choice.” McCaskill looked at him silently, without expression.

  Keller stopped. It was an old trick shared by cops and lawyers, creating a silence that the person being interrogated felt obliged to fill. Keller took a deep breath. “Anyway, the other Indian guy apparently tried to shoot it out with Puryear. I guess DeWayne must have got lucky.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Puryear’s always been a small timer. He’s got no record of violence. The other guy, the shooter…well, I don’t know. There was something about him. He moved like a pro. DeWayne must have gotten lucky.”

  McCaskill took a small notebook out of an inside pocket. He flipped it open. “They’ve got two bodies down at the morgue, one ID’d as Leonard Puryear, the other one a John Lee Oxendine.”

  “Leonard’s the cousin I told you about.”

  McCaskill nodded. “Here’s where it gets interesting. Oxendine’s father was killed in an apparent robbery a few days ago. And Oxendine’s brother Raymond is upstairs in ICU. Somebody shot him in the gut, but he’s going to live.” Keller thought of the man he had seen shoot Leonard Puryear. “Big guy, curly hair?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” McCaskill said. He looked pointedly at Keller. “Have you?” Keller was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Because right now,” McCaskill went on, “the cops have nothing tying you to any of the deaths at the house. Raymond Oxendine isn’t talking. Naturally, neither are the two men downstairs in the morgue. But if you tell the police what you know about who shot either of them, that puts you at the scene. With a gun in your hand.”

  “You think I should keep my mouth shut.”

  McCaskill smiled thinly. “As an officer of the Court, of course I’m not telling you not to cooperate with the police.”

  “It was self-defense,” Keller said.

  “And I’m sure I could be successful with that defense. At trial. Pretty sure, at least. After all, I’ve done it for you before.”

  Keller closed his eyes. “Just get me out of here,” he said.

  “Thanks to Detective Stacy’s little display, I’mreasonably sure I can manage that,” McCaskill said. Keller heard him stand up. He opened his eyes.

  “What about Officer Jones?” he said.

  McCaskill looked puzzled. “What about her?”

  “It sounded like she’s getting hung out to dry over Wesson’s death. I don’t
want that to happen. It was Wesson who fucked up, not her.”

  McCaskill patted him on the shoulder. “She’s not my client, Keller. You are. She’s not my problem, and not yours.”

  “Jesus,” Keller said. “I keep forgetting what a cold bastard you are.”

  “Of course I am,” McCaskill said. He smiled. “It’s why you and Angela keep calling me. I’m exactly who you want on your side.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first thing Raymond was aware of was the slow, steady beep of the heart monitor. The sound percolated downwards into his conscious mind like water seeping into the earth. There was the low hum of machinery and the sharp smell of some kind of antiseptic. He opened his eyes without moving.

  The room was tiny, almost a cubicle, crammed with gleaming white and chrome machines that surrounded his bed like sentinels. Each of the machines trailed long wires or tubes that ran under the crisp white sheet and attached at various points to his body. The room was in semidarkness, lit only by the green and red lights of the machines and a soft glow that appeared to come from one wall of the room. Raymond turned his head slightly. As his eyes came into focus, he realized that the glowing wall consisted of a heavy sliding door of metal and glass. The door was half opened, with a thin gauze curtain for an illusion of privacy. The glow came from the fluorescent lights beyond the curtain. There was a shadow cast by the lights, a human figure standing beyond that veil. For a moment, Raymond thought back to Sunday School lessons about the Temple in Israel. There was a veil there, hiding the Holy of Holies, where God dwelt. His head spun for a moment as he thought he might be about to come face to face with…the curtain parted and the illusion shattered. A short redhead in a nurse’s uniform entered. She was carrying a plastic bag that appeared to be full of some kind of fluid. The shadow was revealed as a large man in a police uniform with his back turned to the room. He was standing guard, Raymond realized. More clarity returned and he felt the cold circle of metal around his wrist. He was cuffed to the bed.