Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Where are you?” Angela’s voice sounded tense. Keller fumbled over his answer, but she cut him off. “Never mind,” she said. “The Highway Patrol found your car.”

  Keller sat up. “Where?”

  “In a ditch in Bladen County.”

  “Anybody in it?”

  “No,” Angela said. “But they did find a gym bag full of bloody clothes.”

  “Damn,” he said.

  “Keller, they’ll be testing those. They’re probably doing it now. And when they get a match on the blood—”

  “They’ll know I was at the Puryear house,” he said.

  “I’ve already gotten a call, Keller,” she said. “They want you to come down to the station and talk to them.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “A Fayetteville detective named Stacy.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “I’ll bet he wants to talk.”

  “What do I tell them, Jack?” she said.

  Keller looked around the room. He saw Marie’s uniform cap on the top of the dresser. Her badge lay next to it, glinting in the morning light that came through the blinds.

  “Tell them you don’t know where I am,” he said. “It’s the truth. And call McCaskill.”

  “I already did,” she replied. “He’s in court. I had to leave a message. Jack, if they think you’re running…”

  “I’m not running,” he said. “I just don’t want to talk to them right now. I’ll be fine.”

  Marie’s voice came from the other room. “Breakfast,” she called out. Keller gritted his teeth, wondering if Angela could hear. Her tone when she finally spoke made it clear that she had.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” He started to say something, but she had hung up. Keller shook his head and snapped the phone shut. He stood up and pulled his jeans on.

  Marie was seated at the table in the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in front of her. There was another bowl across the table from her. “It’s just corn flakes,” she said. “But the strawberries are fresh.” She smiled, a little apologetically. “I’m not much of a cook.”

  “This is good,” he said as he sat down.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked. He started to say something, then he saw in his mind’s eye the golden badge sitting on Marie’s dresser.

  “Just checking in at work,” he said. “Seeing if there was anything new on DeWayne Puryear.”

  “Was there?”

  “No.”

  Marie shook her head. “Don’t worry about him anymore, Keller,” she said. “He’s our problem now. He shot a cop.”

  Keller cocked an eyebrow at her. “Our problem? I thought you were suspended.”

  She looked down at her cereal. “Yeah. Well. You know how it is. Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  She looked at him and sighed. “You’re not going to give up on this, are you?” she said.

  “I need to find him,” he said.

  She got up and carried her cereal bowl to the sink. “Okay,” she said, not looking at him. “It wasn’t like I had anything to do in the next few days anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned back to him. She crossed her arms across her chest and looked at him levelly. “I mean I’ll help.”

  Keller was silent for a moment. The words stirred an unaccountable feeling of dread in him. I work alone, he wanted to say. What he did say was, “You don’t have to.”

  Her mouth was set in a hard line. “That son of a bitch shot my partner. I want his ass in custody as bad as you do.”

  Keller had no answer for that. “So where do we start?” she said after a long pause.

  He thought for a minute. “The sister,” he said. “She’s the only family connection we have.”

  Marie nodded. “She was held for a while, charged with harboring a fugitive. I heard she made bail.”

  Keller stood up and carried his bowl to the sink. “We’ll start with her house, then.”

  What this Debbie lacked in looks, DeWayne thought, she made up in enthusiasm, at least once he had used some of his dwindling money supply to get her a supply of rocks. He lay back on the bed, feeling as if all of the fluid had been drained from his body. Debbie sat at the other end of the bed, naked. She was preparing another hit of the rock cocaine, using the pipe she had constructed out of a beer can. She had punched a hole down at one end and made a bowl out of tinfoil, taping the bowl in place with electrical tape. She lit up with a disposable plastic lighter, cranking the flame up all the way so it sputtered like a tiny flamethrower. Debbie applied the flame to the bowl and drew deeply on the smoke. She threw her head back, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and held the smoke in her lungs. DeWayne looked away, feeling a little queasy. He had never heard anyone say anything good about crack. It seemed to keep Debbie happy and horny, though, so he put up with it.

  He focused on the TV behind her. It was another one of the things about Debbie that DeWayne found disquieting. She always had to have something playing:, radio, CD player, TV. It was as if she was afraid of silence. Even when they were doing it, she had to have the TV on. He was sure she wasn’t watching it as they did it, though. Pretty sure.

  Debbie reached the end of her lungs’ endurance and blew a long stream of smoke out her nostrils. She lowered her head and looked at DeWayne. Her eyes were bright and glassy. “Meeee-ow,” she leered at him. She started crawling up the bed towards him, her small breasts swinging beneath her.

  “Aww, c’mon, honey,” DeWayne said, trying not to make it sound like a whine. ”I’m spent.”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “You ought to try you one of these rocks,” she said. “It’d put lead in your pencil.” She began rubbing her cheek against his thigh, just above the knee. DeWayne closed his eyes. She was starting to get to him again. Suddenly, the TV caught his attention.

  “Hey,” he said, “turn that up.”

  “Huh?” she replied, but he was crawling past her. She squealed in protest as he almost knocked her off the bed. The room was so small that DeWayne could lean off the end of the bed and reach the volume control.

  The 11:00 o’clock news was on. Over the shoulder of the pretty young anchorwoman, DeWayne could see a little box. In the box was the face of the guy who had stuffed him in the trunk.“…in connection with a shootout in Fayetteville that left two men dead, another critically wounded, and which may have been connected with the later shooting of a Fayetteville police officer.” The newscaster’s face dissolved to a videotape of the Crown Vic being pulled out of the ditch by a wrecker. Everything in the picture was lit up in the fluorescent green glow of a night-vision camera. “Police now say they have located a vehicle belonging to Jackson Keller, a bail bondsman operating out of Wilmington. Clothing found in the vehicle bore traces of blood that matched up to one of the victims, one Leonard Puryear.” The car vanished off the screen and was replaced by an old photograph of Leonard. Quick tears stung DeWayne’s eyes as he looked into his cousin’s face.

  “Hey,” Debbie said, leaning into him from behind. “Ain’t that your name?”

  “Shut up,” DeWayne said.

  The newscaster went on. “Also killed in the gun battle was John Lee Oxendine of Robeson County.” Leonard’s face slid to one side of the screen. The other side was filled with a face that DeWayne didn’t know. “ Authorities state that Oxendine was unarmed at the time and was most likely an innocent bystander.”

  “Bullshit,” DeWayne muttered.

  Both faces vanished to be replaced by the pretty newscaster, her face a study in vapid concern. Keller’s face was back in the box looking over her shoulder. “Police also say Keller is wanted for questioning in the deaths of Puryear’s elderly parents a few days ago.”

  DeWayne’s mouth dropped open. He felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What the…” he whispered.

  “Keller had reportedly been searching for another member of Puryear’s family in connection with a bai
l violation. When asked if Keller was a suspect in the deaths, police had no comment, other than to say that anyone sighting Keller should immediately notify the Fayetteville Police Department.” The camera pulled back to reveal the second anchor, a distinguished looking man with grey hair. He was shaking his head with a look of grim resolution on his craggy face.

  “These so-called ‘bounty hunters’,” he said in a deep measured tone. “They’re loose cannons. Something needs to be done.”

  The female anchor matched his serious expression and nodded in unison with him. “You’re certainly right, Tom.”

  The camera panned to the man. The serious expression melted away to be replaced by a smile that must have cost a fortune. “Coming up, will this warm weather give way to some much-needed rain? Stay tuned, as the news continues.”

  “That son of a bitch!” DeWayne exploded. He leaped up from the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Debbie said frantically.

  DeWayne paced back and forth in the narrow confines of the bedroom like a tiger in a too-small cage. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Hey. Lenny. Or whatever,” Debbie said pleadingly. “You’re scaring me. What happened? Please, just tell me what happened.”

  DeWayne stopped and looked at her. His eyes were wild. “That son of a bitch,” he repeated. “That guy Keller. They just said he killed my folks. The folks who raised me. ”

  She looked puzzled. “Did they say that? I didn’t hear..”

  “Oh, they didn’t come right out and say it,” DeWayne said. “They won’t till they catch him and charge him. But he did it. He did it to try to get to me.”

  She pondered that for a moment. “Wow,” she said finally. “That sucks. What an asshole. ”She reached for the pipe again. “You sure you don’t want a hit?” she said. “It might make you feel better.”

  He briefly considered backhanding her to shut her stupid mouth. But she seemed to be looking at him with real concern as she held the improvised pipe out. And he could surely use something right now to make all this hurt go away.

  “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the pipe. “Okay.”

  In the daylight, Crystal Puryear’s house seemed sad and worn. The sunlight revealed the dirt-caked windows, the warping trim, and the peeling paint that had never been applied all that well to start with. It was nearly noon, but the shades were still drawn. Only the Corvette in the driveway gave any sign that anyone even lived there. There was still a ragged shred of yellow crime-scene tape knotted around one of the posts of the porch.

  They had come in Marie’s car, but it was Keller who led the way up the walk. He slowed as he approached the doorway, tensing as he recalled the gun battle in the yard. He glanced over at the ground by the door where John Lee Oxendine had lain with his chest blown apart by Keller’s shotgun. He thought he could see a reddish tinge of bloodstain on the paint, but it might have been his imagination. He stopped for a moment, causing Marie to almost bump into the back of him.

  “Jack?” she said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He took a deep breath and stepped to the door. The plastic button of the doorbell was gone, leaving only a pair of rusty wires sticking out of the jamb. Keller knocked. There was no answer, no movement within the house. He knocked again and waited. There was no response. Keller tried the knob.

  “Hey,” Marie said. “We don’t have a warrant.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a cop.” He turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

  “Who the hell leaves a door unlocked in this neighborhood?” Marie said.

  “Someone who doesn’t care what happens to them,” Keller said grimly. He drew his gun and entered.

  The hallway was dim, but he could see a flicker of light from the living room at the end. There was a tinny bubbling of canned laughter and a woman’s voice, high-pitched and strident. The TV was on. Keller advanced down the hallway, the pistol held in a two-handed grip in front of him. He reached the end of the hallway and the gun fell to his side.

  Crystal Puryear lay on the couch, dressed in a flimsy silk bathrobe that had fallen open to reveal her nude body. Her limbs were splayed in a parody of invitation made grotesque by her utter limpness. Her head lolled against the back of the couch, her mouth open. A thin line of drool ran down her chin.

  Keller holstered the gun and strode over to her. He took in the objects on the coffee table: a silver cellular phone. A black pager. An empty plastic envelope. A burned out candle. A soot-covered spoon. He looked around for the syringe. Finally he located it. It was still lodged in her arm.

  “Holy shit,” Marie said. She sprang to the couch and placed her right index and middle fingers against Crystal’s throat. “I’ve got a pulse, but it’s weak,” she said briskly. “Call 911.”

  Keller moved towards the phone, then stopped. 911 would bring paramedics, but it would most likely also bring police. He turned back to Marie. She had belted Crystal’s robe shut and was gently removing the syringe from the girl’s arm. A bright red bead of blood formed, turned to a rivulet that inched its way down the pale flesh.

  “We don’t have time to wait for them,” he said. “We’ll take her in your car.” He scooped the pager and cell phone off the table. Each had a plastic clip for fastening to a belt.

  “Damn it, Keller,” Marie said, “She needs a doctor.”

  Keller clipped the devices onto his belt and bent down to lift the girl. Her body was a sodden dead weight in his arms. He grunted as he lifted her.

  “She needs a doctor now,” he said, his voice taut with the strain. “By the time the ambulance makes it here, it might be too late.” He set off down the hall.

  “This is crazy,” Marie protested, but she followed him. He burst into the sunlight. Marie jogged ahead, pulling her keys from the pocket of her jeans. She threw the back door of her Honda open. Keller tried to lay the girl gently into the back, but lost his grip and she tumbled onto the back seat. A grunt escaped her as she landed and her robe fell open again.

  “You know CPR, right?” he asked Marie.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Hop in the back with her, then,” he said. “In case she goes into cardiac arrest. I’ll drive.”

  “You are out of your mind,” she said as she got in the back. “I can’t give CPR in the back seat of a WHOA!” Keller had started the car and begun pulling away. Marie barely had time to pull the door shut.

  They drove in silence, broken only by the screech of tires and the angry blare of horns as Keller ignored stop lights and yield signs. He stole a glance at Marie in the rear-view mirror. She had her eyes on the girl whose shallow breathing seemed about to cease at any moment. Keller heard a slight chirring noise and felt a vibration against his right hip. He reached down and plucked the pager off his belt. He looked at the number displayed on the pager’s LED screen. He memorized the number and put the pager down on the seat.

  “What was that?” Marie said.

  “Her pager. Someone’s trying to reach her. Maybe someone who can give us a lead.”

  “It’s probably her pimp,” Marie said. “Or her dealer. What would they know about her cousin?”

  “I don’t know,” Keller said, “but I’m out of other ideas.”

  They had reached the emergency entrance of the hospital. Keller slammed to a stop at the front door and leaped out. Marie opened the back door and Keller reached in for the girl. Marie stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Don’t try to move her again,” she said. “They’ve got gurneys. And doctors.” Keller stepped back as Marie stood up and ran to the entrance. The heavy automatic sliding door was barely open before she bolted inside. She was back in moments with a white-coated man and a pair of nurses wheeling a gurney between them. They elbowed Keller out of the way and descended on the back seat of the Honda. They briskly loaded her onto the gurney and sped back through the front door. Marie followed, spitting out the statistics of Crystal’s condition in abrupt, precise sentences. It
was left to Keller to close the car doors and move the vehicle away from the front entrance. He found the ER visitor’s parking lot and parked the car. He was headed back towards the entrance when he saw Marie walking out. He stopped to wait for her. She was shaking her head and putting her sunglasses on as she reached him.

  “Get in the car, Jack,” she said. “And I’ll drive, if you don’t mind. It is my car.” He handed her the keys. They walked back to the car and got in.

  “Keller,” she said as she started the car. “That was a really stupid stunt.” He said nothing. She put her hand across the back of the seat and looked back as she backed out. “I mean, I know you’re not real crazy about cops right now.” She put the car in gear and drove off. “And let’s face it, they’re not all that fond of you, either. But that girl could have died while you were trying to do it all yourself.”

  “I figured you could handle it,” he said.

  She made a face. “Thanks,” she said. “But next time, let’s get together on the decision. Or better yet, leave this kind of thing to the pros, all right?”

  Keller shrugged and said nothing. Marie sighed. “I’d like to find that girl who sang about ‘where have all the cowboys gone’ and slap her in her silly face,” she muttered. That made Keller laugh. “Okay,” he said. “You win.”

  The cell phone chirred again on the seat between them. Keller looked at Marie. “Maybe you should get that,” he said.

  Marie looked at him in amazement. “Why me?”

  “Because a man’s voice might cause them to hang up.” He handed her the phone. She shook her head, but flipped it open and put it to her ear. “Hello?” There was a sudden burst of words from whoever was on the other end. Keller couldn’t make out the words or the voice, but he could sense the anger and the threat in the voice even from across the car.