Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Get out,” Angela said. “You want to talk to either me or Mr. Keller again, you do it through my lawyer, Scott McCaskill in Fayetteville.”

  Barnes took a card out of his coat pocket. “If Mr. Keller gets in touch with you,” he said, “Tell him to call me at this number.” He held out the card. Angela didn’t take it. Finally, Barnes laid the card gently on the counter. He turned and walked out behind Stacy.

  DeWayne sat in the passenger seat, squinting against the late morning sun. “Are you sure this is the place?” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Debbie said. “They tried to lock me up in this loony bin one time. I told them to fuck off. I ain’t got no fuckin’ drug problem.”

  They were parked at the head of a long paved driveway that led through the open gate of a massive iron fence. The drive crossed a broad lawn as flat and green as a golf fairway. At its end, the drive flared out to a small parking lot, in front of a huge Victorian house with a broad front porch. The lawn was empty. The house was flanked by lush gardens and shrubbery that seemed to cradle it in a green embrace. A small wooden sign by the gate identified the place as Rescue House.

  “It looks like a mansion,” DeWayne said.

  “It was a dump. Some old guy willed it to some foundation. Some fancy nigger doctor runs the place. Thinks he can tell everybody what to do.” Debbie took a drag on her cigarette. “No one tells me what to do.”

  DeWayne made no reply. Debbie had been wild-eyed and giddy last night, practically dragging him into the bedroom. This morning, however, she was depressed and vicious. Nothing DeWayne could say seemed to placate her, so he said as little as possible, even when she had insisted on coming with him. He still thought her presence was a bad idea, but he was too tired and burned out from all the rocks they had smoked the night before to argue about it. He considered just shooting her, but he had thought that so many times that it had become one of those ideas you thought about but never did, like quitting a lousy job.

  Debbie started the car and turned down the driveway. “They won’t let you see her,” she said with a sort of grim satisfaction. “They try to keep you away from your family and friends. It’s easier for ‘em to brainwash you that way.”

  “I ain’t goin’ in the front door,” DeWayne said. “I’m gonna sneak around them gardens and stuff in the side yard and see if I can spot her. Maybe I can get her to come to a window.” Debbie shrugged and pulled the car into one of the parking spaces. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” she said. DeWayne got out. He tucked a pistol into the waistband of his jeans and strolled towards the gardens to the right side of the house, trying to look nonchalant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Keller checked his watch as he pulled into the driveway. He grimaced. He was running late. It was going to be hard enough to explain to the Major why he wasn’t going to be coming back for a while. He pulled into a parking space next to a blue Trans Am. As he got out, he thought he could see the outline of a blonde girl slumped in the seat of the car. The windows were tinted dark enough so that it was hard to make out her features, but she appeared to be asleep. Visitor or client? he wondered idly as he walked up the front steps. He put it out of his mind as he opened the door.

  The garden to the right of the house was a grassy area shaped like a long “U”, with the open end of the “u” against the side of the house. An iron gate between the hedge and the house offered access. The garden was surrounded by hedges higher than a man’s head which provided a feeling of isolation from the world. The grass was longer here, and there was a round pool in the middle of the area near the curve of the “U”. A greenish statue of a robed woman rose from the center of the pool. Red and yellow flowers surrounded the pool and further rows of flowers nestled under the hedges. Wrought-iron chairs and benches were spaced at regular intervals around the garden. DeWayne paused for a moment and looked around. He longed to sit down in one of the chairs and rest, just for a moment. Every thing had been so fucked up since they shot that old man. Ever since then, fear had been what defined his life. He was tired of running. But he knew to stop running would be his death.

  DeWayne looked around at the flowers. He wished his cousin was there. Leonard’s favorite job had been working in a greenhouse. He had liked growing things. DeWayne had never cared for it; it was too much like farm work. He hated farm work with a passion. He sighed and turned away. He looked at the windows on the side of the house, wondering which one Crystal might be behind. The windows were set high off the ground, higher than DeWayne could see. He grabbed the nearest of the wrought iron chairs and dragged it beneath the window. Then he clambered up to peek through.

  The same receptionist was there, seated behind the desk in the front-parlor-turned-waiting-room. She looked up as Keller walked in.

  “I’m here to see Major—ah, Doctor Berry,” Keller said.

  She smiled. “He’ll be out in a minute. Please have a seat.”

  Keller sat uncomfortably in one of the antique armchairs in front of the desk. He looked over at the pile of magazines on the side table. Mostly women’s magazines promising instruction on how to have cleaner homes, thinner thighs, and better orgasms. He passed on those and looked out the window. As he did, a face appeared outside the window, peering carefully over the sill.

  It was DeWayne Puryear.

  For a moment, Keller sat there in shock. His first thought was that he was hallucinating, that he had finally gone off the deep end. But the look of shock on Puryear’s face convinced him that he wasn’t imagining it. Puryear dropped out of sight as Keller sprang to his feet. The receptionist looked alarmed. “Mr. Keller?” she said. Then she screamed as Keller sprang to the window. He looked out to see a figure on its hands and knees, scuttling towards the garden gate.

  Even with the heavy chair beneath him, DeWayne had to stand on his toes to look in the window. There was a woman sitting at a desk, talking on the telephone. DeWayne looked beyond her to the waiting room. A man sat in one of the waiting room chairs, hunched slightly forward with his elbows on his knees. The man looked up. Their eyes locked.

  “Holy shit!” DeWayne whispered and threw himself backwards in a reflexive attempt to get away. He attempted to turn in the air like a cat, but he lacked a cat’s instinctive grace. He landed on his side with a painful grunt. Immediately he scrambled to his hands and knees and propelled himself towards the gate. He stumbled to his feet just as he reached the gate. He ripped it open and sprinted for the parking lot. He bellowed at Debbie to start the car.

  Keller bolted out of the parlor room and toward the front door. He yanked it open in time to see DeWayne sprinting towards the car he had seen earlier in the parking lot. He was halfway across the porch in one stride, down the steps in another, then halfway to the parking lot. He saw DeWayne turn slightly and pull something from his jeans. Something small and black.

  Gun, Keller’s mind registered. If he slowed down, DeWayne would probably still shoot him. He put his head down and charged. He hit DeWayne around the midsection, running full speed like a linebacker. He knocked the air out of DeWayne with a huge grunt. The gun went flying. It landed a few feet away at the edge of the parking area, where gravel and grass were separated by a thin wooden border. The two men collapsed to the gravel of the parking lot, Keller on top of DeWayne. DeWayne made the mistake of trying to turn and crawl towards the gun. Keller took the opportunity to straddle Dewayne’s back. He grabbed a handful of the smaller man’s long hair. He yanked DeWayne’s head back then viciously slammed his face into the gravel. DeWayne screamed. Keller did it again. He remembered the sight of DeWayne by the side of the road, his grin in the flashing lights of the patrol car…“Son of a bitch,” Keller grunted. There was a red haze over his vision. “Kick me in the fucking head…” he pulled DeWayne’s head back for another blow.

  Something slammed into him and knocked him off DeWayne’s back. He found himself on his back, face to face with a skinny blonde girl he had never seen before. She was screaming, her face contorted in inc
oherent rage. He raised a hand to ward her off. She bit it savagely, worrying it with her teeth like a dog, her screams muffled by the blood that welled out of Keller’s torn flesh. Keller screamed along with her. He slugged her on the side of the head as hard as he could. She only bit harder. Her eyes were wide and staring, her nostrils flared. She looked insane. Keller could feel a hard object under his back. The gun, he thought. Using all his strength he rolled over and got her beneath him. He reached down with his free left hand, felt it close around the solid cold hardness of DeWayne’s gun. He didn’t even know if it was cocked or a round chambered, and it wasn’t his shooting hand. He settled for clouting the girl as hard as he could in the temple with the butt of the pistol. Her eyes went foggy. She released her bite enough for him to rip his hand from her mouth. He staggered to his feet. DeWayne was climbing into the driver’s seat of the Trans Am. He was blubbering in fear, tears running down his face. Keller made it to the car before DeWayne could close the door. He grabbed a handful of DeWayne’s shirt and yanked him up out of the seat. DeWayne’s face was covered with scratches and cuts from the gravel. The sight of the blood made Keller’s ears buzz with the rush of adrenaline. He slammed DeWayne against the car and rammed the barrel of the pistol up under his chin. His hand was slick with his own blood; the gun almost slipped out of his hand. He gripped it tighter. He took a deep breath to clear his head, caught the slight tang of blood in the air. “You were going to shoot me with this gun, weren’t you, DeWayne?” he said. His voice was a low growl, almost a purr.

  “Please, man,” DeWayne sobbed. “Don’t hurt me…”

  “Weren’t you!?” Keller screamed into his face so loud that DeWayne flinched. “No, man, no, I swear it…”

  “You’re a fucking liar!” Keller emphasized the last word by lifting DeWayne up and slamming his body against the car again. “Tell the truth,” another slam, “You little fuck!” a third. Keller felt like he was standing on a high-voltage line. His blood was singing in his veins.

  “Okay, okay!” Snot ran form DeWayne’s nose as he cried. “Whatever, man. Yeah. I was gonna shoot you, but I didn’t mean it, please, man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, please don’t kill me.”

  The words brought clarity to Keller’s mind, focusing the high wild feeling that was consuming him. There was only one thing that would be better, one thing that would make this feeling complete. Keller laughed. It came out as a high, mad chuckle that made DeWayne moan in terror. Keller’s finger tightened on the trigger. A little more, he thought, just a little, not even a half-inch, so easy…

  “Keller!” A voice roared. Keller looked up, over the top of the car.

  Berry was standing there a few feet away. He was slightly crouched, his arms out in warning or supplication. His dark-brown eyes held Keller’s. “Don’t do it, son,” Berry said evenly. “Don’t do it. It’s murder.”

  Keller looked back at DeWayne. The man’s face seemed to be coming apart with fear. “He’s gonna kill me, mister!” he sobbed to Berry. “Oh, God, please stop him, he’s gonna kill me like he killed my folks.”

  Keller felt the rush back off just a little bit. He looked down at DeWayne, baffled. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said.

  DeWayne sniffled. “You killed ‘em. You killed my folks to try to make ‘em tell where I was. It was on TV.”

  At those words, Keller felt the rage flow out of him as if someone had pulled a stopper from a drain. He released DeWayne’s jacket and stepped back, still holding the gun on him. He saw DeWayne Puryear as what he was: a sad, scared, stupid man who was in way over his head. Keller felt shaky and ashamed. He shook his head. “I never met your folks, DeWayne.” he said. “Jesus, how dumb are you? Don’t you think it might have been that other guy? The one that killed your cousin Leonard?”

  “But—the TV said…”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Keller said. “Turn around, DeWayne.” DeWayne hesitated. Keller sighed. “I’m not going to shoot you. Now turn around. Put your hands on the car and spread your legs.” Reluctantly, DeWayne complied. Keller performed a quick one-handed frisk, still holding the gun on his captive with the other hand. When he was satisfied that he had the only armament, he stepped back and looked at Berry.

  “Major,” he said, “this is the guy I’ve been looking for.”

  “Well, I had hoped you hadn’t started attacking random strangers,” Berry replied.

  “Funny,” Keller said. “You think you can find me something to secure him with?”

  Berry looked doubtful. “We’re a rehab center, Keller, not a prison. We don’t have any cuffs. I don’t know…”

  “Some rope. Even some duct tape,” Keller said. Berry nodded and turned back towards the house. A crowd had gathered on the porch. Crystal Puryear was among them. Her face was white and she had her hand over her mouth.

  “It’s okay,” Keller shouted to her. “I didn’t hurt him.”

  “Like hell he didn’t!” DeWayne yelled.

  “Shut up,” Keller said. Crystal turned and fled back into the house.

  Keller heard a low moaning sound, like an animal in pain. He looked over. The skinny blonde had recovered somewhat. She sat at the edge of the parking lot, in the gravel, her knees drawn up to her chest. She had her arms wrapped around her legs. She rocked back and forth, keening like a banshee. Tears spilled down her face, mingling with the blood that oozed from the scratches on her face and flowed from the laceration in her temple. A stocky red-haired woman in a white nurse’s uniform ran to the blonde and knelt by her side. After taking a moment to examine the wound, she put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and helped her to her feet, shooting a glare of pure disgust at Keller.

  “You can’t take him from me,” the girl sobbed brokenly. “He needs me.” The nurse led her off towards the house.

  Keller felt another quick flash of shame until he looked down at the gnawed webbing between his right thumb and forefinger. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his own wound, wincing with pain.

  “Who’s that?” Berry said. He had arrived with a roll of thick nylon rope and a clasp knife.

  “Damned if I know,” said Keller. He handed the gun to Berry. “Hold this,” he said. “If this guy moves…” he almost said, “shoot him,” until he saw the stony look cross Berry’s face, “…just give it back to me, quick.” He deftly bound DeWayne’s hands behind his back and hobbled his feet by tying a short length of rope between them. He gave a last tug on the rope to check it. “Back to the trunk, DeWayne,” he said. “Don’t worry, it won’t be far.”

  All of the fight seemed to have gone out of DeWayne. He meekly allowed himself to be led to the back of Keller’s borrowed car and bundled in. As Keller slammed the trunk shut, Berry said, “You better let me look at that before it gets infected, son.”

  “Later,” Keller said. “I’ve got to make a delivery.”

  “Jack,” Berry said. “We need to talk about what just happened.”

  “I’m kind of busy now, Lucas,” Keller said.

  “You almost lost it there, son,” he said. “You came close to killing this boy. And you liked it. I could see it in your eyes. I’m, ah, I’m kind of worried about that.”

  “I’ll come right back,” Keller said. “I promise.” He pulled his cell phone off his belt and dialed Marie’s number. “C’mon,” he muttered as the phone rang. “Be there…”

  She picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Marie,” he said. “It’s Jack Keller.” There was a brief silence. “Hey,” she said finally. Her voice sounded strained.

  “I know, we need to talk,” he said. “But first, I’ve got DeWayne Puryear. He’s in my trunk right now. I’m going to bring him to you.”

  Another brief pause. “Gee, Keller, most guys would just bring flowers to say they were sorry.” Her laugh sounded tinny, artificial.

  “I’m serious. You can have the collar. That may get you back in with the department.”

 
; “What about you?”

  “I’ll come with you. I…have some business of my own to take care of.” he debated telling her about the warrant out for him, decided against it. He’d tell her when they got there. He needed her thinking about taking in Puryear.

  “Okay.”

  “Im bringing him to your house. Get ready. All I’ve got is rope. You’ll need cuffs.”

  “Okay.” More silence. Keller thought of asking her what was wrong, but he thought he knew. He’d straighten everything out when this job was done. He hung up.

  Traffic was light; it took Keller twenty minutes to drive to her house. On the way there, he listened carefully for sounds from the trunk to see if DeWayne was going to try anything. There was nothing. The man seemed to have accepted defeat, but Keller knew better than to rely on that.

  The door opened immediately to his knock, but only as far as the security chain. Marie peeked through the crack for a moment, then closed the door. There was the brief rattle of the chain being drawn aside, then the door swung open.

  She was dressed in full uniform. Her cuffs hung at her belt with her baton and service pistol. “Hey,” she said. She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Hey,” Keller said. “Puryear’s in the trunk. I’ve got him tied and hobbled, but knowing him, he’s been gnawing on the ropes like a rat.”

  She didn’t answer, but turned on her heel abruptly and walked into the house. Keller followed. “Look,” he said. I’m sorry for running out…” he stopped as he reached the living room.

  Detective Barnes was standing by the bookshelf. His face had its accustomed weary, resigned look. His partner Stacy lounged on the couch, his legs crossed. He was grinning at Keller.

  Keller looked at Marie. “What…” he stopped when he saw the look on her face. Her jaw was set and her eyes were like cold iron. “You called them,” he said.