Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  There was a malicious twinkle in the jailer’s small dark eyes. “Looks like you two lovebirds have a lot of catching up to do,” he said. ”Pleasant dreams.”

  “You stay the fuck away from me, man!” DeWayne said. His voice was trembling in fear.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, DeWayne,” Keller said. “That’s over. And you know damn well I didn’t try to kill you. If I recall, it was you who tried to kick my head in. Besides, it’s not like I can turn you in to anyone now.”

  A look of suspicion crossed DeWayne’s face. “So what are you doin’ here, man?” he demanded. “This ain’t some sort of trick, is it? What are you in here for?”

  “Murder,” Keller said. “Second degree. One of the guys that came to kill you and your cousin drew down on me with a pistol.” Keller sat down on the floor. “I shot him.”

  “But if he had a gun—”

  “Nobody found the gun. There was a third man there. He took the guns and the money.”

  DeWayne shook his head. “The money,” he said. “The damn money. I can’t believe all this shit went down over some damn money.” He shook his head. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “They all do.”

  It was past midnight, and the single light in the office was the gooseneck lamp that illuminated the desk. Angela sat behind the desk, office phone in hand.

  “They’re giving me the runaround,” Scott McCaskill was saying. “I won’t be able to see him until tomorrow.”

  Angela’s hand clenched more tightly on the receiver. Only the calming effect of McCaskill’s voice, a voice that had captivated a thousand juries, was keeping her from screaming. She was afraid that it was only going to have a short-term effect on her roiled emotions.

  “Why are they doing this?” she said, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “What are they doing to him?”

  “Easy, Angela,” McCaskill said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Too many people know he’s there for them to try any monkey business. This is that prick Stacy’s way of trying to show us who’s boss. He wouldn’t be trying this sort of chickenshit mind game if he wasn’t worried about his case.”

  “What about you?” she said. “Are you worried?”

  McCaskill paused just a second too long. “You are worried,” Angela said.

  He sighed. “Yes, I am, a little. We’ve got a dead man killed by a weapon that Jack is known to favor. They can put him at the scene because of the blood on his clothes. He claims self-defense, but no one found a gun near the body. And, of course, there aren’t any witnesses to back him up.”

  “You’re saying they won’t believe him.”

  “I’m saying that if we put him on the stand, a good prosecutor will be able to bring up what he does for a living much more effectively. They’ll be able to paint him as a violent and unstable individual. In that situation—who knows.” His voice softened. “There’s nothing we can do about it tonight, Angela,” he said. “Get some sleep. I’ll be at the arraignment tomorrow.”

  “So will I,” she said.

  “Of course. See you there.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  She heard a knock at the front door.

  She tensed. Her hand went automatically into the desk drawer where she kept a Glock 9. She stood up, gun in hand. She walked to the office door and looked across the reception area towards the front of the office. Through the glass door, she saw a figure silhouetted against the light from the street. “We’re closed,” she called out. “Try Speedy Bail Bonds. It’s down the street.”

  “Are you Senora Hager?” a voice said.

  She approached the door, the hand holding the pistol held behind her back. “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I have some information about Mr. Keller. Something that might help him.”

  Angela’s heart pounded. She ran the rest of the way to the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob. “What information?” she said through the door. “What can you tell me?”

  “I was there when those men were killed,” the voice said. “My name is Oscar Sanchez.”

  The next morning, a different guard came for them, an older deputy with gray hair. He took them out of the cell one at a time, DeWayne first. Each man’s hands were cuffed behind him, then fastened by cuffs to a heavy chain that went around their waists. The guard took them though a maze of halls and metal doors until they reached the garage. It was a large echoing chamber that looked far too big for the single patrol car parked just inside the closed door.

  “Shit,” the older deputy said, “Where’s the van?”

  “Already run,” the driver, a dark-haired man with a sour, lined face replied. “Full up.”

  “Well I can’t put ‘em in a regular car like this,” he said, gesturing at Keller’s hands cuffed in back. “Can’t belt ‘em in right. All I need is for one of ‘em to hit his head and file a lawsuit.” He continued grumbling as he uncuffed Keller’s hands and fastened them in front. He did the same with DeWayne’s. He guided each of them into the car with a hand on their head, then belted them in securely. He then slammed the door before climbing into the front seat with the driver. He motioned to a young deputy standing by the doorway. The garage door of the prisoner bay rattled upwards in its tracks and the car pulled out.

  The driver wheeled the car out using one hand to steer as he plucked the radio mike off the dashboard. “Unit forty-five is ten-seventeen to the courthouse,” he said. “Two ten-eighty-two’s”.

  “That might be them,” Raymond said as the car emerged from behind the metal fence that surrounded the jail. He and Geronimo were sitting in the cab of the stolen black truck. They were parked across the wide four-lane street from the jail. They were in a parking lot beside a long, narrow building that looked as if it had been abandoned and boarded up for years. Down the street, the other two gunmen waited in a stolen white Lexus obtained early that morning in another nearby town.

  Raymond raised a pair of binoculars and peered through them. The pain pills he had taken seemed to drop a sort of haze across his vision, but he could make out Keller’s blonde hair. His identification was confirmed when he caught a glance of Puryear’s face peering out of the glass.

  “That’s them,” he said. “Let’s move.” He pulled back the hammer on the huge revolver across his lap as Geronimo started the engine. Down the street, he could see the Lexus’ headlights flash twice as it pulled away from the curb.

  “So I told him,” the older deputy was saying, “if he thought he was gonna get me to pay five thousand for that piece of shit car, he had another think comin’”. The sheriff’s car turned right onto the wide four-lane boulevard that led to the county courthouse. The street was divided by a disused stretch of rusting railway track that ran between the two sets of travel lanes. As they approached a stoplight, the older deputy went on: “And you know what that sumbitch told me? He says watch out, you…” a large black pickup had roared up beside them, then accelerated ahead and swerved drunkenly into their path. Keller saw the red glow of the brake lights growing larger in the front windshield as the truck abruptly slowed. The tires of the sheriff’s car squealed as the driver slammed on the brakes. Keller’s head snapped to the left at the sound of another powerful engine beside them. A white Lexus had roared up and slid to a stop next to them. Keller saw a gun barrel extended from the open window.

  “Get down!” he screamed. His head almost collided with DeWayne’s as he ducked below the level of the front seat. The seat belt held him in place, keeping him from going any lower. There was a series of quick, sharp bangs, like someone pounding on the car with a stick. Keller heard the sound of shattering glass from up front. Something warm and wet sprayed over his back. The guard up front was screaming. Keller heard the front door open, then there was another quick burst of fire and a scream of pain.

  “What the fuck?” DeWayne was screaming.

  “Keep your head down!” Keller yelled back.

>   Suddenly, the door was yanked open. Keller looked up to see Raymond Oxendine standing there, pointing a gun at him. The man’s dark face had an unhealthy grayish tinge, and his green eyes looked slightly unfocused, but the hand that held the gun was steady. He reached over and unfastened the seat belt.

  “Git out the car,” he said in his flat voice.

  “Mr. Sanchez,” Scott McCaskill said, “I understand not wanting to draw police attention. But you will need to tell the court yourself. I can’t tell you how important…”

  “I told you what I saw,” Sanchez said. He gestured at the gym bag on the floor of the courthouse’s tiny conference room. “There are the guns that were used that day. Can’t you just tell the court what I told you?”

  “No sir,” Angela said. She had stayed up most of the night talking to Sanchez and her face was drawn and wan-looking. “It’s called hearsay. No one can testify to what someone else said.”

  “I was with them,” Sanchez said. “If they cannot find this Oxendine, the police will blame me because I am the one they have.”

  “You told me that a yard full of people saw Raymond Oxendine point a gun at you and demand you come along.” McCaskill said. “We can show you were under duress.” Sanchez just looked at the table.

  “Mister Sanchez,” Angela finally said, “It’s not just the police you’re thinking of, is it? Do you blame yourself for what happened?”

  Sanchez looked up. “Si,” he said. “It is true they held a gun on me. But I helped them. I led them to those two old people that Raymond killed. I could have stayed dumb, like they thought I was. But I thought that what those men were doing was honorable. They were trying to right the wrong of their father’s death, and I wanted to help. But in the end…” he shrugged helplessly, “They were just men with guns. Just killing and more killing. And I helped make it happen.” He gave a bitter laugh. After a moment he spoke again. “You know what I did in Colombia?” he said. “I was a schoolteacher. I came here because I thought I could make a better life for me and my sons. A safer life. Away from the men with the guns and the bags of money. And look what happened. I became a man with a gun and a bag of money. Another pistolero.” He spat out the word like a curse.

  “There’s a difference between you and the Oxendines, Mr. Sanchez,” Angela said. “You didn’t kill anyone. And you can keep Jackson Keller from going to jail for something he didn’t do. Maybe that will make some of this right. That’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”

  Sanchez’ smile was bitter. “And is this Keller so innocent?” he asked. “After all, he was there. With a gun.”

  “No one would ever call Jack Keller innocent,” Angela said, “but I know him. He would never kill a man in cold blood.”

  Sanchez looked at her appraisingly. “You care for him. I can tell.”

  She looked him steadily in the eye. “He’s my best friend.”

  They looked at each other like that for a moment. Finally Sanchez smiled. “He is lucky to have such a friend.” He turned to McCaskill. “All right,” he said. “Who do I talk to?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sanchez,” Angela said.

  “Call me Oscar,” he replied.

  “You’re doing the right thing, sir,” McCaskill told him.

  Sanchez hadn’t taken his eyes off of Angela. “I don’t have a choice,” he said, still smiling. “I would be ashamed to act the coward in front of one so brave.”

  Angela’s face flushed slightly. “Ummm—” she said. “Thank you.”

  McCaskill cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, “once we have a little talk with the district attorney’s office, it’s entirely possible that there won’t even be a hearing. They don’t have a whole lot of interest in trying a losing case.” He stood up. “Okay, people,” he said. “Let’s go introduce Mister Sanchez to the district attorney.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Raymond led them behind the patrol car, hands still cuffed in front of them. The patrol car’s engine was still running, but the body of the driver was slumped over the wheel. The front seat of the car was a swamp of blood spattered by the impact of the machine gun slugs. The two shooters in the Lexus had roared away once they had emptied their clips into the driver. Keller had to step over the body of the older guard. The dead man lay where the impact of the heavy machine gun bullets had driven him back. His left eye stared blankly up at the sky. His other eye was lost in the shattered ruin of the right side of his head. His gun was on the concrete a few feet away.

  “You ain’t gonna be able to make much use of that gun, trussed up like you are,” Raymond said. He was standing a few yards away, next to the curb. The gun in his hand was trained on Keller.

  “Don’t worry, man,” DeWayne said through chattering teeth. “I wasn’t…”

  “Shut up, asshole,” Raymond said. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “At least your brother had a chance, Raymond,” Keller said. “At least I didn’t shoot an unarmed man.”

  “He didn’t know what he was doin’,” Raymond said. “He’s never done nothin’ like that before.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have put him there with a gun in his hand,” Keller said. “If he hadn’t pointed it at me, I wouldn’t have shot him.”

  “Come on, man,” someone yelled from inside the pickup. “Do ‘em and let’s get outta here.”

  “I had to do it, Raymond,” Keller said. “It was self-defense.”

  “I don’t care,” Raymond said. He raised the pistol.

  “Police officer!” a voice shouted. “Put the gun on the ground!”

  Keller turned his head. Marie Jones’ Honda had pulled up across the street in the far opposite travel lane. She was standing just outside the passenger side, the body of the car between her and the bloody tableau in the middle of the street. She had her service automatic out, extended in a two-handed grip over the roof of the car.

  Keller turned back. Raymond had turned slightly to bring his gun to bear on the new threat. Keller took a step forward with his left leg. He brought his right knee up almost to his chest, pivoted on his left leg, and drove his right foot out in a vicious kick to Raymond’s side. Raymond screamed in agony and rage and fell backwards, the gun dropping from his nerveless fingers. He screamed again hoarsely as he landed on his back, where he lay unmoving.

  Bam-bam-bam. Bam-bam-bam.

  Keller saw a Hispanic man in dark slacks and a black silk shirt emerging from the passenger side of the pickup. He was holding a submachine gun. As Keller watched, he raised the gun and squeezed off another burst. The man obviously knew what he was doing with the weapon; he squeezed off perfect three-round bursts, rather than wasting ammunition with full automatic fire. He fired another burst over the bed of the pickup at Marie’s car. Huge rents appeared in the metal and the glass exploded from the side windows. Marie went down behind the car. When the man turned back towards Keller, however, she popped back up and squeezed off a shot. The man screamed something in Spanish and fired again.

  “Come on, come on goddamnit, where is it…”The voice seemed to come from near Keller’s feet. He looked down. DeWayne was on his knees beside the body of the slain guard. His bound hands were busy at the man’s belt. He was looking for the keys, Keller realized. He saw DeWayne locate the key ring snapped to the dead man’s belt. He gave a hysterical giggle of triumph and yanked the ring free.

  Keller dropped to his knees beside DeWayne. He heard another shot from Marie’s side of the street, followed by an answering rattle of machine-gun fire.

  “Unlock my cuffs, DeWayne,” Keller said.

  “No way, man,” DeWayne said. He fumbled through the keys with his bound hands, searching for the right sized key. Finally he found it. He held it up triumphantly, clasped between his thumb and forefinger. “If anyone gets outta here, it’s gonna be me.”

  “DeWayne,” Keller said. “You can’t reach the lock on your own cuffs. Unlock mine first and I’ll unlock yours.”

  DeWayne actually tried it fo
r a second, but could not bring his wrists holding the key around far enough to reach the lock. There was a wail of far-off sirens, coming nearer.

  “We haven’t got time for this,” Keller said through clenched teeth. He held out his hands. “Come on. Do it.”

  “Okay, man,” DeWayne said, fumbling the key into the lock. “But you’d better…” he didn’t have time to finish. As the cuff came off Keller’s right hand, he grabbed DeWayne by the throat. He used the momentum to drive the smaller man backwards into the side of the patrol car, slamming his head into the metal hard enough to leave a dent. DeWayne’s eyes unfocused and his body relaxed. Keller rose to a crouch, grabbed DeWayne’s belt with his free hand, and tossed him into the back seat of the patrol car. He ran around to the driver’s side and yanked it open. The ripped and torn body of the driver lolled halfway out of the door. Keller gave a yank on the man’s shirt and the body spilled bonelessly into the roadway, shattered pieces of safety glass spilling around him like diamonds. Keller slid behind the wheel. The glass of the windshield was a spider web of cracks, but still mostly intact. Keller could see the man with the machine gun. He was still fixated on Marie, who kept up her intermittent fire from her side of the street.

  The sirens were getting closer. Marie checked her dwindling supply of ammo and hoped they would make it in time. She wiped the sweat from her eyes with the sleeve of her suit jacket. The silk sleeve came away stained. She was surprised to see a light streak of blood mixed with the sweat. Must have caught some flying glass, she thought. Fuck it. I hate this court suit anyway.

  She had been on her way to the courthouse to testify at Keller’s arraignment. She came to the intersection and glanced off to her left. For a moment, her eyes had not registered the bizarre scene in the street–the sheriff’s patrol car stopped with its windows blown out, the big black pickup parked in front. Then she had looked closer and her blood went cold. There was blood all over the patrol car. Keller and Puryear were standing behind and slightly to one side of it, their hands shackled. A curly-haired man with a gun was standing in front of them. Marie’s hand went instinctively to where the radio would be if she was in her patrol car. She cursed when she realized that there was no way to call for backup. At first she thought that someone was trying to break Keller and Puryear out. When the man began to raise the gun, however, she realized that this wasn’t an escape attempt. It was an execution. She whipped her little car through a screaming left turn over the sunken tracks that ran through middle of the intersection. She slammed to a stop in the far opposite facing lane from the sheriff’s car and reached for her weapon on the passenger seat.