Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  Now, she was wondering if she had done the right thing. The man with the machine gun had caught her totally by surprise. She was lucky he hadn’t killed her with the initial burst. Now, she just had to keep him interested long enough for the cavalry to arrive. She straightened up to try to pop off another couple of rounds. The pistol fired once, then jammed. She swore again as she slid down to the ground behind the car. She worked the action frantically, cursing under her breath as she tried to clear the jam.

  Keller could see the machine-gunner grimacing in frustration. He paused to slam another long clip into his weapon, then began firing longer bursts, as long as he dared without melting the gun barrel into slag. Marie was pinned down by the steadier rate of fire. The man grinned like a death’s head and began advancing towards the Honda. He had his quarry pined down and he was coming to kill her. His path took him between the back of the pickup and the front of the patrol car. Keller gripped the blood-slicked wheel in both hands and floored the gas pedal.

  The roar of the big police engine was still not enough to drown out the sickening crunch of flesh and bone or the man’s scream as he was caught between the rear bumper of the pickup and the front grille of the patrol car. He seemed to fold sideways across the hood of the car. The machine gun clattered onto the hood, then slid forward as Keller jammed the car into reverse gear. Man and gun disappeared between the vehicles.

  “Come on,” Marie muttered, frantically trying to work the slide on the pistol. She heard the rate of fire pick up, heard the zip-zip-zip of bullets over her head. She resisted the urge to curl into a ball and whimper. She realized that the sound of the machine gun was coming closer.

  Suddenly the sound of the ruined patrol car’s motor rose from a rumble to a full-throated bellow. The sound was followed by an inhuman shriek of raw agony and a horrific snapping like branches cracking under the weight of ice. It sounded as if some enormous predator was dismembering its quarry alive. She peeped over the hood of her car.

  The man with the machine gun was falling to the ground like a broken doll. He came to rest with his torso turned at almost a ninety degree angle to his hips. Incredibly, he was still screaming. The car roared again and shot backwards. Marie saw Keller behind the wheel. He turned toward her for a moment. She expected to see rage, elation, even fear; but his face and eyes were totally calm, the eyes of a hunter.

  Keller stomped the pedal again and whipped the car around in reverse 180 degrees until he was beside the pickup. He automatically scanned the scene for more threats. He spotted Marie crouched behind her car. He yanked the gearshift into Drive. She looked panicky for a second, as if she thought he was about to run over her. He punched the gas and ran the car over the tracks, across two lanes and up onto the sidewalk beside her.

  “Get in,” he yelled over the engine.

  “You’re out of your mind!” she yelled back.

  Keller didn’t answer. He pointed over Marie’s head. She looked back.

  Raymond Oxendine was slowly getting to his feet. There was blood staining the right side of his shirt. He staggered slightly as he walked over to where the dark-skinned man was still thrashing and screaming. He walked past the man as if he wasn’t there and bent down to pick up the machine gun.

  Marie leaped for the door of the patrol car and yanked it open. She landed almost on top of the prone body of DeWayne Puryear. She sorted out the tangle as the car began moving. The door flopped crazily for a moment against her feet as they thudded off the curb. She struggled upright and yanked it closed just as they slammed over the railroad tracks again hard enough that she bit her tongue. The first police cars were screaming up, lights flashing.

  Marie leaned forward, banging her hands futilely against the metal grate. “Keller!” she shouted. “Get on the radio! You’ve got to warn them!”

  “I’m kind of busy right now,” Keller muttered, but he picked up the handset and keyed the mike. “All units,” he barked, “Heads up, you’ve got a man behind that black pickup with an automatic weapon, repeat, an automatic weapon. Two officers and an accomplice are down.” He released the mike button.

  The reply came back immediately. “Who is this? Who’s on this channel? Get off immediate—” the voice was cut of in a scream as Raymond opened fire. The windshield of the lead car blew in and it slewed crazily across the street into their lane. Keller spun the wheel to avoid the out-of-control police car as he jammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The patrol car rocketed away.

  The pain in Raymond’s side cut through the fog of the pills like a laser, pulsing bright red and clear. He could feel the lower part of his shirt stuck to his skin with blood. The foul smell of the wound let him know that there were other, less wholesome fluids leaking from him as well. The pain filled his awareness, taking over his mind until he had no more rational mind than a wounded bull in a ring. The howl of the sirens as the first patrol car pulled up pricked at him like the picador’s spear. He raised the machine gun to his shoulder and fired. The recoil of the gun jarred him and he almost screamed with the renewed pain. But the agony was replaced with a feeling of exultation filling him as the siren abruptly cut off and the police cruiser slammed into the curb. The following cars also slammed on brakes and went sideways. Raymond dimly registered the sound of Geronimo screaming in agony. He walked over behind the pickup and looked down.

  Geronimo’s shattered body lay in the street. One leg was bent at a bizarre angle. The other showed a splintered stub of bone protruding through the blood-soaked pants leg. Geronimo stopped screaming long enough to look at Raymond. His breath came in long, bubbling moans.

  “Get me up, man,” he rasped. “Get me outta here.”

  “I cain’t carry you,” Raymond said. “An’ you know where I live. I cain’t let the cops ask you questions.” Geronimo’s eyes widened as Raymond raised the gun. Then those eyes disappeared in a red cloud beneath the hammer of bullets.

  He stepped over the body. “It don’t matter anyway,” he said to the still figure. “It all ends today.” He waded through the blood and shattered glass in the street and got into the truck. He saw the sheriff’s car getting away and gritted his teeth in frustration. He punched the gas and took off after them.

  “Man,” DeWayne whined as he sat up awkwardly in the back seat. “What the fuck’d you hit me for?”

  “Shut up, DeWayne,” Keller and Marie said at the same time. DeWayne muttered something and slipped down lower in the seat. The radio crackled with shouted questions and orders.

  “Sounds like a real cluster-fuck back there,” Keller observed.

  “Where are you going?” Marie asked him.

  “Damned if I know,” he said. “Any ideas?”

  They were approaching an intersection. The traffic was growing heavier. “Yeah,” Marie said. “Back to the police station.”

  “That didn’t work out too well for me last time, Marie,” he said.

  “You saved my life back there, Keller,” she said. “I’ll tell them. That ought to count for something.”

  He wheeled around a VW putt-putting along in the right lane. The driver of the Bug gaped at the spectacle of the shot-up car as they passed. “Yeah, maybe I’ll only get ten years for trying to escape instead of twenty.”

  “I saw what was going on, Keller. It’s why I stopped.”

  “Then you probably saved my life, too.” Horns blared and brakes squealed as he made a right turn on a red light without looking. “Guess we’re even.”

  “JACKSON KELLER,” a voice boomed over the radio. It sounded as if the person broadcasting had cranked on all the power in the world. “COME IN. I KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING.”

  “Damn it,” Keller said. He made no move to pick up the mike.

  “KELLER. THIS IS DETECTIVE BARNES. DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.”

  “Keller picked up the mike and keyed it. “Little late for that, Barnes.”

  “WE FOUND JONES’ CAR SHOT UP. IS SHE WITH YOU?”

  Keller put the mike up to the me
tal grating and pressed the key.

  “I’m fine, Detective,” Marie said. “Mister Keller got me out of there. You get the shooter?”

  “NEGATIVE. HE LEFT THE SCENE IN THE BLACK PICKUP. OFFICERS ARE IN PURSUIT.”

  “He’s behind us,” Keller said into the mike.

  Marie whirled around. The black pickup was looming in the back window. She could see Raymond Oxendine behind the wheel.

  “Oh, shit,” she heard DeWayne say. She turned back.

  There was a stoplight ahead, cars filling both travel lanes. Their way was totally blocked. Keller muscled the patrol car up on the grass median that ran down the center of the boulevard. Dirt flew from beneath the wheels as the car bucked and shuddered on the uneven ground. Again, horns blared and brakes screeched as Keller accelerated into the center of the intersection. An SUV turning left across their path slid to a stop. A terrified child pressed her white face to the glass of the passenger side. Keller yanked the wheel to the right. They cleared the front bumper of the vehicle by inches.

  “God damn!” DeWayne whooped. “That was fuckin’ intense!”

  “Is he still back there?” Keller demanded.

  Marie turned. The black pickup followed doggedly in their path into the grass median and through the intersection. The driver of the SUV was still attempting to get through the intersection. The pickup struck it in the right front side and spun the vehicle around. It came to rest sideways, blocking the median.

  “He’s still back there,” she said. “And I think we’ve lost our backup.” She could see the flashing of the patrol cars’ lights behind the snarl of traffic in the intersection.

  “This day just gets better and better,” Keller muttered. He picked up the mike. “Barnes,” he said, “we’re headed south on 301 towards I-95. Raymond Oxendine is still following us, and your pursuit just got tied up in an accident in the intersection.”

  “KELLER,” Barnes said. “TURN THE CAR AROUND AND COME BACK THIS WAY.”

  “Forget it,” Keller replied. “You people are just as likely to shoot me as Oxendine.”

  “THAT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, KELLER. YOUR GIRLFRIEND TURNED UP A WITNESS.”

  “Girlfriend?” Marie said.

  Keller grimaced. “Not exactly.”

  “THE WITNESS BACKS UP YOUR STORY,” Barnes went on. “HE EVEN TURNED OVER THE GUN THAT WAS POINTED AT YOU.”

  “Did you hear that, Jack?” Marie said. “You’re cleared. Now turn around. If that guy follows us—”

  “Barnes could be lying,” Keller said. He keyed the mike. “How do I know you’re telling the truth, Barnes?”

  There was a long pause. Then Barnes’ voice crackled back. “THE WITNESS IS A HISPANIC MALE, WITH A HEAVY ACCENT. THAT RING ANY BELLS?”

  Keller remembered the touch of the gun on the back of his neck and a soft Spanish voice: I am a man with a bag of money and a gun. Soon I will have a big truck. Is that not the American dream?

  “Hang on,” Keller told DeWayne and Marie. He took his foot off the gas pedal and placed it over the emergency brake while reaching beneath the dash with one hand for the brake release. He yanked the wheel a quarter turn to the left while stomping down as hard as he could on the emergency brake. The tires screamed in protest as the car went into a slide. When the car had skidded a full 180 degrees, Keller yanked the brake release and stepped hard on the gas. The car shot forward, across the grass median and into the northbound two lanes of traffic.

  Raymond saw the sheriff’s car slow down slightly, then execute a perfect bootlegger turn. He picked up the submachine gun in one hand and laid it across the window frame, hoping to get off a shot as the car went past. He couldn’t get a decent angle, however, and he cursed as the car vanished behind him. He knew that to follow it was to head right back into a wall of police guns. He had resigned himself to the idea of dying, but he wasn’t going to throw his life away. He needed to get rid of this pickup truck. He was nearing the area where he and Geronimo were supposed to have met Antonio and Jesus, ditched the stolen cars, and switched vehicles. He hoped the other two gunmen were still there.

  They were. Raymond found them leaning against the black Suburban behind an abandoned warehouse near the Black & Decker plant. Their eyes widened as Raymond slid drunkenly from the driver’s side of the pickup.

  “Donde está Guillermo?” one of them asked. Raymond thought it was Antonio, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Muerte,” Raymond said, hoping he had gotten the word right.

  The two men looked at each other uneasily. “What happen?” Antonio asked.

  Raymond looked at him. “I thought you didn’t speak no English,” he said.

  The man shrugged. “A little. When I need. What happen to Guillermo?”

  “Keller,” Raymond said. “Keller ran into him with a car.” He brought his hands together in a sharp clap to demonstrate. “Pow. Muerte.”

  Antonio’s face darkened. “Don Paco, he not like this.”

  “I reckon not. We got a score to even with this Keller.”

  Antonio nodded. He said something in rapid-fire Spanish to the other man. They both nodded. Antonio turned back to Raymond. “What you want us to do?”

  “First we get out of here,” Raymond said. “I’ll tell you what to do in the car.” He staggered a bit as he approached the car. Raymond saw the looks on their faces as they noticed the blood on his shirt and the smell of the infected wound. “You need a doctor, man,” Antonio said.

  “It don’t matter,” Raymond said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Do I understand this correctly?” Judge Tharrington said. “The District Attorney’s office is dismissing all charges against Mr. Keller?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor,” the assistant DA said. She was young, just out of law school, and clearly had been designated to catch the flak on this one. She stood alone at the prosecutor’s table nervously brushing a strand of blonde hair away from her forehead. Detectives Barnes and Stacy sat behind her in the spectator’s seats. Barnes was looking away as if this case was of no concern to him. Stacy had his arms crossed across his chest. He was staring at the floor.

  The ADA went on. “Evidence has come to light which substantiates Mr. Keller’s claim of self-defense in the shooting of John Lee Oxendine.”

  Tharrington looked at Keller, standing beside McCaskill at the defendant’s table. Marie Jones sat with them. Angela and Sanchez sat behind.

  Keller had come straight from the roadblock where he had given himself up to the police. There were still spots of blood amid the grime on his face and clothing. A few pieces of broken glass still glittered in his hair. At least this time I’m not in cuffs, he thought.

  “There is also the matter of the assault on Officer Wesson,” Tharrington said, “There’s the matter of his flight to avoid prosecution. And, if I understand correctly, Mister Keller was just involved in the theft of a sheriff’s patrol car.”

  Marie Jones stepped forward. She had been able to stick a Band-Aid on her forehead where she had been cut by flying glass. She looked almost as disheveled as Keller. She smelled of sweat and cordite. Tharrington looked at her with an expression of distaste at her appearance. He clearly did not approve of these apparitions disturbing the decorum of his courtroom. She looked back, clearly not giving a damn.

  “Your Honor,” she said. “Mister Keller was attacked while being transported over here. There was an obvious attempt on his life by the same subjects responsible for the earlier incident. When I attempted to intervene, the subjects opened fire on me. If Mr. Keller had not acted, I’d probably be dead. As for the prior charges involving Officer Wesson,” she paused and glanced back at Barnes and Stacy. They wouldn’t meet her eyes. She looked back at the judge and straightened her shoulders. “I was Officer Wesson’s partner. I was there. Mister Keller didn’t assault Officer Wesson. It was the other way around.”

  “Bitch.” Stacy’s voice cut through the quiet of the courtroom. He was staring at Marie with an ex
pression of pure hatred on his face.

  “Detective Stacy!” the judge snapped, his face reddening with anger. ”If you can’t control your outbursts—.” Stacy didn’t give him a chance to finish. He stood up and walked out.

  Tharrington shuffled through the papers on the bench in front of him. Finally he sighed. “Very well,” he said. “If the District Attorney’s office declines to prosecute, I suppose I have to accept that they know what they’re doing, even though,” he looked severely at the blonde ADA, “I have severe concerns about this case. The charges are dismissed. You‘re free to go, Mr. Keller.”

  “And,” McCaskill said, “He may have his vehicle and tools of his trade returned to him?”

  The judge looked as if he were about to choke. “Yes,” he said. ”Of course.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” McCaskill said smoothly. He turned and shook Keller’s hand.

  “Thanks, Scott,” Keller said.

  “Thank your friends,” McCaskill said. “They came through for you.”

  Keller turned. Angela was standing there. She came into his arms and embraced him, squeezing tightly. He put his own arms around her more gently. She broke away and stepped back.