Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Thanks,” Keller said. He looked up at Sanchez who was standing a few feet away, looking uncomfortable. “And thank you, Mr. Sanchez.”

  Sanchez inclined his head in a slight bow. “Sorry about the gun,” he said. “It was a mistake for me to go with those men.” He sighed. “This revenge business. Once you start, it never ends.”

  “You got that right,” Keller said.” Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out.” He extended his hand and Sanchez took it.

  Keller turned to Angela. “You need a ride back to the office?”

  “No,” she said, and actually blushed. “Mister Sanchez and I are going out for coffee.”

  Keller looked back at Sanchez. “Oh?” he said. Sanchez was looking ill at ease again. Then Keller grinned. “Well, if you’re taking a day off,” he aid to Angela, “I suppose I might as well, too.”

  Angela smiled back. “I think we’ve both got some vacation time coming,” she said.

  Keller looked around for Marie. He saw her going out the door. “Excuse me,” he said to Angela and Sanchez.

  He caught up with her in the hallway. “Thanks again,” he said. “It took guts to say what you did about Wesson.”

  “Yeah. Well.” she said. Her shoulders slumped. “ I just blackened the name of a dead hero. I guess this means my career in this department is pretty well fucked.”

  “Probably,” he said.

  She looked at him sourly. “You’re not much for being comforting, are you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been learning that it’s best to play straight with people,” he said. “At least I hope I’m learning that.”

  She smiled. “I hope so, too.” They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Keller broke the silence. “You need a ride home.”

  “No, I’ve got my..” she remembered. “Shit. My car.”

  “That’s what I mean. You need a ride home. It wasn’t a question.”

  “Okay,” she said. She looked ruefully down at her ruined clothes. “I could really use a shower.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “me too.”

  “You want to use mine?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  It was almost 10:00 PM when they got back to Wilmington. Coffee had turned into a long afternoon of conversation, which had turned into dinner. Sanchez had been embarrassed when Angela had offered to pay, but had eventually acquiesced after promising to pay her back when he found work.

  The pulled up in front of the H & H office, behind the big brown pickup that Sanchez had taken from Raymond Oxendine. “I suppose I should turn it in to the police,” Sanchez said, “but I need transportation to find a job.”

  “I understand that,” she said, “but if you get stopped by the police—”

  “Si, I know,” he said. He looked at her. “Thank you for the dinner,” he said. “And the company.”

  “Thank you, Oscar,” she said. “It was nice. It’s nice to find a man who doesn’t…”

  “What?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Who doesn’t treat me like I’m some sort of breakable porcelain doll.”

  “That man, your husband,” Sanchez said. “He tried to break you. If what he did did not do it, then no, you are not breakable by anything I could do.” He looked at her for a moment, then looked away.

  “What?” she said.

  He smiled. “It is nothing,” he said. There was a brief silence between them before he spoke again. “I would like to see you again.”

  “Oscar,” she said. “I—” she hesitated. “I’m not sure that—that would be a good idea.”

  He turned to her. “Why?”

  The simplicity of the question stopped her in her tracks. He held her gaze, his brown eyes calm. Finally, she laughed softly.

  “Okay,” she said. “I can’t really answer that, except to warn you, I’m not the easiest person in the world to deal with.”

  He shrugged. “It is a chance I will take.”

  She thought back to Keller’s words. I’ve been going through my life so far taking stupid risks, he had said. This time, I’m taking a risk on something important.

  “Okay,” she said again. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Well, you can’t say you haven’t been warned.” He turned and put his hand on hers.

  “Well, ain’t this nice,” a voice said. The passenger door was yanked open. Raymond Oxendine was standing there, a pistol pointed at Sanchez. The other door was yanked open to reveal a dark-haired man. He held a stubby machine gun pointed at Angela. She looked around in panic as the man grabbed her by the shoulder and hauled her out of her car. There was a Chevy Suburban parked behind her with another Hispanic man at the wheel.

  “Get in,” Raymond said. “We’re goin’ for a drive.”

  They lay together on the bed, with Marie’s head resting on Keller’s shoulder. It had taken over five hours to get the paperwork straightened out for the return of Keller’s vehicle. By the time they had gotten it back to Marie’s house, the post-adrenaline letdown followed by the mind-numbing boredom of dealing with the bureaucracy had left them both stupid with fatigue.

  Keller had showered after Marie, and when he came out, she was curled into a ball on the bed, dressed in her robe, sound asleep. He found a bedspread in a nearby closet and pulled it over them both. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Mmmh,” she murmured and squirmed back to fit her body more tightly against his.

  “Where’s Ben?” he whispered. “Do you have to pick him up?”

  “Unh-unh,” she muttered. “S’grandparents have him. They saw about what happened n’ called. He’s stayin’ with’m.”

  “Nice folks.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” she said, then relaxed back into slumber in his arms. They stayed like that for a long time, until fatigue overtook Keller as well and he slid into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When he woke, he was ravenously hungry. He kissed Marie lightly on the forehead and gently slid his arm out from under her head. She made a small murmur of protest, then clutched the pillow to her and rolled over. Keller tiptoed out of the bedroom as quietly as he could. He rummaged around in the kitchen until he found a box of Raisin Bran in the pantry. He was searching in the cabinet for a bowl when he heard Marie cry out. He dropped the cereal box and bolted to the bedroom.

  Marie was sitting up in bed, the bedspread pulled up to her neck. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, blank with terror. Small whimpers escaped her throat. Keller leaped onto the bed and threw his arms around her. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Slowly, her eyes focused on him. “I had a bad dream,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said. “I have them, too. But it’s okay. I’m here.”

  She reached out and ran a hand down his face. “Yeah.” she said, “you are.” He drew her to him and kissed her. His hands caressed her back outside the robe, then parted it and slid inside to caress her naked flesh. She moaned.

  Keller’s cell phone chirred on the bedside table.

  Marie broke the kiss and put her head on his shoulder. “You better get that,” she said.

  Keller sighed and picked up the phone. This had better be damned important, he thought. “Hello?”

  “Guess who this is,” a flat, nasal voice said.

  Raymond sat in the recliner in his living room. The lights in the house were off; the only illumination was provided by the big-screen TV. Raymond had a submachine gun cradled across his chest. Oscar Sanchez sat on the couch, flanked by Antonio and Jesus. Angela was across the room, bound to one of the dining-room chairs with her hands tied behind her.

  “I got your lady friend here, Keller,” he said. “Looks like she was runnin’ around on you with that little greaseball Sanchez.”

  “What do you want, Raymond?” Keller’s voice was tight with rage.

  “You got away from me once, Keller,” Raymond said. His voice was slurred with fever and painkillers. “You
ain’t doin’ that again. You comin’ to me this time. Alone.”

  There was a pause. “Where are you?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. First I want you to hear somethin’”. He put the phone on the floor motioned to Antonio and Jesus. “Get him up.” The men yanked Sanchez to his feet. He tried to resist, only to earn a clout in the back of the head with Jesus’ pistol. The two gunmen dragged him over to where Raymond sat. “Turn him around,” Raymond ordered. As they complied, he drew a small .22 caliber pistol from a pocket in the side of the recliner. He placed it against the back of Sanchez’ left knee. Sanchez was trembling, whispering something in Spanish. There was a note of pleading in his voice.

  “Hold still,” Raymond said. “If you move it’ll only make it worse.” He pulled the trigger.

  The report of the gun was slightly muffled by the flesh of the back of Sanchez’ leg. What noise did escape was drowned out by his howl of agony. Blood and bits of bone sprayed out the front of his knee as the bullet tore through his kneecap. The two men holding him let him go, laughing as he collapsed and rolled on the ground, screaming and clawing at his wounded knee. Raymond picked the phone back up. “That was to let you know I’m serious,” he said. “Also to teach the little fucker not to mess with my property.” He gestured to the two gunmen. “Bandage his leg up before he bleeds to death.” Sanchez had stopped screaming. He had passed out from the pain. The two gunmen picked his limp body up and dragged him into the kitchen.

  “Now,” Raymond said, “I figger you can be here by sunup. I don’t see you by then, I do his other knee. Then we start in on your girlfriend here. You call the cops, I’ll know. You show up with anybody else, I’ll gut shoot both of ‘em right here. They’ll bleed to death before you can do shit.”

  “God damn you, Raymond, just give me the fucking directions!” Keller was practically screaming now. Raymond smiled. He gave Keller the address, then broke the connection.

  “You bastard,” Angela whispered from across the room. “I hope he kills you. I hope he sends you straight to Hell.” Her pale face and hair seemed to shimmer with an unearthly light in the glow of the TV. That and her words gave her an eerie, eldritch appearance, like the “haints” his Granny used to tell stories about, spirits that came out of the swamps on moonless nights and took misbehaving children out of their beds. Raymond was beyond caring. He dry-swallowed a painkiller. “It don’t matter,” he whispered.

  Angela looked up. It had been almost two hours since the phone call to Keller. She was amazed that she had been able to fall asleep, but exhaustion had finally taken over. Now, she saw Raymond standing at his picture window. Sanchez, his leg wrapped in an improvised bandage, lay at her feet. One of the gunmen who had taken them, the one she had heard called Antonio, was lying on the couch, snoring gently. His machine gun was propped up by him. She didn’t know where the other man was.

  Something on the big-screen TV seemed to catch Raymond’s eye. He turned to look. Then he smiled. He picked up the remote and turned up the sound.

  The picture showed the a low cinderblock structure, painted in dark colors. The building was illuminated by flashing white and yellow emergency lights and searchlights trained on it. The brightest illumination, however, was provided by the red and yellow gouts of flame that wreathed the building. “Authorities are investigating an early-morning fire at a Robeson County nightclub that was only the first of what appear to be a string of suspicious burnings last night.” The camera zoomed n for a close-up. Angela could make out the words “95 Lounge” crudely painted on the building.

  Antonio was sitting up, awakened by the sudden volume. His mouth was hanging open as he stared at the conflagration before him. He looked at Raymond.

  “You lie to us!” he shouted. “It was supposed to be ours now! You betray us!” he reached for the machine gun. Raymond’s big revolver, however, was already in his hand. It barked twice and Antonio was flung back against the couch by the impact of the heavy-caliber bullets. Angela screamed in terror. Jesus came charging out of the bedroom, shoeless, but holding his own machine gun at the ready. Raymond fired once and knocked him backwards. Jesus’ gun chattered, the muzzle flash blinding in the darkened room, but the impact of Raymond’s shot had knocked him backwards. The bullets went into the ceiling. Bits of plaster fell like snow in the cold blue light of the TV. Raymond stepped over to Jesus who was thrashing on the floor. Raymond’s first bullet had severed his spine. Raymond fired again. This bullet took off most of the top of Jesus’ skull.

  Raymond turned back to Angela. She had stopped screaming and was staring at him, her eyes wide. “Looks like I won’t be the only one in Hell today,” he said. He left the room. A few minutes later he came back. He held a metal can in either hand. He put them down and unscrewed the caps. She moaned in fear as the raw stench of gasoline filled the air. Raymond began slopping the gas out of the cans onto the carpet and furniture.

  Keller stopped at the treeline as Raymond had told him to do. He could see the house at the end of the long driveway. His shotgun was nestled in its rack and his pistol was lying on the passenger seat. His cell phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Okay, you bastard,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “You alone in the car?” Raymond’s voice rasped.

  “Just like you said,” Keller answered.

  “Prove it.”

  “You going to come down here and see?”

  “Not hardly. Put the car sideways in the road and open the doors. So I can see you don’t have nobody hiding in the back seat.” Keller complied, getting out of the car to open the back doors, like a magician displaying a piece of apparatus.

  “Okay,” Raymond said. “Come up the driveway. Slow. No weapons.”

  It was possible that Raymond intended to shoot him down at edge of the property, but Keller thought it more likely that Raymond wanted to look him in the eye as he killed him. It was more his style. The first rays of the sun were drawing streaks in the sky. Keller took a deep breath of the thick, humid air. He put his hands in the air and began walking up the driveway.

  Raymond stood in the window and watched Keller advance. The fumes from the gasoline and the fever from his own infection made feel woozy and lightheaded. But he was in the homestretch now. Soon it would all be over. He hadn’t been able to kill the other man responsible for his father’s death and he felt bad about it. But a man did what he could. He wondered if the angels wouldlet him talk to his Daddy one time before they fed him to the flames. He wanted the old man to know he’d tried.

  Keller was approaching the front door. Raymond went to open it.

  Even from ten feet away, the stench that rolled out of the door when Raymond pulled it open was sickening, a miasma of gasoline, gunpowder, and a sharp coppery smell that could only be fresh blood. Keller felt his fists clenching. “We had a deal, you bastard,” he called. “You said—.”

  “I didn’t say nothin’,” Raymond called back. “But your girlfriend’s still alive.” He coughed. “So is Sanchez, but he’s a little worse for wear.”

  Raymond held the door open and backed up, inviting Keller into the darkness beyond. As he passed through the doorway, Keller could detect another smell, a sickly-sweet odor of decay that seemed to hang around Raymond. He stopped through the front door into the living room.

  The place was a slaughterhouse. The body of a man lay on a blood-soaked couch. Another corpse lay in a puddle of blood a few feet away. Angela was sitting tied to chair in the flickering glow of the television. Keller glanced at the TV. Elmer Fudd was stalking across the screen. “A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go…” Sanchez was sitting up on the floor next to Angela. His leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked homemade bandage. His face was drawn with pain.

  “Sit over there,” Raymond said, indicating the couch. His face split in an ugly grin. “You can move Antonio. He won’t mind, I reckon.”

  “I was listening to the radio on the way over here,” Keller said. “Sounds like somebody’
s trying to burn the whole county down.”

  Raymond grinned again. “I reckon I showed a few people what’s what,” he said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “That nobody fucks with me!” Raymond exploded. ”Or my family! Couple of damn ignorant crackers think they can kill some old Indian never hurt nobody a day in his life, and walk away with the money he sweated his ass off to get? Fuck that! The only person who’d do anything about it was me!” He grinned then, the drawn rictus of a walking corpse. “We’re Lumbee,” he said. “We take care of our own.”

  “You’ve killed more people than the ones who killed your father,” Keller said. “People who never did anything to you. That how you carry on the tradition?”

  “I got my own tradition,” he said. “Two eyes for a fuckin’ eye.” He came over and stood over Keller on the couch. He fished something out of his pocket and held it over his head.

  It was a disposable cigarette lighter.

  The gray dawn light from the window fell on Raymond’s face as he raised the lighter over his head. His thumb was on the striker. He began laughing in hysterical triumph, the sound eventually mutating into a high-pitched ululation, a Hollywood version of an Indian war-whoop. “Woo-woo-woo-wooo….” The chant was cut off suddenly as a bright red splash appeared in the center of his chest. Keller felt fragments of glass shower on him as the big picture window blew inwards. He leapt forward as he heard the report of the rifle. He grabbed the arm holding the lighter and bore it down, his body crashing into Raymond’s. The two of them fell together to the floor. Keller raised up and drew his fist back to smash it into Raymond’s face. He stopped. The face was slack and relaxed, the head lolling limply. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Raymond’s mouth. Keller gasped with relief. He stood up, tottering on his feet. He staggered over to where Angela and Sanchez were. He dropped to his knees by Angela’s chair, his fingers plucking at the knots of the ropes. It was futile, they were too tight. “I need a knife,” he muttered. He got up and staggered to the kitchen. He rummaged through the drawers until he located a butcher knife and returned to the living room. He stepped over Raymond’s body and cut Angela loose from her bonds, then Sanchez. Angela staggered to her feet, leaning on Keller’s shoulder. Sanchez tried to rise, but cried out in pain as his knee refused to take his weight. Keller hauled him up and the three of them stumbled towards the door. He yanked the door open and the light of dawn streamed in. Marie Jones was coming up the front steps, holding a deer rifle in one hand.