Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  “My name is John Maddox,” the man said, his voice quivering slightly. “I work for…I mean, I’m an aide to…” He looked at the woman. “Look, can we have this conversation inside? It’s blistering out here.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “My name’s Julianne Stetson,” she said. “My friends call me Jules.” She gestured behind her at the neon sign over the door, not currently lit, that said HENRY’S. “This is my place. And whether or not you have that water outside or inside depends on what your business is here.”

  Maddox pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I understand your reluctance. It’s been an…interesting morning.”

  No one spoke. Finally, Maddox took a deep breath. “Okay. Mr. Keller, I have a request. From your father.”

  Keller’s eyes narrowed. “My father? What the fuck is this?”

  “Jack,” Jules said.

  “Mr. Maddox,” Keller said, “my father abandoned my mother and me before I was born. I’ve never met him, never heard from him, and don’t actually even know his name.”

  “His name,” Maddox said, “is Clifton Trammell. And it’s not exactly true that he abandoned you.” He raised the briefcase. “Look, I have some documents in here that will prove what I have to say.”

  “So what?” Keller said.

  “Your father wants to see you. To meet you.”

  Keller walked to the open door of the bar. “I don’t want to see him.” He turned back. “Tell him if he wanted to see me, he should have asked forty-seven years ago.”

  “He’s dying, Mr. Keller,” Maddox said.

  Keller stopped for a moment. Then without looking around, he said, “I don’t care,” and walked back into the cool darkness.

  JULIANNE AND Maddox stood and stared at each other across the parking area. She broke the silence first. “Well, you might as well come in.”

  Maddox looked doubtful. “I don’t think I’d be welcome.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Goddamn it, this is my place, not Jack Keller’s, and when I say someone can come in, he can damn well come in. Now what’s your pleasure?”

  “Um…I’d love a coffee.”

  “Coffee we got. Come on.” Without looking at him, she walked back into the bar. “Close the door behind you,” she said over her shoulder. He hesitated for a moment, then followed.

  The frigid air conditioning inside washed over him, feeling so sweet he had to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the only person he saw behind the bar was Julianne. She’d laid the baseball bat on the bar and was drawing a cup of coffee from a large silver urn off to one side. “What do you take in it?” she said to him as he took a barstool.

  He placed the briefcase on the stool next to him. “Black will be fine.”

  She nodded and slid the heavy ceramic mug across the bar. As he picked it up, she asked, “So, what’s the deal here? How come Jack’s daddy waited all this time to try and talk to him?”

  He stopped, the cup halfway to his lips, then took a sip. When he was done, he asked, “Are you, um, Mrs. Keller?”

  She laughed. “Not hardly.” Then the smile fell from her face.

  “I’m just asking because…well…”

  “It’s a family matter. I get it. But Jack ain’t got no family. His daddy knocked his mama up, then ran off. His mama dumped him off with his grandmamma, then went and drank herself to death. Everyone else in his life…” Her voice had taken on a bitter, angry note, and she stopped.

  “You seem to care a lot about him,” Maddox observed.

  She looked away. “I guess. But maybe if you tell me what this is about, I can get him to talk to you.” She gestured at the briefcase. “Like, if there was a million dollars in there. Or a lottery ticket.”

  Maddox laughed. “Sorry. Mr. Trammell devoted his life to public service. He has an estate, and a death benefit, but…” He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

  She frowned. “It went to his real family.” That bitterness was back.

  “I’m afraid he didn’t really have one of those, either.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not makin’ a real good case here, Mr. Maddox.”

  He looked down uncomfortably at his cup. “I’m sorry. But it’s important that I speak with…”

  “So who is this guy, anyway?” she interrupted. “All his mama told him is that he was a sailor at the naval base in Charleston.”

  Maddox nodded. “At the time of Mr. Keller’s birth, that was true. He was a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy.”

  “And after?”

  Maddox paused. “He’s led a life of service to his country.”

  “You said that. Still pretty vague.”

  “I know,” Maddox said. “But a lot of what he did…it was important work. Necessary. But confidential. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “And all that time,” she said, “his own son was strugglin’ to make his way in the world. Never knowing why his daddy didn’t want him.” She sighed. “I might be able to get Jack to change his mind, but I don’t think I want to. You seem like a nice person, Mr. Maddox, but your boss seems like kind of a dick. You want some more coffee?”

  Maddox nodded and held out his cup. As she poured, he said, “You should know that this is something that’s weighed on Mr. Trammell’s mind all his life.”

  “And he’s decided now,” a voice said from the doorway, “on his deathbed, to try and ease his conscience.” Keller stepped into the room. He was holding a towel filled with ice to his nose. The towel was pink with blood. “Sorry, Mr. Maddox,” he said, “but I’m not interested.”

  Maddox stood up from the barstool. “Your father…”

  “I don’t have a father, sir,” Keller snapped. “If I had, he would have at least let me know he was alive before this. And you can tell him I said that.”

  “I see,” Maddox said. “Well. That’s disappointing.” He straightened his tie.

  “Before you finish your coffee,” Keller said, “and head back to…where did you come from, anyway?”

  “I flew out of Washington, DC.”

  “Another good reason not to go back with you. But maybe you can tell me who those two guys were who were working you over.”

  Maddox shook his head. “I never saw them before. Just muggers, I guess.”

  “No,” Keller said. “Those guys were military. Or ex-military.”

  Maddox’s brow furrowed. “How would you know that?”

  Keller shrugged. “It was obvious. The haircuts. The way they worked together. And one guy started to refer to the one with the broken arm as his ‘teammate.’ That’s a giveaway.” He pointed at the briefcase. “What’s in that briefcase that a couple of ex-military guys who are trying really, really hard not to look military are willing to rough you up for?”

  Maddox looked at the briefcase and sighed. “It’s…something that Mr. Trammell said I should only show to you as a last resort.” He looked up at Keller. “It concerns what happened to you in the war.”

  The room went still, only the soft hum of the cooler behind the bar breaking the silence. Keller slowly lowered the bloody, ice-filled towel from his face and set it on the bar. He didn’t look at Maddox. “Get out,” was all he said.

  Maddox was opening the briefcase. “Okay,” he said. “I will.” He took a large white envelope out of the case and laid it on the bar.

  “Take that with you,” Keller said, his voice hoarse.

  Maddox didn’t answer, nor did he pick up the envelope. He turned to Jules and reached into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for the coffee. How much do I—”

  “I said “GET OUT!” Keller bellowed. He slid off the barstool and headed for Maddox, fists clenched, his face dark red with rage.

  “Jack!” Jules said. Keller stopped in his tracks, breathing hard. “On the house,” Jules said to Maddox. “But he’s right. Your invitation just got revoked. Get out. And don’t come back.”

  “I won’t,” Maddox said. “But I’ll be in the motel across the street until noon tomorrow. R
oom Sixteen. If you change your mind—”

  “Mr. Maddox,” Jules said, laying her hand on the bat which still rested on the bar. “I ain’t gonna tell you again. Get out of my place.”

  He just nodded, picked up his briefcase, and left. Keller went back to the bar and sat down, staring straight ahead. He picked up the waterlogged towel and pressed it back to his nose.

  “Here,” Jules said, “put some more ice in that.” She walked around behind the bar and gently took the towel from him. When she’d refilled the makeshift bag with ice from the well behind the bar, she noticed Keller looking down to where the envelope lay.

  “Not marked,” she said softly. “You want me to throw it away?”

  He didn’t answer. She reached out and ran a gentle hand through his hair. “Your hair’s gettin’ longer,” she murmured. “It’s been short since I known you. But it looks—”

  He broke in, his voice low. “If I don’t see what’s in there, I’ll never get any sleep for thinking about it.”

  “You barely sleep now,” she said sadly. She moved closer and put her arm around him. “I’ll stay with you if you want.”

  He slowly reached up and put his left hand over hers where it rested on his right shoulder. “Thanks. That’d…that’d be good.”

  She rested her head on his left shoulder. “I won’t run out on you, Jack,” she said. “Not like…” She stopped, not wanting to say their names.

  “They didn’t run out on me, Jules,” he said. “I drove them away.”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. “Well, you ain’t drove me off yet, Jack Keller,” she said. “And I figure I’ve seen you at your worst.”

  “No you haven’t,” he said quietly. “Not by a long shot.” He took her hand and kissed it. “But thanks.” He looked down the bar, surveying the envelope as if it were a poisonous snake. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. Then he undid the metal fastener and dumped the contents of the envelope onto the bar.

  They stared for a moment at the DVD in the plastic case that lay there. There was no label and no indication of what was on it.

  “There’s a DVD player in the trailer,” he said, referring to the ancient camper behind the bar where Jules had been letting him stay. “But I don’t even know how to work it.”

  “I do,” she said. “You ready to see this now?”

  “No,” he said, “but let’s do it anyway.”

  THE PICTURE on the screen of the old and battered TV was jumpy and indistinct, showing little but a gray haze. A set of graduated lines like the marks on a ruler ran across the top of the screen; across the bottom were confusing sets of numbers and letters. But it was the middle of the picture that drew the eye, where a set of white crosshairs met in the dead center. The crosshairs moved across a landscape that was featureless and blurred. The sound that came out of the tinny speakers was a high-speed thudding noise like a maniacal drumbeat on a sped-up tape. It was broken up intermittently by squawks of radio static.

  Jules leaned forward, frowning, and reached for the set where it rested on the tiny dining table inside the camper. The TV and the DVD player they’d dug out of the storage locker and hooked to it took up most of the table’s surface. Jules had squeezed in next to Keller on the narrow bench seat facing the TV.

  “Don’t,” Keller said as Jules started trying to adjust the set.

  “This picture’s terrible,” she complained. “There’s no color.”

  Keller’s voice seemed to come from far outside himself. “It’s supposed to be black and white.”

  “What is it?” Jules said.

  “It’s a gun camera. From a helicopter. I’ve seen them before.”

  As if joining the conversation, the static resolved into a tinny, distorted voice. “Gunslinger two-six, this is Greentree Actual, do you copy? Over.”

  It took her a moment to make the connection to the stories he’d told her. “Oh, my God,” she said. Her hand moved swiftly to the on-off switch. He was quicker. He grabbed her wrist before she could kill the TV, so hard that she cried out. “Leave it.” His voice was tight and furious.

  “Greentree, Gunslinger two-six,” another voice, this one with a distinct country twang, came from the set. “We copy. Over.”

  “Jack,” Jules whispered, “you’re hurting me.” He relaxed his grip slightly, but didn’t release her until she pulled away. She shrank away from him, her eyes wide and fixed on his face.

  “Gunslinger,” the first voice said, “Jumbo reports a pair of Iraqi scout vehicles headed north, approaching gridline three-seven-zero. You got eyes on them? Over.”

  The crosshairs moved faster, scanning over the bleak and empty landscape. A bright white blob shot across the field of view, then the viewfinder scanned back, slowed, and finally found its target: a single, blocky shape that glowed distinctly white against the gray void.

  “That’s an infrared sight,” Keller said. “Warm objects show up bright white.”

  “Greentree,” Gunslinger two-six said, “I got one vehicle, repeat, one, stationary, about a half click from the gridline. Over.”

  “Must be them, Gunslinger,” Greentree’s confident voice came back. “Light ’em up. Over.”

  There was a brief pause. “Request confirmation, Greentree,” Gunslinger two-six said, the uncertainty in his voice clear even through the radio distortion and static. “I’ve got eyes on one unit. I say again, one unit. You said there were two. Over.”

  “Ah, roger, Gunslinger, there were. They must have split up. Or the one you’re looking at broke down. Take the shot. Over.”

  On the screen, a smaller white dot had detached itself from the vehicle and was trudging across the desert. Keller let out a low, tortured groan.

  “Jack,” Jules said. “Is that…you?”

  Keller didn’t answer.

  “Please,” she said, and there were tears in her voice. “I was wrong. You shouldn’t watch this. Please don’t watch this.”

  Still no answer. Keller was so tense he was practically vibrating. Jules slid out of the seat and backed up against the stove of the camper’s miniature kitchen, her eyes going back and forth between the TV and the seat where Keller was hunched over, eyes fixed on the screen, his arms folded across his chest as if he was trying to hold his insides in.

  “Greentree,” Gunslinger two-six said on screen. “Request confirmation there are no Blue units in area. I got a bad feeling—”

  “Gunslinger,” the voice barked, “I said take the fucking shot. Over.”

  Another voice broke in, this one with a working-class Boston accent. “C’mahn, man. Do the fuckah and let’s go home.”

  Keller’s fists were resting on the tabletop, clenching and unclenching as if looking for a neck to snap. Jules was sobbing now. “Jack, please.”

  The crosshairs wavered over the target. “I can’t get a lock.”

  “Try goin’ to black hot,” the Boston voice said. The picture wavered for a moment, then the shades reversed. The warm vehicle was now black against the pale desert, and more distinct. The crosshairs steadied, then there was a bright flare and the picture shuddered. “Missile away,” the voice of Gunslinger two-six said.

  “Good lock, good lock,” the Boston voice said. “C’mahn, c’mahn…” There was a sudden bloom of darkness across the screen, a rapidly spreading black flower. An unidentified voice whooped. “Good kill! Good kill!”

  Keller felt a rush in his head, like the hot desert wind or the howl of the missile that had come out of the night to destroy his tiny command. Burning, they’re burning… In his mind, echoing down the long dark tunnel of his memory, he could hear the screams of the men in the Bradley Fighting vehicle, his men, as the thinly armored machine went up in flames.

  “Burn, baby, burn!” the Boston voice said, bubbling with excited laughter.

  Keller screamed. He reached out and grabbed the small television in both hands. He tried to stand up with it, but the table restricted his motion. Eyes wide, he t
wisted his body, flinging the TV as hard as he could. Jules had already fled from the space where the television crashed against the stove, trailing the wires that had pulled out of the DVD player. The set exploded in a shower of glass and sparks as the tube burst. Jules stumbled out the door of the camper, sobbing in terror. Keller slid from behind the table, his boots crunching in the debris from the shattered television set. He picked up the DVD player with one hand and flung it across the short length of the camper, where it smashed against the curved wall over the alcove where the bed was. He fell to his knees, heedless of the pain where the shards of glass cut through his jeans, and howled like an animal. The stench of cooking meat was in his nose and the screams of the dying slowly trailed off. Then there was nothing. He knelt there, staring, the roaring in his head blotting out everything else.

  IT MIGHT have been minutes or hours when Keller came back to himself. He was still kneeling, glass and pieces of plastic cutting into his knees. Julianne was crouched down in front of him, holding a cell phone to her ear. “Yeah,” she was saying. “He’s right here. Okay.” She held the phone out to him. He looked at it stupidly, as if he couldn’t remember what it was. “It’s Lucas,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Slowly, Keller reached out and took the phone. He hesitated another moment, then put it to his ear. “Lucas,” he said, his voice as dry and rough as sandpaper.

  The rumbling voice of Dr. Lucas Berry was like the soothing noise of ocean surf. “Sounds like you’re having an interesting day, Sergeant.”

  Keller licked his dry lips. Jules handed him a bottle of water. Her eyes never left his face, but the fear was gone, leaving only concern. He took a sip of the water, then a larger gulp. “Yeah. You could say that.” He took another swallow. “So how much did she tell you?”