Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  The man who lay there was emaciated, nearly skeletal. What remained of his hair lay in white wisps across a forehead speckled with age spots. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be sleeping. A clear plastic line ran from his nostrils to an oxygen tank nestled beside the bed. Another line ran into his arm from the bottle of clear liquid suspended from a silver stand on the other side.

  “Mr. Trammell,” Keller said, softly but firmly.

  There was no response.

  “TRAMMELL!” Keller barked.

  The man’s eyes opened. They were a clear, piercing blue, slowly coming into focus. Keller realized he’d seen those eyes before. In the mirror. If he’d had any doubt that this was his father, those eyes dispelled it. The man in the bed muttered something, blinked once, then looked at Keller.

  “Hello, son,” he said in a raspy voice, thick with phlegm. He reached out a withered hand. Keller hesitated, then took it. It felt like he was holding a bundle of sticks wrapped in paper.

  “I’m glad you came,” the old man said. “Have you spoken to your mother?”

  Keller looked over at Maddox. The man stood in the shadows, a few feet away. Keller couldn’t see his expression. “I’m sorry, sir,” Keller said. “She passed away. A long time ago.”

  Trammell looked confused. Then he nodded. “Yes. I knew that.” He closed his eyes. “She was an extraordinary woman, Jack. So vibrant. So full of life. She lit up a room when she walked into it.”

  She did. She just didn’t walk in very often, Keller thought, but he held his tongue. The old man didn’t speak for a long time. His hand went slack in Keller’s grasp. Keller looked over at Maddox, who stood in the shadows, impassive. Keller started to pull his hand away, but Trammell seemed to rally, opening his eyes and clutching Keller’s hand more tightly. “You came here for a reason.”

  Keller resisted the urge to pull away. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me what’s happened,” Trammell said. He sounded stronger, more focused. “We’ll work out what to do.”

  Keller didn’t want to go over the events of the last few days. They were still too fresh and raw in his mind. He’d lost people he’d cared for, people who were killed solely because they’d befriended him. He’d had to kill again, then again, and he’d begun to notice that that was bothering him less and less. He didn’t think he could convey to anyone how lost he felt, least of all this stranger—father or no father.

  But something in the dying man’s gaze would accept no opposition. Keller began to speak, slowly, then more quickly as the story took over. He told Trammell about everything that had happened since Maddox had showed up at his doorstep. He told about the no-fly list and Julianne’s murder, the words coming more haltingly at that point as he had to pause to collect himself, taking several deep breaths before continuing. He told about being jailed, then released, then attacked again at Alford’s home. He told about what he’d done to the narcos in Mexico. At that point, he had to stop again.

  Trammell’s eyes seemed to glitter at him in the darkness. He thought the old man might be smiling, but it could just as well be a grimace of pain. He went on, talking about Zaubermann and the encounter with the Russians. Gradually, he ran out of words. He paused, then said simply, “And that’s how I wound up here, sir.”

  He thought for a moment that the old man had gone back to sleep. He’d been nodding at times, even with his eyes closed, but now he was still. After a moment, he spoke.

  “John,” he said to the silent figure standing nearby, “what do we know about this person that Kathryn seems to have hired to harass my son?”

  “Could be one of several people, sir. But given the connections with both the cartels and the Russians, I’d hazard a guess that it was Riddle.”

  Trammell’s eyes opened. This time he was definitely smiling. “Riddle,” he said. “El Perro del Infierno.” He began to chuckle, then winced at the pain the effort caused him. He looked up at Keller. “You defeated the Hellhound,” he said. “I’m not even sure I could have done that.” He gave Keller’s hand a weak squeeze. “Good work, son.”

  Keller pulled his hand away violently. “Good work?” He turned away. “Jesus,” he spat, “what the fuck is wrong with you people?” When he turned back to face the man in the bed, his face was so contorted with anger that Maddox took a step forward, one hand reaching back for the pistol he’d hidden in a waistband holster at the small of his back. Trammell stopped him with an upraised trembling hand.

  “I didn’t just win a fucking soccer game, you maniac,” Keller raged. “I’ve had some assassin pursue me across the goddamn country, kill friends and people I loved, and try to have me tortured me to death. I’ve shot people. I burned men alive. That bastard is still out there, probably still trying to kill me. And I don’t even fucking know why. Now you are going to give me some answers, old man. Or, sick as you are, I am going to haul you out of that fucking bed and break you in fucking half!”

  Trammell accepted the tirade calmly. Keller wound down and stood there, breathing deeply. “I have the answers you want,” he said in his papery whisper. “Answers for what’s just happened, and answers you’ve been searching for for years. And once you have those, I can give you a weapon. My legacy. All for you. My…legacy.”

  Keller blinked in confusion. “A weapon?”

  Trammell gestured at Maddox. “John will explain everything. Now”—he closed his eyes again—“I need to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” The dismissal was absolute. Keller stood there, unwilling to accept it.

  Maddox finally spoke up from behind him. “This way, Mr. Keller.”

  THE ROOM Maddox led Keller to was a book-lined study that looked like a set for a BBC drama. There was a desk and a sturdy leather chair sitting in front of a high window. A pair of thick paper files sat side by side on the desktop. To one side was a large flat-screen television and DVD player on a rolling stand. Keller stopped and looked at it, a feeling of dread spreading through his stomach. He never wanted to see the gun camera footage again.

  “Which would you like first,” Maddox said, “information about the incident that occurred in the Gulf or on what’s happening to you now?”

  Keller stared at the files. They were ragged at the edges and he could see that some of the paper was slightly yellowed. That would be the file on the incident that had killed his men. He wanted to see what was in it more than anything in the world. But he needed to know why someone had been trying so hard to kill him. “Let’s start with what’s going on now.”

  “Very well.” Maddox gestured to the desk chair. “Please. Take a seat.” As Keller sat down, Maddox pulled up another chair and did the same, sitting uncomfortably upright. Keller realized the reason for his unnaturally erect posture.

  “You can lose the gun,” Keller said. “I’m not going to try to kill you. Or Trammell. At least not now.”

  Maddox hesitated, then withdrew the pistol from the back holster. He laid it on the desk, the butt still facing toward him. Keller noticed he hadn’t ejected the magazine or put the safety on.

  “So,” Keller said, “who’s trying to kill me? And why?”

  “The person behind all of this is a woman named Kathryn Shea. She’s currently a candidate for the U.S. Senate.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  Maddox nodded. “Nor would she have heard of you, except for your father.”

  Keller shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Kathryn Shea’s father was a U.S. Senator. Served with distinction for over twenty-four years. Before that, he was a…I guess you’d say an old colleague of your father. They served together in Vietnam.”

  Keller spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “And?”

  “And while they were there, something happened. Something that Kathryn Shea very much wants kept hidden.” He got up and went to the television stand. “This.” He turned the TV on and pressed a button.

  Keller sat in silence, watching the video. There was a man on it that he di
dn’t know. He assumed that was Shea. The other man was Trammell, still young and in his prime. He saw the man he didn’t know murder the civilian woman, and then saw him advancing on the cameraman. When it was over, he continued to stare at the blank screen before looking at Maddox.

  “So my…Mr. Trammell in there has been hanging this murder over his old war buddy’s head for the last…what…forty-five years?”

  “Forty-seven,” Maddox said. “And counting.”

  “I still don’t get what that has to do with me.”

  Maddox reached over and turned off the TV. “Your father has the original film. Taken from the cameraman. Kathryn Shea wants it. She won’t feel that her father’s reputation, or her own, are secure until she knows she has it. When I was sent to deliver the gun camera footage to you, she must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  “She thought you were bringing me this instead. She thought I’d have the film.”

  “Apparently.”

  “And that’s why she sent those goons to mug you.”

  “Yes,” Maddox said.

  Keller shook his head. “Jesus. All of this killing. All these people dead. And it’s all because I got caught in the middle of some fucking game that Trammell was playing with this Shea character.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a game. There’s a truth your father has lived by his whole life. Knowledge is power. He’s leveraged the knowledge he had of what Shea did to great advantage. He’s been able to accomplish astounding things for his country as a result.”

  Keller waved a hand to indicate the house around him. “And he hasn’t done too badly for himself, either. Or for you.”

  Maddox scowled. “He could have become much wealthier in the private sector. Instead, he’s devoted his life to serving the United States. In ways that brought him no—”

  “What ways, Maddox? I mean other than blackmail? Murder? Torture? Just what other terrible shit has my father”—he turned the word into a curse—“done in the name of his country?”

  Maddox sighed. “He thought you of all people might understand. He’s followed your history over the past few years. Haven’t you done some things that some people might consider ‘terrible shit’? You might consider being a little less self-righteous.”

  Keller had no answer for that. He thought back to a burning hillside in the North Carolina mountains, to the image of a man, on his knees, unarmed. But confident. Knowing that he’d be back to torment Keller and the people he loved. Knowing that he’d be able to do that because Keller wouldn’t shoot a helpless man. Keller had proved him wrong. He closed his eyes.

  “You see,” Maddox said. “You are your father’s son. You’re willing to do what has to be done, terrible though it may be. And now, your father wishes to put real power into your hands. If you’re willing to use it.”

  Keller shook his head. “I don’t want it.” His voice was a raw whisper.

  “Are you sure? Kathryn Shea’s opponent is a non-entity. He’s an empty suit. She’s almost certainly going to become a U.S. Senator. You’re facing some fairly serious troubles in the near future.” Maddox gestured to the television. “Having this kind of leverage over a United States Senator might save you quite a few problems. And who knows what else you might be able to accomplish? Your friend Lucas, for example. I hear his drug treatment program is excellent, but it’s always struggling for funding. Some federal dollars—”

  Keller opened his eyes. “Shut up,” he growled.

  Maddox shrugged. “I’m sorry it happened this way,” he said. “But things are what they are. You’re on Kathryn Shea’s radar. She has the power to do you…or your friends…good or to do them harm. The only smart thing to do is use the opportunity you’re given to influence her decisions in a positive way.”

  “Jesus,” Keller said. “You’re really good at this. You must have learned from the Devil himself.”

  Maddox smiled slightly and inclined his head in the direction of the sunroom where Trammell lay sleeping. “There are certainly some that might think so.” Before Keller could say anything else, he gestured at the file folders on the desk. “There’s the other information you wanted to know,” he said. “Including the actual name and current address of the pilot once known as Gunslinger two-six.” He paused. “The pilot who killed your squad in the Gulf.” He stood up. Keller was looking at the file as if there might be a striking snake inside. “I’ll leave you to it,” Maddox said. “What you do with that information is, of course, completely up to you.”

  Keller didn’t look up as Maddox left the room. He continued to stare at the file. Finally, he picked it up and began to read.

  THE SKY was turning from black to dark gray by the time Keller finished reading the file. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. It had been a fuckup, pure and simple. He hadn’t been able to watch the video again, but he’d read the transcripts. Even in black and white, he’d felt the anguish of the pilot known as Gunslinger two-six when he’d realized he’d killed people on his own side. He’d gone back and given a full report. He’d indicated he’d fully expected to be court-martialed. He could have blamed or at least shared blame with his co-pilot, the man with the Boston accent he’d heard on the tape. But he’d accepted the full responsibility. It had been his finger on the trigger, he who’d fired the shot.

  But there the matter had ended, at least officially. Keller didn’t know where Trammell had obtained the documentation of what had happened next. He figured it hadn’t been acquired legally. There were copies of handwritten memos in the file, minutes of meetings held between authorities both military and civilian, supposedly secret e-mails between officials in DC and the Gulf.

  The consensus emerged quickly: Bury this. Nothing could emerge that might tarnish the public’s perception of the First Gulf War as an unqualified victory. The official reports were changed to reflect that Sergeant Jack Keller had screwed up, gotten out of his assigned area, and led his men into an ambush by a Republican Guard anti-tank unit. Keller’s meltdown after he’d been picked up, during which he’d picked up a rifle and begun firing at passing American helicopters, had only served to cement the official line. Keller was a screw-up. A nut case. A washout. His exemplary record up to that time notwithstanding, Jack Keller was to be detached from the U.S. Army as unfit for military service for psychological reasons.

  Keller looked for a long time at the psychological report upon which that decision had been based. That report had made all the difference. It had cast him into the limbo from which he’d fought to extricate himself ever since.

  There was a phone on the desk. He picked it up and dialed a number he knew by heart. After several rings, a sleep-fogged voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Lucas. It’s Jack Keller.”

  “Jack?” The voice was suddenly alert. “My God, son, I was afraid you were dead! Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Lucas. I’m at…” He paused. “I’m at my father’s house.”

  “Hmmmm.” The reply from his old doctor was so familiar, it brought tears to Keller’s eyes. He wiped them away. “He gave me the reports,” he said in a choked voice. “About what happened to me. In the Gulf. And after. Everything. Including the debate on what to do about what happened. The debate on what to do about me.”

  There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re ready to read those, Jack?”

  “I thought I was. Then I saw the final psych evaluation. The one that recommended shit-canning me. The one that said I was ‘unfit for further service.’” He took a deep breath before going on. “The one you wrote. And signed.”

  When the response finally came, it was so soft Keller could barely hear it. “Does it occur to you why your father might be showing you that, Jack?”

  “You’re saying it’s a fake? That you didn’t recommend kicking me out? That you didn’t respond to a memo as to whether I could be brought back by saying you thought my condition was ‘irreparable’?”

  “No,” Berry said. “It’s all real. And
I did say all those things. Would you like to know why?”

  Keller wanted to smash the phone to splinters on the table. “You’re the only friend I had left, Lucas. And now I find this out.”

  “I was your only friend then, too, Jack,” Berry said. “And the alternative to separating you from the Army was to send you to prison.”

  “You know, I might have preferred that. God damn it, Lucas, the Army was the first time I ever…the first…” He stopped, the words piling up behind the lump in his throat.

  “The first time you ever felt like you belonged,” Lucas said gently. “Believe me. I know. I know you. I got to know you then. So well that I lost some objectivity. I started caring about what happened to you. With the rage you were feeling at that time, I didn’t think you’d survive a military prison. I made a judgment call. Maybe it was the wrong one. But I…” The voice was cut off as Keller hung up the phone. He turned the chair around and looked out the window. It was growing lighter outside. A lush garden was coming into view. He remembered a similar view, out the window of Lucas’s office.

  Does it occur to you why your father might be showing you that, Jack?

  Of course it did. Showing him the psych report wasn’t completely necessary, unless one of the things his father wanted to do was isolate Keller further. Cut him off from anyone, leave him with no one in the world to turn to but the father he’d never met. And it worked. Trammell was a master manipulator, and one of the hallmarks of that was that you couldn’t stop him, even as you saw what he was doing.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Keller called out. He turned the chair around as Maddox walked in.