Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  Maddox’s voice rose. “Your father was a great man.”

  “Maybe. Once. Maybe I should have known him then. But he just never got around to it. By the time he got to me, he was a conniving, manipulative son of a bitch.”

  Maddox raised the gun. “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true. Shooting me won’t change that. And he wanted to turn me into one too. Remember what he said? ‘You’ll get better at it.’ And he wanted you to teach me. That couldn’t have sat well with you.” Keller shook his head. “Well, it’s over. I’m going to give this film to the person who needs it most.”

  Maddox’s lip curled. “Some blogger.”

  “No. A woman who’s wondered for years what happened to her father. Just like I did. She deserves to know the truth.”

  “What about Kathryn Shea?”

  “If this brings Shea down, I won’t lose any sleep over it.” Keller nodded at Riddle, still lying next to Maddox on the floor. He couldn’t tell if the man was still breathing. “But that guy stands a better chance of bringing her down, all the way. If he lives. Now, I’m going to leave. I’m going to call nine-one-one. I’m going to tell them what happened here, and then I’m going to look up this Margeaux Nguyen. And I’m going to bring her the truth.” He turned to go.

  “Stop!” Maddox snapped. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Keller turned back and looked Maddox in the eye. “You’re going to shoot me?” he said. “You ever actually killed anyone before, Maddox? Or did my dad there not teach you how?”

  “It should have been me.” Maddox’s voice was shaking. “I should have been the one he gave the film to.”

  “I know. You were more of a son to him than I was. You damn sure were more of one than I wanted to be. And you’re probably the son he deserved. That’s not a compliment, by the way.”

  “Shut UP!” Maddox screamed.

  As he pulled the trigger, Keller realized how badly he’d miscalculated. He dove to one side and the bullet blew splinters out of the wall behind him. Maddox fired again, blindly. Keller got to his hands and knees, ready to make a suicidal rush. It was the only chance he had. It was no chance at all. Maddox was still screaming, but the shouts had taken on a different tone. As he got to his feet, Keller saw him pointing the revolver down at Riddle, who had one hand wrapped around Maddox’s leg in a death grip. The other was clutching the shears he’d buried into the meat of Maddox’s upper thigh. As Keller watched, he pulled the bloody shears free and stabbed Maddox again. Maddox pulled the trigger on the revolver, but the hammer clicked onto an empty chamber.

  Keller crossed the room in a couple of quick strides. Maddox was raising the gun above his head, trying to use it as a club to knock Riddle away. Keller grabbed his arm and punched Maddox in the gut with his other fist. He kicked at Riddle’s chest, where he thought the bullet wound he’d inflicted would probably be. Riddle made a high squeal of pain like a wounded dog, and let go. He fell back, leaving the shears embedded in Maddox’s leg. Maddox crumpled to the floor as Keller ripped the gun from his limp hand. He flung the weapon across the room, out the door, and heard it crash to the hardwood flooring of the hallway outside. He stood over Maddox and Riddle, both of them writhing in agony, before going to the bedside table and pulling out the roll of surgical tape that he’d seen being used earlier to secure Trammell’s IV. He bound both men’s hands, then their ankles. He didn’t want to risk pulling the shears out of Maddox’s leg, so he tore the tape with his teeth. Maddox put up only a weak resistance; Riddle had passed out again and put up none. When he was done, he stood up.

  “Now, if you two will excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

  IT WAS a beautiful sunny day, and the light glittered on the water of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Keller sat at an outdoor table at a restaurant Nguyen had suggested, sipping a beer and watching the boats. A leather messenger bag sat at his feet. Inside the bag were the box containing the film and the file folder he’d taken from Trammell’s house. People strolled about the area, shopping and sightseeing. It was a good place to meet someone you weren’t totally sure about. Keller understood Nguyen’s caution; judging from some of the comments he’d read on her blog, some of her readership were not what anyone would call paragons of stability, and some of the more colorful conspiracy buffs were clearly insane.

  “Mr. Keller?”

  The woman who spoke was taller than he’d expected, and slender. She had strong features with a slight Asian cast to them, her face mostly untouched by age except for some laugh lines around her striking green eyes. She was conservatively dressed in a just-above-the-knee black skirt and white blouse.

  Keller stood up. “Jack,” he said, extending a hand.

  She took it tentatively and shook twice before letting it go. “I’m Margeaux Nguyen.” Her voice was a warm contralto, without a trace of accent.

  “Please”—Keller pulled out a chair for her—“have a seat.” She complied, but the wary expression hadn’t left her face. He knew he looked more than a little rough around the edges, and the bandage on his face couldn’t have helped.

  She set a small black handbag on the table in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind meeting me here,” she said. “I’ve found that it’s a good idea to have a first meeting in a public place.”

  He nodded. “I understand. You’re right to be careful.” The waitress had appeared at her elbow. “Something for you, ma’am?”

  “Just water, please,” Nguyen said. She hadn’t taken her watchful eyes off Keller.

  “Another beer, please,” Keller said.

  As the waitress left, Nguyen said, “Let me just say from the outset, I don’t have a lot of money to pay for information.”

  “I’m not asking for any money,” Keller said. “I’m here because I have an answer you’ve been looking for.”

  “You said in your e-mail that it was about my father. What happened to him in Vietnam.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old. There are already enough things that do that.”

  Keller smiled back. “Okay.” His face turned serious again. “I do have the truth of what happened to him.”

  The smile was a little more bitter this time. “You’ll forgive me, Mr. Keller, if I say that I’ve heard that before. More than once.”

  “No doubt. There are a lot of scam artists out there. But like I say, I don’t want any money.”

  “That does help your credibility. Somewhat. So what else do you want?” Her eyes were still suspicious.

  “I don’t know how to put it,” Keller said. “Maybe I just want to right a wrong.” He reached down to the messenger bag and saw her tense. She reached for the handbag, which he could see was partially open. Slowly, deliberately, he brought the messenger bag up and put it on the table. She relaxed slightly. “I’m going to reach in the bag,” Keller said, “and pull out a box. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Keller laid the box on the table. She looked at it with a puzzled frown.

  “Go ahead,” Keller told her. “Open it.”

  She fumbled with the catch for a moment, then raised the lid. The frown deepened. “What is this?”

  “Your father was a film cameraman, right?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s his last film. And it shows the man who killed him.”

  She sat silent for a moment, absorbing the shock. As she looked up, Keller could see the tears in her eyes. Her voice was a raw whisper. “Who?” she said. “Who killed him?”

  “A man named Michael Shea,” Keller said. He paused before adding, “My father was there when it happened.”

  “Your…” She shook her head uncomprehendingly. At that moment, the waitress arrived with a tall glass of ice water and Keller’s beer. She placed them on the table, then looked at Nguyen with concern. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Nguyen said. Then more strongly, “Yes.” She took a deep drink of her water
and smiled at the waitress. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Seemingly satisfied, the waitress moved off.

  Nguyen looked at Keller. “Michael Shea,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Senator Michael Shea?”

  Keller nodded.

  Nguyen’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief. “That’s crazy. How did you get this? Was it in the garage? Were you looking through the attic and stumbled on it?”

  “No,” Keller said. “My father gave it to me. On his deathbed. He’d been using it to blackmail and manipulate Shea once he saw Shea start to get powerful. He gave it to me to do the same. Except he wanted me to use it to manipulate his daughter, Kathryn, who I hear is the front runner for his old seat.”

  “But you’re giving it to me instead.”

  Keller nodded.

  The suspicious look was back. “Why?”

  Keller took a sip of his beer and looked out at the water for a long moment before answering. “Because I’m not the man my father was.”

  She shook her head. “Are you for real?”

  “As far as I can tell, yeah, I am,” Keller said. He gestured at the film. “You might want to be careful with that. Keep it in a safe place. And lock your doors. Kathryn Shea, or someone working for her, hired someone to keep me from getting it. He did it by trying to kill me. Several times.”

  She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and appraising. Finally, she spoke. “You feel like telling that story? On the record?”

  He thought it over, looking out over the water and taking the last third of the beer in one gulp.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do. Not that I expect anyone to believe it.”

  “You let me worry about that.” She looked over Keller’s shoulder and nodded. Keller was surprised to see a black man in jeans and a white T-shirt under a navy windbreaker appear suddenly at his elbow. The man sat down and nodded at Keller. He was huge, built like a football player. His hair was plaited in tight cornrows atop his head.

  “This is Samuel,” Nguyen said. “He’s a friend.”

  “Good to know,” Keller said. He extended his hand. The black man shook his head. “I don’t shake hands,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  Keller drew his hand back. “So you brought a bodyguard.”

  “More of a partner,” Nguyen said. “But you can’t be too careful. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m a little less worried about you having the film now. But you still need to be careful.”

  Samuel grinned. “I’m always careful. That’s why the two of us are alive.”

  “So,” Nguyen said. “What I propose is this. You give me an exclusive interview. On video. I hold onto it until I can check your story out. But you sign a release at the end of the interview allowing me to use it as I see fit.” She took a sip of water. “If I check out your story and find out you’re bullshitting me, we’re done.”

  “How do you think you’re going to check this out?” Keller said.

  She smiled thinly. “I may be self-employed, as they say, but I still have sources. So does Samuel.”

  “Funny,” Keller said to the big man, “you don’t look like a reporter.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I just know people. A lot of people.”

  “Well, that all sounds very mysterious,” Keller said. “But what the hell. I only have one condition.”

  Here it comes, Nguyen’s look said.

  Keller thought of the file still in his bag. “It’s not money. But there’s one place you don’t go. It doesn’t have anything to do with Shea, or my father, or the guy who tried to kill me. It’s about something that happened to me, back in the Army. The Persian Gulf. We let that be for the moment.”

  Nguyen shook her head. “I can’t promise that. If it’s something that might discredit you…”

  “It might. I left the Army on a psychological discharge. And my life hasn’t exactly been stable since. But if you’re serious about other sources, you’ll be able to confirm what I say in spite of that.”

  Nguyen chewed her lip and looked at Keller thoughtfully. She looked over at Samuel. “What do you think?”

  Samuel shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first dry well we’ve drilled. But if it’s bullshit, all we’ve wasted is time.” He grimaced. “And the good Lord knows we got plenty of that.”

  “Okay.” Nguyen stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Keller looked up at her. “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “We’re going to do it now?”

  She nodded. “You have anywhere else to be right now?”

  “Good point.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”

  NGUYEN’S APARTMENT was old and small and the furniture was worn, but the place was clean, with the exception of a dining room table piled high with books and papers. A laptop computer sat at one end of the table. Nguyen sat Keller down on the couch and Samuel fetched him a bottled water.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll start with you just telling your story. However you want to tell it.” Samuel was bringing in a small video camera set up on a tripod. Nguyen went on. “I’ll be asking questions from time to time, but for the moment, don’t worry about flow. We’ll be editing it down to something we can use. Got it?” Keller nodded. “Okay, let’s check the sound levels and we’ll get started.” She and Samuel fiddled with the camera for a few minutes, conferring in low tones. Nguyen attached a microphone to a small stand and set it on the low table in front of the couch. “Can you say something for me, Jack?”

  “My name is Jack Keller,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s start with that. We’re recording. Go.”

  He cleared his throat. “My name is Jack Keller,” he began again.

  WHEN KELLER finally finished his story, it was getting dark outside. A half-dozen water bottles littered the table in front of him. He leaned back, against the back of the couch, feeling utterly drained. Nguyen was silent. Samuel had left the room several times on one errand or another. Finally, Keller sat up. “I need to use the can.”

  As he walked down the hallway, he passed the open door of what he assumed was a bedroom. He stopped for a moment and stared. Samuel was seated at a desk in front of what looked like a bank of computer monitors. He could faintly hear the whirring of multiple fans and the clickety-click of Samuel tapping away on the keyboard. Keller stood in the doorway for a moment, until Samuel suddenly became aware of his presence. He turned around quickly, his hand going to a switch that killed all the monitors and left him sitting in near darkness. “Can I help you?” he said, his tone frosty.

  “Quite a setup you’ve got there,” Keller said.

  “We’ll talk in a few minutes. Close that door behind you when you leave.”

  Keller took the hint. When he returned from the bathroom, Samuel and Nguyen were arguing. “It’s all too crazy,” she was saying. “I mean, the cartels? The Russians? Some crazy assassin?”

  “I know it sounds nutty,” Samuel said. “But there are half a dozen websites from Mexico that follow the drug cartels. They’re all lit up over the murder of Jerico Zavalo. By a gringo, no less.” He looked at Keller. “Someone even composed a narcocorrido about it and posted it on YouTube.”

  “A what?” Keller said.

  Samuel smiled. “A song. Very big down there on the border. The cartel boys actually pay some of these bands to write tunes about what badass outlaws they are.” The smile grew wider. “Who knows, ‘Jerico and Jack the Gringo’ might become a hit. I wouldn’t show up asking for a cut of the royalties, though.” The smile slackened a bit. “But they’re also buzzing about El Perro del Infierno. The Hellhound. Seems he’s disappeared. The scuttlebutt is that the government has him.”

  Nguyen was staring at Keller. “What else have you found?”

  “I’m still waiting for a call-back from my guy at the DEA. He’ll be able to tell me more. The thing with the Russians, that’ll be your lookout. You still got someone in the FBI who’ll talk to you?”

  “I’ll call
him right now. Jack, have you got a place to stay?”

  Keller shook his head. “I’ll find something.”

  “Stay here. You can use my room.” She saw the look on Keller’s face and rolled her eyes. “Don’t get ideas, cowboy. You can use it because we’ll be working all night. You like Chinese?”

  “I don’t hate it.”

  “Samuel, call out to Peking Palace.” She opened a notebook she’d been scribbling in while Keller talked. “Now, I’ve got some things I want to go back over.”

  THE MORNING strategy meeting was held in a penthouse suite of a hotel that boasted a brilliant view of the Potomac River. No one was looking out the window, though; everyone was intent on the data on their laptop screens or iPads.

  “We’re in good shape in the rural western counties,” a young, curly-haired female number-cruncher whose name Cordell couldn’t remember was saying, “but the urban polling’s a little squishy. We may want to reach out to some of the black churches. Maybe show up at some fish fries. Stuff like that.”

  “Pfft,” another staffer with tousled blond hair and the lazy smile of a prep school Lothario replied. “That’s chasing votes that we’ll never catch.”

  Cordell looked over at Kathryn. She was leaning forward, looking down the table at the young man. Her eyes were stormy. Good, he thought, she’d been distracted lately after hearing of Clifton Trammell’s death. The official line was that he’d passed quietly in his sleep after a long illness. Nothing Cordell could turn up told him any different, but Kathryn had still brooded over it. Now, however, it looked like she was getting her head back in the game. Still, he didn’t envy the young man who was about to get his ass reamed.

  “Kevin,” she said, her voice level, but dangerous. “We can’t afford to think like that. We’re in a fight for every—”

  The door burst open and Cordell’s secretary came charging in. She was holding an iPad. “Sir,” she said, “I think you need to see this.”

  Kathryn’s eyebrows went up in astonishment, then drew together in anger. “Cynthia!” she barked.