Hellhound On My Trail

by J. D. Rhoades

  The girl’s eyes were wild, almost panicked. “Mr. Cordell…”

  Cordell could see Kathryn building to an explosion. He needed to get this meeting under control. “Let me see it, Cynthia.” Wordlessly, she passed it to him. He took one look at the headline on the site and physically flinched with the shock that ran through his body as it leaped out at him off the screen.

  SEE THE VIDEO A SENATE CANDIDATE WOULD LITERALLY KILL TO SUPPRESS!

  “Everybody,” Cordell said, “leave the room. Everybody except me and Ms. Shea.”

  “But…” Cynthia reached for the iPad in his hands. “My—”

  “You’ll get it back, Cynthia,” Cordell snapped. The girl looked stricken, but scurried away, behind the rest of the staff. They were murmuring amongst themselves, pulling out phones and tablets, searching for whatever had put everything in turmoil. He had no doubt the story would be all over the office within five minutes. A minute after that, people would start updating and sending out resumes.

  As the last staffer closed the door behind her, Cordell looked down at Kathryn. She was staring down at the screen as if it were a poisonous snake dropped on the table in front of her. She looked up at him, fury in her eyes. “You told me this was contained,” she hissed. “You said it had been taken care of.”

  “I thought it had,” Cordell said weakly.

  “Liar. You thought you could keep this from me while you got it under control. Does this look like IT’S UNDER CONTROL!?” Her voice rose to a shriek and she threw the iPad against a wall. Looks like I’ll be buying Cynthia a new one, Cordell thought.

  “We can deal with this,” Cordell said. “It’s just some blog. No one even reads those anymore—”

  There was a tentative knock on the door. Cordell turned, ready to blister whoever had disobeyed his order to leave them be. The door opened and two men in dark suits came in. “Frederick Cordell?” one said, reaching into his jacket and coming out with a thin leather case.

  “Who are you people?” Cordell was afraid he knew the answer already.

  The man who’d spoken first smiled as if he truly loved answering that question. He flipped the case open to reveal the credentials inside. “Special Agent Morris,” he said. “FBI.” He nodded to the other man. “Special Agent Mulvahill.” Mulvahill nodded and pulled out a set of silver handcuffs. “Frederick James Cordell,” Morris said, “you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct justice, and racketeering. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Cordell said. “You’re arresting me on the word of some blogger?”

  “I don’t know about any blogger, sir,” Morris said. “But we do have a witness in custody who’s telling us some very interesting things over the past few days. Now, please put your hands behind your back while I read you your rights.”

  Numb with shock, Cordell put his hands behind his back. Mulvahill cuffed him as Morris began the litany. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  Kathryn Shea interrupted. “Wait. Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morris said. “And right now, you’re what we call a ‘person of interest.’ You’re not currently under arrest, but you might not want to try and leave the country. Can I answer any further questions for you, ma’am?”

  “Kathryn,” Cordell said, “don’t say anything else. We’ll get this sorted out.”

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it. Morris nodded with satisfaction. “Okay, then. You have the right to remain silent….”

  When they were done, they hauled Cordell to the lobby, and out the front door he saw the vans pulling up outside. CNN. NBC. FOX. He felt the ground falling out from under him. This wasn’t going away. This was actually happening.

  “HOLY SHIT.” Samuel was looking at his smartphone. The thing was the size of a brick, but it looked like a toy in the man’s huge hands. “We’re closing in on two hundred thousand hits. And counting.”

  Nguyen shook her head. “Amazing.” She looked over at Keller, sitting on the couch. “Thank you.”

  “Least I could do.” Keller stood up and slung the messenger bag on his shoulder. “I know it’s shitty. What happened to your dad, I mean. But I hope it helps to finally know.”

  “It does.” She stood up, walked over and hugged him. Keller tensed for a moment, then returned the hug. When they broke, Nguyen was suddenly all business again. “Now, you said you might have something else for me.”

  “I might,” Keller said. “But I have to go see someone first.”

  She tilted her head and looked at him appraisingly. “And who would that be?” At the look on his face, she smiled. “Never mind. Had to at least try.”

  “I know.”

  Samuel walked over and put out a hand. “Be safe, man.”

  Keller took it. “Thanks. You, too.” He left without looking back.

  Ray PARKHURST, the man whose call sign had once been Gunslinger two-six, lived in a comfortable brick ranch house in Fayetteville, North Carolina. When Keller had learned that, he’d shaken his head. All the time he’d spent in Fayetteville, hunting down bail jumpers, and the man who’d caused him so much pain in his life had been living in the same city.

  Parkhurst’s co-pilot, a Bostonian named Tommy O’Connell, had died a few years after the war when he’d driven his car into the Charles River. There’d been rumors that the death was a suicide, but since O’Connell had had a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit and traces of opiates in his blood, it was eventually ruled an accident.

  It was late afternoon on a Friday. People were coming home from work, pulling into driveways bordered by nicely kept yards.

  There was a minivan already parked in the driveway. From where he was parked across the street, Keller had seen a blond, slender, fortyish woman in jeans pull up a half hour earlier. Two teenagers, a boy and a younger girl, piled out of the minivan and ran into the house, backpacks slung on one shoulder.

  Keller knew that this was how millions of people lived, but to him, it looked like a scene from another planet. He waited. It wasn’t the type of neighborhood where he’d usually done surveillance, and he knew he stood out like a sore thumb. He’d already gotten some curious stares from people who’d been jogging by or walking with strollers. But Keller knew from long experience that the best way to make yourself invisible was to become something no one wanted to see. Passersby would check out the magnetic sign he’d picked up at a storefront office downtown and affixed to the side of the truck, then glance at Keller in the red ball cap he’d gotten at the same place. TRUMP 2016, the magnetic sign read, along with the same slogan as on the ball cap: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. When they saw that, most people apparently clocked him as a political canvasser and averted their eyes, although one older man on a bicycle gave him a thumbs-up.

  Finally, another car pulled up at Parkhurst’s house, a new red Mustang convertible. The man that got out was an older version of the picture Keller had in his file, but it was definitely the man he was looking for. He got out of the truck, tossing the ball cap into the passenger seat. He crossed the street in a few quick strides and approached Parkhurst as he was getting a leather briefcase out of the back seat. “Ray Parkhurst?”

  The man turned around with an annoyed look. He was tall, with close-cut graying hair. His face had once been handsome, but now it sagged a bit and he had the blotchy red complexion of someone who’d seen a lot of sun or a lot of alcohol, or both. “Yeah. Who are you?” The accent was less pronounced, but it was definitely the same voice.

  Keller stopped. He couldn’t speak for a second. This was the man who’d pulled the trigger. Parkhurst’s look of annoyance became one of unease. Keller found his voice. “My name’s Jack Keller.”

  Parkhurst backed away a little bit. He didn’t offer to shake hands. “Do I know you, buddy?”

  “Probably not. And I only learned your name recently. Did you used to go by the name ‘Gunslinger tw
o-six’?”

  Parkhurst stood still for a moment, the color draining from his face. “Who are you?” he asked again, but this time all the belligerence was gone.

  “I’m the survivor. From the Bradley. You know what I mean.”

  Parkhurst sagged against the Mustang. He raised the briefcase in front of his chest as if he expected it to try and stop a bullet. “What…what…”

  “We need to talk. And put that down. You’ll attract attention.” Slowly, Parkhurst lowered the briefcase to his side. “Good. Now you want to do this here, or somewhere else?”

  The front door opened. The woman he’d seen earlier poked her head out. “Ray?”

  “Go back in the house, honey.” Parkhurst’s voice broke on the word “house.”

  The woman didn’t. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. As she advanced down the walk, Keller got a closer look. She was a good-looking woman, with high cheekbones, a few streaks of gray in her hair, and the kind of lean body that came from hours at the gym. “What’s going on, Ray?”

  He straightened up. “Nothing, sweetheart. I just met up with an old friend from the Army.”

  Keller held out a hand. “Jack.”

  She took it, her dark-brown eyes still suspicious. She was striking now, but she had probably been a knockout when she was younger.

  “We’re going to have a couple of beers,” Parkhurst said. “We won’t be long. Will we?”

  “No,” Keller said, releasing the woman’s hand. “Just going to catch up a bit. Then I’ve got to get back on the road.”

  She still looked suspicious, but nodded. “Dinner’s at seven thirty.” Then, with the reflexive courtesy of the well-brought up Southern woman, she turned to Keller. “You’re welcome to join us.” Her eyes didn’t extend the same invitation.

  “Thanks,” Keller said. “But like I said. I’ll be moving on.”

  THEY TOOK the Mustang. “There’s a place I know,” Parkhurst said. “It’s kind of a neighborhood sports bar. I go there sometimes after work.”

  “That’s fine,” Keller said. They made the rest of the ride in silence.

  O’Kelley’s was a mock Irish pub in a generic suburban strip mall. Parkhurst led the way to the large fake oak door, his shoulders slumped like a man walking the Green Mile to the electric chair. A couple of barflies marked their entrance by looking away for a moment from ESPN playing on one of the bar’s multiple large flat-screens. One of them raised an unsteady glass. “Yo, Ray,” he said. His voice was blurred by a ten o’clock slur at five-thirty in the afternoon. Parkhurst raised a hand in reply.

  A plump, pretty girl in her late twenties, with multiple rings in her ears and nose, came out from the back. She smiled when she saw Parkhurst. “Hey, stranger. You’re in early.” She looked at Keller and the smile widened a bit. “Who’s your friend?”

  Keller answered before Parkhurst could. “Jack.”

  “Okay, fellas.” She gestured to the empty booths along the wall and the tables scattered across the room. “Grab a seat anywhere.” They took a booth as far from the bar as they could get. The bartender followed, carrying a set of menus. “You guys up for an early dinner, or just drinks?”

  “Jose Cuervo,” Parkhurst said. “Bud Light chaser.”

  “Oooh,” the girl said. “Looks like the boys are ready to howl tonight. How about you, Jack?”

  Keller studied the beers lined up behind the bar. “Shiner Bock,” he said. The girl nodded and headed back behind the bar.

  Neither of them spoke until the bartender returned with the drinks on a tray that reeked of stale beer. She set the shot and the beers on the table, with a worried glance at Parkhurst, who didn’t look up. He snatched the shot up, downed it with a quick convulsive movement, then smacked the shot glass back onto the table with a sharp report that made the bartender jump. “Another,” he said. “Better make it two.”

  The bartender looked at Parkhurst, then back to Keller, her pierced brow furrowed with concern.

  “Go ahead,” Keller said. “I’m driving.”

  That was clearly not all the bartender was worried about. She gave Keller a dubious glance, murmured “Okay,” then headed back to the bar. Keller took a sip of his beer and waited. He’d spent twenty-five years wondering what he’d do if he ever confronted the man who’d killed his squad, and after all this time, he was still wondering.

  Parkhurst finally spoke. “Man,” he said. “Just let me say.” He gulped, as if he was struggling for air. “I am so, so, sorry.”

  Keller didn’t answer. He took a sip of his beer.

  Parkhurst went on. “I asked, I asked over and over. It didn’t seem right, man. There was something wrong about it. They said there were two Iraqi APCs and all I saw was one. I asked, man. I really asked. And Control told me…they told me…” He trailed off. The bartender was back, with two more shots and an even more worried expression. She set the glasses down without comment and backed away as Parkhurst slammed one down, then the other.

  “You really ought to take it easy on that,” Keller said.

  “Fuck that,” Parkhurst muttered. He held up his hand to the bartender, two fingers held aloft. Two more. She looked stricken for a moment, then glanced at Keller. Keller shook his head and held up one finger, then held his index finger and thumb a short distance apart. One. A short one. The girl nodded and poured the shot before bringing it over. “You all right, Ray?” she said, but she was looking at Keller.

  The first shots were starting to have their effect. “I’m fine, baby,” Parkhurst said, his voice starting to get a little fuzzy. “Just having a drink with an ol’ war buddy, right, Jack?”

  “Yeah.” Keller looked at the bartender. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I don’t want any trouble in here.”

  “You won’t see any,” Keller said. “I promise.”

  The girl still looked troubled, but she backed away, then went back behind the bar. She tended to the few other customers, but her eyes never left the booth where Keller and Parkhurst sat.

  “So,” Parkhurst said, the tequila really starting to get to him now, “what’s next? You gonna fuck me up? You gonna kill me?” Before Keller could answer, Parkhurst’s face crumpled like a child’s. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re here to kill me.”

  Keller felt sick to his stomach. “No, Ray. No. I’m here…” He stopped. He didn’t really have an answer to why he was here.

  Parkhurst was practically blubbering now. “You got the right, man. You do. But I’m asking. Don’t. Please don’t. I got a wife and kids, man.”

  So did 40 Mike, Keller thought, remembering the member of his squad who’d been a wizard with the 40-millimeter grenade launcher. 40 had talked a lot about the son he’d been expecting. Now his fire-scoured bones were somewhere in the Kuwaiti desert. Maybe. Keller didn’t know.

  But now he did know one thing at least. He didn’t want to kill Parkhurst. For years he’d dreamed of confronting the man who’d killed his squad and gotten away with it. That desire for vengeance had driven him ever since, fueled his rage, made him a relentless hunter of men. He’d told himself that his love for the takedown, that moment when he seized a fugitive and brought him back to face justice, was the only way he knew to feel alive. But now he realized that in reality, it was a way of restoring the balance, a way to make someone face the reckoning that the man who’d killed his squad had never faced. Now the actual day of reckoning was here, in a sad, mostly empty little bar in a cookie-cutter suburban strip mall. The men who’d really fucked with his life were still beyond his reach, and probably always would be. Suddenly, there was nothing Keller wanted more than to get out of there.

  Parkhurst was still babbling something about his family. “Ray,” Keller said. The drunken flow of words continued. “RAY!” Keller barked.

  Parkhurst stopped talking, his eyes wide and frightened.

  “Give me your keys, man,” Keller said. “Let’s get you home.” Parkhurst didn’t move. Keller held out his h
and. “The keys, Ray. Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Parkhurst looked confused. “What…where….”

  “I’m going to get you home. And then I’m going to leave. And you’ll never see me again.”

  “Really?” Parkhurst’s face lit up like a child being told that Christmas would come after all.

  “Really. Come on, hand the keys over. If I wanted you dead, I’d let you get behind the wheel.”

  Parkhurst stared, uncomprehending, for a moment, then fished in the pocket of his dress slacks and handed over a keyring that jangled with a dozen or more keys of all shapes and sizes. Keller took them, downed the last of his beer, and stood up.

  “Go wait by the van,” he said. “I’m going to settle up the tab.” Parkhurst stood up, a numb and uncomprehending look on his face, and stumbled for the door. Keller walked to the bar. “Let me get the check,” he told the bartender, pulling out a wad of bills. She rang it up silently, giving Keller what she probably thought was a hard look. It wasn’t. “If anything happens to him,” she said in a low voice as she gave Keller his change, “I know what you look like.”

  “Good,” Keller said. “Have a nice night.”

  “You too,” she said, the words a reflex born of years in customer service. Then she realized what she was saying and looked angry. “Just go, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  WHEN THEY got back to the house, Parkhurst got out of the car. He was weaving a little bit. He stood there for a moment, blinking as if he didn’t know which way to go. Keller sighed and got out. “Come on, Ray,” he said, taking him by the shoulder and steering him down the walk.

  The door opened as they approached. Parkhurst’s wife stood in it, her face grim as she took in her husband’s condition. “Well,” she said, “that didn’t take long.”

  “Sorry,” Parkhurst muttered. “Sorry.”

  She sighed. “Go wash up, Ray. I went ahead and fed the kids. They were starving. But your supper’s ready. I’ll be in in a minute.” Parkhurst just nodded meekly and went inside. She closed the door and stood there, arms crossed. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”