The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  The devil's right hand

  the devil's right hand,

  Mama said the pistol is the devil's right hand

  DeWayne reached for the gun on the seat beside him.

  He had tried to argue with the nurse about the wheelchair, even though he knew from the start it was a losing battle. “I know, I know,” she had cut him off when he tried to protest that he could walk. “You a big, strong man. But you fall down and break your leg leavin’ this hospital,” she said, “it ain’t your silly ass they’re going to blame. It’s me, and I got two years left ‘till my profit-sharing plan vests, so I ain’t losin’ my job over you, hear? Once you get to the front door, you can do anything you want. Right now, sit your butt down in that chair for Emma like a good boy, okay?” Keller sat. They made the elevator ride down in silence.

  Angela stood up as they came off the elevator into the lobby. She stood there and looked at him as he stood up. He walked over to her.

  “You all right?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  She reached up and touched the bandage on his nose, lightly. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “Damn it, Keller,” she said, her voice breaking, “you scared the shit out of me,” She threw her arms around him. He took her in his arms and hugged her tightly to him. After a few moments, she pulled away, wiping her eyes. Keller looked back at the nurse who was standing with the wheelchair. “Look like my ride’s here,” he said.

  The nurse smiled. “I see that.” She looked at Angela. “This your man, honey?”

  Angela looked at Keller. “No,” she said, a small smile playing over her lips. “I’m his boss.”

  “Good for you,” the nurse said. “Get him trained right.”

  Angela laughed out loud at that. “No, I mean he really does work for me.” Her smile turned a little sad. “We’re just friends.”

  “Uh-huh,” the nurse said. She sounded unconvinced. “Well, y’all have a good day.” She backed into the elevator and closed the doors.

  “Ready to go home?” she said.

  “I need you to find out something for me first,” he said.

  “What?”

  As they walked to the parking lot, he told her about Wesson’s shooting. She listened in silence to the end. By that time, They were sitting in Angela’s car.

  “So what do you want me to do?” she said. Her voice sounded strange to Keller.

  “Internal Affairs will be investigating. They always do in a cop shooting. I need you to make a few calls to your friends in the department. Find out what’s going on, when the hearing is. I need to be there to tell what really happened.”

  Angela shook her head. “Why are you doing this, Keller?”

  He was getting angry. "I don’t know why I have to keep explaining this, especially to you. She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s getting screwed by her own department. And I can do something about it.”

  Angela shook her head. She was silent for a few minutes. A couple of times she opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it. She looked as if she was debating something with herself. Finally, she sighed. “Jack, this is why I won’t go out with you.”

  He was baffled. “What does this have to do with you not wanting to go out with me?”

  She turned and looked him in the eye. “For some reason, you think it’s your job to rescue the world. So now you’ve found yourself another damsel in distress.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous now. Jesus, your timing is worse than mine.”

  “That’s not what this is about!” she snapped.

  “Then what is it?” he demanded.

  Angela looked away for a long minute. She took a deep breath. Finally, she said in a quiet voice: “That look in your eyes you get when you talk about her. I’ve seen that look. It’s the same way you look at me. You treat me like I’m someone who needs big, strong Jackson Keller to pull her out of the fire.” She turned back to him. “Well, Jack, I have news for you. I may have been beaten up, fucked over, and set on fire, but I don’t need help. I can rescue myself. And so can she.”

  Keller threw up his hands. “I can’t figure you out, Angela. One minute, you’ve got your arms around me like you never want to let me go, the next you’re telling me what an idiot I am.”

  She looked at him soberly. “I never said I didn’t care about you, Keller. Like I said, you’re a good man. You’re kind and strong, and let’s face it,” she gave him that sad smile, “you’re easy on the eyes.” The smile vanished and she looked away. “There’ve been times when I’ve wanted to take you up on your offer. But we both know what it would mean. There’s no way either of us could just casually date.” The smile this time was almost bitter. “We are not casual people. It would be way too easy for me to fall for you, Keller. And I don’t know what being in love with you would do to me. I’m afraid I might end up feeling the same way you do. And that would destroy me, Jack. It would make me the same scared, dependent person I was with … with my husband.”

  Keller put his hand on her arm. “I’m not that guy, Angela.”

  There were tears in her eyes. “But I’m that woman, Jack. At least I know I can be. I have been. And I’ll spend the rest of my life alone before I’ll be her again.”

  He thought about that as she started the car. They didn’t speak for a long time. Finally she said, “I’ll make a few calls. In the morning.”

  “Thanks,” he said. She just nodded.

  There were two cops, a little guy with a mustache and a big one. Raymond closed his eyes as they entered, but he wasn’t fast enough. “Forget it, Chief,” the big cop said. “We know you’re awake.”

  Raymond opened his eyes. “I got nothing to say.”

  “You don’t want to find out what happened to your brother?” the big one said. Raymond didn’t answer.

  The short cop, the one with the bald head and the moustache, pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. He took a piece of paper from his file folder and laid it on Raymond’s chest. It was a color photograph of John Lee sprawled against the wall next to the door of the white house. His eyes were wide open in shock. His shirt across his chest was shredded and the flesh beneath looked like chopped meat. Raymond closed his eyes.

  “Someone shot your brother with a heavy gauge shotgun,” he heard the big cop say. “We didn’t find a gun on or near him, so we figure he was unarmed. That sound right, Chief?”

  “Quit calling me Chief,” Raymond said.

  “Stace,” the bald cop said, “Zip it, okay? Go sit down outside or something. You’ve done enough this evening.”

  There was a short pause. Even with his eyes closed, Raymond could feel the tension in the room. Finally, he heard a rustling of curtains as the big cop left. He felt something else being laid on his chest. He opened his eyes.

  The bald cop had laid another photograph in front of him. This was in black and white. The numbers along the bottom identified it as a police mug shot. The picture showed a man with shoulder-length curly blond hair brushed back from a high forehead. His eyes looked pale in the camera. His square jaw was clenched as if he were gritting his teeth.

  “This guy look familiar to you?” the bald cop asked.

  “I never seen him before,” Raymond said.

  “His name’s Jackson Keller. Works for H & H Bail Bonds out of Wilmington.” The bald cop picked up the picture. “He’s a bounty hunter. We think he was after a guy named DeWayne Puryear. We found DeWayne’s cousin Leonard dead just inside the house.” He stood up. “You get into some kind of argument with him? Maybe you had some sort of personal beef with one of the Puryear boys and Keller got in the way?” Raymond turned his head away from the side of the bed where the cop was sitting. He watched the green lights and numbers flicker on and off on the machines beside the bed.

  “Sorry about your father,” the cop said. “Must be tough losing a father and a brother the same week.”

  Raymond turned back to look at him. �
�You don’t care nothin’ about my daddy. Or my brother.”

  The cop obviously sensed an opening. He sat back down. Raymond cut him off before he could say anything else. “No one cares. I know damn sure you don’t.” He looked at the ceiling. “I got nothing more to say. Get my doctor.”

  The cop didn’t move. “We got two dead in that house, Raymond, and no guns in anyone’s hands but yours. It’s only a matter of time before we get a ballistics match between the bullets we dug out of Leonard Puryear and the gun we found next to you. So you’re not getting out of here. The guy that killed your brother goes free. And one of the guys who killed your father does, too.” Raymond must have looked shocked for a second; the cop smiled slightly. Raymond silently cursed himself for letting his composure slip.

  “Robeson County Sheriff’s been looking for the Puryear boys in connection with your father’s death,” he said. “You got no other connection we can see. But it’s the end of the line for you, Raymond. If anyone gets the guy that killed your father, it’ll be the cops.”

  Raymond continued to stare at the ceiling. “I got nothing to say,” he repeated. “Now get my doctor. I need somethin’ for pain.”

  “Get him yourself,” the cop said. He picked up his file folder and walked out. Raymond found the nurse call button fastened to a cord on the side of the bed. He held it in his hand for a moment, then set it back down. His gut throbbed like someone had fed him burning coals, but he needed his head clear.

  His life was over, he knew. When they matched up those bullets, they’d try to lock him up. He had always told himself that any real man would die rather than submit to that. He knew he was going to die soon, and violently. He had known all along he would probably end like that. It had been something he had come to accept about the life he had chosen. But there was some family business to take care of before he rested. He remembered the face of the man that the cop had showed him. Puryear and Keller, he thought. He had to kill them. Then he’d come back after the cop who had called him Chief. They would kill him then, most likely. But he would die on his feet like a man, having done what a man would do. He closed his eyes. There would be blood. Blood and fire, like the end of the world.

  A snatch of song came back to him, a hymn he had heard in church. It seemed like a thousand years ago, but he remembered then end down through the years. The song had been about the story of Noah. “No more water,” the song had ended, “but the fire next time.”

  “The fire next time,” Raymond whispered to himself.

  The counterman’s eyes widened when he saw the gun in DeWayne’s hand. DeWayne set down two six-packs of Budweiser and a carton of cigarettes.

  “Open up the register, buddy,” DeWayne said. “And turn the gas pumps on--” he looked at the plastic badge on the kid’s cheap polyester shirt, “--Todd.”

  The guy didn’t move, except to start trembling. He was a skinny guy, and young. He didn’t look to be more than sixteen or seventeen. His hair was cut short and there was a silver earring stuck in a fold of flesh above his left eyebrow.

  “Man,” DeWayne said. “Don’t that thing hurt?” Todd opened his mouth, but no words came out. He shut it. “Ya don’t talk much,” DeWayne observed. “I like that. Now do what I say an’ give me the damn money.”

  The kid never took his eyes off the gun. He fumbled a few times getting the register open. He pulled a few bills off the top. DeWayne impatiently reached over the counter and grabbed for the bills. “The gas pumps now,” he said. “Hurry up.” The kid walked over to the black plastic controls for the pumps and stood there for a minute. His hands gripped the side of the console and he stared down at it as if trying to figure it out. DeWayne could see the kid’s hands still shaking. “C’mon, Goddamn it,” he muttered. “I ain’t got all fuckin’ night.” The kid’s shaking got worse. DeWayne saw a tear fall onto the control box. “P-p-please, Mister--” the kid sobbed. “D-don’t shoot me.”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes,” DeWayne said. Why the hell couldn’t anyone do what they were told? He marched around the counter and shoved the kid out of the way. The kid collapsed in a corner and pulled his knees up to his chest. It took a few moments for DeWayne to figure out how to turn the pumps on. He turned back to tell Leonard to go pump the gas while he kept the gun on the kid. That was when it hit him. Leonard wasn’t there. Leonard would never be there, never again. DeWayne had pushed the fact out of his mind while he concentrated on his escape, but now it burst on him like a flood. The control panel in front of him went all blurry. It was like he was going blind. It was then DeWayne realized his eyes were full of tears. He smashed the pistol butt down on the console, again and again. He whirled around, screaming like an animal in the narrow confines of the area behind the counter. He swept a rack of cheap cassette tapes onto the floor, followed by an upright rack containing the latest edition of the Weekly World News and another rack of snack crackers. The kid screamed at DeWayne’s sudden explosion of rage and covered his head with his hands. DeWayne whirled on him with the gun. The kid looked up in sudden panic.

  “I ran out on him,” DeWayne rasped. “That sumbitch killed him, and I ran.”

  “It’s all right,” the kid croaked. He was obviously baffled, but desperate. “It’ll be okay…”

  “Like hell it is!” DeWayne screamed. He slammed the gun down on the counter. “You don’t know shit!” DeWayne shouted down into the kid’s face. “He never ran out on me! Never!”

  “Please, mister,” the kid sobbed. “Please…”

  When they were kids, DeWayne had been a strange child, prone to tantrums that no one could explain or control. His aunt and uncle blamed it on his mother having run off, leaving six-month-old DeWayne in their care. As he got older, the tantrums matured into fits of berserk rage in which DeWayne would throw fists, bottles, anything handy. Once he had tried to slash another kid’s throat with a box-cutter over a half-pint of milk spilled in the school cafeteria. He was twelve at the time. DeWayne had bounced in and out of juvenile court more times than he could remember and suspended so many times that the entire school seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when he dropped out. The only one who could calm him down was Leonard, who would wrap DeWayne up in his big arms and silently hold him until the storm passed. Leonard never asked what was wrong, never made any comment at all when the incident was over. He just set DeWayne down, gave him an extra squeeze, and walked away. DeWayne had always depended on that, depended on Leonard’s quiet, unquestioning solidity to anchor him and keep him from flying off completely. Now, that was gone. DeWayne felt that familiar sick giddiness, like he’d been on a roller coaster too long. He staggered slightly as he raised the gun.

  “Please!” the kid shrieked. A dark stain appeared at the crotch of his jeans as he wet himself. When DeWayne saw the slowly spreading stain and the puddle that was collecting under the kid’s ass, he began to laugh. It began as a slow bubbling chuckle with an edge of hysteria. The laugh picked up speed and depth as the kid’s face showed the dawning realization of what he had done, and quickly exploded into a full out belly laugh that left DeWayne clutching his stomach with one hand as he held the gun on the kid with the other. He slid slowly to the floor on the other side of the area behind the counter, laughing, his gun hand never wavering. The kid looked uncertain for a minute, then angry, then he started to laugh along, forcing it out as if to placate the man with the pistol. The falsity of the sound sobered DeWayne immediately. “Okay,” he said, “you can cut it out.” The kid stopped, his face again frozen in a mask of fear. DeWayne reached up and pulled the carton of cigarettes down off the counter. He ripped it open with one hand and took out a pack. He ripped the cellophane off the pack with his teeth and opened the pack, tapping a cigarette out and withdrawing it with his teeth. He offered the clerk one, but the kid shook his head.

  “Good for you, bubba,” DeWayne said. “These things’ll sure as hell shorten your life.” He looked over at the kid. “I kilt two men tonight,” he said. “Maybe three,” he added
, thinking of how the blonde dude had looked after DeWayne had kicked him in the head. “One of ‘em was a cop. So I reckon it don’t much matter if I kill you. I’m gonna die if they catch me. They either gonna shoot me down like a dog in the street or they’re gonna strap me down a few years from now and shoot a load of poison into me. What’s one more dead guy to me, now? And you can tell the cops I been here. And what I looked like, and what I was drivin’. Don’t think I want to give up that ride just yet.”

  “I won’t say anything,” the kid whispered. “I promise.”

  DeWayne snorted in derision. “Right,” he said. “Boss comes back, all the money’s gone from the register, you got a tank o’gas not paid fer, and two sixes of beer missin’, plus a carton of smokes. An’ you’re not gonna say anything about where they’ve gone? Don’t bullshit me, Todd.”

  “Please,” the kid begged. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “It’s not like I want to, kid,” DeWayne said with real regret in his voice. “I ain’t got to where I enjoy it. Not yet, an’ I suppose that’s a blessin’. But it’s like I said. I can’t take no chances. I coulda shot a couple other people tonight. I didn’t do it. Now…I’m thinkin’ maybe I oughta done it.” The kid began to sob uncontrollably then. DeWayne’s earlier frenzy had worn off. All he felt now was tired, bone-weary. The kid’s wailing was beginning to get on his nerves. Besides, he had to get moving. He raised the gun. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. As he took aim, an idea came to him.

  “Kid,” he said. Todd sobbed harder. “Kid! Damn it, look up!” Finally, Todd raised his tear-streaked face. He looked like a three-year-old.

  “You got a girlfriend, bubba?” DeWayne asked. After a moment, the kid nodded. “You got a picture of her?” Todd looked at him dumfounded for a moment, then pulled out his wallet. “Slide that over to me,” DeWayne said. Todd did. DeWayne picked it up and flipped it open. A picture of a young blonde girl stared up at him. She was seated in a porch swing, looking at the camera with a bright smile. DeWayne stared at the picture for a long moment and sighed. There was a whole world in that picture that DeWayne would never see. “She’s a cutie-pie there, Todd,” he said. “What’s her name?”