The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  He focused on the TV behind her. It was another one of the things about Debbie that DeWayne found disquieting. She always had to have something playing:, radio, CD player, TV. It was as if she was afraid of silence. Even when they were doing it, she had to have the TV on. He was sure she wasn’t watching it as they did it, though. Pretty sure.

  Debbie reached the end of her lungs’ endurance and blew a long stream of smoke out her nostrils. She lowered her head and looked at DeWayne. Her eyes were bright and glassy. “Meeee-ow,” she leered at him. She started crawling up the bed towards him, her small breasts swinging beneath her.

  “Aww, c’mon, honey,” DeWayne said, trying not to make it sound like a whine. ”I’m spent.”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “You ought to try you one of these rocks,” she said. “It’d put lead in your pencil.” She began rubbing her cheek against his thigh, just above the knee. DeWayne closed his eyes. She was starting to get to him again. Suddenly, the TV caught his attention.

  “Hey,” he said, “turn that up.”

  “Huh?” she replied, but he was crawling past her. She squealed in protest as he almost knocked her off the bed. The room was so small that DeWayne could lean off the end of the bed and reach the volume control.

  The 11:00 o’clock news was on. Over the shoulder of the pretty young anchorwoman, DeWayne could see a little box. In the box was the face of the guy who had stuffed him in the trunk.“...in connection with a shootout in Fayetteville that left two men dead, another critically wounded, and which may have been connected with the later shooting of a Fayetteville police officer.” The newscaster’s face dissolved to a videotape of the Crown Vic being pulled out of the ditch by a wrecker. Everything in the picture was lit up in the fluorescent green glow of a night-vision camera. “Police now say they have located a vehicle belonging to Jackson Keller, a bail bondsman operating out of Wilmington. Clothing found in the vehicle bore traces of blood that matched up to one of the victims, one Leonard Puryear.” The car vanished off the screen and was replaced by an old photograph of Leonard. Quick tears stung DeWayne’s eyes as he looked into his cousin’s face.

  “Hey,” Debbie said, leaning into him from behind. “Ain’t that your name?”

  “Shut up,” DeWayne said.

  The newscaster went on. “Also killed in the gun battle was John Lee Oxendine of Robeson County.” Leonard’s face slid to one side of the screen. The other side was filled with a face that DeWayne didn’t know. “ Authorities state that Oxendine was unarmed at the time and was most likely an innocent bystander.”

  “Bullshit,” DeWayne muttered.

  Both faces vanished to be replaced by the pretty newscaster, her face a study in vapid concern. Keller’s face was back in the box looking over her shoulder. "Police also say Keller is wanted for questioning in the deaths of Puryear’s elderly parents a few days ago.”

  DeWayne’s mouth dropped open. He felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What the...” he whispered.

  “Keller had reportedly been searching for another member of Puryear’s family in connection with a bail violation. When asked if Keller was a suspect in the deaths, police had no comment, other than to say that anyone sighting Keller should immediately notify the Fayetteville Police Department.” The camera pulled back to reveal the second anchor, a distinguished looking man with grey hair. He was shaking his head with a look of grim resolution on his craggy face.

  “These so-called ‘bounty hunters’,” he said in a deep measured tone. “They’re loose cannons. Something needs to be done.”

  The female anchor matched his serious expression and nodded in unison with him. “You’re certainly right, Tom.”

  The camera panned to the man. The serious expression melted away to be replaced by a smile that must have cost a fortune. “Coming up, will this warm weather give way to some much-needed rain? Stay tuned, as the news continues.”

  “That son of a bitch!” DeWayne exploded. He leaped up from the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Debbie said frantically.

  DeWayne paced back and forth in the narrow confines of the bedroom like a tiger in a too-small cage. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Hey. Lenny. Or whatever,” Debbie said pleadingly. “You’re scaring me. What happened? Please, just tell me what happened.”

  DeWayne stopped and looked at her. His eyes were wild. “That son of a bitch,” he repeated. “That guy Keller. They just said he killed my folks. The folks who raised me. ”

  She looked puzzled. “Did they say that? I didn’t hear..”

  “Oh, they didn’t come right out and say it,” DeWayne said. “They won’t till they catch him and charge him. But he did it. He did it to try to get to me.”

  She pondered that for a moment. “Wow,” she said finally. “That sucks. What an asshole. ”She reached for the pipe again. “You sure you don’t want a hit?” she said. “It might make you feel better.”

  He briefly considered backhanding her to shut her stupid mouth. But she seemed to be looking at him with real concern as she held the improvised pipe out. And he could surely use something right now to make all this hurt go away.

  “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the pipe. “Okay.”

  In the daylight, Crystal Puryear’s house seemed sad and worn. The sunlight revealed the dirt-caked windows, the warping trim, and the peeling paint that had never been applied all that well to start with. It was nearly noon, but the shades were still drawn. Only the Corvette in the driveway gave any sign that anyone even lived there. There was still a ragged shred of yellow crime-scene tape knotted around one of the posts of the porch.

  They had come in Marie’s car, but it was Keller who led the way up the walk. He slowed as he approached the doorway, tensing as he recalled the gun battle in the yard. He glanced over at the ground by the door where John Lee Oxendine had lain with his chest blown apart by Keller’s shotgun. He thought he could see a reddish tinge of bloodstain on the paint, but it might have been his imagination. He stopped for a moment, causing Marie to almost bump into the back of him.

  “Jack?” she said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He took a deep breath and stepped to the door. The plastic button of the doorbell was gone, leaving only a pair of rusty wires sticking out of the jamb. Keller knocked. There was no answer, no movement within the house. He knocked again and waited. There was no response. Keller tried the knob.

  “Hey,” Marie said. “We don’t have a warrant.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a cop.” He turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

  “Who the hell leaves a door unlocked in this neighborhood?” Marie said.

  “Someone who doesn’t care what happens to them,” Keller said grimly. He drew his gun and entered.

  The hallway was dim, but he could see a flicker of light from the living room at the end. There was a tinny bubbling of canned laughter and a woman’s voice, high-pitched and strident. The TV was on. Keller advanced down the hallway, the pistol held in a two-handed grip in front of him. He reached the end of the hallway and the gun fell to his side.

  Crystal Puryear lay on the couch, dressed in a flimsy silk bathrobe that had fallen open to reveal her nude body. Her limbs were splayed in a parody of invitation made grotesque by her utter limpness. Her head lolled against the back of the couch, her mouth open. A thin line of drool ran down her chin.

  Keller holstered the gun and strode over to her. He took in the objects on the coffee table: a silver cellular phone. A black pager. An empty plastic envelope. A burned out candle. A soot-covered spoon. He looked around for the syringe. Finally he located it. It was still lodged in her arm.

  “Holy shit,” Marie said. She sprang to the couch and placed her right index and middle fingers against Crystal’s throat. “I’ve got a pulse, but it’s weak,” she said briskly. “Call 911.”

  Keller moved towards the phone, then stopped. 911 would bring paramedics, b
ut it would most likely also bring police. He turned back to Marie. She had belted Crystal’s robe shut and was gently removing the syringe from the girl’s arm. A bright red bead of blood formed, turned to a rivulet that inched its way down the pale flesh.

  “We don’t have time to wait for them,” he said. “We’ll take her in your car.” He scooped the pager and cell phone off the table. Each had a plastic clip for fastening to a belt.

  “Damn it, Keller,” Marie said, “She needs a doctor.”

  Keller clipped the devices onto his belt and bent down to lift the girl. Her body was a sodden dead weight in his arms. He grunted as he lifted her.

  “She needs a doctor now,” he said, his voice taut with the strain. “By the time the ambulance makes it here, it might be too late.” He set off down the hall.

  “This is crazy,” Marie protested, but she followed him. He burst into the sunlight. Marie jogged ahead, pulling her keys from the pocket of her jeans. She threw the back door of her Honda open. Keller tried to lay the girl gently into the back, but lost his grip and she tumbled onto the back seat. A grunt escaped her as she landed and her robe fell open again.

  “You know CPR, right?” he asked Marie.

  “Yeah, but--”

  “Hop in the back with her, then,” he said. “In case she goes into cardiac arrest. I’ll drive.”

  “You are out of your mind,” she said as she got in the back. “I can’t give CPR in the back seat of a WHOA!” Keller had started the car and begun pulling away. Marie barely had time to pull the door shut.

  They drove in silence, broken only by the screech of tires and the angry blare of horns as Keller ignored stop lights and yield signs. He stole a glance at Marie in the rear-view mirror. She had her eyes on the girl whose shallow breathing seemed about to cease at any moment. Keller heard a slight chirring noise and felt a vibration against his right hip. He reached down and plucked the pager off his belt. He looked at the number displayed on the pager’s LED screen. He memorized the number and put the pager down on the seat.

  “What was that?” Marie said.

  “Her pager. Someone’s trying to reach her. Maybe someone who can give us a lead.”

  “It’s probably her pimp,” Marie said. “Or her dealer. What would they know about her cousin?”

  “I don’t know,” Keller said, “but I’m out of other ideas.”

  They had reached the emergency entrance of the hospital. Keller slammed to a stop at the front door and leaped out. Marie opened the back door and Keller reached in for the girl. Marie stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Don’t try to move her again,” she said. “They’ve got gurneys. And doctors.” Keller stepped back as Marie stood up and ran to the entrance. The heavy automatic sliding door was barely open before she bolted inside. She was back in moments with a white-coated man and a pair of nurses wheeling a gurney between them. They elbowed Keller out of the way and descended on the back seat of the Honda. They briskly loaded her onto the gurney and sped back through the front door. Marie followed, spitting out the statistics of Crystal’s condition in abrupt, precise sentences. It was left to Keller to close the car doors and move the vehicle away from the front entrance. He found the ER visitor’s parking lot and parked the car. He was headed back towards the entrance when he saw Marie walking out. He stopped to wait for her. She was shaking her head and putting her sunglasses on as she reached him.

  “Get in the car, Jack,” she said. “And I’ll drive, if you don’t mind. It is my car.” He handed her the keys. They walked back to the car and got in.

  “Keller,” she said as she started the car. “That was a really stupid stunt.” He said nothing. She put her hand across the back of the seat and looked back as she backed out. “I mean, I know you’re not real crazy about cops right now.” She put the car in gear and drove off. “And let’s face it, they’re not all that fond of you, either. But that girl could have died while you were trying to do it all yourself.”

  “I figured you could handle it,” he said.

  She made a face. “Thanks,” she said. “But next time, let’s get together on the decision. Or better yet, leave this kind of thing to the pros, all right?”

  Keller shrugged and said nothing. Marie sighed. “I’d like to find that girl who sang about ‘where have all the cowboys gone’ and slap her in her silly face,” she muttered. That made Keller laugh. “Okay,” he said. “You win.”

  The cell phone chirred again on the seat between them. Keller looked at Marie. “Maybe you should get that,” he said.

  Marie looked at him in amazement. “Why me?”

  “Because a man’s voice might cause them to hang up.” He handed her the phone. She shook her head, but flipped it open and put it to her ear. “Hello?” There was a sudden burst of words from whoever was on the other end. Keller couldn’t make out the words or the voice, but he could sense the anger and the threat in the voice even from across the car.

  “Whoa, Whoa,” Marie said. “Amber’s not here. She’s, ah, sick.”

  Another blast of sound from the phone. Marie’s face reddened. “Listen, you,” she snarled, “this is--” Keller reached out and plucked the phone from her hand. He put it to his ear.

  The voice was so deep and raspy that Keller at first didn’t realize it was a woman. “...tell that little cunt if she doesn’t get her lazy ass back to work, I’ll fuck her face up so bad her own Mama won’t want to kiss her. You got that, bitch?”

  “I got it,” Keller said. “But I doubt she’ll be much good for work for a few days.”

  Silence. Then: “Who the hell are you?”

  “A friend of the family,” Keller replied. “Crys--I mean Amber’s in the hospital. She’s at Fayetteville General if you want to...” there was a click and the line went dead. Keller put the phone down.

  “You told her where to find the girl,” Marie said. She didn’t sound happy.

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “Drop me off at my car. I’ll double back to the hospital and see who shows up.”

  “I don’t think I like you using that girl as bait,” Marie said.

  “It’s possible that DeWayne might hear about it, Marie. The guy who killed your partner. He might show up there. Then he’s all ours.”

  “All yours, you mean.”

  “Hell, you can have the collar,” Keller said. “It might get you back in good with the department.”

  She shook her head. “I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil.”

  “Welcome to my world, Marie.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They had moved him out of intensive care into a private room. Raymond had overheard an argument over that. Detective Barnes clearly didn’t want to commit the city to paying for a private room. He faced off outside Raymond’s ICU cubicle with some guy from the hospital who refused to put another patient in with a “dangerous criminal”. From this, Raymond surmised that they had matched up the slugs from Leonard Puryear with the ones from the gun found with Raymond. In the end, fear of citizen lawsuits had prevailed and Raymond was left pretty much to himself. He suspected that the doctors were keeping him in the hospital longer than they normally would because they knew he was headed straight to jail to await trial once they turned him loose.

  The city may have been forced to spring for a private room, but they weren’t going to give him a TV. Raymond spent much of his time staring out the window at a narrow blue strip of sky between two other buildings. The only breaks in the monotony of his days were when they got him up and made him walk up and down the halls for exercise. Raymond was stashing his pain medication rather than taking it. It hurt his gut like fire to walk up and down the halls, but he bore up.

  He was always escorted on these walks by a uniformed cop who looked bored when he wasn’t flirting with the nurses. The pair of them sometimes drew odd looks from visitors, but the rest of the staff by now hardly gave them a second glance.

  It was on one of these morning constitutionals that he noticed a familiar figur
e sitting in one of the visitor’s lounges. The lounges were glass-windowed enclosures to which family members and friends of patients were banished whenever it came time for the nurses to perform some uncomfortable and humiliating ritual on the patient. This morning, the lounge was empty except for a big man in a flannel checked shirt sitting in one of the chairs. The man held a magazine up before him, but the ice-blue eyes that could be seen between the top of the magazine and the baseball cap pulled down low on the man’s forehead were fixed on the hall. As Raymond passed by, the magazine lowered to reveal Billy Ray’s face. Raymond gave no sign other than a slight nod. The nod was returned, barely. The cop, who was busy talking about movies with a chubby blonde nurse, never noticed. Raymond turned around and started the slow trek back to his room. The cop followed, looking disgruntled at his interrupted conversation. When Raymond reached the door of his room, he stopped and leaned on the doorjamb as if to catch his breath. He saw Billy Ray pass. His eyes flicked to the number beside the door, then swung back to look straight ahead down the hall. He walked around the corner, out of Raymond’s sight.

  Raymond shuffled slowly back to the bed and got in slowly, grunting with the pain as the motion flexed his ripped and torn muscles. The cop stood by, waiting with the cuffs to secure him back to the bed.