The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  The person on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Stacy.”

  She was surprised at how steady her voice was. “This is Marie Jones. You left a message for me?”

  “Jones,” Stacy growled, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I’ve been out,” she said.

  “With Jackson Keller?” Stacy asked.

  Until that moment, she had been prepared to tell Stacy that she wouldn’t meet him without a lawyer present. But the use of Keller’s name threw her off her guard. “What about him?” she said.

  “Well, for one thing,” he shot back, “Jack Keller’s got a murder warrant out for him. And for another, you were seen leaving Eddie Wesson’s funeral with him.”

  Marie’s breath caught in her throat. The knuckles on the hand wrapped around the cell phone went bone-white. “What?” she said, the word coming out in a strangled croak. Then she rallied herself. “Maybe I should talk to a lawyer first,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Stacy said, “maybe you should. You can call one from jail when we pick you up. ‘Bye, Jones.”

  “Wait!” Marie hated the pleading note in her voice. There was silence on the other end. Then, “I’m here.”

  “I--I have to get my son from day care.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll call Social Services to come get your kid.”

  “Please,” Marie’s voice was shaking. “I can talk. Just not right now. Tomorrow. First thing. I promise.”

  Another long pause. “Okay,” Stacy said finally. “Tomorrow. 9:00 AM. Sharp. Your house. And Jones?”

  “Yes?”

  “No lawyers. I even see a Gucci loafer, I’m taking you in right then and there, and your kid goes into foster care.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. There was a click as Stacy hung up. Marie shut off the cell phone. Then she put her head on the steering wheel and wept.

  Raymond’s house was a one story brick ranch, large and roomy, but not ostentatious. In many ways, he was a cautious man, and he knew the dangers in calling too much attention to himself. The house wasn’t even in his name, and very few people even knew where he stayed. It stood in the middle of a hundred-acre tract of farmland, screened from the main road by a stand of trees. The rich earth around the house hadn’t seen a crop in years; Raymond paid a local kid to keep it mowed flat so he could see anything coming. He stood behind the huge picture window in his living room and clearly marked the progress of the large black Chevy Suburban coming up the quarter mile of driveway. Raymond fumbled in his pocket for the plastic bottle of pain pills. He took one out and washed it down with a swallow from the glass of iced tea on the coffee table.

  “You might wanna go easy on them things,” Billy Ray said. He was sprawled in an oversized recliner across the room. “They’s supposed to be addictive.”

  Raymond didn’t answer. He ran his fingers across his side, feeling the expanse of bandages wrapped around his torso beneath his shirt. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound still felt like someone was holding a red-hot poker into his flesh. He was afraid it might be getting infected. Soon, though, it wouldn’t matter.

  The Chevy pulled up in the gravel parking lot before the front door. Raymond went to the door and opened it. He was shocked to see that the person getting out on the passenger side was Paco Suarez. Geronimo got out of the driver’s side. Two goons he didn’t know exited the rear passenger doors. Raymond relaxed slightly with the knowledge that if Suarez himself was here, it was unlikely that they had come to kill him. Suarez was also careful. He always arranged to be miles away from any bloodshed.

  Raymond and Suarez embraced as Suarez reached the front door. The Latin custom had always made Raymond slightly uncomfortable, but there was no actual warmth in the gesture. It was a formality, nothing more. Suarez stepped back and looked at Raymond. He was a small man, with a narrow, bony face and the merciless eyes of a bird of prey.

  “You don’t look well, my friend,” Suarez said. “You look like you need a doctor.” His accent was barely noticeable. Suarez had received most of his education in the U.S., first in the schools and universities and then courtesy of the U.S. Army in the days when they weren’t picky about who received advanced “anti-insurgency” training.

  “I’m fine,” Raymond said. “Healing, anyway.” He stepped back and motioned Suarez through the door. Suarez stepped back and let Geronimo and the other two goons precede him. Raymond followed.

  Suarez sat on the couch in the living room, Geronimo on his left. The two other men stood flanking the door. Billy Ray got up and gave Raymond the recliner.

  “I have your assurance that this place is safe?” Suarez said. “You have attracted a great deal of attention to yourself.”

  “It’s safe,” Raymond said. “Ain’t many people that know about it.”

  Suarez nodded his approval of this. “And the local police, I know, are still firmly in your hip pocket.” He leaned forward. “Or are they? You are now a hunted man. Can you still do business?”

  Raymond nodded. “My network’s still together. You deliver a shipment to the usual place, and we’ll move it. Guaranteed.”

  Suarez looked doubtful. “What of your other, ah, legal problems?”

  Raymond leaned forward. “There was only a couple witnesses to what happened at that house. The main one I’m worried about is DeWayne Puryear. He’s one of the men who shot my daddy.”

  Suarez bowed his head and raised a hand in sympathy. “A senseless tragedy. Please accept my condolences,” he said. His face hardened. “Had you let us know about this,” he said, “We could have taken steps ourselves.”

  “He was my daddy,” Raymond said. “The job was mine to do.”

  Geronimo spoke up for the first time. “But now you ask for our help.”

  Raymond turned to him. Geronimo was taller than Suarez, and broader, with a fleshy frame and a round baby face. People who looked at him tended to think him soft or foolish. He was neither. Next to Suarez, Geronimo was the most dangerous man Raymond had ever met.

  “Yeah,” Raymond said. “Like you said, things have got out of hand. I need to get out of the country for a while.”

  “That is putting it mildly,” Suarez said. “And what will become of your business?”

  “It’s yours,” Raymond said.

  Suarez’ normally impassive face registered shock for the first time. “All of it?”

  “All of it,” Raymond said. “The club, the labs, the warehouses, even the trucks. All yours.” He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “It’s all in the lists right here. Nothin’s in my name, but my lawyer can draw up papers to have it put in any name you want.”

  Suarez leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Just for a way out of the country.”

  “No,” Raymond said. “That’s not all.”

  “Ah,” Suarez said. “And what else?”

  “I want Puryear. I want the other guy that was there, the one who shot my brother. He’s a bondsman out of Wilmington, name of Keller. And there’s one other.”

  Suarez sighed. “This will be the last condition, I hope?”

  “Yeah,” Raymond said. “There was a Latino guy that was helping us. Said his name was Oscar Sanchez.”

  “Probably not his real name,” Geronimo offered.

  “Probably. But he ran out on me. He took my truck.”

  Suarez looked amused. “You want to kill a man over a truck?”

  “No,” Raymond said. “But I want him taught a lesson.”

  Suarez nodded. “Is that all?”

  “That’s it.”

  Suarez thought for a moment. Then he stood up. “Allow me a few minutes to confer with my associates.” Geronimo stood as well. The two men headed to the door.

  Raymond stood up and went to let them out. He almost stumbled from the light-headedness of the pain pills, but caught himself.

  “We’ll let ourselves out,” Suarez said.

  Outside of the house, the Colombians gather
ed on the far side of the truck. “Guillermo,” Suarez said to the man Raymond called Geronimo, “Your thoughts.”

  “The man is a fool,” Guillermo said in Spanish. “He’s throwing everything away for the sake of killing some two-bit punk.”

  “He’s dying,” Suarez said. “Or so he has convinced himself. The last thing he wants before he goes into the ground is his revenge. And when he goes, what will become of his network? He has the facilities, the people, police contacts...and he is willing to turn them all over for the sake of his vengeance. So,” he said, “we give it to him. Guillermo, take care of this. Use some of your trusted men, good shooters. And do it quickly.”

  “What about this way out of the country he says he wants?”

  Suarez shrugged. “He may survive this,” he said. “When everything is done and all the assets have been turned over, get him on one of our planes. Tell him we’re taking him someplace safe. When you get over the water...” Suarez smiled and pantomimed throwing something, his arms held low so as not to be seen from behind the truck.

  Guillermo responded with an ugly grin. “Before I do, I’ll make him say my name right.”

  Suarez clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go in and tell him we have a deal.”

  Angela looked up from behind the counter as the bells on the front door jingled. Angela immediately pegged the two men who walked in as cops. The first one was short and balding. He was wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses that hid his eyes. The one who followed was tall, broad-shouldered, red-faced. His shades were mirrored. The outside heat had them sweating slightly in their cheap sport coats. .

  The balding man took off his shades. He tucked them in an inside jacket pocket. His hand came out of the pocket with a slim brown wallet. “Ms. Hager?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he flipped the wallet open, showing a flash of gold badge that swiftly disappeared as he tucked the wallet back in his pocket. “I’m Detective Barnes, Fayetteville P.D. This is my partner, Detective Stacy.” Stacy crossed his arms across his chest. He didn’t show a badge or take of his sunglasses.

  “I’m Angela Hager,” she said, standing up. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re attempting to locate a Jackson Keller,” Barnes said. “I understand that he’s employed here.”

  “Mr. Keller is an employee of mine,” Angela said guardedly. “May I ask what...”

  “What does Mr. Keller do here, Mrs. Hager?” Barnes interrupted.

  “He does fugitive recovery,” Angela said.

  Stacy spoke for the first time. “A bounty hunter,” he said.

  Angela stiffened. “I’d like to see your credentials, Detective Stacy,” she said. The big man bristled, but at a look from Barnes he reached into his jacket pocket and produced his badge. He flicked the case open, then closed, managing to make the gesture look insulting. Angela sat back, trying to look calm, but her mind was racing. “What is it you want to see Mr. Keller for?” she asked.

  “First things first, ” Barnes said. “Do you know where he is?”

  “It’s his day off,” Angela said.

  “That wasn’t what we asked, lady,” Stacy said.

  “He’s not at his apartment,” Barnes said.

  Angela shuffled some papers behind the counter. “You seem to know an awful lot about him already,” she said.

  Barnes and Stacy ignored the observation. “Does he have a cell phone number?” Barnes said.

  “First, I think you need to tell me what this is about,” Angela said.

  “You know damn well what this is about, lady,” Stacy grated. “A cop, a friend of mine, is dead. We got a house looks like a fucking war zone and we think your boy Keller is responsible.” He grinned nastily. “By the way, you might want to keep a closer eye on him. He’s screwing someone else.”

  Angela ignored him. She turned to Barnes. “I don’t have any idea where he is.” Barnes started to say something, but Stacy cut him off. “Bullshit,” he said. “You need to think real hard about just who you’re fucking with here, lady. We can make your life pretty goddamn hard if you don’t play ball with us.”

  Angela looked at Barnes. He shrugged. “He’s got a point,” he said mildly. “Interfering in a police investigation is a serious matter. You could lose your bondsman’s license.”

  Angela looked at him for a long moment. Then she began rolling up her sleeve. “Six years ago,” she said, “I tried to leave my husband. He responded by breaking both my legs with a baseball bat and setting me on fire.” She started on the other sleeve. “I was in a burn ward for eight months. I was wrapped in bandages from my neck to just above my knees. The blood and fluid from the burns caused the bandages to stick to me. Every time they changed the bandages, it was like being skinned alive. They changed the bandages twice a day. Every time they did it, I screamed until my voice was gone.” She held up her arms. Stacy’s eyes widened at the web-work of puckered scars on the backs of her hands and forearms. She looked back and forth between the two men’s faces. “When I got out, it took me a year to learn to walk again.”

  Barnes remained expressionless. “Ms. Hager...” he said.

  Angela looked directly at Stacy. Her voice was a whisper. “You think there’s anything....anything....you two can do to scare me, Detective Stacy?” There was a long silence. Angela continued to stare into Stacy’s eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

  “Get out,” Angela said. “You want to talk to either me or Mr. Keller again, you do it through my lawyer, Scott McCaskill in Fayetteville.”

  Barnes took a card out of his coat pocket. “If Mr. Keller gets in touch with you,” he said, “Tell him to call me at this number.” He held out the card. Angela didn’t take it. Finally, Barnes laid the card gently on the counter. He turned and walked out behind Stacy.

  DeWayne sat in the passenger seat, squinting against the late morning sun. “Are you sure this is the place?” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Debbie said. “They tried to lock me up in this loony bin one time. I told them to fuck off. I ain’t got no fuckin’ drug problem.”

  They were parked at the head of a long paved driveway that led through the open gate of a massive iron fence. The drive crossed a broad lawn as flat and green as a golf fairway. At its end, the drive flared out to a small parking lot, in front of a huge Victorian house with a broad front porch. The lawn was empty. The house was flanked by lush gardens and shrubbery that seemed to cradle it in a green embrace. A small wooden sign by the gate identified the place as Rescue House.

  “It looks like a mansion,” DeWayne said.

  “It was a dump. Some old guy willed it to some foundation. Some fancy nigger doctor runs the place. Thinks he can tell everybody what to do.” Debbie took a drag on her cigarette. “No one tells me what to do.”

  DeWayne made no reply. Debbie had been wild-eyed and giddy last night, practically dragging him into the bedroom. This morning, however, she was depressed and vicious. Nothing DeWayne could say seemed to placate her, so he said as little as possible, even when she had insisted on coming with him. He still thought her presence was a bad idea, but he was too tired and burned out from all the rocks they had smoked the night before to argue about it. He considered just shooting her, but he had thought that so many times that it had become one of those ideas you thought about but never did, like quitting a lousy job.

  Debbie started the car and turned down the driveway. “They won’t let you see her,” she said with a sort of grim satisfaction. “They try to keep you away from your family and friends. It’s easier for ‘em to brainwash you that way.”

  “I ain’t goin’ in the front door,” DeWayne said. “I’m gonna sneak around them gardens and stuff in the side yard and see if I can spot her. Maybe I can get her to come to a window.” Debbie shrugged and pulled the car into one of the parking spaces. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” she said. DeWayne got out. He tucked a pistol into the waistband of his jeans and strolled towards the gardens to the right side of the ho
use, trying to look nonchalant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Keller checked his watch as he pulled into the driveway. He grimaced. He was running late. It was going to be hard enough to explain to the Major why he wasn’t going to be coming back for a while. He pulled into a parking space next to a blue Trans Am. As he got out, he thought he could see the outline of a blonde girl slumped in the seat of the car. The windows were tinted dark enough so that it was hard to make out her features, but she appeared to be asleep. Visitor or client? he wondered idly as he walked up the front steps. He put it out of his mind as he opened the door.

  The garden to the right of the house was a grassy area shaped like a long “U”, with the open end of the “u” against the side of the house. An iron gate between the hedge and the house offered access. The garden was surrounded by hedges higher than a man’s head which provided a feeling of isolation from the world. The grass was longer here, and there was a round pool in the middle of the area near the curve of the “U”. A greenish statue of a robed woman rose from the center of the pool. Red and yellow flowers surrounded the pool and further rows of flowers nestled under the hedges. Wrought-iron chairs and benches were spaced at regular intervals around the garden. DeWayne paused for a moment and looked around. He longed to sit down in one of the chairs and rest, just for a moment. Every thing had been so fucked up since they shot that old man. Ever since then, fear had been what defined his life. He was tired of running. But he knew to stop running would be his death.

  DeWayne looked around at the flowers. He wished his cousin was there. Leonard’s favorite job had been working in a greenhouse. He had liked growing things. DeWayne had never cared for it; it was too much like farm work. He hated farm work with a passion. He sighed and turned away. He looked at the windows on the side of the house, wondering which one Crystal might be behind. The windows were set high off the ground, higher than DeWayne could see. He grabbed the nearest of the wrought iron chairs and dragged it beneath the window. Then he clambered up to peek through.