Devils and Dust

by J. D. Rhoades

  The people in the truck put their hands up, shielding their faces from the light. Two Anglo men were standing on either side of the entrance. They were holding weapons pointed at the people inside. A young girl near the entrance screamed. One of the men swiveled his weapon toward the sound. He had a shaved head and a scraggly beard. Ruben could see the tattoos on his arms beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. There were more tattoos on his neck. The tattooed man looked for a long moment at the girl who had cried out. She was barely into her teens, and pretty, her long black hair tied in a ponytail. She tried to back away, pushing up against the side of the truck in panic. The tattooed man stuck out his tongue and waggled it obscenely at her. The girl whimpered in fear, causing the tattooed man to laugh.

  “Save it,” the other man said in English. Ruben knew the language from school. Papa had written that he should study English for when he came to America.

  The other armed man seemed younger. He had a full head of blond hair slicked back from his forehead and the coldest blue eyes Ruben had ever seen. Even in the stifling heat of the truck, Ruben shivered.

  “The piss buckets,” the blond man said. “Pass ‘em out.” No one moved.

  “Goddamn it,” the blond man said, “you people are going to have to learn English sometime. This is your first lesson.” He gestured at one of the overflowing buckets with his weapon and looked at the old man sitting next to it. “You,” he snapped, “bring it out.” The old man didn’t move. The blond man racked the slide on the shotgun. The old man scrambled to his feet so quickly that the tattooed guard giggled. He picked up the bucket. Awkwardly, he tried to get down off the tailgate with the bucket clutched in his hands. It sloshed a little, and some of the brownish-yellow sludge splashed on the ground. The blond man leaped back, but a few drops splashed on the legs of his khaki pants. The blond man screamed in outrage and grabbed the old man by the shirt. He hauled the old man from the truck and tossed him sprawling to the ground. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and pointed it at the old man.

  The old man rose to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Por favor,” he croaked, “por favor…”

  The other men in the truck stirred restlessly. Some began to get to their feet. The tattooed man raised his own weapon, grinning. “I wish you would,” he said softly. “I wish you would.”

  The old man was still on his knees, begging for his life. A dark stain appeared at his crotch. The blond man laughed at that. Then he kicked the old man in the chest. The man screamed as he went over backward. The blond man advanced on him and kicked him again, this time in the balls. The old man’s scream trailed off to a ragged croak and he doubled up from the pain, writhing in agony. The blond man reached to his belt and pulled something away from it. It was a stiff whip, about four feet long. The whip seemed to be made out of some kind of hide, rolled tightly, tapering from about an inch thick near the wrapped handle to a narrow point at the tip. The blond man swished the whip through the air, back and forth. It made a terrifying sound, like the beating of a demon’s wings.

  Suddenly, there was a third man there, striding purposefully around the side of the truck. He walked over to where the old man was squirming on the ground, pulled a black automatic from a holster on his belt, and shot the old man in the head. There was another chorus of screams from the truck and the man with the pistol looked up. Ruben had thought the blond man was a demon; this man was the devil himself. He was small, his shaved head barely coming up to the blond one’s shoulders, but he gave off an air of tightly coiled and barely contained madness. His head was almost perfectly round like a cannonball, and his ears were small and lay flat against his skull. He looked over the people in the truck like a serpent regarding a boxful of white mice. There was no spark of humanity in his dead gray eyes, no pity or compassion. A couple of the women crossed themselves.

  The man with the pistol turned to the blond. “We don’t have time for games,” he said. Despite his small size, his voice was powerful, the voice of a preacher or a politician. “Get the buckets emptied, get the water bottles in there, and get back on the road.”

  “What about him?” Blondie said, gesturing with his weapon at the body on the road. His face was sulky, like a child denied a favorite toy.

  The man with the pistol didn’t look down. “Leave him for the vultures,” he snapped. He walked off.

  “All right, you people,” the tattooed man said. “Get that other bucket out.”

  This time there was no hesitation. The people moved slowly, as if they were in shock, but they moved. In a few moments, the other toilet bucket had been handed out to a young, bearded man who had been summoned from the inside of the truck to the road. His name, Ruben remembered, was Diego; he had been one of the few who had bothered to introduce themselves to Edgar and Ruben at the beginning of the trip. Diego took the bucket silently and stood by them, staring sullenly at the road.

  “Good,” the blond said. “You’re already learning not to eyeball your betters.” He gestured at the buckets, miming pouring something out of them. Diego picked up one bucket. Blondie pointed at the old man’s body. “Empty it there.”

  Diego’s back stiffened. Blondie pushed the shotgun up under his ear. “Do it,” he said silkily, “or I’ll fucking stick your head in it and drown you while Benny over there fucks you up the ass.”

  “Awww,” the tattooed man said in a mock-whiny voice. “An’ I was saving myself.” He cut his eyes toward the girl he’d been ogling earlier. The girl started to cry.

  Diego picked up first one bucket, then the other, and emptied them over the old man’s body. He walked back to the truck, his head down, and climbed in. Benny threw the still-stinking buckets back into the truck. Blondie shoved a pallet of bottled water in and pulled the door down. It clanged shut like the gates of hell. They heard the truck start up again. Another woman began weeping. Ruben glanced over at Diego. He was sitting with his head down, looking at the floor between his knees. Then the battery gave out on the light and they were in total darkness.

  Ruben felt Edgar trembling beside him, then he began to shake with sobs. Ruben put his arm around his brother. He didn’t know what to say or do. He knew that, at seventeen, it was his responsibility to look out for his fourteen-year-old brother. Still, he wished Papa were there to tell him how.

  “SO,” ANGELA said, “Is he…”

  “Well, he’s not rolling on the ground, tearing his clothes off, and howling like a dog,” Lucas said. “That’s something.”

  “You know what I mean,” Angela snapped. She walked over and stood at the open window, looking out at the highway.

  “And I know,” Lucas said, his voice even, “that it doesn’t make any difference if he’s ready or not. He’s coming with us. You know he is. You knew the moment you asked, Jack Keller would do anything at all to help Oscar. And to help you. Because you know that’s the kind of man he is. He’ll pick up the gun again. He’ll go on the hunt again to save his friend. Even if it costs him his sanity.”

  She whirled to face him. “You think I don’t care about that? About him?”

  He didn’t change expression. “On the contrary. I think you’re still in love with him.”

  She laughed bitterly and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Right. That’s why I’m asking him to help me find my husband.”

  “Are you searching for Oscar out of love or out of duty?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Understand,” he went on, “I’m not knocking duty. I spent twenty years in the Army. Despite all the bullshit, that word still makes me stand up a little straighter when I hear it. But you need to know why you’re doing what you’re doing.”

  She leaned her head on the glass. “Does it really matter that much?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Lucas said. “It does.” After a moment, he asked, “Do you love Oscar?”

  She closed her eyes. “He’s a good man. He’s gentle and kind and he made me feel alive again.”

&
nbsp; “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Lucas.” She sounded weary enough to sleep a thousand years. “I don’t know, okay? Can I just be alone for a little bit?”

  He stood up. “Sure.” He walked to the door. “I’ll see you later.” She didn’t answer.

  He stepped out into the light and the heat. He didn’t feel like going back to his room. He saw a couple of cars had pulled up to the bar across the street. He decided to check it out.

  The air-conditioning inside was cranked to nearly frigid. A couple of men in jeans and T-shirts were seated at the bar. Another pair was shooting pool at a table set in a tiny room off the bar. They stopped talking and looked at him as he walked in. Lucas took a seat at an empty stool. “Corona,” he told the pretty, dark-haired girl behind the bar. There was a blank expression on her face as she put the beer in front of him, a wedge of lime stuck in the bottle’s neck.

  “Thanks,” he said. He handed over the money and a dollar tip. He pushed the lime wedge down into the bottle, then extended a hand. “Lucas Berry.”

  “I know who you are,” the girl said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  She nodded and really looked at him for the first time. “Jack said you’d probably be stopping by.”

  Lucas looked around. “Where is Jack, anyway?”

  “I fired him,” she said.

  “Ah,” Lucas replied. He took a sip of his beer.

  “What does that mean? ‘Ah’?” she demanded.

  He smiled. “Sorry. I’m a psychiatrist. It’s a habit.” He scanned the bar. “Is there somewhere we can talk for a few minutes?”

  “About Jack?” she said.

  “Yeah.” I want to see what’s got you so riled. He thought he knew the answer.

  She jerked her chin at the men at the bar. “I got customers. And now I’m shorthanded.”

  He took out his wallet. “Set ‘em up a round,” he said. “On me. That’ll give you a few minutes.”

  She hesitated, then jerked the beers from the cooler. She set them in front of the men at the bar. Their faces lost the closed and suspicious look they had worn since he entered. “Thanks, pardner,” the younger of the two said.

  “No problem,” Lucas said.

  The girl carried the other two beers over to the men at the pool table, then came back, wiping her hands on a rag. “We can sit over here,” she said, indicating a booth.

  Lucas took his seat. “So,” he said. “Looks like you’ve got the advantage of me.”

  “What?” she replied. “Oh. The name. Sorry.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Jules.”

  Lucas took it. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “So, what’s got you so pissed off at Jack Keller?”

  “How’s that your business?”

  He shrugged. “Well, since he’s my patient…”

  Her expression changed to one of alarm. “Your…wait, has he got some sorta disease? Is he some kinda escaped mental case?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing that bad.” He eyed her shrewdly. “But I think you’d know if he was really dangerous.”

  She glanced down at the table. “He still having the nightmares?” Lucas asked casually.

  She looked up. “How’d you know about—” She stopped, then shook her head. “You got me,” she said. “You’re pretty good.”

  He grinned. “I get by.”

  The smile seemed to disarm her. “Yeah,” she said. “He has them.”

  “Any odd behavior during the day? Times he seems to sort of go away?”

  She nodded. “Once in a while.”

  He paused. “Violent outbursts?”

  She shook her head. “He’s never raised a hand to me,” she said firmly.

  Berry nodded. “And I don’t expect he ever will. What about other people?”

  She bit her lip. “Well…” she sighed. “Actually, that’s kind of how we met.”

  “Go on.”

  “A couple of bikers were hassling me. Guys from away. Not regulars. A couple of the local guys tried to stand up for me. I grew up around here, and a lot of the regulars are like family. The bikers beat up Glen and Jeff. They tore the phone off the wall. Then they started getting real ugly. Talking about how they were gonna take me across the road and call all their buddies to break me in.”

  “And that,” Berry said, “is probably where Keller stepped in.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. ‘Til then he was just this guy who sat over in the corner. Never said much to anybody, just drank his two beers and left.”

  “But not then.”

  “No, not then. It was like he was a different person. He went flat berserk on those two. If a couple of the guys hadn’t pulled him off, he mighta killed one of ‘em. As it is, they both ended up in the hospital.”

  “They got lucky,” Berry observed.

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard. “But then it was like turning off a switch. Next night, he was back, quiet as ever. He even paid for the chair he broke over the one guy’s head.”

  “And you started seeing each other.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He started working here. I needed the help. He moved in with me after a few weeks.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I been alone since my daddy died and left me this place. I ain’t apologizin’ to nobody.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  Her defiant stance crumpled. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just…”

  “I know,” Lucas said. “Small town, small minds.”

  “Yeah.” She traced invisible lines on the table with her index finger. “He’s really been through some shit, hasn’t he?” she said quietly.

  Berry nodded. “You can say that.”

  “And that lady across the street,” she said, “is she about to put him through some more?”

  “We don’t really know what happened to our friend. It may be nothing.”

  Jules sighed. “But if he doesn’t go and find out,” she said bitterly, “I’m going to be seeing that damn look in his eyes until I get sick of it and throw him out anyway. That look like he wants to be somewhere else. That look of wondering what he could have done…well fuck that. He wants to go, he can go. What’s the old saying…”

  “If you love something set it free,” Lucas quoted.

  “And if it don’t come back, then fuck it.” Tears started in her eyes. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. “I can’t cry now. I got a business to run.”

  The door opened. Keller stepped in. There was a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He spotted Jules and Lucas sitting together. He walked over.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Just give me a couple of minutes.”

  “Okay.” Lucas got up and walked to the door. He turned and glanced back. Keller was seated across from Jules, holding her hands in his. She was looking down at the table, but she was nodding her head. Lucas sighed and stepped out into the sunlight. He saw Angela across the road, throwing her bag into the backseat of the Cadillac. He waited for another truck roaring past before crossing the road.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “You were right. This was a bad idea.”

  “I don’t recall saying it was a bad idea,” Lucas said.

  She slammed the back door. “Well, it was.”

  “Wait a few,” Lucas said. “Keller’s on his way.”

  “YOU WANT to go,” Jules said, “then go. You don’t owe me nothin’.”

  “I know, but I want to explain anyway.” He took her hands in his.

  “A few years ago,” Keller said, “I was in a shitload of trouble.” She looked up. He took a deep breath. “I killed a man. It was self-defense, but there was no one around to see that or tell anyone. Except Oscar Sanchez. He didn’t know me from Adam, but he came forward and cleared me. And he took a lot of risks doing it. The brother of the guy I killed called me up and shot Oscar in the kneecap—while I listened—just to show how pissed at me he was.” Keller closed his eyes. He could hear the pop of the gunshot, Oscar’s scream over the phone.

 
“Anyway,” Keller said. “I owe him. If he’s in trouble…”

  She sighed. “You have to go. I know.” She smiled sadly. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be the man you are.”

  He took a deep breath. “There’s more.” He looked away from her. “A few months ago, I killed someone else. This time there was no way to call it self-defense. I had him on the ground, unarmed. But he’d tried to kill another friend of mine. And her little boy. I was afraid he’d try again. So I shot him. Then I shot him again. And again.”

  “So?” she said, but her voice shook a little at the look in his eyes. “He was going to kill a little kid? Sounds to me like the sumbitch needed killing.”

  “Probably. Definitely. But Jules, I liked it. I laughed while I was doing it.” He stood up, then shouldered the duffel. “I’m not the man you think I am.” He started walking toward the door.

  “Jack,” she called out. “I know you. You’re not a bad man.”

  He stopped and looked back. He heard a voice in his head, a voice from a man he’d met back on a mountainside in Western North Carolina. A place where Keller had gone willingly into the dark.

  You bring death, the man had said, and hell follows with you.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I am.” He walked out.

  THEY STOOD on either side of the car, watching the door. After a few moments, Keller stepped out, his bag over his shoulder. He crossed the road, head down, watching the ground ahead like a soldier on a long march. He didn’t look up until he got to the car. “Nice ride,” he said.