The Devil's Right Hand. J.D. Rhoades
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He laughed. “Might be a little hard on the cash flow,” he said.
“Among other things,” she said. He heard the insectile clicking of computer keys. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “If she’s hooking, she probably has some kind of record.”
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He saw her in his mind, bent over the keyboard, biting her lower lip like she did when she was concentrating, brushing the long ash-blondhair back from her forehead.
“Got it,” she said. “Crystal Leigh Puryear. Known aliases Amber Dawn.” She paused. “Jesus,” she said. “Amber Dawn? sounds like a feminine hygiene spray.” Keller laughed. “Picked up on a solicitation charge 2 February. Pleaded to disorderly conduct. Last known address--.got a pen?”
Keller fished one out of the glove box. “Shoot.” She gave him the address. “Best bet’s to catch her in the daytime,” she suggested. “Saturday night, date night, you know.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “Speaking of dating, you thought any about what we were discussing?”
There was a long pause. “Yeah, Keller, I thought about it,” she finally said. “I like you, you know that, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to date someone who works for me.”
Keller thought for a moment. “I quit,” he said.
She laughed. “Nice try,” she said. “But I don’t date unemployed guys, either.”
“Looks like I can’t win,” Keller said.
“Sure you can,” she said. “Just not with me.” Her voice softened. “Get some sleep, Keller,” she said. “And not in the car. Check in somewhere and put it on the company card. Check out the girl tomorrow and find DeWayne Puryear, preferably by his court date next Thursday.”
“Yass, boss,” Keller said.
“Pleasant dreams, cowboy,” she said and hung up.
Keller leaned back and blew a long breath out through his teeth. He shook his head as if to clear it and started the car.
He considered her advice about getting some rest. He was bone-weary, but he knew from experience that sleep wouldn’t come easily. He decided to at least check out the address Angela had given him. Even if no one was there, he could reconnoiter the layout. He had been in this city a number of times before. He had a good idea of where he was headed.
The street was a dead end, lined with small brick houses that had once probably been marketed to young couples in the postwar years as “starter homes.” There were no streetlights. Only a few dim porch lights provided illumination. There was a flickering blue glow of television screens behind the shaded front windows of one or two houses, but most were dark. Keller couldn’t read most of the house numbers from the street. He snapped the headlights off and slowed to a crawl, giving his eyes a chance to get accustomed to the darkness. Finally, he located Crystal Puryear’s address. He parked across the street and rolled down the window.
The house at the end of the street was wooden and looked older than the others, with a more spacious yard and an attached two car garage. A yellow bulb cast a wan glow over the driveway in front of the closed doors of the garage. A picket fence ran between the street and the overgrown yard, ending at the driveway entrance. There was no other light and no sound other than the tick and pop of the cooling engine and the monotonous buzzing of crickets.
Keller sat and looked at the house. One part of his mind automatically mapped out possible approach and escape routes. The other thought about Angela.
She had been right, he mused. Not in her surface excuse about not dating an employee. He could see the real reason when she gently turned him aside from his pursuit of her. She always did so with a soft laugh or a self-deprecating joke about being too old, but the sadness in her eyes told the real story. Too much baggage, her eyes seemed to say. Too much mileage over too many rough roads. And she was right, he thought. For both of them. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked away from the looming bulk of the Bradley fighting vehicle. He had always thought of deserts as soft places, cushioned by sand. This place seemed to be mostly crushed rock and tiny pebbles that always managed to work themselves into your boots. All the sand seemed to come to rest in any mechanical or electronic gear. He looked back and cursed the dead GPS receiver inside the Bradley. He had no idea where they were.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. His squad was in the vehicle, most of them asleep. He had to figure out some way to get them home. He unzipped his pants and took a piss on the desert. It summed up his attitude about this place as no other words could.
When he was zipping himself back up, he registered the noise of the rotor blades for the first time. It had to be a Coalition aircraft; the raghead air force had been swept out of the sky weeks ago. He turned towards the sound, waving his arms above his head. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey…”
There was a ripping sound, like the sky being torn open. A bright white bolt like a lance of flame leaped from out of the darkness and struck the Bradley. The boxy metal shape seemed to bulge outward for a split second before erupting in flame from every opening. The concussion knocked him flat on his back. He lay there for a second, staring stupidly at the sky. He saw metal hatch cover cross his field of vision, whirling across the sky like a UFO. Then he heard the screams. They were burning, but he couldn’t get up. His limbs refused to respond to any command that didn’t involve curling up into a ball. He could hear himself screaming as well. There was another white flash…
He jerked upright in the seat, panting like a distance runner. He flinched as a white tree of lightning arced across the sky, followed by a sharp detonation of thunder. It had started raining again. Keller put both hands on the wheel and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He started the car and drove away.
There was a crowd at the graveside, listening to the preacher’s words with the pinched, stoic expressions of people that had been expecting bad news and soon expected to hear worse. The cemetery was well-tended, bordered by woods on two sides and the small white church on another.
Everyone gave a wide berth to the big man in the brown suit. He stared down into the open grave in silence as the preacher intoned the last few words of the service. A few of them looked at the diamond and ruby rings on his fingers and noted the cut of the expensive suit, but no one made comments, at least in his presence. The man had not been a part of their lives for years, but his reputation for random and vicious fits of temper was still legendary.
When the preacher’s voice trailed off into a nervous mumble, the big man looked up and looked at him. His eyes were hidden by tinted sunglasses, but after a moment, the preacher looked away
and cleared his throat. The big man turned away without a word and walked off towards the line of beat-up cars and trucks in the gravel parking lot. He paused a moment to brush the dust from the cuffs of his pants and opened the door of a large brown 4 x 4 pickup. Letters across the top of the dark-tinted windshield said “INDIAN OUTLAW”.
He got into the truck and sat down, leaving the door open. The truck’s oversized wheels raised the pickup off the ground high enough that the man’s snakeskin boots dangled a few inches from the ground like a child’s in a grownup chair. He waited.
The group at the graveside had broken into smaller knots, discussing the weather, the tobacco crop, and everything except the recently deceased. After a few minutes, a young man detached himself from the congregation and walked over to the truck.
“Hey,” the young man said. There was no reply.
“Any news on who killed Daddy?” the big man said finally. The Lumbee accent made the last word come out as “diddy.”
The younger of the two brothers shuffled his feet in the coarse gravel. “Sheriff said they ain’t got no leads.”
“Shit,” the big man said. He