The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [24]
He knocked on the door.
In the dim yellow glow of the bug-light on the porch, Keller saw the glint of guns in the hands of the men on either side of the door. He realized at that instant that he had waited too long. He swore under his breath and got out of the car. He held the shotgun across his chest and began to run.
The knock on the door was loud inside the house “Who the hell could that be?” DeWayne said. With a mouth full of pizza, it came out as “oof ell at mee?”
“I’ll get it,” said Leonard. He got up and walked down the hallway. He peered out of one of the narrow side windows that framed the door. “It’s some Mexican dude.”
“Aw right!” DeWayne crowed. “He musta come back with the beer. Let ‘im in, cuz.”
Leonard opened the door.
Keller was at the foot of the walkway leading to the house when he saw the door swing open. He saw the curly-haired man beside the door reach out and yank the Latino off the narrow stoop. The curly-haired man stepped into the Hispanic’s place. Keller saw a look of surprise cross the face of the man who answered the door. There was a bang and the face disappeared as the heavy-caliber handgun punched the man back into the shadows behind the doorway. The last thing Keller saw of it was the mouth opened in a silent “O” of amazement.
“Police!” Keller yelled. It wasn’t true, but people instinctively knew what it meant, unlike “Bail Enforcement!” which people had to think about. “Put the gun down!”
The man in the doorway ignored him and moved forward into the house. The man on the other side of the door turned, his face registering the same shock as the guy who had just been blown backwards into the hallway. He raised the pistol in his hand. “Put it down!” Keller bellowed. The man looked stupidly at him, the gun in his hand still moving upwards towards Keller. Keller’s reflexes took over. The shotgun in his hands roared. Keller couldn’t recall having pulled the trigger. The blast of the gun was followed by the crack of the man’s body as it met the wall of the house, slammed back by a full load of #4 buckshot. Keller reflexively jacked another round into the chamber and swung the shotgun to bear on the Latino who had knocked on the door. That one was panting in fear and crawling away on his hands and knees. He stopped crawling and vomited into the grass. No target. Keller swung back to the man he had shot. He had slid downwards into a sitting position, his back against the building. His entire front was chopped meat. He stared at Keller. He shook his head as if trying to shake off a hallucination. When Keller failed to vanish, he only looked more bewildered.
The front door yawned wide open, inviting Keller into the darkness beyond. He heard screaming from inside. He swore softly and moved into the darkness.
DeWayne heard the door open, then the pistol shot. There was a muffled scream, then the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Instinctively, he leaped to his feet, picking up the flimsy coffee table as he rose. In the room’s dim illumination, he saw a large man with curly hair come through the doorway from the hall. DeWayne saw the dark skin and thought at first it was the Mexican pizza guy. This man, however, was much taller and broader and dressed in a suit. He was holding a pistol in his hand. DeWayne heaved the table at him. The impact spoiled the man’s aim and knocked him on his ass. The first shot went wide and blew out the curtained picture window behind the couch.
A high pitched rhythmic sound came from the hallway, like some great mechanical bird. It was Leonard screaming. “Leonard?” DeWayne said. The curly-haired man was picking himself up. He had lost the tinted glasses. DeWayne saw his eyes for the first time. They were a pale green. As the stranger raised his gun, DeWayne remembered the old Indian man they had killed. He looked down the barrel of the upraised gun and saw his death there.
Keller advanced down the hallway, his shotgun at the ready. He heard a crash, saw a confused tangle of movement in the dimly