The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [26]
“Ha-haaaaa!” he crowed in triumph. “I killed you! I killed you!” He heard the sound of approaching sirens. He threw down the gun and ran.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’m not moving,” Keller said.
“Good,” the man behind him said. “Now slide the shotgun away from you, backwards. I am tired of having guns pointed at me.”
Keller shoved the shotgun away from him across the floor. It slid in the pool of blood, leaving a ripple in the rapidly congealing liquid.
“Now,” the voice said. “Tell me who you are and why you are here.”
“My name’s Keller,” he replied. “I work for a bail bondsman down in Wilmington. DeWayne Puryear disappeared a few weeks ago and my boss got a little worried about him showing up for court.” He paused. “And who are you,” he said, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
There was no answer. Keller could hear the man’s harsh breathing. Then the man chuckled. It was a strained sound, the sound of barely tethered hysteria.
“Right now,” he said. “I am a man with a bag of money and a gun. Soon I will have a big truck. It is the American dream, no?” Keller felt the gun pressed more firmly into the back of his neck. “No moving until I am gone,” he said. The pressure of the gun was suddenly gone. Keller heard the sound of footsteps. After a moment, he heard the sound of a large truck starting up and driving away.
Keller got slowly to his knees. His shirt clung to his body, sticky and heavy with blood. His pants were soaked as well. The smell of it filled the air, mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder. He fought down the urge to retch. The sirens were much closer now. He staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the door. He stopped there for a moment, hanging on, taking deep breaths to clear his nostrils of the slaughterhouse reek inside. After a few moments, he straightened up. He walked, then ran down the walkway to his car. He passed the first cop cars on the way out, watching in his rear-view mirror as they screeched to a stop in front of the house.
He turned the corner, went down a few blocks, turned another. He had no idea where he was going. After a few random turns, he spotted an abandoned gas station. The doors and windows were boarded up with graffiti covered plywood. But it was the tall hedges on three sides of the building and the driveway that led to the back of the building that got Keller’s attention. He whipped the car into the driveway and pulled behind the building.
There was a jumble of old tires and parts piled haphazardly in the narrow alleyway. Keller got out and pulled a gym bag from the back seat. Quickly, he stripped off the bloody shirt and pants and exchanged them for the pair in the bag. He toweled the residue of blood off his face as best he could. He knew he was probably missing some, but at least the smell wasn’t so bad anymore. He leaned against the car for a moment.
Puryear, he thought, he’s back there. It was crazy to go back. He knew it. But he could almost feel the nearby presence of his quarry. The siren promise of the takedown sang again in his ear, overriding everything. He got in and started the car.
Every nerve in DeWayne’s body was demanding that he lie down on the pavement and curl up in pain, but he knew that would only attract attention. He held himself upright by sheer force of will as he staggered down the street. The distant sirens had come closer and closer, then stopped. He wondered what they would make of what they found at the house. The sudden thought of his