The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [27]
After a few minutes he reached the main road. He was going to have to pull himself together, unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in prison. Or worse. The thought of being strapped to a gurney in Central Prison while a doctor injected him with poison stiffened his resolve. He straightened up and wiped his eyes. A big car was slowing down. At first he was terrified that it was a cop car, but there were no lights on the top or radios on the dash. The car pulled to a stop and a man got out. He was a big guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He had shoulder length blonde hair. Definitely not a cop, DeWayne thought with relief.
“Hey, pal,” the man said. “You okay?”
“I just racked up my bike,” DeWayne lied.
“Need a ride to the hospital?” the guy asked.
“Naw,” DeWayne said. “I could use a ride home, though.” He wasn’t sure where he was going to say home was; the important thing was just to get out of the area.
“Sure,” the guy said. “Hop in.” DeWayne turned towards the car. Suddenly he noticed something about the blonde guy.
“Dude,” he said. “Did you just have a wreck too?”
“Why do you say that?” the guy said as he came closer.
“Because you’ve got blood on you.” DeWayne said. “It’s, like, even in your hair.”
“Sorry, DeWayne,” the guy said. “Didn’t have time to shower.”
“Hey,” DeWayne said, “how do you know my--” he never got to finish the sentence before the guy slugged him across the jaw. Everything went all blurry. When DeWayne’s vision cleared, he was shoved face-first over the hood of the car with his hands pinned behind his back.
Keller bound DeWayne’s hands with the duct tape. DeWayne had struggled briefly at first until Keller had smacked his face against the hood. After that, he was docile. Keller pulled his prisoner to his feet and marched him towards the back of the car. He unlocked the trunk.
“Hey,” DeWayne whined. “You ain’t no cop.” He seemed offended.
“That’s right, DeWayne,” Keller said. “I work for your bondsman. You forget your court date? Down in Brunswick County?”
DeWayne stared at him. “You gotta be kidding me, dude,” he said. “You’re picking me up on a fuckin’ B & E? That was, like, a million years ago.”
“Three weeks actually.”
“Like I said. Man, I ain’t gettin’ in no trunk. I’ll suffocate.”
“I drilled air holes. I do this for a living, DeWayne. A lot of guys have ridden in there, and I haven’t lost one yet. Now get in, or I’ll stuff you in. Your choice.”
“Awww, maaaan,” DeWayne whined. Keller took that as the choice. He grabbed DeWayne by the back of his belt, grunting with effort as he lifted the smaller man off the ground. Keller used DeWayne’s waist as a fulcrum to tip him over and into the trunk headfirst. He stuffed DeWayne’s legs in next and slammed the trunk lid. “Hey!” DeWayne yelped. “Hey, man, lemme out!” There was a drumming of feet on the inside of the trunk. Keller cursed. Normally, he would have the prisoner shackled down, but he didn’t have his gear. Keller slammed his hand down on the lid and the noise stopped.
“Quiet,” Keller snarled, “or I’ll plug the air holes. I mean it, asshole.” There was silence.
As Keller drove away, he picked up the cell phone and dialed Angela. “I got him,” he said.
“Any trouble?” she asked.
He thought of lying or minimizing what had just happened, but he needed help. “Yeah,” he said. “Whoever was after DeWayne got there before I did. There were three guys. Two Indians and a Latino. One of the Indians drew on me.” He thought about the man he had left lying beside the door. He took