The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [28]
There was a brief silence, broken only by the crackle of static in the cell phone. “You still there?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said after a moment. Her voice sounded choked. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Listen,” he said. “I need you to get on the phone. Talk to some of your contact people. Anybody you know who can find out what the hell is going on. Call me back.”
Another brief silence. Then simply, “Okay,” and the line went dead.
Keller drove carefully, keeping slightly under the speed limit. He was heading south on Highway 301 near the Coliseum when the police car fell in behind him. He swore under his breath and reduced his speed slightly, hoping the car would pull around and pass him. The only response was an explosion of flashing blue lights. He gritted his teeth and pulled over on the shoulder.
“Not a word, DeWayne,” he yelled back, not sure if he could be heard from inside the trunk. “Not a fucking peep, you understand?” He reached into the glove box and pulled out his license and registration. He rolled the window down and heard the crunch of heavy shoes on the gravel shoulder as the cop approached. “License and registration,” a familiar voice said. Keller’s stomach tightened as he turned and looked at the cop. It was Eddie Wesson.
Wesson grinned. “Out of the car, smart-ass,” he said. “Hands behind your head.”
Keller got out slowly, his hands in the air. He looked back at the cop car behind him. Marie Jones stood at the left front fender, one hand on her gun. “Eddie,” she said. “Why don’t you let me--"
“Shut up,” Wesson said. He grabbed Keller by the back of the shirt and slammed him against the car, face first. Keller felt the bone of his nose crunch against the roof support. Wesson yanked him off the car and slammed his knee into the back of Keller’s leg, propelling him to the ground. Wesson put his knee in the small of Keller’s back and leaned on him with his full weight. Keller gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Cut it out, Eddie!” he heard Marie yell. Wesson ignored her. He yanked Keller’s wrists behind his back. Keller heard the snap of the handcuffs as Wesson secured him. Wesson gave the cuffs an extra squeeze to tighten them to the point of pain. Then he heard another sound.
DeWayne Puryear was hammering his feet against the trunk lid. “Hey!” he yelled. “Help!” Wesson stood up and drew his pistol. He pointed it at Keller on the ground. “Give me an excuse, asshole,” he snarled. He turned to Marie. “Get the trunk open,” he said. Keller, his face to the ground, heard the snap as Marie unbuttoned her holster and drew her own weapon. He turned his head to try to talk to her. “The guy in the trunk is DeWayne Puryear,” he said. “Bail jumper from down in--” his words were cut off by a grunt of pain as Wesson kicked him in the ribs. “I didn’t ask you anything, asshole,” Wesson said. Keller could see Marie’s shoes as she walked past him to get the keys out of the ignition. She walked back to the rear of the car and opened the trunk.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” he heard DeWayne say. He sounded hysterical. “He’s crazy, officer! I was mindin’ my own business when this sumbitch grabs me off the street and stuffs me in the trunk. I ain’t done nothin’ I swear it, I was just--"
“Okay, okay,” Marie said.“ Just calm down, sir.” Keller looked. She had helped DeWayne clamber out of the trunk and was guiding him back to the side of the police car.
“Get that tape off his wrists,” Wesson ordered.
“I don’t know, Eddie,” she said. “What if he’s…”
“Just do it, Marie,” Wesson snapped.
Marie holstered her weapon and produced a small knife from her belt. She began sawing through the duct tape binding DeWayne’s hands behind his back. DeWayne was still babbling thanks.
“Don’t do it, Marie,” Keller said. He was rewarded with a another kick in the ribs.
Finally, Marie sawed through the last of the duct tape and DeWayne’s hands were free. He threw his arms around Marie in a