The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [34]
Keller was dozing lightly when Dr. Ahmad re-entered the room. “You are being discharged,” he said. “We performed a CT scan of your skull. There is no sign of permanent injury or skull fracture.”
“You said discharged,” Keller said. “Not released.” For emphasis, he rattled the handcuff that still secured him to the bed rail.
Ahmad looked down at his pad and began writing. “That is not my decision,” he mumbled.
“It is, however, the decision of the Fayetteville Police,” the voice of Scott McCaskill boomed from the doorway. He entered the room, followed by the slouching figure of Detective Barnes.
Barnes’ normally sour expression was even more pronounced. “Detective Barnes and I,” McCaskill said with a smile, "have had an enlightening conversation with the District Attorney’s Office, as well as the City’s legal counsel on civil matters. We’ve decided that there’s no evidence connecting you with any real crime.”
“Yet,” Barnes said, half under his breath. He had an expression on his face as if some small animal had shat in his moustache.
“If you turn up anything, Detective,” McCaskill said, still smiling. “Anything real, that is, I’m all ears.”
Barnes muttered something else that Keller didn’t catch and took a small key out of his pocket. He unlocked the cuffs without looking at Keller. After he was finished, he pocketed the cuffs and key, turned on his heel, and left.
Ahmad finished writing and tore a page of his clipboard. “Here are your discharge instructions,” he said, “and a prescription for the pain. You may want to take it easy for a few days. Avoid excitement.”
“An excellent suggestion,” McCaskill said, looking significantly at Keller. “In fact, a week or two off might be a good idea. Some place far away, like a beach in Florida.” He winked at Ahmad. “Just what the doctor ordered, eh?”
Ahmad looked up and blinked. “I don’t believe I said anything about Florida.”
“Just an expression, Doctor, just an expression,” McCaskill said, patting him on the shoulder. Ahmad still looked confused as he left.
This is one cool ride, DeWayne thought. He was headed south on I-95, going slightly under the speed limit. He had the windows rolled down and Steve Earle cranked on the CD player.
About the time that daddy left to fight the big war
I saw my first pistol in the general store
In the general store,
when I was thirteen
Thought it was the finest thing I ever had seen…
He could feel the vibrations of the big engine through his boots on the pedals. The dude that had been chasing him had obviously done some serious modifications to the engine. DeWayne wished that he could really open it up and see what that engine could do, but he didn’t dare take the chance. He had gotten lucky with the two cops and the bounty hunter. If he had learned anything from his life, it was that luck like that never lasted.
So I asked if I could have one some day when I grew up
Mama dropped a dozen eggs, she really blew up
She really blew up,
I didn't understand
Mama said the pistol is the devil's right hand
The police scanner under the dashboard crackled. DeWayne leaned over and turned it up. A garbled voice on the other end checked in with the dispatcher. DeWayne squinted as he passed an exit sign. A Highway Patrolman was three exits ahead, a good ten miles. DeWayne figured he’d better get off the main road. He wasn’t sure that anyone was looking for this car, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
There was a cluster of businesses at the top of the ramp: a shabby-looking motel, a discount cigarette outlet and a Handi-Mart convenience store. Only the last one was open, its bug-spattered floodlights creating an island of harsh brilliance in the darkness. DeWayne swung the car into the empty parking lot of the convenience store. There was nobody inside except the guy behind the counter. DeWayne could see him through the window, flipping through a magazine. DeWayne looked at the gas gauge. About a quarter-tank. He took a deep breath.