The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [37]
“Robeson County Sheriff’s been looking for the Puryear boys in connection with your father’s death,” he said. “You got no other connection we can see. But it’s the end of the line for you, Raymond. If anyone gets the guy that killed your father, it’ll be the cops.”
Raymond continued to stare at the ceiling. “I got nothing to say,” he repeated. “Now get my doctor. I need somethin’ for pain.”
“Get him yourself,” the cop said. He picked up his file folder and walked out. Raymond found the nurse call button fastened to a cord on the side of the bed. He held it in his hand for a moment, then set it back down. His gut throbbed like someone had fed him burning coals, but he needed his head clear.
His life was over, he knew. When they matched up those bullets, they’d try to lock him up. He had always told himself that any real man would die rather than submit to that. He knew he was going to die soon, and violently. He had known all along he would probably end like that. It had been something he had come to accept about the life he had chosen. But there was some family business to take care of before he rested. He remembered the face of the man that the cop had showed him. Puryear and Keller, he thought. He had to kill them. Then he’d come back after the cop who had called him Chief. They would kill him then, most likely. But he would die on his feet like a man, having done what a man would do. He closed his eyes. There would be blood. Blood and fire, like the end of the world.
A snatch of song came back to him, a hymn he had heard in church. It seemed like a thousand years ago, but he remembered then end down through the years. The song had been about the story of Noah. “No more water,” the song had ended, “but the fire next time.”
“The fire next time,” Raymond whispered to himself.
The counterman’s eyes widened when he saw the gun in DeWayne’s hand. DeWayne set down two six-packs of Budweiser and a carton of cigarettes.
“Open up the register, buddy,” DeWayne said. “And turn the gas pumps on--” he looked at the plastic badge on the kid’s cheap polyester shirt, “--Todd.”
The guy didn’t move, except to start trembling. He was a skinny guy, and young. He didn’t look to be more than sixteen or seventeen. His hair was cut short and there was a silver earring stuck in a fold of flesh above his left eyebrow.
“Man,” DeWayne said. “Don’t that thing hurt?” Todd opened his mouth, but no words came out. He shut it. “Ya don’t talk much,” DeWayne observed. “I like that. Now do what I say an’ give me the damn money.”
The kid never took his eyes off the gun. He fumbled a few times getting the register open. He pulled a few bills off the top. DeWayne impatiently reached over the counter and grabbed for the bills. “The gas pumps now,” he said. “Hurry up.” The kid walked over to the black plastic controls for the pumps and stood there for a minute. His hands gripped the side of the console and he stared down at it as if trying to figure it out. DeWayne could see the kid’s hands still shaking. “C’mon, Goddamn it,” he muttered. “I ain’t got all fuckin’ night.” The kid’s shaking got worse. DeWayne saw a tear fall onto the control box. “P-p-please, Mister--” the kid sobbed. “D-don’t shoot me.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” DeWayne said. Why the hell couldn’t anyone do what they were told? He marched around the counter and shoved the kid out of the way. The kid collapsed in a corner and pulled his knees up to his chest. It took a few moments for DeWayne to figure out how to turn the pumps on. He turned back to tell Leonard to go pump the gas while he kept the gun on the kid. That was when it hit him. Leonard wasn’t there. Leonard would never