The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [49]
“These so-called ‘bounty hunters’,” he said in a deep measured tone. “They’re loose cannons. Something needs to be done.”
The female anchor matched his serious expression and nodded in unison with him. “You’re certainly right, Tom.”
The camera panned to the man. The serious expression melted away to be replaced by a smile that must have cost a fortune. “Coming up, will this warm weather give way to some much-needed rain? Stay tuned, as the news continues.”
“That son of a bitch!” DeWayne exploded. He leaped up from the bed.
“What’s going on?” Debbie said frantically.
DeWayne paced back and forth in the narrow confines of the bedroom like a tiger in a too-small cage. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled. “Son of a bitch.”
“Hey. Lenny. Or whatever,” Debbie said pleadingly. “You’re scaring me. What happened? Please, just tell me what happened.”
DeWayne stopped and looked at her. His eyes were wild. “That son of a bitch,” he repeated. “That guy Keller. They just said he killed my folks. The folks who raised me. ”
She looked puzzled. “Did they say that? I didn’t hear..”
“Oh, they didn’t come right out and say it,” DeWayne said. “They won’t till they catch him and charge him. But he did it. He did it to try to get to me.”
She pondered that for a moment. “Wow,” she said finally. “That sucks. What an asshole. ”She reached for the pipe again. “You sure you don’t want a hit?” she said. “It might make you feel better.”
He briefly considered backhanding her to shut her stupid mouth. But she seemed to be looking at him with real concern as she held the improvised pipe out. And he could surely use something right now to make all this hurt go away.
“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the pipe. “Okay.”
In the daylight, Crystal Puryear’s house seemed sad and worn. The sunlight revealed the dirt-caked windows, the warping trim, and the peeling paint that had never been applied all that well to start with. It was nearly noon, but the shades were still drawn. Only the Corvette in the driveway gave any sign that anyone even lived there. There was still a ragged shred of yellow crime-scene tape knotted around one of the posts of the porch.
They had come in Marie’s car, but it was Keller who led the way up the walk. He slowed as he approached the doorway, tensing as he recalled the gun battle in the yard. He glanced over at the ground by the door where John Lee Oxendine had lain with his chest blown apart by Keller’s shotgun. He thought he could see a reddish tinge of bloodstain on the paint, but it might have been his imagination. He stopped for a moment, causing Marie to almost bump into the back of him.
“Jack?” she said. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. He took a deep breath and stepped to the door. The plastic button of the doorbell was gone, leaving only a pair of rusty wires sticking out of the jamb. Keller knocked. There was no answer, no movement within the house. He knocked again and waited. There was no response. Keller tried the knob.
“Hey,” Marie said. “We don’t have a warrant.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a cop.” He turned the knob. The door was unlocked.
“Who the hell leaves a door unlocked in this neighborhood?” Marie said.
“Someone who doesn’t care what happens to them,” Keller said grimly. He drew his gun and entered.
The hallway was dim, but he could see a flicker of light from the living room at the end. There was a tinny bubbling of canned laughter and a woman’s voice, high-pitched and strident. The TV was on. Keller advanced down the hallway, the pistol held in a two-handed grip in front of him. He reached the end of the hallway and the gun fell to his side.
Crystal Puryear lay on the couch, dressed in a flimsy silk bathrobe that had fallen open to reveal her nude body. Her limbs were splayed in a parody of invitation made grotesque by her utter limpness. Her head lolled against the back of the couch, her mouth open. A thin line of drool ran down her chin.
Keller holstered the gun