The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [54]
“She better,” Keller said. He looked at Crystal. “I want to bring DeWayne in, Crystal. And I actually have an interest in seeing him brought in alive. It’s the only way I get paid. But how many cops you think feel the same way, after he gunned one of them down? Somebody’s going to catch him. Nobody can run forever. How do you rate his chances if it’s a cop who finds him first?”
Crystal closed her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek. She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose him, too. But I just don’t know anything.”
“You see what you’ve done?” Rita snapped. “You got her all upset.” she turned back to Crystal. “Don’t you worry, sweetie, Mara went to get you some clothes and makeup. We’re going to get you out of here.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “She and your boss. They’ll have you flat on your back again in no time.”
Rita turned to him. “Fuck you,” she snarled.
“Sorry,” Keller said, “but I’m a few bucks light right now.”
He took a business card out of his wallet. He took a pen off the bedside table and wrote another number on the back. “Call me if you hear from DeWayne,” he said. “Or have him get in touch with me, I don’t care. But you know it’s his only chance.” He handed the card to Crystal.
“Even if you don’t call me,” he said, “Call the other number I wrote on there. It’s a rehab center. A friend of mine runs it.” He walked to the door and leaned on the jamb. “You need to get out of the life, Crystal. It isn’t just Leonard and your parents’ death that’s pushing you over the edge.”
“Don’t listen to him, baby,” Rita said, a note of pleading in her voice. “What does he know? He doesn’t care about you, he just wants to catch DeWayne.” Rita stretched out her hand to take the card away, but Crystal closed her hand over it. As Keller turned to go, she spoke up.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’d probly’ve died if you hadn’t brought me in.”
Keller stopped in the doorway. “It’s likely,” he said. “So I guess you owe me one. Call the number.”
She stared at Keller, not speaking, as he walked out.
Keller left the hospital and drove back to Marie’s house. When he got there, she was in the front yard. A blonde-haired boy about three years old was riding the Big Wheel down the driveway as Keller was pulling up, so he parked on the street. Marie came out of the garage as Keller was coming up the drive. She was dressed in a pair of white shorts and a man’s denim shirt tied beneath her breasts. Her hair was bound up in a pale blue and white scarf and there was a smudge of grime on her cheek. Keller stopped and watched her come towards him. “Trying to get the garage organized,” she explained. “There’s so much crap in there, I can’t even get the door closed.”
“Looks like a big job.” Keller said.
She looked away. “Yeah. Well. Just trying to stay busy. Keeps my mind off things. You know.”
“I know,” Keller said. He felt strange and awkward. He wanted to kiss her, but was stayed by the solemn regard of the boy with the Big Wheel, who had stopped to regard him gravely. Keller and the boy stared at each other for a long moment, then the boy unhorsed himself from the Big Wheel, ran to Marie, and attached himself to her leg, where he watched Keller warily.
“Ben,” Marie said, a laugh bubbling just under the surface of her voice, “this is Mister Keller. Can you say hello?”
The boy’s answer was to bury his face in Marie’s thigh. She gave him a reassuring pat on the head. “How’d it go?” she said.
Keller shrugged. It seemed somehow grotesque to discuss what he had seen in the hospital room in the middle of this domestic scene. “She doesn’t know anything.”
She wiped the sweat from her brow. Keller wanted to gently wipe the smudge from her face, could imagine himself doing it, but the boy was staring at him again. “I got a Big Wheel,” the boy announced