The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [69]
She packed the gun away in its case and hung the ear protectors on the wall. She walked up a set of creaky wooden stairs and opened the heavy door at the top. She stepped into the bright fluorescent lights of the gun shop. Shiny glass display cases showed off a variety of handguns laid out on dark-green felt, while a forest of barrels sprouted from the brown and black stocks of rifles and shotguns racked side by side behind the counter. A large man half-sat, half leaned on a stool behind the counter, his arms crossed across a considerable paunch. His arms were a riot of dark ink, winding and swirling up his massive forearms and biceps and under the sleeves of his dark green T-shirt. His wind-burned face scowled at the world over a bristling hedge of black beard that reached almost to the crossed arms.
Marie waved at him. “Thanks, Stoney,” she said.
Stoney nodded almost imperceptibly. He didn’t look at her and the scowl didn’t change. “Some dude called looking for you,” he said. “Said his name was Stacy. Sounded like a cop.”
Marie felt a chill in her belly. “Oh,” she said lightly. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“Uh-huh,” Stoney said. ”He didn’t sound too friendly. In fact, he sounded like an asshole.” He looked at her for the first time. “I told him you weren’t here.”
She sighed. “Thanks, Stoney,” she said. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Uh-huh,” he said again. “That why you’re working out here instead of the police range?”
She tried to smile at him. “I like it here,” she said. “Not as crowded.”
He grunted and went back to scowling at the front door. Marie walked out to her car. She took the cell phone from beneath the seat. She dialed her home number and punched in the code for her messages when the answering machine picked up. There was another message from Stacy. She fumbled in the glove box for a stub of pencil and wrote the number down on the back of a store receipt she found on the floorboard. She looked at it for a moment, then took a deep breath. She dialed.
The person on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Stacy.”
She was surprised at how steady her voice was. “This is Marie Jones. You left a message for me?”
“Jones,” Stacy growled, “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been out,” she said.
“With Jackson Keller?” Stacy asked.
Until that moment, she had been prepared to tell Stacy that she wouldn’t meet him without a lawyer present. But the use of Keller’s name threw her off her guard. “What about him?” she said.
“Well, for one thing,” he shot back, “Jack Keller’s got a murder warrant out for him. And for another, you were seen leaving Eddie Wesson’s funeral with him.”
Marie’s breath caught in her throat. The knuckles on the hand wrapped around the cell phone went bone-white. “What?” she said, the word coming out in a strangled croak. Then she rallied herself. “Maybe I should talk to a lawyer first,” she said.
“Yeah,” Stacy said, “maybe you should. You can call one from jail when we pick you up. ‘Bye, Jones.”
“Wait!” Marie hated the pleading note in her voice. There was silence on the other end. Then, “I’m here.”
“I--I have to get my son from day care.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll call Social Services to come get your kid.”
“Please,” Marie’s voice was shaking. “I can talk. Just not right now. Tomorrow. First thing. I promise.”
Another long pause. “Okay,” Stacy said finally. “Tomorrow. 9:00 AM. Sharp. Your house. And Jones?”
“Yes?”
“No lawyers. I even see a Gucci loafer, I’m taking you in right then and there, and your kid goes into foster care.”
“I’ll be there,” she said. There was a click as Stacy hung up. Marie shut off the cell phone. Then she put her head on the steering wheel and wept.
Raymond’s house was a one story brick ranch, large and roomy, but not ostentatious. In many ways, he was a cautious man, and