The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [73]
“It looks like a mansion,” DeWayne said.
“It was a dump. Some old guy willed it to some foundation. Some fancy nigger doctor runs the place. Thinks he can tell everybody what to do.” Debbie took a drag on her cigarette. “No one tells me what to do.”
DeWayne made no reply. Debbie had been wild-eyed and giddy last night, practically dragging him into the bedroom. This morning, however, she was depressed and vicious. Nothing DeWayne could say seemed to placate her, so he said as little as possible, even when she had insisted on coming with him. He still thought her presence was a bad idea, but he was too tired and burned out from all the rocks they had smoked the night before to argue about it. He considered just shooting her, but he had thought that so many times that it had become one of those ideas you thought about but never did, like quitting a lousy job.
Debbie started the car and turned down the driveway. “They won’t let you see her,” she said with a sort of grim satisfaction. “They try to keep you away from your family and friends. It’s easier for ‘em to brainwash you that way.”
“I ain’t goin’ in the front door,” DeWayne said. “I’m gonna sneak around them gardens and stuff in the side yard and see if I can spot her. Maybe I can get her to come to a window.” Debbie shrugged and pulled the car into one of the parking spaces. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” she said. DeWayne got out. He tucked a pistol into the waistband of his jeans and strolled towards the gardens to the right side of the house, trying to look nonchalant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Keller checked his watch as he pulled into the driveway. He grimaced. He was running late. It was going to be hard enough to explain to the Major why he wasn’t going to be coming back for a while. He pulled into a parking space next to a blue Trans Am. As he got out, he thought he could see the outline of a blonde girl slumped in the seat of the car. The windows were tinted dark enough so that it was hard to make out her features, but she appeared to be asleep. Visitor or client? he wondered idly as he walked up the front steps. He put it out of his mind as he opened the door.
The garden to the right of the house was a grassy area shaped like a long “U”, with the open end of the “u” against the side of the house. An iron gate between the hedge and the house offered access. The garden was surrounded by hedges higher than a man’s head which provided a feeling of isolation from the world. The grass was longer here, and there was a round pool in the middle of the area near the curve of the “U”. A greenish statue of a robed woman rose from the center of the pool. Red and yellow flowers surrounded the pool and further rows of flowers nestled under the hedges. Wrought-iron chairs and benches were spaced at regular intervals around the garden. DeWayne paused for a moment and looked around. He longed to sit down in one of the chairs and rest, just for a moment. Every thing had been so fucked up since they shot that old man. Ever since then, fear had been what defined his life. He was tired of running. But he knew to stop running would be his death.
DeWayne looked around at the flowers. He wished his cousin was there. Leonard’s favorite job had been working in a greenhouse. He had liked growing things. DeWayne had never cared for it; it was too much like farm work. He hated farm work with a passion. He sighed and turned away. He looked at the windows on the side of the house, wondering which one Crystal might be behind. The windows were set high off the ground, higher than DeWayne could see. He grabbed the nearest of the wrought iron chairs and dragged it beneath the window. Then he clambered up to peek through.
The same receptionist was there, seated behind the desk in the front-parlor-turned-waiting-room. She looked up as Keller walked in.
“I’m here to see Major--ah, Doctor Berry,” Keller said.
She smiled. “He’ll be out in a minute. Please have a seat.”
Keller sat uncomfortably in one of the antique armchairs in front of the desk. He looked over at the pile of magazines