The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [81]
“If these guys get caught at this,” Raymond said, “we’re all fucked.”
Geronimo looked at him and smiled thinly. “You would rather use your own vehicles, perhaps? With license plates that could be traced back to you?”
They were sitting in the black Suburban, parked on a darkened residential street. He didn’t know what town they were in, but it was at least an hour’s drive from Fayetteville.
“Relax,” Geronimo said. “Antonio and Jesus have done this sort of thing before.” He smiled again, this time with a hint of nostalgia. “Compared to taking out a government minister, this will be nothing.”
A car started at the end of the street and advanced towards them with the headlights off. It was a large black Ford pickup with a crew cab. “Bueno,” Geronimo said. “That will be the blocking vehicle. When it is reported stolen tomorrow, the police will first look in the immediate area. By the time the search expands to Fayetteville, we’ll have finished and ditched the car.”
“Whatever,” Raymond said. As the truck passed by, Raymond caught a glance of one of Suarez’ gunmen behind the wheel. Antonio or Jesus? he thought. He had never bothered to learn which was which. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the bottle of pills.
“You taking an awful lot of those, my man,” Geronimo observed. “Will you be able to do your work tomorrow?”
“Don’t worry,” Raymond said. “And don’t forget. Your boys take out the cops. But Keller and Puryear are mine. I want to look in their eyes when they die.”
“Si, si,” Geronimo said. “They’re all yours. And after that, we will conclude our business. You will like Bogota.”
“Yeah,” Raymond said. “Bogota.”
“You can’t put him in here with me!” DeWayne screamed. He propelled himself backwards against the wall with his feet on the bunk. It was as if he was trying to drive himself through the concrete-block wall of the tiny cell. “That guy’s crazy,” DeWayne insisted to the guard. “He’s done tried to kill me once.”
There was a malicious twinkle in the jailer’s small dark eyes. “Looks like you two lovebirds have a lot of catching up to do,” he said. ”Pleasant dreams.”
“You stay the fuck away from me, man!” DeWayne said. His voice was trembling in fear.
“Oh, put a sock in it, DeWayne,” Keller said. “That’s over. And you know damn well I didn’t try to kill you. If I recall, it was you who tried to kick my head in. Besides, it’s not like I can turn you in to anyone now.”
A look of suspicion crossed DeWayne’s face. “So what are you doin’ here, man?” he demanded. “This ain’t some sort of trick, is it? What are you in here for?”
“Murder,” Keller said. “Second degree. One of the guys that came to kill you and your cousin drew down on me with a pistol.” Keller sat down on the floor. “I shot him.”
“But if he had a gun--”
“Nobody found the gun. There was a third man there. He took the guns and the money.”
DeWayne shook his head. “The money,” he said. “The damn money. I can’t believe all this shit went down over some damn money.” He shook his head. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “They all do.”
It was past midnight, and the single light in the office was the gooseneck lamp that illuminated the desk. Angela sat behind the desk, office phone in hand.
“They’re giving me the runaround,” Scott McCaskill was saying. “I won’t be able to see him until tomorrow.”
Angela’s hand clenched more tightly on the receiver. Only the calming effect of McCaskill’s voice, a voice that had captivated a thousand juries, was keeping her from screaming. She was afraid that it was only going to have a short-term effect on her roiled emotions.
“Why are they doing this?” she said, amazed