The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [94]
The place was a slaughterhouse. The body of a man lay on a blood-soaked couch. Another corpse lay in a puddle of blood a few feet away. Angela was sitting tied to chair in the flickering glow of the television. Keller glanced at the TV. Elmer Fudd was stalking across the screen. “A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go...” Sanchez was sitting up on the floor next to Angela. His leg was wrapped in a blood-soaked homemade bandage. His face was drawn with pain.
“Sit over there,” Raymond said, indicating the couch. His face split in an ugly grin. “You can move Antonio. He won’t mind, I reckon.”
“I was listening to the radio on the way over here,” Keller said. “Sounds like somebody’s trying to burn the whole county down.”
Raymond grinned again. “I reckon I showed a few people what’s what,” he said.
“And what would that be?”
“That nobody fucks with me!” Raymond exploded. ”Or my family! Couple of damn ignorant crackers think they can kill some old Indian never hurt nobody a day in his life, and walk away with the money he sweated his ass off to get? Fuck that! The only person who’d do anything about it was me!” He grinned then, the drawn rictus of a walking corpse. “We’re Lumbee,” he said. “We take care of our own.”
“You’ve killed more people than the ones who killed your father,” Keller said. “People who never did anything to you. That how you carry on the tradition?”
“I got my own tradition,” he said. “Two eyes for a fuckin’ eye.” He came over and stood over Keller on the couch. He fished something out of his pocket and held it over his head.
It was a disposable cigarette lighter.
The gray dawn light from the window fell on Raymond’s face as he raised the lighter over his head. His thumb was on the striker. He began laughing in hysterical triumph, the sound eventually mutating into a high-pitched ululation, a Hollywood version of an Indian war-whoop. “Woo-woo-woo-wooo....” The chant was cut off suddenly as a bright red splash appeared in the center of his chest. Keller felt fragments of glass shower on him as the big picture window blew inwards. He leapt forward as he heard the report of the rifle. He grabbed the arm holding the lighter and bore it down, his body crashing into Raymond’s. The two of them fell together to the floor. Keller raised up and drew his fist back to smash it into Raymond’s face. He stopped. The face was slack and relaxed, the head lolling limply. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Raymond’s mouth. Keller gasped with relief. He stood up, tottering on his feet. He staggered over to where Angela and Sanchez were. He dropped to his knees by Angela’s chair, his fingers plucking at the knots of the ropes. It was futile, they were too tight. “I need a knife,” he muttered. He got up and staggered to the kitchen. He rummaged through the drawers until he located a butcher knife and returned to the living room. He stepped over Raymond’s body and cut Angela loose from her bonds, then Sanchez. Angela staggered to her feet, leaning on Keller’s shoulder. Sanchez tried to rise, but cried out in pain as his knee refused to take his weight. Keller hauled him up and the three of them stumbled towards the door. He yanked the door open and the light of dawn streamed in. Marie Jones was coming up the front steps, holding a deer rifle in one hand.
“Nice shooting,” Keller croaked, his throat raw and burning from the gasoline fumes.
“Some skills never leave you,” she said, slipping an arm around Angela to support her. They started down the steps. Keller heard a noise behind him. He turned.
Raymond Oxendine was in the doorway. He had dragged himself to his knees. He held the cigarette lighter in his hand.
Keller turned to Marie and Angela. “Run!” he yelled. There was an enormous sound, like God himself sighing in pain as all the air in the immediate area was sucked into the vortex of igniting gasoline fumes. The light of the rising sun was momentarily reduced to insignificance by the flash of the explosion. The pressure wave knocked Keller and Sanchez forward