Safe and Sound (33 page)

He had been paid well for the job, but his employer was a fool if he thought Phillips was going to simply turn this much money over to some bureaucrat. They’d be angry, of course. They would, most likely, come after him. No matter. This much money could buy a great deal of protection.

Finally, the screen was done loading. Phillips scanned it for a few moments. His eyes widened. Then he sat back in his chair and started to laugh. It began as a small quiet chuckle, then expanded into a great roaring belly laugh. Every time Phillips looked back at the screen, he began laughing again.

The account was empty. Someone else had had access and had cleared it. Or his employers had hacked it. No matter. It was a fine joke on everyone.

Still chuckling, Phillips stood up and walked over to his bookshelves. He had finished Red Harvest on the plane ride back. Often, what to read next was a difficult decision for him. Something new? An old favorite? But this circumstance allowed for only one choice. He pulled the book down, took his position in his easy chair, and
began to read: Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting V under the more flexible V of his mouth…

***

Hey, amigo,” a voice said. “Wake up, amigo.”

Keller opened his eyes and straightened up. He had fallen asleep leaning against the doorpost of the car.

He looked over. The driver was a burly Mexican in his late twenties. He had told Keller his name, but sleep had chased the information from his head.

“The ranch where I work is up ahead, man,” the driver said. “I better let you off here. Maybe you can get a ride to”—he hesitated—“wherever you’re going.”

Keller looked out the window. It was early morning. The sun was coming up over a distant range of barren hills. They were parked in the gravel lot of a small diner. There was a small gas station across the road. There were no other buildings. The road stretched out before and behind, totally flat and straight until it narrowed to a point in the distance.

Keller looked back at the driver. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. He noted the man’s look of relief as he opened the door. The driver had been friendly and chatty early on, but he had grown noticeably more uneasy at Keller’s monosyllabic replies and long silences in the long hours since he’d picked Keller up by the side of the road in Louisiana. Keller got out and fetched his backpack from behind the seat.

“Take care, man,” the driver said.

“Thanks,” Keller said. “You, too.” He shut the door. The car kicked up dust and a spray of gravel as it pulled away fast. Keller watched it until it dwindled in the
distance. He glanced at the diner. There were a few people inside. He could see a table of older men in trucker caps, joking and laughing with a middle-aged waitress. Keller turned away and looked into the rising sun. Heat waves were already beginning to shimmer up from the hard-packed brown earth that stretched to the hills on the horizon, broken here and there by outcroppings of rock. Keller gave the people in the diner one last look. Then he started walking along the side of the road toward the hills.

He was back in the desert. In many ways, he’d never left.

THE END

About The Author

J.D. Rhoades was born and raised in North Carolina. He has worked as a radio news reporter, club DJ, television cameraman, ad salesman, waiter, practicing attorney, and newspaper columnist. His weekly column in the Southern Pines, North Carolina Pilot was named best column of the year in its division. His Keller novels, THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND, GOOD DAY IN HELL, SAFE IN SOUND and DEVILS AND DUST are available from Polis Books. He lives, writes, and practices law in Carthage, North Carolina. Learn more at
www.jdrhoades.com
and follow him on Twitter at
@jd_rhoades
.

Read on for an excerpt of the brand new Keller novel DEVILS AND DUST. Now available in hardcover and ebook from Polis Books.

CHAPTER ONE

The
jefe
affectionately called him
El Poeta
—the Poet. It had nothing to do with literary talent; in fact, the man driving the truck was almost completely illiterate. The nickname was in honor of the man’s ability to curse. El Poeta was a virtuoso of invective. The
jefe
once said El Poeta could curse for twenty minutes and not repeat himself once.

The road he was driving gave him plenty of inspiration. The old truck bounced and rattled over the corrugated surface, abusing El Poeta’s spine mercilessly.

“
Hijo de mil putas
!” He spat as the truck bottomed out on a particularly bad pothole. “
Me cago en la leche de tu puta madre
!” It was unclear if his rage was directed against the road, the truck, or the world in general.

Someone banged on the wall of the truck, behind El Poeta’s head. “
Parate, pinche idiota
!” he shouted back. This close to the border was no place to stop for a piss break. That’s what the buckets in the cargo area were for. If they sloshed a bit because of the bad road, that wasn’t El Poeta’s problem. This was the road he knew the Border Patrol never watched. El Poeta didn’t know if they just didn’t know about it or if some palms had been greased to make them look the other way, and he didn’t give a damn. His job was to drive the big truck to a deserted area just north of the border, hand each of the
pollos
in the back two bottles of water, point the way north, and get the hell out. It was up to them to figure it out from there. He slowed, stuck his head out the window, and squinted at the sky. It was still full dark, the stars glittering coldly above.

Suddenly, El Poeta saw headlights ahead. “
Mierda
!” he muttered. This road had always been clear before. As he drew closer, he saw two sets of lights, both belonging to large SUVs. They were side by side facing toward him, blocking the road.

Border Patrol. It could be no one else.

“
Me cago en Dios y los trescientos sesenta y cinco santos del año
!” El Poeta snarled in frustration as he pulled the truck to a stop. He briefly thought of bailing out and running for it, but he knew that would be idiotic. Even if he did manage to outrun the officers, he’d be stuck in the middle of the
pinche
scrubland with no
pinche
water and no
pinche
way home. No, he was fucked and he knew it. The headlights picked out a man dressed in a dark-green uniform and Smokey Bear hat striding toward the truck. El Poeta rolled down the window. He blinked as a flashlight was shined in his face.

The officer didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “
Fuera del carro. Manos en el aire
.” The man’s Spanish accent was terrible.

El Poeta obeyed and climbed out of the truck. He put his hands in the air, grinning in what he hoped was a placating manner.

“
En sus rodillas
,” the voice growled.

El Poeta was puzzled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Still, they had the guns. Slowly, he got down on his knees. Another uniformed man walked past him, to check out the back of the truck, El Poeta assumed. He couldn’t see the faces of the men in the glare of the flashlight, but he did see a shotgun. A third man was climbing into the truck. El Poeta heard the engine fire back up. The driver dangled an arm out the window. El Poeta could see the network of tattoos covering the exposed flesh below the short sleeve. They looked like spider webs, wrapped around the man’s forearm.

El Poeta’s forehead wrinkled. “Hey,” he said in English. “What the fuck…” it was the last thing he said before the man behind him blew off his head with the shotgun.

CHAPTER TWO

The front door swung open. A harsh blast of sunlight lit up the cool dim interior of the bar. A young woman straightened up from where she had been placing bottles in the well behind the bar. She was short and broad-shouldered, her curves accentuated by her tight T-shirt and jeans. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back beneath a paisley scarf.

“We ain’t open yet, hon,” the young woman said to the figure who stood in the doorway.

That person stepped inside and closed the door. She was a slender woman in her mid-forties. Despite the desert heat outside, she was dressed in a long-sleeved white blouse and black denim jeans. She wore black gloves on her hands, one of which rested atop a gold-handled cane.

The woman brushed a lock of her long ash-blond hair out of her eyes with her free hand. “Mind if I wait inside?” she said softly.

The bartender looked her over. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the gloves. It made her pretty face look hard. “Kind of hot to be wearing gloves, ain’t it?” she said pointedly.

“I’ve got some scars on my hands,” the woman said in the same mild tone. “I don’t like people staring.”

The look of suspicion on the bartender’s face turned to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t know. It’s just that…”

The woman in the doorway waved it off. “No problem. Someone came into my place, wearing gloves in this heat—I’d get a little suspicious, too.”

The bartender smiled. “C’mon in and have a seat. I reckon we can open early today.” The woman took a seat on a barstool and leaned her cane against the bar. The bartender extended a hand. “I’m Jules. Short for Julianne, but nobody calls me that.”

The other woman took the offered hand. “Angela.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, almost imperceptible, before Jules smiled again. “What can I get you?”

Angela scanned the beers lined up behind the bar. “Shiner Bock,” she said. “And a glass of ice water, if you’ve got it.”

“Comin’ right up,” she said.

Angela watched her as she fetched the beer and the water. She looked too young to be tending bar, especially in a rough-looking place like this, but she moved with perfect assurance,
as if she were in her own home.

“Thanks,” Angela said as the bartender put the beer in front of her. She handed over the money. “So, where’s Henry?” She gestured at the sign above the bar. WELCOME TO HENRY’S, the sign proclaimed in faded red letters in an old-timey typeface.

Jules glanced at the sign. “Henry was my dad,” she said. “He died last year. Liver cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” Angela said.

Jules shrugged, a gesture of resignation that looked too old for her. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry about.”

“Still.”

Jules smiled. “Thanks.” She bent over again and went back to setting up the bar.

After a few minutes, Angela spoke up again. “I’m looking for Jack Keller.”

Jules froze, her hand halfway to putting a rocks glass on the shelf. She finished the movement, then stood up. Angela couldn’t read the look on her face.

“So,” Jules said in a small voice, “you’re
that
Angela.”

Angela took a sip of the water before replying. “He’s mentioned me?”

Jules’s mouth twisted. “Only in his sleep.” She went back to work, but her motions now were angry, abrupt. “He ain’t here.”

“Is he working today?” Angela said.

Jules stood up. “What do you want with Jack?”

“Jack’s a friend of mine,” Angela replied, “and a friend of my husband.”

The girl looked suspicious again. “Your husband know you’re out here looking for Jack?”

Angela shook her head. “Doubtful. He disappeared about three weeks ago.”

“So he run off,” Jules said, her voice rising, “and you’re looking up your old flames?”

“Jules,” Angela’s voice was low, but it cracked like a whip. It silenced the young woman’s building tirade like shutting off a tap. “Jack’s a friend, that’s all. I’m not here to steal him away from you.”

At that moment, the door swung open again, bringing in the light and the noise of a truck roaring by on the highway.

The man who stepped inside easily topped six feet. He had gotten leaner and darker since Angela had last seen him, and the desert sun had dried and toughened him like leather. The biggest shock, however, was his hair.

“You cut all your hair off,” Angela said.

Jack Keller looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. He ran a hand over the short stubble. “It gets pretty hot around here.”

“I noticed.” There was another long silence. “Can we talk?” Angela said finally.

Keller glanced at Jules, then back at Angela. “I have to get to work,” he said. “But yeah. For a few minutes.” He gestured toward a booth near the back. Angela walked over and took a seat. Keller followed. He sat across from her, hands folded on the table. His face gave nothing away. A moment later, Jules slid into the seat next to him. She slid an arm around his broad shoulders, her eyes daring Angela to say anything. Keller looked uncomfortable for a moment, then his face returned to its former impassivity. “How’d you find me?” he asked.