Good Day In Hell. J.D. Rhoades

English. “He break my fucking nose!”

      Keller and Sanchez looked at each other. “You said he didn’t speak English,” Sanchez said.

      “Outdated information, I guess,” Keller replied. He opened the handcuffs with one hand. “On your feet, Manuel,” he said. “We’ll get you a doctor at the police station.”

      “I sue you, son of a bitch!” Manuel said as he staggered to his feet. “I sue your ass off!”

      “We’ll make an American out of you yet,” Keller said as he put the cuffs on.

      It was being alone in the car that Marie found hardest to get used to. In the city, the usual practice had been to pair up officers for patrols. There had at least been another presence in the car, another voice besides the ones on the radio, even if some of the conversations with her male colleagues had left her gritting her teeth. But the county sheriff didn’t have that kind of manpower, and they had a lot more ground to cover out in the county, so deputies rode alone.

      Not that that many people were talking to me by the time I left, she thought bitterly. Not only had she lost her partner, she had had the bad grace to testify to the truth: that Eddie Wesson’s death was due to his own bad judgment. After that, conversations stopped when she walked into the room. She was assigned desk work, since no one would agree to ride with her. After two months of that, she had applied for the job with the county. A large number of deputies had signed up for the National Guard to supplement their meager pay. When the Second Gulf War came, the local guard unit was among the first called up and the sheriff suddenly faced the prospect of nearly a dozen deputies being sent to Iraq to guard convoys instead of patrolling the highways and back roads of the county. The department couldn’t afford to be picky.

      “Thirty-five, County,” the radio crackled.

      Marie picked up the mike. “Go ahead, County.” “Proceed to the Citgo gas station at 4500 Thurlow Church Road. Possible 10-62.”

      It took Marie a second to recall the unusual code.

      Then she got it. “Say again, County?”

      The dispatcher’s voice remained as flat and unexcited as a computer’s. “Possible 10-62, 4500 Thurlow Church Road. Be advised, EMS and detectives en route.” Marie’s heart raced. 10-62. Homicide. She kept her voice steady as she replied, “10-4.” She hit the switch for the lights and siren and stepped on the gas.

      “I ain’t sure I like this, Laurel,” Roy said. His accent had thickened with his agitation. “We had a plan. We ought to stick to it.”

      They had driven the few miles through the country to the on-ramp for Interstate 95. They turned south and were quickly caught up in the flow of traffic. Roy turned the radio on low.

      “Relax, Roy,” Laurel said. “We just got started a little sooner than we planned. But we was about ready anyway. Besides, look at how much more walkin’ around money we got this way.” She fanned the wad of bills in her hand at him. She looked back at Stan in the backseat. “Thanks, Stan,” she grinned.

      Stan felt unreal, as if he were dreaming. The adrenaline shock was wearing off, and he was beginning to shake. “Uh, no problem,” he said.

      “Hey, kid,” Roy called back to him from the driver’s seat of the Mustang. “How come your old man had so much cash lying around?”

      “He wasn’t my old man,” Stan said automatically.

      Roy shrugged. “Whatever.”

      “He has … had … a system. If you paid cash, he’d give you a big discount on mechanical work. ‘Cause he didn’t have to claim it for taxes.”

      Laurel pulled her face into an exaggerated expression of disapproval and clucked her tongue. “People got no respect for the law these days.” She and Roy laughed. Then her face turned serious. “And he kept it at the station because he didn’t want your mama to know about it?”

      Stan nodded.

      “You didn’t tell your own mama?” Roy said. Laurel got that scary hard look again. “You know why, Roy,” she said. She looked back at Stan. “But you ain’t got to be afraid anymore,” she said.

      Stan didn’t know what to say to that. The fact was, he was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life. He felt as if he had just taken a running leap out the door of an airplane without checking to see if he had a parachute. They drove for a while in silence. After a few miles, they took the off-ramp for U.S. 74. They headed east.

      “Umm … where are we going?” Stan said.

      “Back to my place,” Roy answered. “I was just up to Fayetteville to pick up a few, ah, supplies from someone I know. We’ll stop by my house and get the rest of what we need, then head out tomorrow night.” They took a side road.

      “Head out where?” Stan asked.

      “Turn this song up, Roy,” Laurel interrupted. “I like this one.” She didn’t wait, but reached over and turned the radio up full, drowning out Stan’s repeated question. The crunch of an electric guitar playing a chugging rhythm filled the car.

      Move in, Can’t you see she wants you

      She has you deep in her eyes

      You been wond’rin’ why she haunts you,

      Beauty in the devil’s disguise …

      Roy slowed the Mustang down. They were approaching a dirt road that came out of a break in the trees lining the side of the road. Roy pulled in, the car bumping over the rutted track as they passed through the line of trees.

      She can tell you all about it

      She sees it in the stars

      She’ll burn you if you try to put her down

      Oh well it’s been a good day in Hell,

      And tomorrow I’ll be glory bound…

      There was a white van parked back in a clearing a couple of hundred feet off the hard road. Roy pulled the Mustang up beside it. Laurel started singing along with the Eagles:

      In that big book of names I wanna go down in flames

      Seein’s how I’m goin down

      Oh well it’s been a good day in Hell,

      And tomorrow I’ll be glory bound …

      Roy killed the engine and the song died with it. “Come on, kid,” he said as he and Laurel got out. As Stan clambered out of the passenger side, he noticed the ignition lock broken off and dangling by its wires from the steering column. Roy patted the fender longingly. “Too bad,” he said. “I kinda like these.”

      “We been over that, Roy,” Laurel said. “Too flashy to keep for long. This one’s gonna be on someone’s hot sheet by now.”

      Roy sighed. “I know,” he said. “I’m just sayin’.” He opened the trunk. Stan looked inside. There were a number of long objects wrapped in blankets inside. Roy pulled one of the blankets aside slightly to reveal the black metal of a rifle beneath. His smile was very white in the gloom. “Military issue,” he said. “Can’t hardly get ‘em, even on the street.”

      Stan’s mouth was dry. “Then how—”

      “I know a guy at Fort Bragg,” he said. “Funny thing. Once they put the inventory on the computer, it got real easy for a guy who wanted to make some extra dough to make stuff disappear.” He pulled a rifle out of one of the blankets, cocked it expertly and raised it to his shoulder. He scanned the trees, looking through the sights, before pulling the trigger. There was the solid click of a dry-fire.

      “Bang,” Roy said softly. Laurel started singing softly to herself. “Tomorrow I’ll be glory booooouund …”

CHAPTER