The Devil's Right Hand (Jack Keller)

The Devil's Right Hand (Jack Keller)

The Devil's Right Hand is the story of Jack Keller, a man tormented by the nightmares he's had ever since a disastrous tour in Desert Storm. Destroyed by his experience, Keller now makes his living tracking bailjumpers for H&H, a North Carolina bail bonds company run by a reclusive, beautiful, and horribly scarred woman named Angela. In truth, Keller doesn't work bail enforcement to live, he lives to work: the only thing that breaks through the numbness is the thrill of the hunt, the sound of gunfire, the high that comes with each successful takedown. When H&H is required to track down a lifelong loser for jumping bail on a routine burglary collar, Keller has no idea how gravely events are about to spiral out of his control. He chases his quarry straight into the center of a firestorm involving a pair of local Indians blinded by rage and hell-bent to avenge their father's murder. Along the way they encounter a vicious North Carolina cop with a mean streak and very few moral boundaries. Not to mention the cop's beautiful partner Marie, caught between a newfound desire for the just-on-the-edge-of-the-law Jack Keller and her loyalty to a police department with a serious ethics problem. These people, each hurtling forward on their own individual trajectories of self-destruction, begin to intersect each other's lives in a series of volatile, escalating, and deadly events. Furiously paced and filled with unforgettable, masterfully drawn characters destined to meet in a bloody showdown which most of them will not survive, The Devil's Right Hand is a stylish, razor-edged debut novel that redefines the rules of the Southern thriller. *Starred Review* Rhoades slaps this supercharged crime-fiction debut into overdrive in the first paragraph and never lets up through nearly 300 pages of nonstop action. It starts with a simple armed robbery in which two dumb and dumber ex-cons, Leonard and DeWayne, set out to steal the weekly payroll from an elderly Native American who owns a construction company. It quickly goes wrong, however, and the owner is killed. Meanwhile, bounty hunter Jack Keller, a Gulf War vet with a head full of nightmares, is already tracking bail-jumper DeWayne. He'll have to hurry, though, if he hopes to find his quarry before the dead man's son, a drug dealer who is every bit as violent and considerably crazier than the killers he tracks. Throw in a couple of psycho cops with a thing about bounty hunters, and you have the narrative equivalent of a string of homemade bombs timed to explode at random along the Arkansas back roads. Like Stephen Hunter's Dirty White Boys, however, this is not simply a car-chase-with-fireworks novel; Rhoades builds his rampaging white boys from the ground up, complete with believable backstory and humanizing shots of Pulp Fiction- like humor. Keller is a definite keeper, the kind of flawed noir hero that women want to nurse, cops want to bust, and bad guys want to hurt. There's a formula at work here, of course, but Rhoades never gives us time to feel manipulated. More Keller, please, and soon. Bill Ott Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved J.D. Rhoades lives and practices law in Carthage, North Carolina, where he is at work on a follow-up to The Devil's Right Hand . CHAPTER 1 "She ain't no damn lesbian," the stocky man said. "Sure she is," the skinny one said. "Didn't you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl's throat." They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in a field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist. They had been in place since four A.M. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again. "Man, you got to be crazy," the big one said. "She was goin' with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him." "Well, there y'are, then," the skinny one said triumphantly. "Ever'one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another." "An' you believe that shit?" the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to. There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. "You sure about this now, cuz?" He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time. "Sure I'm sure," the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating