The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Fowlkes proceeded to pat down the two with one hand, gripping his pistol in the other. He grunted with satisfaction upon finding a knife sheathed to León’s lower leg.

  León’s lips quivered into a snarl. “You coward! If it wasn’t for that gun, I’d be making mincemeat.”

  Fowlkes smiled pleasantly. “I’d love to give you that chance. We'll see how things work out.”

  “Skeeter’s gonna die!” Tears streamed down Waxter’s face.

  “I told you not to bring him,” León said. “So, shut up. If you're not sweating, you're crying,” Everything came out of Waxter in buckets—sweat, oil— now tears.

  “Yep. That’s a risk in your line of work.” Fowlkes stood up. He was nearly a head taller than León.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, I must call an ambulance. Either for the Sistersville General Hospital or for the morgue, not yet sure which. We'll know by the time they get here. But first...”

  Fowlkes' lips curled back. He yanked open a closet door and, grabbing León by the back of the neck, shoved him toward the opening. “I’m locking you guys up —and keep your mouths shut.”

  Twisting, León thrust his leg back at Fowlkes, grazing Fowlkes’ thigh. “Don’t push me!” León said.

  Fowlkes' return kick landed on León’s buttocks, sending him flying headfirst into the closet. Fowlkes looked at Waxter and gestured with his head. “In there.”

  Waxter flinched as he walked by Fowlkes.

  “Now boys, behave yourselves. I’ll be back with some gags. I’m taking no chances.” Fowlkes laughed and locked the door.

  * * *

  Skeeter stopped moaning. His eyes were wide with pain and fright. His side felt like it had a hot poker in it.

  He realized he was alone. He heard Fowlkes locking León and Waxter in a closet in a room farther away. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and saw that blood ran from his wound down his leg to the floor. He had to get out.

  In a crouch he dragged himself down the hall, his right hand pressed to the wound in his left side. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Twice he staggered and caught himself on the wall, leaving a bloody handprint on the fancy wallpaper. At the foot of the back door, he collapsed face down.

  * * *

  Fowlkes entered his bedroom, found his phone and called the ambulance for Skeeter, then went to check on him. He had to show the community that he cared. Besides, he had to get him out of the house.

  Fowlkes let out an oath. A trail of blood snaked down his hallway carpet. His Arc de Triomphe wallpaper was bloodied. Why didn’t the kid die? ...Okay, let him escape. If he did, it would look like he was the sole perpetrator of the break-in. That could be an advantage.

  Reaching Skeeter, he cursed again. A small pool of blood was forming next to the body. That’s how Fowlkes saw him—‘the body’. The body’s chest moved imperceptibly.

  Fowlkes had second thoughts. If this kid dies, he can't snitch. Better make him dead. Fowlkes pointed his Glock…

  3

  Agreement

  “Stay away from me, Chet.” León breathed through his sleeve to filter out Waxter’s odor.

  The sound of a gunshot pierced the closet.

  “Unh!” Waxter grunted. “Holy Cow, that must have been Skeeter.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t y-”

  The door was unlocked and jerked open.

  “I told you guys to keep it quiet! The EMT’s will be here any minute. Turn around and face the back of the closet.”

  In quick succession, Fowlkes plastered León and Waxter's mouths shut with duct tape, then closed and locked the door.

  The shriek from a siren made its way into the closet. Within minutes they heard door chimes, then voices and the sounds of a moving gurney. Finally, came the roar of the departing ambulance. After that, silence.

  Footsteps approached the closet door. A key turned in the lock and the door opened. Fowlkes aimed his Glock. León held his breath.

  “We’ll talk in my office,” Fowlkes said. He pointed his pistol toward a doorway.

  The room held a huge mahogany desk with matching chairs, two lounge chairs and a sofa. Outside, the sky, seen through a large window that overlooked a hillside, was brightening.

  Fowlkes waved them toward some straight chairs facing his desk. Their cuffed hands forced them to sit leaning forward. Fowlkes ripped their gags from their faces and laughed. The intruders tried to rub their faces on their shoulders, but couldn’t reach them.

  “Gentlemen, would you care to rest?” Fowlkes said, putting a lilt into his voice. Then, in a serious tone, “That tape can have a nasty taste. Maybe a little liquid refreshment to wash it away? A Pepsi? Or maybe champagne is more to your taste.”

  León clamped his jaw shut and ground his teeth. I’ll have a double, he said to himself, half in truth, half as a retaliatory remark. He wanted to say it aloud, but he wanted to live, too.

  Fowlkes sat facing them on the front corner of the desk with one leg planted on the floor. He laid his gun next to him. “We don’t have much time. The State Police will be here soon.”

  Ahh, rescue! No! León stifled his smile. What am I thinking?

  The edge of Fowlkes' mouth turned up. “You think I outsmarted myself, huh? Maybe get me arrested. Since this crime was at my house, I had to call them. I can't investigate at my own house.” His eyebrows rose above the rim of his sunglasses along with the movement of his hands. “Who they gonna believe, you or me? Anyway, listen to me before you mouth off to the troopers.”

  “Skeeter! Why’d you shoot him?” Waxter blurted out.

  Fowlkes’ eye twitched. “Never mind that. Now let’s talk.” He leaned back, opened a top desk drawer, and withdrew a small cellophane bag.

  “We heard the shot,” Waxter said.

  In reply, Fowlkes glared through his glasses until Waxter turned his head.

  “Now, like I said, I can’t find the kind of help that I need around here.” Fowlkes shook something from the bag into his palm. “You gents just might do.”

  Waxter’s mouth flew open. “You’re not going to shoot us? I...I mean arrest us?”

  “If you prefer, either would be easier than what I have in mind.” Fowlkes popped a peanut from his palm into his mouth. “Either of you care for a peanut?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “But there are things that I need done, and the pay’s good.”

  “And if we’re not interested?” León was skeptical.

  “I could shoot you and say that I discovered you hiding in my house after Skeeter had been taken away. Or arrest you for breaking and entering—and if the kid dies, you swing, from a noose.”

  The idea of someone with a badge telling him what to do revolted León. For now, he had no choice but to agree. “What kind of work?” he asked.

  “And the pay?” Waxter added. He rolled his shoulders and head and rotated his arms, pulling on his wrists. “These cuffs are killing me. How about taking them off?”

  “You’d be doing things similar to what you're doing now, and, ha, ha, enforcing the law, Fowlkes’ Law.

  “And the pay. About $30,000 per year as a deputy sheriff. We’ll draw up some background papers for you.”

  “That must be the ‘easy money’, ‘cause it isn’t good,” León said.

  Fowlkes continued, “Plus whatever you pick up on the side.”

  “Doin’ what on the side?” León asked.

  “Like I said. What you do.”

  “I’m a crook.”

  “And bonuses, for special tasks. I’ll steer any accusation of wrong-doing away from you, unless you bungle things so badly nothing I do could protect you.”

  “Deputy Sheriff!” Waxter shook his head. “That's unreal.”

  “Of course,” Fowlkes said, pointing at Waxter, “you can’t work for me as a deputy, smelling—and looking, like that.”

  “No use,” muttered Waxter, hanging his head. “I can’t help it. My mother—she tried. My body puts out all this sweat. I take a bath every da
y.”

  Fowlkes and León stared.

  “Almost every day...every week anyhow.” A fresh wave of perspiration ran from beneath Waxter’s arms. He looked at the rug beneath his feet and mumbled, “Everyday. I could.”

  León felt uneasy. He looked directly at Fowlkes. “Sounds like you got some nasty things for us to do, while you remain behind the scenes.” León’s mustache drooped with his frown. “We do the dirty work, we take the fall whenever you decide, maybe one day you even get credit for arresting us.”

  Fowlkes picked up his Glock and sighted along the barrel at León.

  León stared at the sheriff's finger wavering on the trigger, but didn't flinch. He felt his hands shackled behind him go sweaty. He'd die before letting a cop know he was scared. It was just a ploy; the cop wanted them.

  “Yes. Maybe you’re right,” Fowlkes said. “So what?”

  “I have to know more. What’s this all about?”

  Fowlkes took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m building a casino. In Madison County—in all of West Virginia—they’re illegal. Might take some extra work.” He sighted along the barrel and curled and uncurled his finger adjacent to the pistol’s trigger, as if he was pulling it.

  León still didn’t flinch.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “If I agree, what if I change my mind later?” León said. ‘Building a casino.’ A sheriff, building a casino, sounds nuts. And here? Who's gonna come? he thought.

  “The new Interstate 68 extension will come right by here.” It was like Fowlkes had read León’s mind. “Lots of travelers, vacationers, with money.”

  León blinked. Maybe Fowlkes wasn’t so dumb, or so bad. Before, when anybody had thought about employing him, they had looked at his dark skin and thought ‘laborer.’ He loved his profession. This might be like a promotion. Later, maybe he could work in the casino.

  He thought he heard a siren. State troopers were coming. Or maybe the ambulance became hurried as Skeeter struggled to live. No, by now it was too far away to hear; it was the troopers.

  “You won’t change your mind, either of you. You’re going to like this job. Besides, as the saying goes, ‘You can run, but you can’t hide’.” Fowlkes attempted a smile, but clenched his empty hand. His eye fluttered.

  No big deal, León thought. The law is after me anyway.

  The siren was louder. León was sure it was from a rapidly moving police car; too many of them had made him hurry a job. It would arrive in minutes.

  Fowlkes pointed the pistol at León, then Waxter, León then Waxter, rocking side to side with the fading in and out of the siren.

  León kept his cool. The possibilities ran through his mind. Escape—that was unlikely. Refuse Fowlkes—he would shoot them—or arrest them. Take his deal—he still might shoot them—or have them arrested later.

  But if Fowlkes arrested them—he had to know they’d snitch on him.

  “And if Skeeter isn’t dead, how we gonna keep him quiet?” León said. “He’s not going to take the rap himself.”

  The siren was now moving up a side street. Fowlkes stood up in response, bringing the gun to rest under León’s heart.

  And how would Fowlkes keep them all quiet? Shoot them. León had to get out of this. He didn’t trust Fowlkes.

  “Sometimes hospital-care isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Fowlkes struck a thoughtful pose. “Where else do more people die? Too much painkiller. Yes, Señor,” he nodded at León, “your first special assignment—his medical insurance company’s doctor. And Deputy Sheriff Crud-ball here, sent to the hospital to guard our prisoner, will make it a piece of cake.”

  “But, but…” Waxter licked his lips. “You can't. Maybe Skeeter could be uh, your distant cousin. And, and he…”

  Half of Fowlkes' face smiled, waiting for Waxter, looking like it was waiting for the punch line to a bad joke.

  “…Arrived late at night for a visit. And didn’t want to get you up, so he slipped in, you thought him to be a prowler—and accidentally shot him.” Waxter raised his eyebrows, seeking an affirmative answer. “And he can be very useful.”

  León laughed. Crazy Waxter. The punch line was hilarious.

  “I've decided—he's not going to talk,” Fowlkes snarled.

  Through the window, León saw a patrol car’s red and blue lights flashing on the trees and fence.

  “So you working or dying?” Fowlkes tensed, ready for action. León saw Fowlkes’ finger wrap around the pistol trigger.

  “Just get me out of these cuffs,” Waxter whined.

  “No! An answer.”

  Behind the blue sunglasses, in the eyes, in the twitching eye, León saw the look of a killer. “Our first assignment sounds interesting,” said León.

  Fowlkes produced the handcuff keys.

  4

  Discovery

  A grey Tahoe slowed to a stop while holding tight to the guardrail that was meant to keep motorists from plunging down the long slope. After a time the driver's door finally swung open. Michael Hanover stepped from his vehicle, put his binoculars to his eyes, and looked out from the edge of the road, forcing his eyes to search the valley below.

  The bright June sky and the beautiful surroundings did not match the feelings he had inside. The setting only reminded him of how drastically, no, tragically, life had changed.

  At first he saw only tops of trees. Then he made it out. A car, missing its two right wheels, leaned against a tree more than three hundred feet below him. His heart beat crazily. He stepped near the brink, and then felt the tug, like from a giant hand, that could hurl him down hundreds of feet through the space of the ravine. He teetered on the edge, before stepping back.

  Hanover shuddered. The image of his parents' Town Car sailing out into space, plunging and rolling down the cliff, loomed before his eyes. His head swam. Then the vision sharpened: his mother's mouth was wide open in a silent scream, her arms thrust onto the dashboard, her knees locked, her feet jammed against the floorboard. His father's knuckles, in their death grip on the steering wheel, were as white as his hair. For a moment, Hanover almost surrendered to the giant hand's pull.

  Since his parents' deaths, the “why?” had nagged him. Something wasn't right.

  Why, on that night, on a road they had used hundreds of times, had this happened? No rain. No fog. It had been dry for weeks. Yes, Route 18 was narrow, lonely, poorly marked, with sides that dropped to nothingness. Admittedly, the road struck at you with blind curves and steep hills and valleys.

  But his father was a careful driver. More than that, he was a defensive driver.

  Just an accident, the then Deputy Terrance Fowlkes had said. It only takes one, one lapse, one distraction. It happens all the time. People travel the same road for years and then they are gone.

  Hanover admitted he had become edgy; he had quarreled with his wife, Becky, and had yelled at his customers. For more than a month a voice said: Go, look at the scene—look at the car. His answer: First, learn to run the Hanover Store—his parents' store. He would go when he had time.

  It was a lie. He had helped in the store ever since he had learned to count. What was he avoiding? Not the cliff.

  He looked down past the edge of the road, at the long drop-off. Except for seeing Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger when he was a kid, he had no idea how to climb. If I fall, I fall. If I die, I die.

  He tied his rope to the mangled guardrail. It would help him down the first 100 feet of drop-off. He felt the pull again. Just close my eyes and throw myself over the side. Join my folks. Unexpected tears came as he thought of the pain it would inflict on Becky. She had loved life in D.C. and their big home on the water in Deal, Maryland. But after the telephone call, he came home to West Virginia. Becky was still adjusting as the wife of a small town grocer.

  If I fall, I fall. If I die, I die. Then again, a modicum of safety wouldn't hurt. He tied the other end of the rope around his waist.

  Pulling on a pair of leatherwork gloves,
he tested the rope, and then stepped over the nearly flattened rail. A tinge of anxiety coursed down his spine, causing his mind's eye to flash back to third down and thirty yards to go. He discarded the useless emotion.

  He then lowered himself down the cliff, hand-over-hand, feet braced against its side. Stones and gravel, loosened by his boots, dropped into space, eerily silent until they rattled below, some clanging against the car. Reaching a less severe incline, the rocks bounced until they lost themselves in the heavy brush near the bottom.

  The rope was long enough for Hanover to reach the slope where some traction became possible. He untied the rope from his waist and backed down on all fours, frequently skidding on the loose gravel and dirt. Upon reaching scrub, he clung to branches, and when the slope became less severe, he walked, but not without limping. The doctors said they had done all they could for his knee.

  Reaching the wreck, Hanover saw that the point of impact had been the driver's door, crushed a foot into the passenger compartment. The tree had kept the car from rolling to the bottom, or at least to the next tree. The front passenger door, dented and scraped where it had been pried open to extricate the car's occupants, leaned at a crazy angle and rested against the front fender. Miraculously, the magnetic sign reading, “Hanover for Madison County Sheriff,” still clung to the door panel. The roof had been smashed in a good six inches. The engine compartment, what little was left of it, was empty. The engine and the hood were fifty feet away at the bottom of the ravine.

  Peering inside the car, Hanover saw large brown stains on the seats, dashboard and floor. He cursed, then asked his mother's forgiveness.

  Scattered inside the car were sheets of paper and leaflets. Those near the open front door were yellow and faded from the sun.

  Hanover hauled on the rear door, trying to get at the pamphlets scattered across the rear seat and floor. The door wouldn't budge. He crawled into the front, avoiding the brown stains, while reaching for the less-damaged leaflets in back. Inescapably, he knelt on a stain as he stretched and retrieved leaflets from the rear seat.

  He shuddered as he realized that he had placed his bare hand on a stain. He couldn't explain his reaction. A little blood here, a little blood there. In football, it had been a way of life.