by Bob Knapp
Hanover examined the leaflet. “William Hanover for Sheriff,” it read. A brief biography was found inside, along with reasons to vote for him. Everybody in Madison County already knew all there was to know about William Hanover. Once Deputy Sheriff John Brady pulled out of the race, it was a given the elder Hanover would beat Deputy Fowlkes, an outsider.
Hanover lay on the ground, looked under the car, and let his eyes adjust to the Lincoln's shadowed underbelly. No heart attack, no stroke, no alcohol, the medical examiner had said. Only the immediate cause of death was known—his father's head had been crushed. His parents hadn't even been listening to the radio. One of those things. An accident.
A bit of orange caught Hanover's eye. Something was wedged in the undercarriage of the vehicle. Hanover couldn't reach it. He'd never get it out, anyway.
Using a leafy branch broken from a nearby tree, Hanover rubbed the dirt from the object. A cone, like those road construction crews used, was squashed tight between the car's floor and the smashed catalytic converter. Light bounced from white reflective stripes circling the cone. Black letters had been stenciled around its circumference at the base. “SON CO. SHE,” it read. The rest was on the opposite side, pressed against the car's underbelly. It was obvious enough. “Madison Co. Sheriff's Department.”
They had run over one of the cones meant to direct them away from the side. They had not seen it in time.
He lay there, thinking. This accident had made Deputy Sheriff Fowlkes into Sheriff Fowlkes. Hanover felt a fire light in his gut and spread through his body. Fowlkes made the accident happen. What made Deputy Brady pull out of the race?
5
Property
“A mighty fine soda pop you serve here, Mr. Mehrhaus.” Sheriff Fowlkes fingered a peanut from the bag he had just purchased and tossed it into his mouth. The fragrance of fried onions and hamburger filled the air.
“Drop by more often, Sheriff,” Mehrhaus said. Andy Mehrhaus was a slightly stooped, but still a vigorous seventy-eight. He was the longtime owner of “The Jug,” a country restaurant sitting on the Jug Handle of Middle Island Creek. He wiped one of the booths behind the counter stool on which Sheriff Terrance Fowlkes sat. Fowlkes, his uniform immaculate, sipped a root beer from a frosted mug.
“Yep, Fortune smiled on me,” Mehrhaus said. “The property passed to me from my uncle and father. Been in the family four generations. Long generations. Nearly everybody lived into their late eighties or nineties.”
“Must have a lot of business here?”
“Not near the same as when I was a kid. Young people used to drive out here to gawk—at the creek, that is—and picnic. And whatever else young-uns do. That’s when my grandfather decided to take advantage and built this. Used to be a dance hall back where we got the pool tables.”
Fowlkes admired the old man’s energy. Although the building sagged and needed paint, it was scrupulously clean. “Tell me, what’s so special about this creek?”
“Better’n tell ya’, I’ll show ya’. It ain’t the creek, it’s the Jug Handle that’s special.”
Mehrhaus led Fowlkes out the side door as heat from the late June morning hit them like a blast furnace. They crossed the back of the property to where the creek ran. The sparse grass rustled beneath their feet as they kicked up little puffs of dust. In spite of the haze, the sun was hot. It pulled beads of sweat from Mehrhaus’ face and head, the latter visible through nearly nonexistent hair.
Mehrhaus and Fowlkes approached a rusty fence sitting at the top of a steep embankment. The slope was covered with wilting vegetation and yellowed leaves that had dropped from the trees. Only the occasional buzz from an insect or a falling leaf broke the eerie stillness that ought to have been drowned by the churning of the creek. The silence told of life struggling against death in the arena of drought.
A few small boulders were placed by nature or man, Fowlkes could not tell which, along their side of the fence. He stepped atop one of these to gain a better view. He saw no creek at the bottom of the bank, only a rock-strewn streambed garnished with a wash of sand and gravel. He was surprised; the creek was more than one hundred feet across. A waterline ran along the bank several feet above the creek bottom. Tree roots, poking out from the far bank, grasped at air. A little pool of water in the bed, surrounded by a few puffs of green grass, mysteriously appeared downstream. Mottled shade from the sparsely leafed trees cast a scant cool air. Fowlkes’ eyes, beneath the blue sunglasses, found peace as they looked out over the scene.
Mehrhaus wagged his head. “Creek looks worse’n ever.”
He pointed a stone’s throw upstream at a decaying dam. “Used to be the creek spills over top the dam—roars over in the spring. These days there’s not been a drop since the first of May. Never seen it so dry! Hardly know what rain looks like.”
“That road go somewhere?” Fowlkes indicated the eroded tracks that ran from the dam and up the side of the hill opposite them. The road’s mate ran from Route 18 behind them and down their side of the bank to the dam.
“The road runs atop the dam. Used to be a house way up there behind that stand of trees. Ain’t no more. I kin remember from when I was just a little feller…a footbridge, strung up by ropes. It hung across the creek between those two rocks.” Two spectacular, seventy-foot-high red rocks, one on each side of the creek, guarded the spillway.
“So why is this creek called The Jug?”
“It’s really Middle Island Creek. Longest creek in West Virginia. This section is the Jug Handle, ‘cause the way that branch curves.”
Mehrhaus turned to leave, then paused. “The Jug is the restaurant.” He pointed a gnarled finger at the pinnacle of rock across the chasm. “See that groove on the top of the rock? About two, three times a year, water spills out and drops clean to the stream. We call it the “spigot.” Old-timers said that the spigot never ran until the dam was built. It’s the devil that turns the spigot on, so’s to fill the basin below the dam.”
Fowlkes laughed. “Yeah, he takes a dip to get a respite from the fires below.”
“You might have something there.” Mehrhaus was dead serious. “The two rocks. That’s the only rock that’s red anywhere 'round here, 'cept the Devil's Palm a little downstream.”
A legend to go along with the land! Fowlkes’ had to resist rubbing his palms together in anticipation. He had grown quite fond of the area when, as a young teen, he had lived in Madison County with his cousin.
“How much land you have here?” Fowlkes asked, hoping to sound casual.
In the way of an answer, Mehrhaus led Fowlkes past the side door entrance to the front of the property. A car sped down Route 18 in front of them.
“This road divides my property. The rest is on top of that.” Mehrhaus pointed across the highway at a cliff carved from the hillside by the road. The hill continued climbing precipitously beyond the crest of the bluff. “Kin you see that little house on top the hill?”
Fowlkes pulled aside his sunglasses and then replaced them. Nearly leafless trees climbed the side of the hill. A form-stone house clung to the peak between a pair of scrub pines.
“I rent that out to a miner that’s got the black lung. Breathin' too much coal dust. Name’s Crabapple, Howie Crabapple. He wanted away from the mines, far’s he could get. Can nearly see the Ohio River from up there. Highest spot in the county. Beautiful spot for a church, someday.”
Fowlkes’ mind did a little jig. This was the best day of his life! Beautiful property. Spacious. Restful. Isolated, but accessible. Not his. Not yet. But a church—never!
“Must be tired of keeping up, working every day,” Fowlkes offered. He popped another peanut into his mouth. “Ever think of selling? Let the money work for you?” He was back on the chromed counter stool.
“Nope. I ain’t gonna. Been here all my life. Besides, I got a son and a daughter that live in Morgantown. Pass it down to them—got it in my will, once old Crabapple passes on, they'll have a church built on it.”
/> “There’s something to be said for keeping the property in the family.” Fowlkes' voice was as smooth as glass, but his knuckles showed white. His eye twitched beneath his sunglasses. “Do you see your children often?”
“Spend most holidays with them. Christmas mostly.”
“You could move to Morgantown, be with your family.”
Mehrhaus stopped drying a plate and stared out the window. A car sped down the road in front of the restaurant.
“They ever come up here?” Fowlkes asked.
The old proprietor shook his head. “Naw, they’re always too busy with the city life.” He resumed his wiping, then flipped the towel over one shoulder and bent to put the dish away. A tear spilt down his cheek. Keeping his back to Fowlkes, he crouched in front of the cabinet to straighten an already neat stack of dishes. A slight sigh escaped as he stood, still facing the cupboard.
“Think about selling, Mr. Mehrhaus. I guarantee you many more people would enjoy this land if someone, like me, owned it. In fact, if it were mine, you could come here all you wanted—live here.”
Mehrhaus didn’t move. Fowlkes thought he was making some progress.
“In fact, I’ll be needing some short-order cooks. You’d be the first I’d hire,” Fowlkes said. That should convince him.
Mehrhaus still didn’t move.
Fowlkes waited before he broke the silence. “I’ll make you a reasonable offer.”
“Not a chance.” The answer came from the doorway of the adjacent dining room.
Fowlkes thought he knew the voice. He twisted in his seat to get a look. “Sounds like a certain Madison City merchant.” Michael Hanover, of all people to show up. As of late, Hanover always seemed to resent him entering his store. “How’s the store, Hanover?” Fowlkes said, suddenly aware of his pistol holstered at his elbow.
Hanover paused to look over the large boxes he was carrying. He stared squarely into Fowlkes’ face.
“Just fine, Fowlkes, just fine,” Hanover said, measuring his words. The two boxes stacked in Hanover’s hands read, “Hotdogs, twenty-six lbs.” and “Hamburgers, forty lbs.”
Turning from the sheriff, Hanover strode to the freezer that hugged the adjacent wall.
“Uncle Andy, you love it here. This is you. You make this place,” he said, while effortlessly lifting the boxes into the freezer. “Besides, don't forget, Madison First Baptist—busting at the seams. And the Middle Island Creek church down Route 18, they're interested.”
Smirking at Fowlkes, Hanover ignored the other seats and squeezed his six-foot-four frame onto the stool next to the sheriff. Though two inches taller, Hanover gave up thirty pounds to the lawman. Fowlkes held his ground and stared back.
“Those two churches want to join together—put up a new church, a camp ground for 4H Club, retreats, summer camps for the kids. Uncle Andy told them if he's ever interested in selling, he'd let them know first. So don't even bother.”
“Now Michael, I can take care of m’self. Take it easy,” Mehrhaus said. “The Sheriff hasn’t done nothing wrong. Just making a business proposition.” Mehrhaus emphasized the second syllable of “proposition.”
“I’d like a couple of hamburgers with everything, and a frosted,” Hanover said. “Got some salad? I’ll take one. I didn’t have a chance to get breakfast after my run this morning. And delivering poor old Crabapple’s order—course he talked my legs off.”
Hanover smoothed each side of his dark mustache with a forefinger. “And Fowlkes, just leave my family alone.” Fowlkes noticed that Hanover never addressed him as sheriff. “You’ve already done more than enough damage.”
“Making accusations without evidence,” Fowlkes barked, “is slander. I’ll bring charges. You can bet your bottom dollar.”
“Hah! You wouldn’t want the subject brought back up.” Hanover rose and looked down on the sheriff. “I've been to the wreck. That was no accident; you killed my parents! And I know what your motive was. With my father alive, you’d have never been elected sheriff. Now back off Uncle Andy.”
Andrew Mehrhaus turned and shook a spatula at Hanover. “Michael, Sheriff Fowlkes wouldn’t do nothing like that. Why make trouble for nothing?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Andy, but you just don’t understand this bully.”
Fowlkes looked at Hanover towering over him and fingered his Glock. “You so much as touch me and I’ll kick your butt into jail.” Fowlkes stood and faced Hanover. “Their deaths were unfortunate, but I had nothing to do with that car accident.”
“That badge and that gun might fool most folks.” Hanover said, sitting back down and taking a swig of his root beer.
“Promise you’ll call, Uncle Andy, if you even dream about selling your place.”
Fowlkes’ lips curled. “Hanover, you had better mind your own business.” Putting his hand to his eye beneath his glasses, he strode from the room. Outside he took mental note of the illegal license plate holder on Hanover’s red Buick. For some things he could be patient. For some he could not.
Fowlkes made three more visits to Andrew Mehrhaus. The new interstate road to Ohio was drawing nearer to completion. And Fowlkes’ money was drawing too little interest at the bank.
6
First Job
From the sidewalk outside Wheeling General Hospital, León spoke into a two-way radio. “I’m coming up,” he said.
Waxter didn’t answer. León wondered if he had gotten through. If Waxter was not at his post, there would be no lookout.
Going in alone doubled, no, quadrupled chances of being caught. No. No. Not the slammer, especially without Fowlkes and Waxter. If he didn't make the hit, Skeeter'd live. Then he'd be fried anyway—they all would. Waxter better be there.
Thinking of the options gave León brain chill. He rattled his head. He'd get in. He'd take him out. They'd never catch him.
León felt naked without the knife taped to his calf. In its place, two 20-milligram syringes of morphine sulfate and a tubex plunger rested snugly inside his sock. Two more syringes of morphine rode in the sock’s mate.
León walked toward the revolving glass door. A nurse in Sponge Bob Square Pants scrubs whisked out, smiling, and then glanced away as he caught her eye. Evidently, she had been looking at him through the glass. He noticed his own reflection as he pushed the door and admired his new short haircut. Yep. Probably a woman who had become a nurse so she could marry a tall dark handsome doctor. He adjusted his tie, then, escaping the heat of another stifling night, passed into the foyer.
León's eyes searched the lobby. A guard, with his legs crossed, leaned with his back against the reception counter. The badge on his sport jacket said, “Alfred Smith, Tennyson Security Services.” He stared at León and stepped toward him.
A chill, starting in his scalp, swept down León. Just my luck. Must be a slow night. Gonna use me to create a little excitement. The image of prison bars pressed their way into his vision. Can't lose my nerve, not now.
The man was big. A pistol jutted from a holster hanging from a belt festooned with other paraphernalia.
Not breaking stride, León smiled and waved at the guard, “How you doing, Al?”
The guard nodded as if in recognition, stopped, hands on hips, and watched León walk by.
Thank goodness Tennyson hires nobody but the best and brightest.
* * *
Waxter paced nervously outside the prisoner’s hospital door. His deputy’s uniform shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, revealed tufts of black hair. He heard the elevator bell ding and stole a glance down the hall, then pretended to not see León step into the hall. He couldn't bear for Skeeter to die. As León walked toward the room, Waxter turned his back and dabbed a handkerchief under his collar and over his face, then tightened his necktie, not bothering to button the shirt collar.
A custodian mopped the other end of the hallway. No nurses were in sight.
Waxter saw a bronzed hand with a jeweled ring encircle the doorknob of 417. He put his own thick sweaty ha
nd on top of the hand. “You can’t go in. Skeeter’s my prisoner,” Waxter said. He suddenly realized how much Skeeter meant to him.
León continued to turn the knob. “How often the nurses go in there?”
Waxter nodded his head toward the custodian before speaking loudly to León. “Let me see some ID. Turn around and hold your arms out.”
León smirked and nodded toward the engraved nameplate pinned to his suit's lapel before Waxter made a big show of patting him down. The custodian never looked up.
Waxter sighed with relief. There was no knife taped to León’s calf. Then his hand caressed a strange object. “What’s that?”
León glared. “Just tell me about the nurses’ schedule,” he said from the corner of his mouth.
“I dunno.”
“How often, fool?” León growled.
“About every hour, maybe,” whined Waxter, rising to his feet. “She was here a few minutes ago.”
“I’m going in. Get out of my way. See to it that nobody, nobody, comes in here. Tell them he’s getting examined or something. And button that collar.”
Tears made their way to the corners of Waxter's eyes. “Don’t hurt him.” Skeeter seemed like a brother.
* * *
The room had the same hygienic disinfectant smell of the corridor, but there was something more—the odor of drugs, of body wastes—of death. The window curtain had been pulled against the glare of the new summer sun, giving the white walls of the room a somber, greyish cast. Yet there was enough light to cast dark shadows. Half the face in the bed was lime white, the shadowed half was coal black, like the masks on the playhouse facade León had seen in New Orleans.
Skeeter Hollins lay on his back with an oxygen tube at his nose and a drip-line in his arm. There was an array of other tubes, but León could not figure out their purposes. An apparatus with a monitor screen registered Skeeter’s condition and the status of the administrations. From his stay in the prison hospital, León knew that an alarm would sound at the nurse’s station if anything went wrong: a cessation of his breathing, a drop in blood pressure, an irregular heartbeat —anything.
