The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Lying with his face to the fence he noted an iron post that had rusted heavily where it met the ground. He pulled himself up and shook the fence back-and-forth until the post broke, then pulled the post out of the fence. Using the post, he leveraged the rock up and groped beneath it with numb fingers until he found the key.

  The restaurant had not been completely winterized. There was running water, but the water heater had been turned off. The thermostat for the floor furnace had been set at fifty-five degrees to keep pipes from freezing, making the building far warmer than the dropping temperatures and wind that he had been enduring.

  Hanover drank greedily directly from the faucet before filling a glass twice and slugging down the water. He found a towel, dried the glass, returned it to its shelf, wiped down the sink, refolded the towel and put it back on its rack. He looked around the room. Fowlkes would notice if he left anything amiss.

  He turned out the one small light he had allowed himself.

  Sleep was uppermost in his mind. He hoisted himself upstairs to Uncle Andy's cramped living quarters, allowing the moonlight filtering through the windows to guide him. Automatically, from habit learned long ago, he ducked to avoid rapping his head against the low ceiling. He stared at the old iron bed, with its bare sagging mattress, crammed against the wall. He shook, but thought it more from anticipation of sleep than from cold. On his knees, he gradually nudged a large flat box from beneath the bed and withdrew from it his great grandmother's quilt and some blankets. He took care to return the box to its former place, but had second thoughts.

  He pulled the box back out, pushed the covers under the bed, crawled under after them and pulled the box behind him into its place. He checked to make sure his Smith & Wesson was handy and rolled the covers around him. He sank down, down, down into the soft blackness, not yet reaching the bottom when he felt himself being pulled back up by the sound of running water. Where was he?

  A pipe shuddered and the water stopped. He forced his eyes open. The soft blackness was replaced by hard beams of moonlight piercing windows and shattering themselves against the floor and walls. He was not at home; he was . . . “Oh, no!”

  His ears strained against the stillness and heard what seemed an echo from a grave. Hanover closed his hand around the cold steel of his gun and curled into a fetal position to pull his feet and head behind the box.

  Suddenly, he again was assaulted by the sound of water raging against the confines of its pipes, fall and dash itself to bits in the bottom of the restaurant's big steel sink, then gurgle in a glass. Pipes clattered against their anchors as the water stopped.

  The house now held its peace—a truce. Hanover's every nerve and muscle seemed to end at the tip of his trigger finger. The pistol grip was coated in sweat.

  The sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairway broke the silence. The rail creaked once. He could hear breaths, like the chugs of a locomotive, heavier as they neared the top of the staircase. Feet on tiptoes, in boots for sure, pounded toward him, making the floor settle a little lower with each step. The boots stopped by the bed next to Hanover's feet. A toe scraped against the wooden floor as a bending knee clicked then thudded down, all accompanied by a grunt from deep within a large belly. Then the heel of a hand shifted the floor so that the floor nearest Hanover's head sunk.

  More grunting accompanied the distinct sound of metal striking and then scraping wood—a gun! Hanover dared not breathe. He could hear and feel the box jarred as the gun barrel jabbed the other side of the cardboard box. Then the sounds reversed themselves and Hanover took an easy breath. An acrid body odor attacked his nostrils and throat. Hanover clamped a hand over his nose and mouth to suppress a cough.

  It was Waxter!

  Hanover relaxed his grip on his gun. The former blackness crept over and through him. He never heard Waxter's retreat down the steps or the cruiser crunching the gravel on the lot.

  Fowlkes put his arm around her. “Don't worry, Becky, we'll get your husband before he can hurt you.”

  “Mikey. Mikey.” A white convertible came around the bend then passed into the clouds.

  34

  The Hunter at The Devil's Palm

  The sun beamed through the lone bedroom window, bounced off its walls and played its rays under the old bed. Hanover turned groggily and pulled the covers up over his head to block the light. Full consciousness crept upon him, then shot a white-hot knife to his core—he was a fugitive. He started to sit up but struck his head on the bedspring overhead. He fell back and groaned while his stomach complained about having been neglected.

  After crawling out from under the bed, Hanover crept from window to window, checking outside for company. Thankfully, he had none. Downstairs, a water glass from his overnight visitor sat on the counter next to the big stainless steel sink, proving it had been Waxter. Fowlkes would have washed and put away the glass.

  Hanover searched for food. He opened one cabinet door and then another. Not even a bag of chips had been left from the picnic. There must be some food in a restaurant. He had shelved hundreds of boxes and cans here himself.

  Fowlkes had wiped it out. The refrigerator had been unplugged and its door left open to prevent the growth of mold.

  Hanover's eyes swept over the candy jars lined up along the counter—empty. A monocled Mr. Peanut with top hat and cane winked at him from the side of the jar with the red metal lid.

  Hanover trotted to the counter and yanked the lid from the jar. More than a dozen cellophane bags with Mr. Peanut's portrait on them nestled inside, waiting for Fowlkes to visit. Hanover snatched a bag from the jar, tore it open, tilted his head back and shook peanuts into his mouth. The memory of a bag blowing along the road next to Uncle Andy's body flushed him with anger. Hanover put as many bags in his pockets as they would hold, nine bags in all. Fowlkes would know he had been there—but then again maybe Deputy Waxter would bear the brunt of Fowlkes’ ire.

  Hanover sat on one of the chrome-trimmed stools while he chewed peanuts and reconsidered a compelling option: leave Madison County. The reasons flooded over him. First, Fowlkes feared the involvement of other law enforcement agencies and would not report him. Secondly, his marriage to Becky might very well be over. Thirdly, he would be free of the struggle to save Madison from Fowlkes. Was there any good reason not to start a new life, say in Baltimore? Let this all go?

  He could have swum across the Ohio River—hah, just driven Waxter's squad car across the bridge at New Martinsville ten miles away—if he could have outraced them. But he hadn't because he was a Madisonian through and through. The imprint of the hills and river and her people went deep. He was programmed for a small town and a girl like Candy. His breathing quickened at the thought of her, followed by a wash of guilt.

  He bent his mind back to the task at hand. He would become the hunter instead of the hunted. The Jug Restaurant would serve as his trap.

  Except for the Planters Peanuts jar, he left everything as he had found it and limped outside, across the gravel lot and through the trees to the Devil's Palm, where he could not be seen, but where he could hear anyone who arrived.

  The sun's rays and the red rock's smooth hollow bathed Hanover in warmth. He listened drowsily to cars careen along Route18 and waited for the one that would slow, then turn and crunch the gravel on the lot. The one that carried the person who could set him free. He checked and rechecked his pistol. It was fully loaded—nine rounds.

  Finally, there came the sound of car tires on gravel. Pistol in hand, Hanover slipped quickly from tree to tree toward The Jug.

  Impatient pounding on the restaurant's door resounded through the woods. “Mikey. Mikey, are you in there?” It was Candy! Hanover threw caution aside. He put the gun back into his pocket and ran for The Jug, all fatigue now gone.

  He turned the corner. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen—Candy—in a big grey sweatshirt and jeans. Nothing could hide that figure. And her face—more than gorgeous. But what made her fabulous was t
hat she had come. “Candy!” Beautiful inside and out.

  She wheeled and ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, but quickly stepped back, embarrassed. “I'm sorry. I've been so worried. I've looked all over. I thought you'd come here. I've been up and down this road. There's talk of bounty hunters coming from all over. You know Fowlkes offered . . . .”

  “Dead or alive,” Michael interrupted. “Preferably dead. You look wonderful.” The touch of her warm embrace still lingered. He became aware that his face was dirty and ragged with four days' growth of beard. Dust covered his clothing. And his hair—it had to be wild and filthy. The knees of his pants were coated with dirt and blood. Scratches covered every spot of exposed skin.

  “I want to get you out of here before something happens.” Tears filled Candy's eyes as she looked into his face. “Oh, Mikey.” She held him to her. Her hair caressed his face, its sweet scent intoxicating him.

  He wondered how she could stand to get near him.

  “Get in my car,” she said.

  “Oh, no.” He laughed. “I did that once before.” She helped him relax; he could jest.

  She didn't smile. “I'll take you any place you want to go. Any place you want to hide out, live for a while.”

  He knew she meant it. His heart ached. He led her away from the building to the woods. “Hurry, before we're seen. They keep checking for me.” It was bad enough to have her car sitting there. “Madison is home. I want to stay. To do that, I have to get this business with Fowlkes straightened out.”

  “How? Everybody's after you.” Her brows knit while her eyes searched his face for answers. “I'll help any way I can.”

  They had reached the Devil's Palm. “No. It's too dangerous,” Michael said. “Come back tomorrow, and if you see the sheriff's or a deputy's car, just keep on going. Otherwise, meet me at nine o'clock right here. I'll need transportation. And could I borrow your watch?” He grinned self-consciously.

  “Please, there must be something else.” She took the watch from her wrist and handed it to him. “You must be starved.”

  Michael laughed and pulled several bags of peanuts from his pocket. Impulsively, cupping her hand between his and relishing its soft warmth, he pressed a bag into her hand. “Bet you haven't eaten, either. There are lots more of these. It'll tide you over.” He gazed into her eyes, wanting to give her much more than peanuts, wanting to share everything he had. Instead, he said, “Fowlkes’.”

  “I didn't eat, but I wasn't even hungry,” she said. She clutched the bag to her like a keepsake while they walked back to the edge of the woods. They hugged once more, their arms lingering in a reluctant goodbye. His eyes held hers as she turned to go.

  His wife had scarcely touched him.

  * * *

  How often Sheriff Fowlkes or his deputies came to The Jug to look for him, Hanover did not know, but he needed to talk with Waxter. Alone. The deputy was Fowlkes’ Achilles heel. He should have worked with Waxter long ago.

  He guessed the lawmen were overdue, unless Fowlkes had decided they would never find him at The Jug. He hoped the next visit would be Waxter's. If it was someone else, his misery would be prolonged.

  Hearing a car, Hanover stood, and through the trees caught glimpses of a Madison Sheriff's cruiser. He quickly hobbled to the edge of the thicket in time to see the car turn onto the lot. Waxter was driving!

  The deputy parked next to the restaurant door, stepped out, took a quick look around outside, then unlocked and entered the building. Hanover, with his pistol in hand and crouching low, jogged to the building. He hugged the walls and ducked below windows until he reached the car to crouch behind it and wait.

  Hanover regarded the building's weathered exterior and wondered how much longer it could hold up. As far back as he could remember it had looked that way. Aged, it had become ageless.

  A knee complained from the press of gravel and he alternated his legs' positions. Waxter must be helping himself to the remaining peanuts or taking a nap. Hanover quelled thoughts of rushing inside. If someone else arrived, he would be trapped.

  The restaurant door opened. Hanover waited until he heard the jangle of keys and then rose. He choked back a wave of pity as he regarded Waxter's broad sweaty back. The deputy had holstered his pistol and now jangled a ring of keys as he sought to lock the restaurant door.

  Hanover sprang forward and pushed the barrel of his own pistol into Waxter's back. Waxter started.

  “Deja vu, Deputy Waxter,” Hanover said. “Hands up.”

  Waxter held up his hands while Hanover relieved him of his service pistol.

  “D . . . d . . . don't shoot,” Waxter said.

  “You can put your hands down, then turn around,” Hanover said. “We'll take a little walk toward the woods.” He shoved Waxter's gun in his back pocket and grabbed the deputy's trembling upper arm. His Smith & Wesson remained pointed at the deputy.

  Waxter stared at Hanover's pistol. “I was . . .”

  “Don't worry. I just need some answers. Then I'll let you go. Ever been to the Devil's Palm?”

  Waxter shuddered and shook his head no. “Why's it called,” Waxter swallowed, “Devil's Palm?”

  “It's not an execution site, if that's what you think. Maybe you'll have an idea when you see it.”

  Very shortly, they stepped up onto a flat rounded rock with a depression in its center. Hanover walked to the far edge and looked down at the dry creek bed. “Usually the water churns against this rock and is forced around it.” Hanover gestured with the pistol. “Come look.”

  Waxter stiffened and shook his head. “No. No.”

  Hanover stuffed his pistol into his pocket and waited. He needed Waxter to relax, to trust him.

  Although Hanover had been at the Palm countless times, the scene around it always refreshed him. Looking back upstream through the trees, he could make out a bit of the Jug's peeling white clapboard.

  Hanover pointed and said to Waxter, “Look, from here you can see the back of the restaurant that overlooks the old dam. The creek's dry now because of the drought. See how the dam is guarded by those two great red rocks, one rising up from each bank? We call them the Devil's Horns.” He glanced at Waxter, hoping this distracted him, calmed him; he wanted Waxter to talk.

  Hanover swung his arm to point at the far rock. “See that groove on the top of the rock way on the other side?”

  Waxter nodded, showing some interest.

  “That's the Devil's Spigot. Sometimes water runs out of there into the creek, but nobody knows why it runs. They say the devil turns it on.” The creek bottom, where a few scant pools of water had formerly defied the drought, now featured only rock and packed sand.

  “Looks like he ought to turn it on now,” Waxter said.

  Hanover noted a wisp of a smile cross Waxter's face and laughed. “Yeah, but he's been one devil of a devil.”

  Hanover looked down at the streambed. Fallen leaves, cowered by the wind, hid in the crooks of the bank and behind rocks and fallen logs. Long yellowed grasses along with barren bushes and trees, some leaning as if in an attempt to reach the other embankment, flanked both sides.

  The woods on both banks went on endlessly, climbing the hills surrounding the little valley that Middle Island Creek had formed. The only sound heard was that of Waxter's breathing.

  Hanover broke the silence. “This rock is it, the Devil's Palm. This is where I used to bring . . . well, a certain girl. Take a seat.” Hanover removed Waxter's gun from his back pocket and settled down across from the still frightened officer.

  “I want to get right to the point,” Hanover said. “There's not much time.” He squirmed to make his seat comfortable. “First, who killed my Uncle Andy? Did Fowlkes make you do it?”

  * * *

  Candy ordered prosciutto, salami, provolone and roast beef from Tom Jenkins at the deli counter. While he sliced the meat, she picked up a head of lettuce, an onion and a tomato. She had peppers and fruit at home.

  She returned
to the counter. “I'll take a couple of those sub rolls.” The least she could do was drop off some sandwiches and fruit to Michael. He'd be grateful, she was sure, even if he had told her not to come until tomorrow. She'd take the precautions he warned her about when approaching The Jug. “I'm sure glad you're running things while Michael's gone,” she said to Tom.

  “I been plenty worried, what with the sheriff after him and all.” Tom punched in the items on the register. “He and his men even been out to my place looking for him. They been circling this place like a bunch of wild Injuns. Wish there was something I could do.”

  “They come to our place, too,” Candy said. “Except I think Deputy Waxter comes a lot more often so he can munch on Mom's snicker doodles.”

  The bells on the door jingled as a customer entered. While Tom bagged her groceries, Candy, her hunger finally making itself known, tapped a few peanuts into her mouth from the little bag Michael had given her. She gathered the paper sack into an arm. “Got to hurry,” she said, excusing herself, then turned to leave.

  “Oh,” she said, almost bumping into the uniformed officer who now stood beside her. The blue sunglasses immediately identified him. “Sheriff Fowlkes, I didn't see you there.” His face was hard and set as he stared at the bag of peanuts still clutched in her hand. She paused, expecting him to step aside to allow her to pass. Instead, he suddenly turned and sprinted for the door, leaving the way clear.

  Candy looked at Tom, then hurried to the door, her mind back on the lunch she planned to make for Michael. From outside the store she saw the Sheriff's cruiser flash down the street, its roaring engine still audible.

  At her car, she dropped the peanut bag into the grocery sack and pulled her keys from her jacket pocket. Oh, no! The keys slipped from her grasp and she fell against the car. The peanut bag. The sound of a car hurtling up the Route 18 hillside and a fading siren carried back to her. The devil with Michael's lunch!