by Bob Knapp
35
The Devil at The Devil's Palm
Fowlkes rocketed along winding and narrow Route 18. He floored the accelerator on the first straightaway. The speedometer hit ninety miles per hour. In seconds the road bent out of sight behind a hill and he braked hard with his left foot. Blue smoke curled out from under the screaming tires. With his right foot he pressed on the accelerator to maintain every ounce of momentum. The wheels squealed in their fight to keep a grip on the curve.
Blinded by hate for Hanover, Fowlkes pushed the cruiser beyond its limits. Each obstacle the road threw between him and Hanover escalated his rage. We'll see who takes who to court, if he lives to get there!
The car felt like an extension of himself as he clawed at the road. He attacked the turns and hills like a wild cat, twisting and turning in pursuit of elusive prey. The engine roared its anger at the next hill.
The big Mercury came out of a turn and mounted a rise that took the wheels from the road. Again Fowlkes stomped on the gas. The wheels spun in midair, squealed as they settled back on the pavement, then shot the car ahead. Fowlkes braked again as the road turned back in the other direction where it had been carved from the side of the hill. His foot pressed hard on the accelerator at the back end of the curve to take him through to the next one.
A grey car in his lane loomed ahead. The car pulled to the side with nothing but inches between it and a drop off. Fowlkes squeezed the cruiser by the car on the narrow curve by straddling the double yellow line. Fowlkes smirked as he glimpsed the driver's white-faced terror. The cruiser's right mirror knocked off the side view mirror of the squatting car. An oncoming car clung to the inside of the turn and rumbled through rocks that had fallen from the side of the cliff.
Several miles from The Jug, Fowlkes turned off his siren and warning lights for a silent approach. There would be no escape for Hanover this time; no chance for him to run.
Ahead Fowlkes looked down on a pair of curves that snaked back on each other. With the accelerator jammed to the floor, Fowlkes took a straight course through the left oncoming lane and then back to the right side, like the straight line going through the “S” of a dollar sign. He didn't brake until he faced the next curve winding hard behind a hill.
A hundred yards before reaching Dead Man's Curve, Fowlkes eased to a stop on the widest portion of shoulder. He exited the car and loped in a crouch toward the Jug, his eyes and ears tuned to any movement or sound. Pulling his Glock 37 from its holster, he stepped over the guardrail near the restaurant and crept toward the building. He saw the rear of Waxter's cruiser parked on the side of the restaurant by the door. Treading the gravel as lightly as possible, he approached the building, but stopped when he heard voices coming from the direction of The Devil's Palm. Waxter and Hanover were talking. Fowlkes sneaked to the edge of the wood, then stopped to listen.
“I want to get right to the point.” It was Hanover. “There's not…” Hanover lowered his voice.
Fowlkes crouched low and inched toward a large tree where he could get within an earshot. He knelt on his right knee to put his head below the laurel bush that rubbed the tree. He rested his left arm on his leg, supporting his other arm, Glock in hand, ready to shoot or charge. He peered through the scrub and saw Hanover squirm on his backside until he rested on smooth rock.
“First, who killed my Uncle Andy?” Fowlkes clearly heard Hanover say. “Did Fowlkes make you do it?” Hanover laid both guns on the rock next to him, then leaned forward, squinting against the bright November sun, intent on Waxter's face. “I never took you for the murdering type,” Hanover said.
Fowlkes saw Waxter hang his head. He had better keep his trap shut.
“You want out of this kind of life?” Hanover asked.
Waxter sobbed and nodded.
“Listen, Deputy Waxter, I want to put Fowlkes away, but you have to talk. Cut the bawling. I want to know what you know. If you testify against him, they'll be lenient. I'll help you. You know my word is good.”
Fowlkes’ trigger finger twitched.
Waxter shook. He stared at Hanover.
“Tell me about it,” Hanover said.
No answer.
Hanover picked up his pistol and half-way pointed it at Waxter. “Talk.”
Waxter recoiled with his lips pressed together.
Hanover laid the gun back down.
“I know you want to be kind to people,” Hanover said. “So, tell me what happened.”
“I, I couldn't . . .” Waxter said. He looked down at the red rock between his legs. “Drive the car, I mean.” Waxter began to blubber and held his face in his hands.
Hanover sighed and waited.
“Fowlkes made me sit in the front seat with León while he ran him down.” Waxter wailed again.
Fowlkes smiled as he recalled León gunning the car down the hill while Waxter screamed next to him. He remembered Mehrhaus’s eyes as he bounced him back into the path of the car.
Waxter sobbed, “I never wanted to kill anybody.”
“I believe you. How about Crabapple?” Hanover said.
Waxter wiped his face on his sleeve and took a breath. “We were supposed to push him through the rail. I tried to catch him.” Waxter smiled. “We almost fell, too. Orlando and me.”
“Why'd you do it?”
“He made us, at least me,” Waxter said. “I don't think it bothered Orlando; he wanted the money.”
“You'd kill somebody for a few dollars?”
“Sheriff Fowlkes caught us robbing his house. He was going to shoot us, but said he'd let us off if we'd work for him.”
“He could have hired deputies from Madison.”
Waxter shrugged. “Not for the kind of work he wanted done. He promised bonuses for extra jobs. I didn't think a sheriff would make us kill anybody.”
“So he gave you bonuses for doing his dirty work?”
Waxter shook his head. “I tried to stop León from killing Skeeter.” He let out a sigh.
“Skeeter?”
“The other guy who helped us rob Fowlkes’ house. It looked like some rich guy's. Skeeter was my…” Waxter hung his head again.
“León shot Skeeter?”
“No, Fowlkes shot him when he caught us robbing his house. Orlando poisoned Skeeter with something in the hospital. Fowlkes arranged it all.”
Fowlkes tightened his grip on his pistol. He forgot his uncomfortable position.
“How about my parents?” Hanover asked. “He kill them?”
Waxter shook his head. “I don't know.”
“Why didn't you just quit?”
“He said he would blame it all on us. Who'd believe us? We already had records. We were trapped.” Waxter looked into Hanover's face.
Fowlkes shifted his weight, snapping a twig. He froze. Did Hanover hear that?
Hanover stood up. “I believe you,” he said. Now holding both their guns, he turned in Fowlkes’ direction.
Fowlkes held his breath.
The muscles in Hanover's jaw tensed.
Was Hanover getting ready to shoot? Who?
“What am I gonna do?” Waxter leaned forward and stretched his neck to see Hanover's face.
“How you feel?” Hanover said, still looking into the trees.
Fowlkes held his shooting hand steady and took careful aim at Hanover's heart. Any sudden movement and Hanover was a dead man. But he wanted to hear Waxter out. Who else had he blabbed to?
Hanover turned back to Waxter. “You willing to testify?”
Waxter pressed his lips together. “Judge Newsome, he's afraid of Fowlkes.”
“Don't worry about that, we'll take it to the State.”
Waxter took in a deep breath and let it out.
“We'll get you into protective custody—in another state,” Hanover said.
Waxter shook his head. “Okay. Yeah.” He sighed. “I feel better.” He struggled to his feet. “I'll testify. Fowlkes is a skunk.” Tears ran down Waxter's cheeks. “I feel a lot better.
But I can't go back. He'll know. He'll kill me.”
“Relax. Remember? We're not going back,” Hanover said. He looked hard into Waxter's face. “So we agree. Here's your gun.”
Hanover pocketed his own pistol. “Smith & Wessons.”
“You are taking a risk, but it's the right thing, and your best choice,” Hanover said. “You ready to go?”
“Where?” Waxter said.
Fowlkes watched Waxter slide his gun back into its holster.
“The State police,” Hanover said.
Fowlkes sprung into the open. “Freeze!” he commanded. He fired a shot over Hanover's head for emphasis. He would have killed him if Waxter had not been there. He hadn’t decided what to do about Waxter, yet. “Put your mitts where I can see 'em.”
Both men, startled, whirled. Fowlkes bared his teeth and aimed his Glock at Hanover's chest. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Fowlkes glanced at Waxter. “Good work.”
Waxter's lips quivered into a smile as he stood statue-like in the Devil's Palm. Fowlkes stepped behind Hanover and rammed the barrel into Hanover's back. “Don't even think,” Fowlkes said. He fished his hand into Hanover's coat pocket, removed the Smith & Wesson and shoved it under his own belt. “Lay face down on your rock. Now!”
Hanover turned his head and glowered at Fowlkes, refusing to move. Fowlkes brought the barrel of his Glock down hard on Hanover's skull. Hanover sunk to the ground and caught himself on his hands and knees, then tried to get back up. Fowlkes booted Hanover's rear, ramming him down so that his face scraped the rock. “Keep your hands above your head.” Blood oozed from the right side of Hanover's head where the barrel had hit.
Fowlkes glared at Waxter. “Deputy, take out your gun.”
“No,” Hanover said, twisting to look, his eyes pleading.
“Lay flat!” Fowlkes stomped on Hanover's back.
Waxter remained frozen. His gun still rested in its holster.
“Don't you want to shoot him?” Fowlkes asked, smiling. “Put him out of his misery? Don't forget the reward: ten G's.”
Waxter's body shook visibly. Tears overflowed his eyes.
“You're too soft for this job,” Fowlkes said. Stepping behind Waxter, he slipped the deputy's gun from its holster and sheathed his own.
“Get up,” he said to Hanover, and stepped between the two men. He watched Waxter, on his right, from the corner of his eye. “Stay right there, Deputy.”
Hanover, to Fowlkes’ left, rose slowly, painfully, his eyes locked on Waxter's gun now gripped in Fowlkes’ right hand, pointed at him. Fowlkes followed him with the gun as he rose. With his left hand he slid Hanover's gun from under his belt and deliberately crossed his arms so that the muzzle of each gun pointed at each man's gut.
Fowlkes sneered. “The battle of Smith & Wessons,” he said. He opened fire with both pistols, squeezing off shots first into Hanover then Waxter, snickering as they grimaced and grabbed at their wounds. Alternately he fired, careful to use the owner's pistol on the other man, bending his knees to lower himself to their level as they crumpled to the rock, laughing as they groaned and pleaded for him to stop.
Fowlkes stood and glowered over them, to watch them writhe in agony while their blood spurted from their wounds, running and mixing in the Palm's depression, soaking into the rock.
Fowlkes wiped his fingerprints from each pistol with his handkerchief. He shoved each body with his foot, looking for any signs of life. Satisfied, and continuing to use his handkerchief, he held each gun by its barrel to place it in its owner's hand, carefully sliding each man's trigger finger through the trigger guard. Then, frowning with disgust, he wiped his shoe where it had touched the bodies.
He looked over them once more then turned away, ready to return to his waiting patrol car. The sound of a car going too fast around Dead Man's Curve, the squeal of tires sliding on asphalt and then their crunch on gravel stopped him dead. He cursed.
Although revolted by the idea, he pulled off the tan uniform shirt he had so carefully pressed that morning. He tore it into strips, then squatted next to Waxter to hold a cloth to a wound, careful to allow the blood to flow but not get blood on his own trousers or imported blue silk undershirt. He gauged the proximity of the intruder by the sound of feet whisking through the dry leaves along the path behind him. When the footsteps were sufficiently close, he pressed on the wound.
“Help,” Fowlkes called, turning his head to see who was coming up the path. It was Candy Melowicz. He cursed under his breath. “They've been shot,” he said.
Candy screamed as she climbed onto the Devil's Palm. “Mikey! Oh, no!” She flung herself down to kneel beside Hanover. “Mikey! Mikey!” she said. She felt for a pulse at his wrist and neck then put her ear to his bloody chest. “I can't hear anything!” She pressed her hands where blood flow was heaviest to stop the flow.
Fowlkes stifled a smile.
Candy put her face against Hanover's. “Mikey, Mikey, don't go. You've got to hang on.” Blood from his body smeared her shirt and face. “Dear God, please don't let him die,” she said, and snatched a cloth from Fowlkes’ pile. “Is he okay?” she asked about Waxter, but immediately turned back to Hanover.
“No,” Fowlkes said, hoping his answer was true, “Deputy Waxter, bless his soul, was gunned down by that madman.” He nodded with his head toward the pistol in Hanover's hand, but she had turned away. “Evidently, they shot each other.”
She seemed not to hear. “God, don't let him die.” She bandaged a gaping hole. “Don't let him die,” she said, and wrapped another wound.
Fowlkes silently cursed the woman tying bandages and hoped she knew very little about first aid. “Take care of Hanover,” he said. “But there's not much use. I'll radio for help and be right back.” He stepped down off the rock and called over his shoulder: “Don't touch those guns.”
36
Hospital Visitors
Becky counted receipts from behind the counter at Hanover's Store—her store. She looked up at the uniformed figure standing across from her. Her face was tight and pinched. She forced a smile. “Did you find him?”
“Yes,” Fowlkes said, attempting to match her grim mood. “At the Jug.”
Before going to the store to inform Becky of Hanover's condition, he had returned home to replace his shirt, but had opted for a leisurely shower, shave, and a complete change of uniform. He had whistled and sung in the shower, things he had not done for months. He didn't expect Hanover to live.
A smile flickered across Becky's face. “Really?” She untied her green Hanover's Store apron and tossed it onto the counter, then came from behind it. “I want to see him. Is he still there? Where is he?”
“I'll take you to him,” Fowlkes said.
“He's in jail,” she said, attempting to sound calm. She tried to look past the reflection of Fowlkes sunglasses to read his eyes.
Fowlkes could think of no lie to tell. “By now, he's probably at Wheeling Hospital.”
Her hands flew to her heart. “He's hurt!” Alarm spread across her face. “What happened? Not the New Martinsville hospital? All the way to Wheeling? It must be bad!”
“Deputy Waxter tried to arrest him.” Fowlkes hesitated between each bit of information. “Evidently, Michael resisted. He was shot.”
“Oh, no!” Becky said, and fell. Fowlkes caught her in his arms before she hit the floor and pulled her close. Her head dropped to his chest. He relished her soft warmth and how her hair caressed his face. He rocked her gently until she pushed away and looked up at his face. “Let me go. I've got to see him!”
Reluctantly, Fowlkes let her slip from his arms. “I'll take you,” he said.
* * *
Rush hour had started. As usual, travel through New Martinsville on the two-lane main thoroughfare was extremely slow. He was in no hurry to get to Wheeling Hospital, but once out of town, he pushed the cruiser hard, passing the lines of cars ahead, for Becky's sake. Really, for his own sake, so that Becky would believe he was co
ncerned about Hanover.
The Ohio River, with Route 2 paralleling it from New Martinsville to Wheeling, coiled and turned back upon itself repeatedly. Broad curve built upon curve to force the car to face all directions of the compass. Seldom was the passenger aware he had been turned to face his origin.
Where the hills had met the river, a roadbed had been carved, forming a cliff, so that the road and the railroad could pass, squeezed between cliff and water. Under the cliffs, rocks and boulders littered the road's shoulder. Road signs proclaimed, “Watch for Falling Rocks,” implying that the traveler would have an opportunity to escape being crushed if a rock fell. Natives ignored the signs and the rocks; visitors glanced apprehensively through the tops of their windshields, expecting boulders to come tumbling down at any moment.
The cliffs and hills hid open flat plains between them, the result of the great river depositing its load of silt over eons. On these were built chemical factories, power generating plants and even some mining portals which made use of the resources provided by the river and the land. These were the cause of the lines of traffic and, at some locations, the source of putrid smells, such as sulphur dioxide.
“If only you had arrived at the Devil's Palm sooner.” Becky said. “You could have stopped him.”
“Yeah,” Fowlkes said through clenched teeth. His face was grim and his eyes stared at the road in front of him. He glanced at Becky, who looked extremely pale in spite of her dark features. She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.
* * *
Fowlkes thought that his arrival at the Palm had been timely; he thought that Candy's arrival had been inopportune. He didn't mention her to Becky.
Candy had waited at the Devil's Palm with Fowlkes for the ambulances' arrivals. Hoping for another chance to insure Hanover's death, Fowlkes said, “No use your hanging around here.” He motioned with his head in the direction of her car. “The medics will be here soon. A woman shouldn't have to see these things.”
She kept her hand pressed against a seeping bandage on Hanover's chest. “I've got to stay. It could make a difference.”
