The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  “You've already done plenty,” he said. “I'm ordering you to leave.” He put a hand on her shoulder and tugged.

  Candy shrugged off his hand and ignored him while she continued to kneel at Hanover's side.

  Fowlkes paced in frustration and put his finger to his eye to stop the fluttering. He could handcuff her and throw her in the patrol car, even kill her, but saw no clear alibi. Besides, he had never killed a woman.

  There was always a first time.

  Amidst his deliberations the paramedics arrived. Fowlkes was glad he had not acted impulsively. Eyewitnesses complicated matters.

  The medics wore blue cotton jackets with Middlebourne EMT badges on their sleeves. In their haste they had buttoned the jackets over their normal work clothes. The sides of their ambulances read: “Middlebourne Volunteer Fire Company.” Such expensive equipment was a testimony to the generosity of Madisonians, and particularly the Middlebourne residents.

  “You know you may be called as witnesses. No one's been here to get photos,” Fowlkes growled, not waiting for their feet to touch the ground, his irritation with Candy spilling out. “So you better note their positions. You'll see both have guns in their hands. Even if there is no trial, there's going to be an inquiry.”

  The EMT shook his head knowingly.

  Candy and Fowlkes both watched the emergency technicians' work with intense interest, but with opposite hopes for its outcome. In pairs, the paramedics moved quickly, almost silently, settling gurneys next to the stricken men, checking for signs of life, giving an injection to Waxter and then putting both men in the gurneys, hustling them off to the waiting ambulances.

  At one ambulance, a crew fought to resuscitate Waxter. An EMT with high-top work shoes made an injection directly into Waxter's heart, then slapped a defibrillator to his chest.

  Waxter's body convulsed.

  No heartbeat.

  The defibrillator.

  No response.

  Fifteen minutes without a response. They removed Waxter's oxygen mask and ceased their efforts. “Sorry,” was all they said. They then joined the team working on Hanover.

  Fowlkes called Helen and asked her to dispatch a medical examiner. He would have to wait with Waxter's body until one arrived. If all went well, the examiner would have two bodies to examine.

  When a drip line was inserted into Hanover's jugular vein and bandages were redone, Fowlkes saw a smile cross Candy's lips. His mind worked to reverse the course of events, but he could think of nothing to end Hanover's life.

  A medic nodded toward Hanover and said, “Sheriff, that was quick thinking, using your shirt to stanch his blood. An excellent job. You may have saved him.”

  The words stabbed Fowlkes in the gut, but he thought it good that he got the credit. Any favorable impression would counteract accusations against him. Candy smiled with lips pressed together and stared at the ground. Let her be humble, he thought.

  A red-haired EMT with a loosened tie under the open collar of his white shirt walked over to Fowlkes. “We need an LZ set up on the road for a chopper. The nearest trauma center that can handle something like this is at the Wheeling Hospital. Set the zone up here by the parking lot, as far from that power line as you can. We need a sixty-foot square. Better hustle—they're on the way.”

  Fowlkes glared at the man before tromping to the trunk of his cruiser. Who was that guy to give orders? Where were the fire truck and its firemen? They did this stuff.

  Fowlkes snatched flares from his trunk. He placed the first ones across the road to provide a barrier to any road traffic, then formed the square with four flares. The wail of a siren and then the sound of a heavy-duty engine signaled the arrival of a fire truck. Too late. What had started as a great day had turned into a nightmare.

  The chopper had not been good news—that meant Hanover might live. He couldn't imagine how Hanover could survive all the bullets he had pumped into him. I should have been more careful about my aim. Fowlkes watched absentmindedly as the helicopter settled down on the road, kicking up a storm of dust. Actually, I hit my targets. A fatal shot, and I couldn't have watched Hanover writhe in pain and realize that he was dying.

  The stretcher bearing Hanover disappeared into the chopper as Slim Gates's Mustang slid to a stop in line behind a dozen cars waiting behind the flares. Gates squeezed out of his car and chugged toward the front of the line and The Jug Restaurant's parking lot. His camera was in one hand and his stenographer's notebook in the other. Fowlkes’ mouth turned down in disgust. Another problem: the press.

  The AeroMed Service chopper lifted off as Gates pointed his camera at it.

  Afterwards, Gates had talked with Fowlkes to get the story, had taken pictures of The Jug and the blood stained Devil's Palm, and had waited with Fowlkes for the arrival of the medical examiner.

  * * *

  Becky, except for an occasional sob, remained quiet, slumped forward against her seatbelt. Fowlkes understood why she was upset—her husband of five years was dead or about to die. Or if he didn't die, he would be hospitalized and then incarcerated, tried for murder and probably executed. That is, if he first didn't commit suicide in his cell, or perhaps was not murdered by another inmate.

  Fowlkes understood her, but he had no empathy. He had his own needs and desires, and was glad for this opportunity with Becky. She was the one he wanted to fulfill those longings. Her fear and grief gave him a chance to get closer. In the future, if necessary, he would even marry her.

  As far as he was concerned, the best thing he could do for himself and for Becky was to make sure Hanover's hospital stay was short and led to the morgue. Alive, Hanover would only cause trouble. Becky would get over Hanover's death more comfortably if the trauma of a trial, all the appeals and his eventual execution, were avoided. Besides his needs were quite pressing, and giving solace to her was hardly sufficient. After all, he thought about her as he worked, and dreamt of her at night.

  Becky sighed.

  “You all right?” Fowlkes asked. She had been extraordinarily quiet.

  Becky shook her head and Fowlkes resumed his musing. Whether Hanover survived his immediate crisis was out of Fowlkes’ hands. Fowlkes’ mind automatically began to plot how he might destroy him.

  How quickly must he act? Even in the hospital, Hanover's tongue would wag. By the time he was jailed, he'd be making real trouble: talking with attorneys about Crabapple's and Mehrhaus's deaths. Being tied up with legal matters during the construction of the casino, and after that, during the exploration for oil at the old well, was not something Fowlkes relished. He smiled as he thought about the rising price of oil. Yes, he could weather anything that Hanover could throw at him. But why put up with the hassle and expense?

  They had reached Mt. De Chantal Road, just a mile from the hospital. Fowlkes glanced at Becky, hoping she had not caught his smile. But she sat, ghastly white, with eyes fixed ahead. He wondered if she needed medical attention. He toyed with the idea of going to the hospital's building at 20 Medical Park to give Hanover time to die before their arrival, but because of Becky's condition, he turned into the parking lot at 1 Medical Park, the emergency room location.

  He reached for the package of peanuts in his shirt pocket, decided it would reveal his nonchalance, and stopped, but not because of the peanuts.

  Candy's Buick convertible—there was only one car like hers—sat on the parking lot. Even in the growing dusk, it was easily recognizable. From the corner of his eye, he looked at Becky to see her reaction. Becky's breath was rapid and shallow, but her eyes were on the emergency department's entryway.

  Next to the walkway by the door, Fowlkes found an open parking space reserved for law enforcement vehicles. He helped Becky from the cruiser and, holding her arm, noticed she was cold and clammy. He ushered her into the emergency room.

  “Have a seat, Becky,” Fowlkes said. “You're shaky and look a little pale.”

  Becky readily complied and produced a weak, “Okay.”

  Fowlk
es noticed the back of a head that looked very much like Candy Melowicz's at the end of a row of three rows of chairs that faced a television. She had her arm around what looked like a boy of eight or nine and was talking to him.

  Fowlkes strode to the receptionist seated at a desk behind a counter, on top of which was a glass partition. He stooped and said through the hole in the glass, “I brought in a woman who is not feeling very well. She's weak, shaky and cold, very pale. Could you examine her right away?”

  The woman behind the glass glared at Fowlkes. “Officer, you should know better than anyone that she has to take her turn.” The receptionist's lips spread into a sneer. “All these people are all emergencies.” Her head and body wagged, emphasizing the mockery in her voice.

  37

  Patients

  Fowlkes realized his mistake. An officer bringing someone to Emergency calls ahead. “Governor Kirkpatrick was hoping you would see his niece right away,” he said to the receptionist at the window, and turned toward Becky. He drew a card from his wallet. “If you want to check her identity, this is the governor's telephone number.”

  The receptionist, a woman in her sixties, glanced at the card then stood to see Becky. “We'll have to call,” she snipped. She hesitated, waiting for Fowlkes to back down, but Fowlkes smiled and nodded his head pleasantly. Uncle Don would catch on immediately.

  “I have to be seen right away,” Becky called weakly, trying to make herself heard by the receptionist.

  The woman dialed, spoke into the phone and turned a healthy pink. She handed the phone to Fowlkes through the opening in the glass.

  Fowlkes spoke loudly so the receptionist could hear. “Just a small favor, Governor Kirkpatrick. Becky Hanover is ill and needs immediate attention.” He listened and handed the phone back to the receptionist. “He wants to speak with you.” The woman's face turned crimson as she held the receiver to her ear.

  “We'll be right with you, Sheriff,” she said, and hung up. She punched a button on the phone and spoke, “James, Code Ten to the ER—now!”

  Thirty seconds later a hefty orderly in blue scrubs arrived with a wheelchair. He wheeled her, with Fowlkes behind them, through a door and down the hall to a room that contained curtained cubicles. The man pushed her behind a curtain where he lifted her onto a small hospital bed. Within minutes a nurse scurried in, took vital signs, then left.

  A young resident—Maryann Smith, MD, it said on the nametag—arrived. The black circles under her sunken eyes contrasted sharply with her bright white lab coat. What kind of person accepts near slavery for prestige and a few dollars? Fowlkes thought. I hope the surgeons working on Hanover are just as tired—or worse.

  Fowlkes stepped into the hall outside to leave Dr. Smith alone with Becky. He faced an octagonal nurses station with openings on each side to permit ready access to the curtained cubicles surrounding it.

  A nurse in a flower-patterned smock offered Fowlkes a chair. Fifteen minutes later, he was glad he had accepted it. Dr. Smith left, then a nurse carrying a glucose bag and some medications entered. When the nurse left, she told Fowlkes he could go in and that Dr. Smith would return.

  Becky lay with her eyes closed with an intravenous line in her right arm and a monitor lead clipped to her forefinger. Fowlkes patted her hand. She turned it over for him to hold. He felt his heart thud as he grasped her smooth tan hand in his own. He was surprised that such a small act, especially in this setting, could create such a reaction within him.

  Dr. Smith reentered the cubicle and, after introducing herself to Fowlkes, said, “Initially, I thought Becky was in shock, which is very serious. She's suffering from some of the same symptoms. But I understand she's under considerable duress.” Dr. Smith turned to Becky. “Your husband is the one with the gunshot wounds, isn't he?”

  Becky nodded. Fear flickered across her face even before her response appeared on the monitor screen.

  Dr. Smith read both. She produced a tired but genuine smile. “Try not to worry about your husband, Mrs. Hanover. The surgeons in the OR are a dream team. If anything can be done to save him, they can do it.”

  Becky forced a smile, then bit her lip.

  “I'll check on him for you,” Dr. Smith said. She pulled back the curtain to leave, then turned back. “You'll be out of here in a couple of hours—good as new. It'll be a while longer before we know about your husband.”

  Fowlkes pasted a smile on his face. Dream team. Hah! What a waste of time and money. Saving a life for the electric chair!

  * * *

  At quarter after midnight, Becky was released from the emergency ward. The IV and a medication, Atarax, had done their job. Although she strolled along and yawned, Fowlkes noted that her glow had returned.

  The waiting room, which they had passed upon their entrance to Emergency, appeared devoid of people. David Letterman, on “The Late Show,” talked to no one.

  But then Fowlkes spied her. Her shoulders rose and fell in a regular rhythm. Her head was tilted to one side, its rich chestnut tresses flowing over its owner's arm, hiding the hand that supported her head. It certainly looked like Candy's hair.

  Fowlkes stopped and nodded in the direction of the room's lone occupant. “Doesn't that look like Candy Melowicz over there?”

  He smiled in anticipation.

  Becky stiffened. All signs of illness fled. Her eyes, first darting across the aisles of chairs, locked on Candy. She marched toward the slouching form, circled the rows of chairs, and faced her.

  With hands on hips, Becky glared into Candy's grimy face. She fumed when Candy failed to stir.

  “What are you doing here?” Becky's coarse whisper carried throughout the room.

  Candy slowly stirred, then blinked her eyes open and sat upright. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize you—“

  “What are you doing here?” Becky said, this time emphasizing each word and allowing her vocal cords to come into full play.

  “Mikey is hurt.” Candy looked at Fowlkes, her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Did you just get here? Didn't Sheriff Fowlkes tell you what happened?”

  “Of course, he did. Michael was shot. We arrived here as it was getting dark. Michael’s in the operating room now.” Becky frowned. “How did you even know he was here?” She leaned toward Candy and wagged her forefinger. “Stay away from my husband!”

  “Go ahead and tell her why you're here, Ms. Melowicz,” Fowlkes said.

  “I stopped at the Jug and found…and found… Well, Sheriff Fowlkes was trying to help Deputy Waxter. And there was Mikey—Michael—bleeding all over. I just started helping out.”

  Fowlkes sneered. “Getting in the way, you mean. Waxter might still be alive if it weren't for you.”

  “What?” Candy said, her mouth and eyes wide with surprise.

  Fowlkes pointed at her. “I told you to leave, didn't I?”

  “Yes, but—“

  “I'll bring charges of interfering with the duties of an officer as soon as we get back to Madison,” Fowlkes said.

  Becky ignored Fowlkes to prosecute her own indictment. “Why were you there in the first place? You're always hanging around my husband,” Becky said. “And you still haven't told me why you should be here.”

  Candy stared back, shaking her head with incomprehension and disbelief.

  “That was not the first time you'd visited Mr. Hanover today, at the Jug, was it?” Fowlkes asked.

  Candy glared at Fowlkes. “Yes, I was there.” Then she stared at Becky. “Nobody else seemed to really care about Michael. I was trying to help him.”

  Fowlkes wiped the smile from his face. “Thank you, Ms. Melowicz. I can add aiding and abetting a fugitive to the charges.”

  Becky's teeth ground together. “It seems that the Devil's Palm is a favorite spot for your rendezvous with Mikey. Is there a bed upstairs in the restaurant?”

  “Trespassing, breaking and entering,” Fowlkes said aloud, as if to himself, while allowing Becky to press the attack.
r />   “No wonder he's always coming home late,” Becky said. “You two get together every night? He's never got time for me.”

  “I knew what they were up to when I saw her buying picnic supplies at Hanover's store,” Fowlkes said.

  “You dared to come into my own store to buy stuff for your little tryst. How could you?” Becky said.

  “The only time I ever see Michael is at the store, or maybe passing on the highway. There's no tryst,” Candy said.

  “Then,” Fowlkes continued, “while Tom bagged her groceries, she pulled out a bag of Planters Peanuts. That cinched it. I knew where the peanuts came from and immediately headed for the Jug.”

  Candy shook her head in dismay.

  “You heard her admit to aiding a fugitive. She probably helped him plot the murders of his Uncle Andy and Crabapple. Maybe his parents, too. All his nearest and dearest. Greed—what it leads to. You could be next,” Fowlkes said.

  “He couldn't, he wouldn't.” Becky leaned over and shoved Candy, who had leaned forward in her chair, back against the chair. “But you, you…witch!”

  Becky recoiled, looking at her hands. “Ewww. What's that all over your clothes? Oh! Blood! What did you do to him?”

  “I was bandaging him,” Candy said. “You weren't there. Sheriff Fowlkes is lying. Don't let him—“

  “She was hugging and holding him,” Fowlkes said. “Risking more injury. I tried to get her out of the way. We're lucky that Michael is still alive,” Fowlkes said.

  Fowlkes became aware that someone else had entered the room from the hallway and turned to look. A doctor, in a green scrub suit and cap and with a surgical mask hanging from his neck, entered the room. “Excuse me, I'm Dr. Jensen. Is Mrs. Hanover here?”

  The color drained from Becky's face. “Yes...”

  “I'm assisting with your husband's operation. Dr. Smith left a message that you were waiting. I knew you'd want to know how he was doing.”

  Becky and Candy nodded their heads. Candy stood to complete the circle that had formed.

  “Mr. Hanover lost a lot of blood and has extensive injuries. But the surgeries are coming along well. He's very strong, a fighter. A lucky one, too. Just a few millimeters to the left and the bullet would have hit the ascending artery. That would have been it. Good that he has someone like you, too, who'll look after him. And it's not everyone whose Sheriff takes a personal interest.”