by Bob Knapp
The key fit. Hanover plopped into the seat and let out a deep breath. In spite of the cold he felt sweat trickling down his back and under his arms.
Hanover had worked hard in rehab. The pain had been excruciating, 10 times worse than when he'd gotten injured playing for the Redskins.
Recently, the State had sent a public defender to see him. Madison County didn't have a public defender. Hanover knew then jail and a trial were not far off. And that Fowlkes would never allow him to take the witness stand.
Hanover thought of the truism he had learned in football, “Take it to them. Don't wait for them to bring it to you.” Now his mantra was, “Get Fowlkes before he gets me.”
Fowlkes’ image burned before him as he started the Jeep's engine. Get Fowlkes first. Nothing left to lose. Justice tonight.
Once in the countryside away from the lights and heading south on Route 2, Hanover saw that the sky was dark and overcast. Now, thinking about it, he recalled the air had smelled like it usually did before a snow. In the parking lot he had been too preoccupied to notice.
And that woman, her height and build, the way she leaned into the wind. She had reminded him of Candy. He should have called out to her.
Snowflakes swirled in his headlights. This could be the perfect Christmas.
Finally, he was at Clark Road, and then home. Everything looked strangely vivid and different, yet the same. A lamp burned dimly in the front window as it did when there was no one at home. The light caught the snowflakes then sent them on their journey. At his door, Hanover pushed and attempted to turn the door knob. Locked out; Becky again. He shivered. He had not retrieved a house key when he fled. He knew no one would answer, but knocked anyway. He wondered if everyone had begun locking their doors because of him.
He tried the window, but had to opt for a rock. I'm forced to break into my own house. More proof I'm a criminal. Still nothing to lose. He reached through the broken glass to turn the window lock then slid the frame up. He struggled through the opening.
He had planned to change clothes, but decided the guard uniform might be the perfect disguise. He put on a pair of shoes that fit. While he sat in a chair to rest for a few minutes, he checked the ammunition in Quinn's gun.
On the way out, he caught his image in the mirror. A little of Becky's makeup ought to help his disguise. He found some of her black mascara and smeared it on his eyebrows. A heavy dose of Brylcreem darkened his hair where it showed under the cap.
He was ready for Fowlkes.
* * *
A biting wind penetrated Candy's coat and easily found its way to her skin. She had been determined to be in a festive mood and chose a thin ruffled party dress with spaghetti straps.
She paused involuntarily with her eyes closed beneath the blast of warm air coming from the doorway's overhead heater. It reminded her of those cool summer nights when she and Hanover had snuggled in the warmth of the Devil's Palm. The heat from the rock and Hanover's arm around her shoulders in contrast to the cool breeze had relaxed and comforted her.
Her blue eyes sparkling, Candy strode along the familiar corridor leading to Hanover's room. The hall was eerily quiet except for the sound of Christmas carols coming from a distant radio. Evidently, because of the holiday, some patients were furloughed and, naturally, there were proportionately fewer attendants. Perhaps doctors reasoned that being home for the holiday was better medicine than lying in a hospital bed. Candy agreed with that.
Michael's nurse, sitting behind the counter at her desk, exchanged a “Merry Christmas!” with Candy who was a familiar visitor. Candy slipped off her coat and pushed Michael's door open. “Surpri-” caught in her throat as she was met by the room's depressing gloom. She stopped in the doorway, her jaw slack.
“I think he wore himself out, partying with Quinn,” the nurse called. “Talking and drinking coffee. Go ahead and wake him.”
As Candy's eyes adjusted to the half-light, she made out Michael lying on the bed. She could hear his slow even breaths. Where was Quinn? Why'd he leave Mikey unguarded? Oh, that was Quinn outside getting in his Jeep. Is somebody else supposed to be here?
She placed her hand on the blanket covering Michael and shook it. Candy gasped. Pillows! Where is he?
The breathing came from the other side of the bed. She smiled. He was playing some kind of joke.
Candy walked around the bed and pushed him with her foot. “Mikey?” No response. She bent over. Her mouth flew open. Quinn in his underwear! Where's his uniform, and gun? Was that Michael getting into Quinn's Jeep?
That was Michael getting in the Jeep!
“Mikey escaped!” she almost screamed, but clapped her hand over her mouth. Her heart raced with thoughts about what he might do wearing a uniform and carrying a pistol. She ran to the door, then stopped and composed herself. She put her jacket on, gathered up her present and walked calmly out of the room, shutting the door behind her. “I better let him sleep,” she said to the nurse. “I'll bring his present back later.”
The nurse shrugged. “Merry Christmas.”
Candy ran as soon she got out of hearing range. The click of her high heels echoed down the corridor. She knew where she was going, but not what she would do when she got there.
39
Jug Handle Resort
Not sure which he had wanted, Fowlkes brought home three different tuxedos from Graham Bowles. For a half-hour he tried on one after the other. He finally settled on the black one with the long tails, gray pinstripes and a red cummerbund. Still unhappy with the suit's appearance, Fowlkes steam-ironed it to his satisfaction.
It was time to go. Fowlkes stared at his Glock. It rested inside his shoulder holster hanging from the coat hook. He shoved the pistol, watched it swing back-and-forth, then put on his tuxedo jacket. He set his red carnation boutonniere aside for fear the black wool overcoat would crush it. He slung a large black umbrella over his wrist. In his baseball mitt of a palm he balanced his boutonniere along with the red and white rose corsage he had selected for Becky. He shot a glance at his pistol, looked around the room, then walked to the white limousine waiting in front of his mansion. He grimaced as the snow wet the toes of his Moscoloni patent leather shoes.
At the wheel of the Cadillac limo was Deputy León, slick in a black tux that complemented his dark features and chestnut complexion. For tonight, he was Fowlkes’ driver and bodyguard.
Fowlkes stared through the limo window at León, then turned and retraced his steps, carefully laid his cargo on his bed and took off his coat and jacket. He strapped on the shoulder holster holding his Glock, checked the gun for ammo, smiled, put on the coats, collected the items from the bed, and went out to the waiting limousine.
Once inside the limo Fowlkes tapped the window that separated the driver from the passengers. León turned his head to look at Fowlkes, who opened the microphone. “Okay, Deputy. It starts in 90 minutes and it's snowing. The Tucketts'.”
Becky had agreed to accompany Fowlkes to the resort's opening, but wanted him to pick her up at the Tucketts' house. Fowlkes grimaced. He considered Arnold Tuckett a stubborn retard who challenged him at every turn for no-good reason. Probably that little incident over his daughter. It had been the only way I could drive any sense into him.
Becky and Mrs. Tuckett had become close friends after Becky developed a fondness for the Tucketts' daughter, Nicole. Becky said that Nicole reminded her of herself when she was a child. She slipped Nicole treats when Nicole came to the store. Nicole had begun to call her “Aunt Becky.”
Fowlkes grunted. So Becky and Mrs. Tuckett had decided to help each other dress for the opening at the Tuckett's house.
* * *
Fowlkes stood on the doorstep and stared back at Tuckett glaring at him through the door's windowpane. Tuckett waved him away with a downward thrust of his hand, then sauntered away from the door and disappeared into another room. Fowlkes rang the chimes again. No response. Snow swirled around him and under his umbrella. He leaned on the p
ush button. The chimes played, “Winchester Cathedral.”
“For heaven's sake, Arnold, answer the door,” Fowlkes heard Mrs. Tuckett yell. From outside Fowlkes could hear Tuckett stomping back to the foyer.
Tuckett threw open the door. “For my wife's sake.” He walked away then turned back. “You should have made other arrangements. Wait there.” Fowlkes watched him disappear down the hallway. A door slammed shut.
Fowlkes wandered into the living room from the foyer where Tuckett had left him. Tuckett wasn't going to spoil his evening. Besides, he planned to arrive at the resort ahead of the crowd and make sure everything was in order. Tuckett and his wife could make their own way.
Fowlkes’ eye flickered beneath his new Gucci sunglasses in anticipation of Becky's coming into the room. He looked at his Rolex. Seventy-five more minutes before the opening.
He heard a slight swish and looked toward the sound. Becky, followed by Mrs. Tuckett, entered the room and whirled around, beaming, her eyes finding Fowlkes with each turn. “Wow!” He felt his heart thump hard as hormones emptied into his bloodstream. He shook his head; he had never heard himself use that word. He could do better. “You're absolutely gorgeous!” This must be the start of a new order in his life.
Mrs. Tuckett nodded and smiled, her eyes measuring first Fowlkes then Becky. “I just love her gown,” she said.
Becky wore a shimmering blue jeweled collar gown that left her shoulders and arms bare. It followed Becky's contours down to the tops of glittering silver pumps. Both sides of her skirt had slits to the thighs. Her black hair was pulled back into a French twist, accentuating her lithe tan neck.
Fowlkes nodded and managed a “Yes,” but was admiring much more. She was the most gorgeous vision Fowlkes had ever seen. His hands trembled as he helped pin on her corsage and put the sable fur around her shoulders. He had given the fur to her as a birthday present.
Upon her receipt of his gifts his blood had always grown warm along with her excitement. Remuneration was due soon.
While she clutched his arm, he led her outside through the falling flakes to the waiting limousine.
Except for León, they were alone. Becky sat deliciously close to Fowlkes with her arm tucked around his and her thigh pressed against him. Her nearness stirred his imagination: an after-the-celebration party for two, in his bedroom. He forgot the press of time.
Fowlkes whispered into Becky's ear. “I wish this ride could last for hours—just you and me.”
After 10 months of gentle persuasion from Fowlkes, Becky had finally agreed to seek a divorce from Hanover. Since then, they had become a twosome, but not as intimate a couple as Fowlkes would have liked. Tonight would change that.
She turned shining eyes to his face and squeezed his hand. “Me, too. Tonight is just beautiful.” She leaned against him, squeezing out any remaining space that remained between them.
The snow worked its magic on the countryside. A white luminescence surrounded the car as its lights reflected off the swirling snow and white road, beyond which was a black void into which they headed, always pushing the white envelope ahead, casting the black aside. Snow coated the trees' trunks and branches on the windward side, leaving their lee cast in black. The atmosphere was one of purity and wholesomeness.
The enchantment of the evening lured Fowlkes to reflect on the contrast between black and white, good and evil. Good always triumphing over evil; light over darkness; his own benevolence stamping out negative forces in the community. All along he had felt a power beyond his own that had assisted him every step of the way.
His resort was positive proof of virtue's power, of Right being on his side. The resort's beauty, its employment of hundreds, giving work in a time of economic desperation and despair would provide for many families well into the future. It would raise the cultural standing of the community in the state, even in the country.
On the other side was Hanover, whose selfishness provoked marital discord and instigated conflict at Madison County Council meetings. Hanover's attempt to manipulate Waxter had resulted in Waxter's death and problems for the Madison County Sheriff's Office. If Hanover had minded his own business, his Uncle Andy, Howie Crabapple, and even a police dog, would still be alive. No estimate of the extent of the malevolent forces Hanover had unleashed could be made. At the least, I'll make sure that he receives justice.
With the expansion of the resort, even greater things lay ahead. Yes, it was Christmas.
The limousine shifted into a lower gear as it climbed the hillside that led to the resort. The snow was falling faster now. The tracks from previous vehicles were but faint indentations in the snow.
They made their way slowly around the next curve. There stood the resort, filling their eyes with all its wonder. Subtle white light bathed a handsome gray stone and log building. Multicolored lights adorned spruce trees framing the perimeter and those throughout the grounds. Eighteenth-century lampposts, wound with boughs of fir and tied with bright red ribbons, graced the walkway on each side. Above the portico and to its left in high-relief Embassy Script were the words, “Jug Handle Resort.”
The limousine rolled to a slow stop in front of the broad entranceway. Snow covered the steps more quickly than the doorman could sweep them clean. The resort appeared even grander than Fowlkes had hoped. Everyone, even León, sat in awe. Finally, Fowlkes tapped on the driver's window. León stepped out and opened their door, carefully helping Becky get her footing in the snow.
They entered the building through large glass doors etched with gold-trimmed monograms, “JH,” and found themselves in a broad atrium. Fowlkes had been careful to maintain the rustic appearance of the resort's surroundings, yet had included modern clean-cut lines and amenities. The room was strikingly lit by chandeliers hung from its twenty-foot-high ceiling. The polished gray marble floor and waist high oaken Wainwright paneling matched the building's exterior color tone. The walls and ceiling were shell white.
“Sheriff Fowlkes!” Deputy Cummings, sharp in a black tux, strode toward him. Fowlkes involuntarily recoiled. He calmed himself, but felt his eye flutter.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said to Becky. He took the large deputy by the arm and led him aside.
“What is it?” It couldn't be. Certainly, it was good news on this night; Hanover died. Surely.
“Appleton called,” Cummings said and lowered his voice. “Hanover overpowered his guard. He escaped.”
Fowlkes glared at Cummings. “You jest,” he hissed and led Cummings toward the corner. “Over here.”
“Call them.”
“Where is he? How'd he get away? Is anyone looking for him?” All of his deputies were here, serving as guards. He was glad he had the foresight.
“Appleton only found out about ten minutes ago. They immediately called the West Virginia State Police. They have an APB out on him.”
Fowlkes’ mouth formed a snarl. He continued to glare at Cummings. Appleton is incompetent. The SP should have posted their own guard on someone as dangerous as Hanover. He turned from Cummings in disgust.
“Oh,” Cummings added. Fowlkes turned back. “Hanover took Appleton's vehicle. And the guard's weapon—a revolver—is missing.”
* * *
“It's nothing,” Fowlkes said in response to Becky's inquiring look. He stepped aside to allow Becky to pass through one of the four sets of oak doors that led into the auditorium.
Instinctively, his lawman's eyes scanned the large open space. A foreboding settled over him, not unlike that which he had experienced when reconnoitering a murky park across from a bar in Charleston. Shots had rung out and bullets had splintered branches over his head, driving home the truth of his premonition.
“You dreamt up all this?” Becky said, bringing him back. “It's gorgeous. Terrance, you should be proud.”
Fowlkes smiled woodenly. Shadows lurked at the periphery of his vision. He shook his head, jarring loose the senseless apprehension. They could handle Hanover.
Becky l
aid her hand on his arm. “You must be tired. You okay?”
“Of course. The building—I'm amazed myself.” Nothing can happen. He wouldn't have the nerve—not in front of an audience. Fowlkes pressed his right hand against the Glock beneath his coat.
“Oh.” Becky's mouth fell open. She stared at his hand on his chest. “A pain? Is it sharp? We should call an ambulance.”
“Ha. Ha. No! No! I was just shifting my clothes, a little. I'm not used to a tux.” Fowlkes gently took Becky's arm and led her slowly toward the steps. León trailed behind them.
Thanks, Becky, I needed a little humor. His smile was genuine.
The room's arrangement was that of a series of broad descending platforms, like wide steps, on three sides of the room. On the fourth side and across the auditorium from the entrance doors was a stage.
To his eye, all was as it should be—pleasant and relaxing. But Fowlkes pursed his lips and exhaled, silently cursing Hanover. He's an invalid—what could he do? Fowlkes let out a breath again. I'm going to enjoy this evening!
The auditorium had been designed as a multipurpose center. For this evening, the platforms held dining tables and chairs where a sumptuous meal was to be served-much like at a dinner theater. The hall could also serve as a cinema or auditorium.
Fowlkes anticipated a time when people would be ready to play slot machines on the platforms. Patrons would work the machines while enjoying a nightclub performance. Fowlkes hoped that day would be soon. Tonight there would be Christmas music and a Christmas pageant. If Hanover was going to do anything, it would be before or after the program.
Upon entering the auditorium, local residents excitedly pointed to the stage, immediately recognizing the setting as that of the Jug Handle on Middle Island Creek. A frieze duplicating the rock along the stream at the Jug formed the rise along the base of the stage and extended a foot onto the apron. Atop this was crystalline glass under which colored lights played, giving the impression of a sparkling stream.
