The Palm Reader

by Christopher Bowron

  “How often?”

  “It was every hour or so. Now it’s every ten or fifteen minutes with a longer duration. The last one made me feel as if I might pass out there.”

  “Geez, I’m taking you to see a doctor tomorrow.”

  “If we have time. Okay, we’re here,” Jack said, pulling into the lot of the massive one-level building housing Lee County’s sheriff headquarters.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “NO, WE CAN’T SIMPLY kill him, Boris. I see the look in your eyes and I know you would do a masterful job.” Eli put down his espresso. “It must be planned, carefully, like the handling of Lopez.”

  “Would you like another, Eli?”

  “No. That is enough.”

  “Only thinking of you, Eli. I know the prick wounded your pride. I feel what you feel.”

  Eli stood, patting Boris’s cheek. “I appreciate the sentiment, my friend. We will bide our time. Let things take their due course. We will watch Mr. Walker for the next little bit. I want you to do this for me. If the moment offers itself, remind him of his insolence. We’ll take him on a little fishing trip forty or fifty miles out into the gulf.” He paused for a few moments, lighting a cigarette. “There is nothing to be found inside what’s been taken by the police—the computers. Walker will look foolish. The cops will leave us alone for a time. Think of it as a business expense, an expense that Walker will have to pay for.”

  “Should I call first?”

  “Of course. Why would you ask? You know my rules.”

  “Just the way you were talking, Eli.”

  Eli smiled. “You did a good job disguising the lower basement, Boris. I could tell they were looking for something, but your secret doors have done their job. Are you sure we are the only two who know of them, besides Gina?”

  Boris chuckled. “The stone masons all went on a little fishing trip. Anyone who goes down those steps is either blindfolded or doesn’t come out alive. You know this to be true.”

  Eli paced as he asked, “What of Lopez?”

  “That guy is tough. Still, he should have died by now from the gunshot wound. Is he of any use to us?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I will kill him soon enough. He is safe where he lies. It’s been a long day and I don’t want to make mistakes.”

  “Perhaps by then nature will have taken its course. And the Gypsy?”

  Boris laughed. “I think she scares shit out of Lopez. She sits and stares, looking at him with those evil little eyes. Kill her, too?”

  “No. I plan on riding her like a wild stallion. She’s got something I enjoy: danger sex. I look forward to the challenge because you know she’ll try to kill me while I’m fucking her. After I have my fun . . . you can have her. Then she can die.”

  Boris chuckled, appreciative of the offer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  GRAMPS TRIED HIS BEST to remain calm. There was no use in showing his distress. He needed to keep an upper hand, if possible. He watched the little Frenchman, who appeared to be winging the situation, confirmed in the ensuing conversation. Gramps prodded him. “Is this necessary, Mr. Matye?”

  “What do you think, old man? Of course it’s necessary. I’m going to deliver retribution for the killings of my colleagues, and for taunting the Dark Lord. He is all-knowing and has a good memory, Nathaniel. I am going to kill all those who are close to Jackson Walker. You, unfortunately, are at the top of my list.”

  “What will you do with me?”

  Mason sat in silence for a few seconds. “For now, we’re going to take a little ride into the countryside. I think you know the place.”

  “I know many places in these parts, Matye. Don’t tell me you plan on returning to the scene of the crime.” Mason wouldn’t have had a lot of time to scout places out if he’d recently escaped from prison.

  “Why not? The place serves a purpose. It’s also a location your grandson will remember. You see, the fly must be able to smell the bait in order for you to catch it. The old estate has lain fallow for the past few years. It’s stigmatized; no one wants to live in a place that housed such atrocities. I imagine the county or the state will tear the place down soon enough, but for now it suits my purposes perfectly.”

  ****

  They drove out of urban Naples and into the edge of the Everglades, where housing developments became less dense. Gramps remembered this countryside. He’d driven most of the old roads traversing the great swamp. The last time he’d been this far east on Immokalee Road was five years ago, late at night. Still, he remembered the signposts, the occasional stand of trees and expanses of open saw-grass savannah. As Mason cut south on Camp Keais Road, Gramps’ fingertips began to numb. He cringed from his increasing sense of dread. They were getting close.

  The old estate was built in a bygone era of Southern expansion. The McFaddens came from a long line of Southern gentility. Though their business was of an unsavory nature, they had made a lot of money over the years, with holdings across Southwest Florida still in probate. Now the place sat as an echo of its past splendor.

  Mason turned down the road heading for the estate, which backed onto one of the local rivers fed by the Everglades and inland lakes. Chains bound the old iron gate blocking the long driveway. Mason pulled up to the gate and looked at Gramps.

  “Monsieur, it would be in your best interests not to move.”

  Gramps looked down at his bound ankles and wrists, now cutting off his body’s circulation. The old man smiled. “My best interests. You have to be kidding.”

  Mason nodded and smiled, acknowledging the validity of Nathaniel’s remark. He went to the trunk and retrieved bolt cutters purchased yesterday with this event in mind. He approached the gate and, with a little work, snapped the lock.

  Gramps looked around frantically. Mason had taken the keys, but they wouldn’t have done Gramps any good. He needed to bide his time, and try to stay calm. The man couldn’t be trusted to guide his own destiny.

  Mason cleared the debris away from the entrance before he pushed open the barrier. Returning to the car, he drove through weeds nearly as tall as the white rental. Stopping again to get out and close the gate behind them, he replaced the chains to pass a not-so-close inspection.

  Jumping back behind the wheel he said, “Almost there, Nathaniel.”

  The seriousness of the situation ground on Gramps as he shook himself awake from the past hour’s ride. With the driver’s window open, he could smell the great swamp as they drove along what used to be a grand driveway. He remembered that smell: damp, musty, and charged with a tinge of sulfur, like a newly-scratched brimstone match.

  The place and the grounds appeared different in the daylight, and the drive up seemed to take longer than last time. Back then, Nathaniel had been anxious and concerned for his grandchildren. Today, he hoped the drive to the buildings would be slower, stalling the inevitable for him.

  Ahead, the disheveled main house sat left of a large asphalt drive. In the distance, to the right, was an old barn on the river’s edge. The last time he had been there, the place had been packed with people, cars, and flashing lights from cop cars and news teams. Today, the place seemed eerily quiet, like no living creature had been there since that night.

  Mason’s voice pulled him away from his thoughts. “It’s too bad your grandson killed Jimmy McFadden. He’d know what to do with you.”

  “Does that imply you don’t?”

  “Don’t you worry, old man, I’m very good at improvising. We might be able to find a few remnants in the McFaddens’ workshop to make your life a little more uncomfortable.” He sneered. “When I lure Walker here to kill him—and you, of course—I will take perverse pleasure in chopping you both up and feeding you to the gators.” He stopped to visualize the scene, ecstatic and losing control. His head fell back as his eyes widened and he giggled. “Oh, how those beauties love fresh meat!”

  Turning to Nathaniel, he regained his senses. “There will be bewilderment, everyo
ne asking what happened to you. No one will know, because no one will know who captured you, and when my name is suggested? They’ll find out . . . Mason Matye no longer exists. He died in prison a week ago.”

  Getting out of the car, he walked to the passenger’s door and opened it. “Nathaniel, we can do this the hard way—I’m up for a struggle—but it will make your stay here more uncomfortable. If you do not fight me, your last day or so will be bearable.”

  Gramps swung his legs out of the car. Mason bent and grabbed his tied arms, pulling the old man onto his shoulder. He carried him to the side door of the workshop before lowering him to the ground. Staring at the new padlock, Mason read the notice placed on the door by the sheriff’s department. He turned to Nathaniel and said, “Stay put!” Mason retrieved the bolt cutters from the car. Within seconds, he had access to the barn.

  He hoisted Gramps back up and entered the dark, musty building. The open door offered just enough light to see. The place appeared similar to what Gramps remembered. An old, multi-colored couch in the middle of the room faced a rabbit-eared television. There were still several TVs dispersed throughout.

  Mason placed him on the couch and walked over to the large sliding doors leading to a dock jutting into the river. He cut the chain binding them and pushed them open, the sunlight revealing more of the macabre room’s many details. A steel mortician’s table sat off to the side, surrounded by odd chairs and machinery in various states of disrepair. The walls were filled with Jimmy McFadden’s taxidermy specimens, including fish, large cats, birds and gators, as if every kind of creature found in the Everglades now hung here. A series of rails with large hooks mounted on wheels circled the room. They were used when the estate doubled as a slaughterhouse for cattle in the 1930s.

  Gramps shivered at the sight of place, no doubt perfect for what Mason had in mind. The wise old Seminole still bided his time. Mason would depart sooner or later in order to carry out his plans.

  “What should we do with you, monsieur?” Mason looked around the room, his eyes narrowing when he spotted a door at the back. Walking over, he looked inside. “Voilà! It is perfect!” He returned and grabbed the tie binding Gramps’ ankles, dragging the hogtied man into the prison where dozens of poor souls, including Jack, had once been locked up. Mason found rope conveniently lying on the floor and tied it to Gramps’ feet, slinging the hemp twine over a rafter and raising the man’s legs into the air.

  “We don’t want you moving around now, do we?” Smiling at his handiwork, Mason left, leaving Gramps in the dark.

  Returning minutes later, he held a roll of duct tape. Before gagging Nathaniel, he bent over him to ask, “So, who was the man I murdered at your grandson’s house the other night?”

  Mason could tell he struck a nerve, watching his captive’s eyes dilate with pure fury. “No need to answer. You have told me all I need to know.” He wrapped the tape once around Gramps’ head, covering his mouth. “We don’t need you attracting attention.” He held onto one of Gramps’ arms and reached into his pockets as the old man struggled to resist the search. Pulling out an iPhone, Mason smiled. “Oui, this may come in handy.” He pushed the access button and the phone came alive. Still looking at it, Mason closed the door behind him, leaving Gramps to wallow in the darkness with only his thoughts of anguish and survival, along with the mice, to keep him company.

  Mason spent the next five minutes writing down whatever information could be gleaned from the phone, including Jackson Walker’s phone number.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE GUNSHOT WOUND OOZED puss and blood. Robert Lopez dropped in and out of consciousness. If he didn’t get to a hospital soon, the end would be near. Trying to shake himself from a bad dream, he sat up on the wooden pallet, cringing in pain as he tried to move his leg.

  He looked at the far cell. Sitting cross-legged, staring at him, was Susan. She didn’t smile as she had in the past. A look of concern now showed. After a few seconds of silence passed between the two, the Gypsy spoke. “Robert, you’re not looking good. I think you are dying. I’ve watched you for the last day and that wound will kill you.”

  Robert smiled, though it pained him. “I thank you for being so observant.”

  Susan smiled, nodding. “I don’t need to be a fortune teller to see you’re ill.”

  Robert leaned back against the wall, not up to fencing with the fiery woman. There wasn’t much more he could do. His brain hurt too much. He had to force himself to talk. “You said you knew how to get outta here?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know whether it will do you any good, though. You’ll be dead by tomorrow if you don’t get that looked after.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “Getting out?”

  He canted his head to the side in frustration, the wound affecting the way he thought—a mild delirium, a cross between desperation and pain. “Yes!”

  “I’ve been moving my plate further and further from the bars each day for when Boris retrieves my plate. If pushed, I’m sure I could act quickly enough to grab his arm. I could do it now, but I wouldn’t want to.”

  “What the hell do you mean by you ‘wouldn’t want to’?”

  “Exactly that. I don’t want to jeopardize my escape by acting prematurely because of you. You’re good as dead anyway. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit and watch. I’ve never actually sat and watched someone die. I might gain insight through the process or use it as a diversion.”

  Robert couldn’t believe his ears. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Really!”

  “What if I paid you an outrageous sum of money to help me?”

  “How outrageous?”

  Robert sighed, “You tell me.”

  “Okay, outrageous to me would be a million dollars.”

  “Okay, yes, that’s outrageous.” Am I worth that amount to my handlers?

  “What’s the difference if you’re dead? You can’t take it with you. So, how about it? I get you outta here, you pay me a mil?”

  “I gotta be honest . . . it might be difficult to scrape up that kind of coin on short notice. I could dig up 500 grand in a day. It would take a week or so for the million. I’ll get you half a mil right after we get outta here.”

  Susan frowned. “Are you seriously grinding me?”

  “Not so much as I’m speaking realistically. Okay, I can get you an extra 100 grand within a week, 500 within a day.”

  “How do I guarantee you will give it to me?”

  He grimaced in pain. “No guarantees in life, Susan. You’ll have to trust me and it’s not like I can run away, right? Look at it this way. You let me die and rot in here, and perhaps you do manage to escape. You’re out, but you’re still poor. I don’t think you have a choice.”

  “Not a bad argument from someone who doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot of leverage. I’ll think about it. Not sure I want to be slowed down dragging a sicko along with me. Might mess up my chances. We’ll see. Fair enough?”

  Robert shook his head. “Suppose I don’t have much choice.”

  “No. You don’t.” She remained cross-legged, staring at him intently, always watching in case something critical happened.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE DUTY SERGEANT HANDED Jack back his ID. “Have a seat, Mr. Walker. Someone will be out shortly to take your statement.” Jack followed Janie into the waiting lounge, half full of some very interesting characters, to say the least, including hookers and petty thieves waiting to be arraigned.

  Jack expected to see Gramps there ahead of him. He’d sounded closer to the station than the two of them when they last spoke. Jack tried his cell but no answer. Over his shoulder Janie sat with her legs crossed, forlorn and pouting.

  She felt his eyes upon her and quickly looked up and smiled. “What?”

  “I would have figured Gramps would beat us here.”

  She nodded. “Is he usually punctual?”

  “Like a clock . . . usually early. No answer on his cell
. Perry should be getting to work about now. I’ll ask him to stop by my place and see if he’s still there.”

  Dialing his best friend’s number, Jack waited.

  Perry picked up instantly. “What’s up, bro? Haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

  “Perr . . . I have some real bad news.”

  “Okay?”

  “Josh was murdered last night at my place.”

  “What!”

  “Fucking unbelievable. I don’t think it’s really hit me yet.”

  “How, man?”

  “Not sure how, I just know he was dragged and dumped in the damn canal. When they found him, his body was half eaten by crabs and fish.” Jack sighed, “I need a favor.”

  “Anything, man!”

  “My grandfather was supposed to meet us here at the police station to give a statement. He was ahead of us, but he’s not shown. Can you swing by my place and see if he’s still there? I’m a little worried.”

  “Sure thing, bro. Let me know what else I can do.” He paused. “Why does this shit happen to you? Something to do with that pornography ring you were telling me about? You need to think about that job of yours.”

  “Possible, but I’m not about to try a third career anytime soon, I’ll tell you. Gimme a call once you’ve had a look around for my grandfather?”

  “I’m just getting onto the island and the traffic’s pretty bad. Fifteen minutes probably.”

  “Thanks, Perr!”

  Jack dialed Peter Robertson. It took a minute for him to pick up. “Jack, I literally just got off the phone with Louisiana corrections. The man you’re asking about committed suicide a few days ago. They found him dead in his cell last Monday.”

  “Shit! Then it must have been the Russians who did this to Josh.”

  “I would be more circumspect, Jack. You have no proof. And until we hear anything back from the Tampa police, you stay away from them. Nothing we can do at this point. You involve yourself, you’ll mess this up. And by the way, you’re to check in with me once daily. It’s been two, by my recollection.”