The Palm Reader

by Christopher Bowron

  “Okay, close enough.” She studied the structure of the building, noting how the wood pilings looked to be rotten and shifting toward the corner where she had entered.

  A sudden swirling in the water close to the foot of the building grabbed her attention.

  “Holy mother of God,” she blurted out, realizing she had disturbed a nest of water moccasins. One very large snake came straight for her, its fangs extended. She whacked it just behind the head, killing it instantly. There was nothing she could do as dozens more of the black snakes swam toward her. The tiny serpents probed her clothing for bare flesh. She was lucky for a time, but then one of the small vipers sank its teeth into her ankle. She flinched in pain as the burning hot venom took over the flesh.

  ****

  Mason enjoyed stirring up the crowd. Once again, he had the blade raised, ready to strike. As he dropped to his knees, a sudden movement caught his eye and he stopped to look. A man in customary attire forced himself through the crowd, charging toward him. When the running man was close, looking as if he would try to tackle Mason before the sacrifice, he crossed the chalk circle and collapsed. On the ground, he lay unable to move due to the spasms passing over his entire body.

  Mason grinned, lowering the blade to his side. “Jack Walker.”

  The congregation chanted as one to repeat, “Jack Walker!”

  Mason raised his hands and the blade. “Let this be a showing of the powerful god in whom we place our faith.” The buzz died down so all could hear the man’s words. “I placed a curse upon this man, Jack Walker, seven days ago, and promised he would be delivered to me. Let this be a sign that Satan is with us, that the Black Mass is all-powerful. Because this is indeed a miracle. Satan be praised.”

  “Satan be praised!”

  Mason, in full control of Jack, moved to him, lifting his chin with his index finger, and beckoned him to crawl to the middle of the circle. And he did, following his antagonist. Mason pushed him down beside his grandfather.

  “Tonight, we will avenge the deaths of our brethren: Henrietta LePley, Buck and Carly Henderson, Isaac, Eric and James McFadden. All were staunch followers of our Deity. Jackson Walker and his shaman grandfather, Nathaniel Portman, will be sacrificed in the name of Satan and will die for their transgressions against the unholy father for making a deal with the Devil, not willing to pay the price.”

  “Pay the price!” the congregation chanted as one, though a few remained silent as they watched and listened to the spectacle.

  The building groaned once again, shuddering as the soft, rotting wood found new resting places. The rumble under Mason caused him to stumble, but he quickly regained his footing to look around. Picking up that the lack of foundation might upend the building soon and cause the demise of the waterfront slaughterhouse, Mason decided to shorten the Mass. Still, before the Satanists retreated, Walker and his grandfather needed to die. Standing over Portman, who would be first, Mason signaled for the acolytes to bring the silver chalice to him.

  ****

  Lolita’s foot went numb from the snakebite. She gave up trying to shoo the snakes from her robes as they slithered and swam around her, searching for flesh. When the old place groaned again, one of the rotten pillars fell sideways into the water. Surveying the structure, she didn’t need to be an engineer to see that the place was resting on two piers further out. She moved toward them, out into deeper water. She saw the water swish made by the tail of a much larger gator. As she went deeper, the snakes gained access to her upper torso.

  “Wonderful,” she said aloud. “The serpents of Hell, no doubt.”

  As she pushed her great weight into one of the piers, a small viper leaped from the water to latch onto her nose. She grabbed it behind its head, ripping it off. Blood spurted into her eyes and into the water. When the wooden post wouldn’t give, she felt around the bottom with her foot. It was rotten—about an inch of thickness remained holding it up. She wedged the shovel handle between a rock and the bottom of the pier. The snakes continued to attack as she put her prodigious weight behind the lever. Lolita felt the post give way, hopping off the stub on the river bottom.

  The building groaned, yet the last pier still held.

  ****

  Jack remembered pushing through the crowd, the knife raised over Mason’s head. The man sure hadn’t changed much in five years, and Jack would never forget those hateful black eyes. The bastard meant to skewer Gramps. He charged Mason, hoping to tackle him before the knife could be driven home. As he crossed the line into the circle, everything went fuzzy. He caught his breath. Unable to draw another, he felt like he was having a heart attack. Falling to the ground, the last thing Jack remembered was his head hitting the floorboards.

  ****

  The acolyte returned with the heavy silver chalice, placing it on the ground by Mason’s feet.

  Mason raised the blade one last time. “By the power invested in me, oh Satan, I make sacrifice of this servant of Yahweh, shaman of the Miccosukee people, who have hurt our interests in South Florida. Grandfather of Jackson Walker, he of vile intent, killer of members of the Church of Satan and Set.”

  The building shook once again.

  ****

  Lolita could hardly bear the pain inflicted by the aggressive black serpents. She saw one last opportunity to bring the building down. Diving under the water, snakes circling, she squatted at the base of the piling. Like the other, it was held together by soft rot. She used the long wooden handle once again, wedging it under the rotting wood and heaving to push the upper part of the wood pier off the base. Lolita groaned—her last breath leaving her.

  It didn’t look as if it would go, but a sudden weight shift above must have been all that was required. The pier popped off, snagging her dress as it slammed home into the soft river bottom.

  When the building began its slow, laborious slide into the river, Lolita did not have enough air in her lungs to get back to the surface. The last thing she remembered of her earthly existence was the weight falling on her. Lolita’s last hope was for Jackson, and that her final efforts were enough to aid him and Nathaniel. Looking down, her body was no more. Looking up, there was a beacon of light, just past the surface of the water. She smiled.

  ****

  This time, the structure pitched sideways as the rest of the pilings gave way, snapping or toppling. The river side of the building dropped, slicing into the water. The eighty or so people inside the building were thrown into the water . . . along with thousands of pounds of broken-down machinery and furniture, crushing limbs and dragging bodies beneath the brown, brackish water.

  Jack, Mason and the naked female on the altar piled up against a pillar. The water came up to their necks and only the woman swam free. Mason and Jack ended up face to face. Perhaps it was the jolt of being thrown in the water, or maybe the curse was broken and Jack was no longer in Mason’s circle of power. Either way, Jack snapped awake. Taking in a big gulp of dirty water, Jack felt alive and well again.

  Mason still brandished the knife and tried to stab Jack’s chest. Jack rolled to the side, the knife piercing his shoulder through to the floor.

  Snakes, big black ones, came at both of them. Mason, showing his fear of snakes, turned from Jack and tried to swim away. A voice called out and Jack saw a red-robed man beckoning Mason to swim to the dock. Mason watched for an opening between the huge debris and swam away with haste. That was when Jack remembered there were powerboats on the water.

  “Dammit!” he yelled after his archenemy.

  Looking around, Jack spotted Gramps, still tied to the stakes. His head was under the water, but Jack was relieved to see the old bugger trying to free himself. Before he could move to help him, a hand rested on Jack’s shoulder. He turned to see a Native American. Jack looked back at the long knife pinning him to the canted floor. The man nodded, pulling out the blade and handing it to him before diving into the water, disappearing into the night.

  With all of the strength left to him, Ja
ck slid further into the water and cut Gramps’ bonds. Once cut, Jack heaved the man to the surface, coughing up water. Jack touched his grandfather’s face, kissing his forehead. “You are one tough old Indian.”

  Gramps smiled. “Only so tough, Jackson. My breath was about done. Thank you. What on earth is happening?”

  “I don’t know, but I have the sneaking suspicion Lolita had something to do with it.” He looked out to the river, where Mason stepped down into one of the bay boats moored on the dock. Jack shook his head. “That fucker can’t get away.”

  Gramps noticed it too. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Grandson.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” A water moccasin swam at them. Jack chopped it with the knife, severing its head. Out in the small cove, all Jack and Nathaniel saw was chaos. The gators were swimming in and looking for an easy meal; the snakes defending their lair attacked anything close to the toppled building. Bodies floated facedown, no doubt crushed by falling debris. Others swam for the far shore—unknowingly toward the gators, which were easy to see from Jack’s vantage point.

  He smiled and called after them, “Hurry!”

  Gramps followed Jack and they found an old ladder to the dock. They scampered onto the rickety structure and turned to see Mason’s boat roaring away, slamming through swimmers still trying for the far shore. Without a care, their prop sliced open a near-naked female Satanist.

  There was one boat left, and Jack saw the owners walking along the dock to leave. Sprinting as best he could, he made a run for it. The boat owners saw him coming and tried to hurry. Jack faced two males and one female until he remembered the snub-nosed .45 in his pocket. He pulled it out and, without jumping into the boat, Jack brandished the weapon at the three.

  “Get out of the fucking boat, or I’ll shoot you all. Believe me, it won’t take much, you satanic fucks. Just try me.” He kept the gun leveled, watching them reluctantly climb out of the low-riding bay boat.

  Gramps was limping behind and Jack yelled back to him, “Get in.”

  The spry old Native climbed aboard and set himself up at the steering wheel. The motor was already running. On the dock, Jack slipped the mooring lines from the metal cleats before climbing into the boat, the gun panned on the three former occupants, who looked as if they might try to retake the vessel.

  The stare-down proved Jack’s smile held more promise of evil than they had seen that night. “Do not fucking tempt me!”

  Gramps, an expert skipper, moved the boat away from the dock, avoiding the remainder of people in the water—those still alive and the floating dead. Jack never dropped sight of the three left behind on the dock. Once clear, Nathaniel gunned the motor and headed after the boat carrying Mason. He yelled to Jack, “They’re headed back into the Everglades!”

  Jack finally turned away from the dock and relaxed. “I wouldn’t have expected that.” He leaned against the center console, his body aching and his shoulder oozing blood. He took off the robe and sliced a few long strips from it. He motioned to Gramps that he wanted to drive, handing the strips to the Native healer. Gramps understood and did his best to tend to Jack’s wound.

  Mason’s boat carried six. Gramps and Jack only had two aboard and experienced no problem closing the gap. Jack motioned for Gramps to take back the wheel. “Here.” He handed Gramps the other gun he’d taken from the Russians back in Tampa, which seemed so long ago.

  “Where did you get the weapons?”

  “Tell you later.”

  As they got closer, Jack took aim and fired a shot into the middle of their boat, not really aiming at anything in particular. The boat swerved, one of the passengers falling to the deck. He fired again, this time aiming at the outboard motor. It took a direct hit but kept going. He fired again, this time hitting something important. The motor whined to a stop, the boat surging to a glide. Gramps pulled up within a few feet.

  “That’s the high priest, Jack,” Gramps said, recognizing the man and both of his acolytes, the other passengers female and scantily-dressed. Another man lay on the floor, having taken the first shot fired in the middle of the back.

  Jack nodded. “I don’t have a beef with any of you except that little fuck.” He pointed at Mason. “You can all go. There will be no enmity from me, and hopefully none from you, by me letting you go. I should shoot you all right now. I’m not built that way. I don’t practice evil like the bunch of you.”

  The tall older man spoke. “And say we don’t agree to hand Mason over to you?”

  “Then I will start by shooting you and will continue to do so until we’re left with only Mason. Okay, I’m going to treat you like little kids and count to ten to talk it over.”

  Without warning, Mason jumped overboard. He swam toward the saw-grass shoreline.

  Jack nodded at the people in the boat. “I’m sure there are some paddles in the boat. It’s the law.”

  Gramps backed the boat away and maneuvered to cut Mason off from the shore. The man decided to tread water, no doubt to catch his breath.

  Jack yelled down, “Whad’ya think of my deal with the Devil now, Mason Matye?”

  “You’re not free from your bargain yet, Walker.”

  “You know what? I am. I’ve suffered enough because of the false deal you speak of. My family has suffered. You were about to kill both of us.”

  Gramps nodded. “There’s something else you have not taken into consideration.”

  Mason was huffing, his breath short from exertion. “What’s that, Nate?”

  “Swamp justice.” Gramps pointed his gun at Mason and, without flinching, shot the nasty little man in the head. Mason’s final death throes kept his body afloat until it finally stopped thrashing. It floated on the water for a few moments before drifting below the surface. Nathaniel turned to Jack, placing his hand on the back of his grandson’s head and bringing their foreheads together. “Will you listen to me now, Jackson?”

  Jack offered the beginnings of a smile. “Suppose I’d better from now on.” He turned back to Mason’s watery grave. “The gators will take care of the rest of him.”

  “We can’t go back to that place. One of the hunt camps is only a few miles from here. I think it would be good to disappear for a short time.”

  “I’m in your hands, Gramps.” He didn’t want to admit it, but he felt better.

  Gramps gunned the engine, heading off into the darkness of the great swamp with only the moon and stars to guide his way—as it had always been before him, and would be after him.

  Acknowledgements

  Christopher would like to thank:

  Agent Mary Ellen Gavin from the Gavin Literary Agency

  Jean Young, editing

  Old Nick

  John Koehler and the wonderful people at Koehler Books.

  Readers: Sarah Gleddie, Philip Bowron, Bonnie Grimm, Bev Matychuk, Jessica Schmitt, Carmen Bowron, Graham Heyes, Bryan Funk, Marilyn Francis, Jewell Betts, Jodi Gribbons

  Biography

  Christopher’s roots are in Canada, and his two children make the fifth generation to live in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario. His second home, in Southwest Florida, is surrounded by the Everglades and the ocean. Both provide ammunition for his imagination and his love of storytelling. The diversity of the Everglades became the backdrop for his first published and best-selling novel, Devil in the Grass, and now the sequel, The Palm Reader, both published by Koehler Books.

  Considering himself fortunate, Chris enjoys living his own great story. After earning a BA in history and graduating from Brock University, Chris is now surrounded by a wonderful family and runs a real estate brokerage. Whenever possible, he enjoys getting away to do some salt-water fishing in Florida.

  Christopher Bowron’s stories leave the humdrum train station of life behind to travel through dark tunnels into the unknown. Readers may need to buckle up and hold on tight as his stories lead them to the sharp edge of reality, where they get to peer into the paranormal.

 

 

  Christopher Bowron, The Palm Reader