The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  “Oh, thanks for coming, Sheriff! I'm sorry it's so late. But I can’t find Michael anywhere. And his SUV’s still out there.”

  Becky suddenly felt self-conscious. Her long dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, made her appear younger than her twenty-seven years, and she dressed accordingly. Her blouse strained at its center buttons and her shorts followed the smooth curves of her hips. Fowlkes kept staring at her. She thought about Michael's obsession with blaming his parents' deaths on Fowlkes and wished she had been wearing a big shirt and jeans. Maybe calling Fowlkes was a mistake.

  “That’s what they pay me for. Call any time,” Fowlkes reassured.

  Fowlkes questioned Becky about Michael’s schedule and habits, before doing his own search of the building. He climbed the pull-down stairway that Becky pointed out to him and, as he removed his sunglasses, disappeared into an attic storage area.

  Fowlkes was professional and thorough, and better looking than Becky had realized. As he backed down the stairs, Becky caught a view of his face that struck her as familiar. Thoughts of her missing husband and her doubts about Fowlkes slipped farther back in her mind.

  She leaned on her broom, bending the straws. “Sheriff Fowlkes, I’ve seen you before.”

  “You should have. Been to your store quite a few times during the six months I’ve been in Madison. To say nothing about my being the Sheriff of Madison County.”

  His kidding helped her to relax. “No. Like out of my childhood. Where did you grow up?”

  He laughed. “In reform school.”

  From the way he answered, she suspected that was at least partly true. “You didn’t go to Harrison Elementary, in St. Albans, did you?” she asked.

  “Okay, twenty questions, all you get. I'm supposed to be asking the questions. I was there a very short time, in the eighth grade. Most likely you weren’t in school yet—kindergarten at best.” Fowlkes walked around, eyeing the floor. Becky followed beside him, looking up into his face.

  Becky gave a little jump. She was pleased with herself. “I know! You were on TV, in the news. A governor’s son—Governor Donovan Kirkpatrick.”

  “I’m amazed. You could not have been more than ten or eleven at that time.

  “Well, almost a governor’s son. I was his brother’s foster child. But Uncle Don looked out for me, too. You have a basement under this place? A trap door to a stairway or something?”

  She didn't answer. A set of headlights entered the parking lot. A car stopped next to the Madison County patrol car. When the car’s lights went out, Becky saw that they belonged to a white convertible.

  Becky ran to the door, broom in hand, while Fowlkes walked briskly behind her. It felt like a weight lifted from her as a tall male figure climbed from the automobile.

  She burst through the door. “Michael!”

  His hands were stuffed in his rear pants pockets and his eyes avoided hers. In the light from the store Becky could see that Michael’s face and upper body were flushed. His upper body! “Michael, where’s your shirt?”

  Becky stopped. A shapely woman, wearing the tightest outfit Becky had ever seen, slithered out of the driver’s side of the car.

  Becky’s heart jumped to her throat. A mix of hurt, fear, and anger washed over her.

  “My shirt’s—“

  “And what are you doing with that woman?” Becky demanded.

  “I was—”

  “Where have you been?” Becky got louder. “What have you been doing?” She couldn’t stop herself. Michael had never betrayed her trust in him—or so she thought. “Who is this, this . . . slut!”

  Candy’s smile disappeared. “How dare you! You don’t even know me!”

  Becky’s black eyes spat fire. “I can see for myself what you are!” She turned to Michael. “Where’s your shirt?”

  Michael swallowed. “It’s-”

  Becky snapped her attention back to Candy. “I suppose I should be grateful you gave his pants back to him.”

  Michael held up his hands, palms facing Becky, and let out a sigh. “I was admiring her convertible. All we did was take it out for a little spin.”

  Michael’s and Candy’s eyes met briefly.

  “You were admiring her what?” Becky said. She saw Michael’s ears turn a darker shade.

  Candy’s lips turned into a little smile in response to Becky’s innuendo. “Yes, Mrs. Hanover, the car is a classic and nearly an antique.” Candy gave Michael’s arm a squeeze. “As you know, Michael loves Buicks.”

  Becky worked her jaw. “Apparently that’s not all he loves,” she said.

  “Allow me—“ Michael coughed as his throat closed up. He ran his hand across his mouth and swallowed. He continued, “—to introduce everyone and I’ll explain.

  “Candy, I’d like you to meet my wife, B-” Michael began.

  Becky did not hear the remainder of the introduction. He thinks he's going to get out of this. And how dare Michael first introduce her to that woman! As if she was more important to him than I am. Becky now understood why people murdered those they loved.

  She glared at Michael. “Why would you be riding without a shirt-” Becky pointed at Candy “-with her at night?

  “And Candy, when did you put your top back on—when you saw that somebody was here? Not that it makes much difference whether you have one on or not.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Hanover! Look. I sprained my ankle, and Michael bandaged it with his shirt.”

  “Sprained your ankle, riding in a car? Ha! I can imagine what position you were in!”

  Fowlkes placed a massive hand on Becky’s back. She felt its warmth and support. Sheriff Fowlkes understands. Thank God he’s here.

  Michael’s eyes pleaded with Becky’s. “We ended up at the Jug Handle, like in high school, and decided to walk around.” He returned his hands to his back pockets. “Candy stepped in a hole and sprained her ankle. That’s it.”

  Becky’s grip on the broom turned her knuckles white. “You took her to The Jug Handle! At night? Where kids go to make out? You never took me there, not even in the daytime!”

  Candy smirked. “Mrs. Hanover, perhaps we should examine your relationship with Michael—instead of mine.” Candy stepped closer to Hanover so that her arm brushed his. “When we were in high school, Michael and I always did things together.”

  “Always—together!” Becky shook with rage. “I can see that.”

  “I haven’t even seen Candy for seven years,” Hanover said.

  “And now you’re making up for the seven years, I suppose!” Becky shrieked.

  Fowlkes smiled and nodded slightly in Candy’s direction. “You are Candy—?”

  “Candice Melowicz.”

  “Ms. Melowicz, without knowledge or evidence, you impugned Michael’s and Becky’s relationship when you implied that something is wrong with it,” Fowlkes said.

  Candy stared at Fowlkes. “I did? I did? Hah!” Candy exclaimed, then glared at Becky. “Who is it that has exaggerated everything?” She looked up at Michael and smiled.

  “It’s late. Why don’t we all retire for the night?” Fowlkes said. “We’ll think more clearly after a little sleep.”

  He turned to Becky. “Mrs. Hanover, if I can ever be of assistance to you again, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  Becky saw through Fowlkes’ sunglasses that he was searching her eyes. She returned a grateful look. “I apologize for the trouble, Sheriff Fowlkes. You don’t have to leave yet.” She meant it. She sought for something further to say and settled on, “Could I make you some coffee?”

  “How about a rain-check, with a donut?”

  “Tomorrow morning, about nine?” Becky said.

  Fowlkes nodded and smiled.

  That'll teach Michael to fool around, Becky thought. At least I didn't make a date behind his back. She watched Fowlkes pop a peanut into his mouth as he walked to his cruiser.

  9

  Job Two

  Sheriff Fowlkes sat ramrod straight at
his desk at the Madison County Municipal Building. He brushed an imaginary speck from his uniform and leaned forward.

  “Deputies, I’m pleased with the results of your first job. Take a look at this.” He held out The Mills Valley View, folded to display a front-page article.

  Deputy León fidgeted. “Uh, sir, would you mind reading it? Got something in my eye this morning.” León rubbed the corner of his right eye.

  “Can’t read ‘the English’, eh, Senõr? Read it, Waxter.”

  Waxter twisted his head and ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar that, at nine A.M., was already beginning to darken with perspiration.

  “‘Clear skies at one hundred consecutive days. A record-’”

  “Not that one!” The sheriff snatched the paper back and shook his head with feigned exasperation. Glee crept into his voice. He dropped its tone to give it gravity. “‘Would-be robber dies at Wheeling General. Gunshot proves fatal.’”

  Fowlkes slapped the paper onto his desk. A smile stretched his mouth. “Not a word about an overdose.” He retrieved a pair of envelopes from a desk drawer and handed them to the two deputies.

  “Here’s your bonus.”

  León took his.

  “Now don’t go out and act like fools,” like the fools you are, “throwing money around. A deputy sheriff acts with a certain civility. And we can’t have people wondering where you get your money.”

  Waxter hung his head.

  Fowlkes shook the envelope at Waxter. “Take it. You earned it. It'll make you feel better.”

  Waxter held out a limp hand. “Skeeter's blood,” he said in a whisper so low Fowlkes wasn't sure he heard him.

  León stared back at Fowlkes, his eyes registering defiance, a certain equality.

  “Now, I have another job for you.” Fowlkes no longer smiled. He had not misread León’s look. León was not his equal and would never get the best of him. “You’ll need to ‘borrow’ somebody’s car—from Middlebourne. And don’t get caught.”

  * * *

  León stepped out of the squad car in front of The Jug. A black Crown Victoria pulled up behind him. Light from the bare bulb under the shade of the lamp mounted over the door of The Jug illuminated the street and the big Ford.

  León hurried back to the car as the passenger window rolled down. The driver leaned over to the window. It was Waxter. “Get that car out of here,” León said.

  “I, I can’t do it. I gotta get out of this!” Waxter’s face glistened in the dashboard light. He was trembling. “Not like this.”

  “You useless piece of trash! Get this thing around that curve before somebody sees it. Come down here smokin’ when my flashlight beam hits the turn arrows, like we planned.”

  Waxter held his head in his hands. “I can’t. Can’t.”

  León cursed. “Just get the car up around that curve. Then go sit in the back of the patrol car. I’m calling Fowlkes.”

  * * *

  Fowlkes tossed in his bed. He couldn't sleep. One-thirty. They should be there now. The police radio on his nightstand barked. He grabbed the mike and pushed the button. “What!” he said. He listened and shook his head in disgust.

  “Put Waxter on,” Fowlkes said. There was a long pause, then he said, “Why’d you think I hired you? What do you mean, ‘I can take somebody’s money but not their life?’ Fool. Money is their life. It’s the same thing!” Fowlkes trembled with anger.

  “Let me speak to León.” There was another pause. He heard Waxter sobbing in the background.

  “Keep both cars out of sight,” Fowlkes said to León. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  Fowlkes made it to The Jug Restaurant in thirty minutes. He was agitated. He hated being late. Foremost, he shouldn't have to do his underling's job. Ordinarily he drank in the cool, refreshing night air; now it seemed putrid and dank. The crunch of his shoes on the driveway broke the silence and further served to irritate him. The only light came from the lone bulb hung over the restaurant's doorway.

  Fowlkes pounded the door. “Mr. Mehrhaus! Mr. Mehrhaus! Sheriff Fowlkes, here.” Maybe old Mehrhaus died in his sleep tonight. Save us some trouble.

  A window opened above Fowlkes’ head.

  “Yeah, how can I help you?” At 2:00 A.M. Mehrhaus was polite, ever the businessman.

  “Slip some clothes on, sir,” Fowlkes called up to him. “I have to show you something. Police business—urgent! Come outside.”

  Fowlkes stood in front of the door, repeatedly moistened his sunglasses with his breath, wiped them with a handkerchief, then held them up in the door light to examine them. He looked up at the window. What's taking him so long?

  Mehrhaus appeared in the doorway, bent slightly forward and stiff. His pajama bottoms were sticking out at the waist from under his pants. His arms looked long and thin in his white undershirt. The light over the door shone through the few wisps of his tousled hair.

  “My apologies for getting you up, Mr. Mehrhaus. You can get back to bed in a few minutes.”

  Fowlkes caught Mehrhaus’ arm as he stepped down onto the parking lot, then led him up the left-hand side of the road to where it climbed around a curve to their right. A guardrail protected the roadway from an embankment that fell sharply below it. Across the road a slope rose high above them, the same hill on which sat Howie Crabapple’s house. The hill hid the road curving behind it.

  “Over here, Mr. Mehrhaus, right in the middle of the road.” Fowlkes flashed the beacon from his flashlight on the road’s center stripes as he led Mehrhaus to them.

  “You might have to bend over a little to see it.”

  Fowlkes stepped back to the side of the road and flashed his light on the arrow sign at the curve. He made out the murky form of an automobile with headlights off rolling toward them. At least he could count on León. Lights suddenly blinded them as the car’s engine roared and the car, not thirty feet away, hurled forward.

  Fowlkes caught a glimpse of Waxter, rigid, pushing back against the passenger seat, steeling himself for the impact. The sound of his scream floated along beside the car.

  For an instant, Mehrhaus froze in front of the racing vehicle, before responding as if he were a much younger man, flinging himself at the side of the road where Fowlkes stood.

  “Watch out-,” Mehrhaus yelled.

  Fowlkes’ and Mehrhaus’ eyes met for a fleeting second as Fowlkes bounced Mehrhaus back into the path of the oncoming car. There was a loud thud. The car slammed Mehrhaus to the pavement and ran over top of him. León slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed as the car went into a skid.

  Had Mehrhaus realized they wanted to kill him? Fowlkes shrugged off the thought. What difference did it make?

  * * *

  As usual, Howie Crabapple slept in fits and pieces. The little table fan helped lull him back to sleep, but it couldn't compete with the congestion in his throat and chest. He heard a “whomp” from a distance. Distant thunder? That would be good news. He was tired, but swung his feet out onto the worn linoleum. The coolness felt good—relaxing—on his feet. He sat there, trying to catch his breath. Every movement was an effort. He began coughing again and staggered over to the screen door and out onto the porch, hacking all the while. He bent over the rail and spat. It was always worse at night.

  The porch floor was a foot above the ground where it joined the house. At the outer railing, the ground dropped another twelve feet. The hillside continued to fall away from the house. That was why Howie liked it here.

  After twenty-five years in the coalmines, he wanted to live where there was light, space, and a view. He could see over most of the trees from here, but not quite to the road and Middle Island Creek. Except this year with the trees dropping leaves from the drought, he could make out the road. At night, The Jug’s front light comforted him and brought thoughts of his landlord, his friend, Andy Mehrhaus.

  Crabapple pushed himself up from the rail. The light from The Jug caught the unlit emerge
ncy lights on top of a patrol car. That’s what he had heard, a car door slamming. Mehrhaus had thought somebody was trying to break into his place and called the sheriff. Sheriff Fowlkes would take care of it. He seemed competent enough. Crabapple returned to bed.

  10

  Blood

  “Michael, you’re not going to sleep in this bed! Not with me!” Becky had said, hands on hips. “For all I care you can sleep down at your precious store. Maybe your girlfriend will come by again.” She kicked the bedroom door shut in his face. He jerked his hand from the doorjamb just in time. “Nothing happened!” he said for the umpteenth time. The lock clicked.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  When Hanover had met Becky at West Virginia University he had been attracted by her reserve and dignity. During their courtship, her competitive spirit and fire at a rifle shooting match against him had caught him by surprise then—and every time since then.

  Tonight, when he and Becky had arrived home, he had again explained how Candy had invited him for a ride. Never had Becky been so agitated.

  At first he had been embarrassed and nauseous. Apologetic. She was hurt and angry. Now, after she repeatedly refused to accept his explanation, he was the one who felt hurt and angry- angry that she would not believe him.

  At three A.M., there was little time left for sleep. He needed to get to Hanover’s Store by seven to open it at eight. Once the store was up and running, he would make deliveries to Middle Island Creek customers, including Uncle Andy. He always chatted with Uncle Andy.

  Hanover took the living room sofa. He tossed and turned, alternating between berating himself for going to The Jug Handle with Candy and then catching himself mooning over her. When would Becky forgive him? Would she ever?

  * * *

  The sky was brightening as Hanover left the house. He could still see a few of the most radiant stars and the moon’s crescent.

  When the moon lies on her back, she sucks the wet into her lap. How many times had he heard his grandfather repeat that old saying?

  The moon must have spilt the water out somewhere else. No chance this one held a drop. Another dry, hot day.