by Bob Knapp
“In his opinion, the drilling was going rather slowly and he became angry. He stripped off his coat and hat, but not the scarf, and pushed a roustabout aside so that he could demonstrate what he wanted done. Mills' scarf caught on the revolving drill shaft and turned Mills into a bloody pulp before they got it stopped. Although never proven, it was suspected that the workers deliberately delayed idling the shaft. Records available today do not reveal whether or not the drilling of that well was completed.
“Let's go into the dining room. That's right—the room where the grandfather clock guards the entrance. All the dining pieces that you see on the table were once used by the Baron.”
The crowd murmured and pointed at the elegant settings.
Once everyone was in the room, Fowlkes stared at Gates.
“Sheriff Fowlkes, how did you come to own this house?” Gates responded.
“Glad you asked. I was coming to that.” He paused. “In 1963, after a series of owners, the Mills Mansion was abandoned. Then, in 1973 when demolition was threatened, it was rescued by the Mills Valley Preservation Society. When the mansion's upkeep proved excessively expensive, the Preservation Society persuaded the West Virginia Historical Society to include it under its umbrella.
“The Historical Society gave tours from 1974 through 1977, did some restoration, but then abandoned the effort. The house remained unoccupied until I moved in.”
“So you bought it? Wasn't it expensive?” someone called out.
“Not really. The Society was looking for a buyer. The initial price was very reasonable. But—” Fowlkes opened his arms wide “—I must maintain the home according to Historical Society standards. Any repair or restoration must be like the original. A lot of repair—and some of you worked on that—was necessary before it was inhabitable.”
“So, to keep it authentic, you use an outhouse?”
A few people laughed.
“No, I'm serious,” the questioner said.
Fowlkes smiled and nodded. “It's a good question. If you were rich, you had indoor baths and toilets, but of course not modern plumbing. One reason for so many servants. The entire third floor had quarters for servants—the bathing and toilet facilities were included among the many items in their care.”
“How many servants?”
“It appears about a dozen lived here. There may have been more. Back to the outhouse question. Fortunately, the Preservation Society made some exceptions. For instance, those are not gas lights on the wall, it just looks like it. I have modern utilities and appliances—but they must blend in. You will see my, ah, essential bathroom items.
“I'm seeking to have the house named a National Historical Landmark. Ninety percent must be restored before they will look at it. So far, I've had the first floor and two-thirds of the second floor rebuilt. That's all on me and it's expensive, I assure you. If I can get acceptance, it will help to put Madison on the map.”
Gates clapped self-consciously. A smattering of applause joined his.
* * *
It was a blustery fall day. The hills on each side of the river valley supported a gray ceiling under which dark vessels skidded down the valley, dumping their cargo of rain, threatening to finally end the drought. Gates waited for one of those great ships to pass, then hustled from his car and entered the court house. He headed for the Sheriff's Office, caught Helen's nod of approval, and went in.
“What is it you want to show me, Slim?” Fowlkes said.
“I transcribed the recording of the special town council meeting the members held one week after the picnic. You'll be interested. Very interested. Here's the tape, too.”
“How often do they call these special meetings?”
“This is the first since I've been here. If a quorum requests the meeting and all are notified, it can be held. Special meetings mean trouble for somebody. Nobody wants to miss it.”
“What's the matter?”
“Read for yourself.” Gates handed the transcript to Fowlkes and he read:
Madison Town Council
Special Meeting
October 15
Members present: Charles Gates, Michael Hanover, Grant Hopper, Thomas Jenkins, Antonio Morella, Arnold Tuckett, Helen Wagner
Gates: Okay, what's this all about?
Tuckett: First, we would like to express our appreciation to Sheriff Fowlkes for the picnic and open house. Slim, you can put that in the Mills Valley View.
Gates: You didn't call this meeting to thank Fowlkes.
Hanover: But we did. Without the picnic and the tour, we wouldn't have realized how valuable that property is. Madison can have a park with picnic tables, playground, hiking trails, shooting range, and fishing—if it ever rains.
Jenkins: It's a beautiful place. Nice for children.
Gates: I don't think that is entirely what the sheriff had in mind for his property.
Fowlkes interrupted. “Did they know you were recording this?”
“Of course not.”
“Go on. Keep reading.”
Morella: Did we mention the oil well?
Hanover: New techniques are opening up old wells. The Red Baron's well is on top of the bluff. Geomaxx Exploration, down in Clay, West Virginia, said average well life in this region runs forty to sixty years.
Tuckett: Somebody's been doing some exploring—for oil. Ha! Ha! I make a motion that Madison County expropriates the Jug Handle property for use of the citizens of Madison County.
Gates: Hey, wait!
Morella: I second it. Slim, you're supposed to say, “any discussion?”
(Pause)
Hopper: How we supposed to pay for it? I hear Fowlkes paid about $300,000.
Tuckett: That's your department, Hopper. Your cousin works at the New Martinsville Bank. Of course, we'll have to run a referendum for a loan on the next ballot. When everybody hears about the oil well paying back the loan, and then some, I think they'll go for it.
Morella: We can say the property is worth less, can't we? Maybe half that, since it's for public ownership?
Hanover: You know he'll take this to court. It might drag out a year or two.
Tuckett: He won't be building his casino then, will he?
Hopper: Call for the vote, Slim.
Gates: (No response)
Hopper: Gates? (Pause) All in favor say “aye.”
Voices: Aye.
Hanover: We have work to do. Gather more information. Formalize all this, legal documents, get documentation from Geomaxx. Stuff like that. Who's gonna do what?
Gates: You guys can't railroad this through.
Hanover: You heard the vote. Come on Slim, do your job. Assign some tasks.
Gates: (No response)
Hanover: Okay, I'll follow up my contacts with Geomaxx. Tuckett, you're persuasive, good with people. Go on over to the . . .
Fowlkes glared up from the papers. He balled them up and threw them at the trash can.
“Why didn't you stop it?”
“I was in-”
“You didn't even say anything. Did everyone vote for this?”
“The only one that didn't say 'aye' was Helen and me. She just sat there, head down, taking minutes.”
“And they know about the old oil well. They don't know you brought this to me, right?”
“Nope. What difference does it make?”
“Maybe none. But forget the rest of your money.”
“You wouldn't know about this meeting if it weren't for me,” Gates said.
“I wouldn't have this trouble, if it weren't for you. I'll fix this myself, my way.”
17
Devil's Uncle
Sheriff Terrance Fowlkes bounded up the thirty-six steps leading to the West Virginia State House. He paused and popped a Planter's peanut from its cellophane bag into his mouth, then made his way through the revolving glass door.
In the late morning only a few men in business suits wandered through the spacious atrium. Recessed lighting brightened polished floo
rs and walls of marble that were complemented by tall fluted columns.
Fowlkes stepped into an empty elevator and hit the sixth floor button. Only his bulk distinguished him from the politicians who occupied the building. His blue suit, light blue shirt and striped tie were the standard attire.
As he had planned, he arrived precisely at the appointed hour in the hall outside of Governor Donovan Kirkpatrick's office. The guards, who had not seen Fowlkes in eight years, were surprised by his arrival. He noted the old fear and animosity with which each regarded him.
Inside, the governor's twenty-three year old receptionist greeted Fowlkes with a Colgate smile. Sophie was another of Kirkpatrick's blonde recruits from JB's Gentleman's Club. Taking Fowlkes’ arm, she ushered him into Kirkpatrick's office and bade him have a seat next to the desk where the governor was working.
Years ago the room had seemed larger, but it still impressed Fowlkes. The fifteen paces from the entrance to the desk were designed to intimidate, as was the result of Kirkpatrick's last hunting expedition. A mounted wild boar, posed to charge, shocked Fowlkes as he stepped into the room. He hoped his reaction was not evident.
Blood-red carpeting set off the mahogany furniture and the dark paneled walls.
The back wall featured pictures of Kirkpatrick: kneeling next to the twelve point buck he had shot; racing his hydroplane, Black Beast, in the New Martinsville Regatta; holding a string of bass on the ice of Tygart Lake; white water rafting on New River; breaking the tape at the Fifteenth Annual Jug Handle 5K Run/Walk. These were hung beneath an old muzzle loader braced by the mounted trophy heads of the buck in the picture and an elk.
If the room did not already impart the immensity of the man, his physique did. Kirkpatrick's hand dwarfed his pen. His body completely hid the leather executive chair, giving the impression that he floated on air. His coal black eyes seemed to pierce everything upon which they rested. Straight black hair, grey at the temples, enhanced a bronzed muscular face. Strangers guessed he was fifty, but they fell short by a dozen years.
Governor Kirkpatrick finished examining a document, then set it aside, rolled down his shirt sleeves, buttoned his collar, tightened his tie and pulled on his suit coat. Upon completing this ritual, he offered his hand to Fowlkes.
“Son, great to see you. As usual, I've a full schedule,” Kirkpatrick said. “You have fifteen minutes. I understand there's trouble with those Madisonians, getting them to approve the zoning before November first. A little uprising, is it?”
Donovan Kirkpatrick was in his third term as governor of West Virginia. After Governor Arch Moore, Governor “Kirk” was the most popular governor in modern West Virginia politics.
As a young West Virginia state senator, Kirkpatrick had had a brief liaison with a married woman named Margot Fowlkes. They never saw or heard from each other again. Nine months thereafter, Terrance Fowlkes was born.
Terrance's nominal father, Elton Fowlkes, had often traveled to the far reaches of the country on extended business trips. His mother took advantage of these occasions to carouse for days, leaving five-year-old Terrance to care for his younger half-brother, Alex. During one of her junkets, Terrance took an action that set him on his way to a series of unsuccessful foster placements and institutions for juveniles.
“I'm hungy, Terry, I'm hungy,” Alex had sobbed over and over. He rubbed his hand across his cheeks, smearing them with tears and mucus. His chin rested on the kitchen table.
Terrance thrust his finger at a chair. “Get up there. Eat your Cheerios, Alex.”
“I don't want no more Cheeros, Terry.”
“It's all we got. You want to get big like me? Then eat 'em.”
“I don't like wawa on 'em.”
“We don't have milk, Alex. You better stop crying. You're making me mad. Just eat.”
“I'm hungy. I want Mommy.”
“Stop crying, Alex. I can't stand it any more.” Terrance scowled at his brother, then brightened.
“Forget about eating. Let's play cops and robbers. You be the robber.”
Alex sucked his thumb as Terrance pulled a chair over to the cabinet next to the refrigerator, watched Terrance climb atop the cabinet and pull a revolver from the shelf over the refrigerator. Terrance turned the barrel to see if there were shells in the chambers like he had seen the cowboys do on TV.
Terrance climbed down with the gun, then said, “Okay, let's play, Alex.” With both hands on the gun's grip and two forefingers on the trigger, Terrance raised the gun to his brother's chest and squeezed the trigger. There was a blast from the gun, but Terrance didn't flinch. He watched his brother fall to the floor. Terrance turned to sit at the table, eat cereal and look on as his brother's body quivered and bled.
Upon his mother's return, Terrance had run to her, tears streaming down his face. “Mommy, Mommy, we were playing cops-and-robbers.”
Little Alex's death was deemed an accident.
By the time Terrance Fowlkes was 15, his living arrangements had changed eight times—plus stints in juvenile detention—and he was angry with life. Finally, on the ninth occasion for change, he was mysteriously adopted by Governor Donovan Kirkpatrick’s brother, Ronald, and his wife—a childless couple who wanted to make a difference in a troubled youth's life.
Uncle Donovan took the boy under his wing, and with his foster parents, helped him make remarkable social and academic progress. What no one knew was the true nature of their familial relationship. However, people were astounded by Terrance Fowlkes’ resemblance to Donovan Kirkpatrick.
Ronald Kirkpatrick had noticed that his newly-adopted son and the governor had developed a rapport that he could not match. Governor Kirkpatrick insisted that his adoptive nephew acquire a working knowledge of state government and Fowlkes, spurred by his observation of the governor's ability to acquire wealth, was an apt student. He readily accepted the nuggets of wisdom his uncle offered.
Fowlkes recalled the occasion when Kirkpatrick, who was working on his third wife, pulled him aside and asked him what he knew about love. “Remember Terrance, there is only one true love, one love that can return your love, a love that will last a lifetime.”
Fowlkes had bitten and asked, “What's that, Uncle Donovan?”
With his most sincere look, Kirkpatrick had answered, “Money. The more money, the more love. Always put your true love first.”
During this time, Fowlkes concluded that Kirkpatrick was as much a criminal as any common thief. The difference was the intricate nature of Kirkpatrick’s illicit activities and their higher profits. Uncle Donovan had entered politics relatively poor. After twenty-six years as a public servant, he had amassed over 77 million dollars. Fowlkes decided that it was best to throw in his lot with his uncle's approach. He gave up his petty disturbances and misbehavior and patterned himself after Uncle Donovan.
* * *
“You're right,” Fowlkes said. “Those Madison red-necks are downright mulish about their property. Getting my hand played out by November First—I'll never do it. Maybe you could...”
“I already pulled in most of my chips for that I-68 project. For two years it's been one big headache. Plans, right-of-ways, contracts—and then your fool exit. November One—you've got 'til then for the go-ahead. After that, it's a no-go. If it turns into a fiasco, I'll be crucified. How'd it look to build a twenty million dollar exit to nowhere?”
Kirkpatrick paused and looked at Fowlkes as if expecting an answer, then continued. “There would be investigations. I'd lose everything—I mean the whole chawing-spitting wad! I haven't done hard time yet and don't plan to.”
“That casino will get built—I guarantee it. May take a bit longer than planned,” Fowlkes said. “Just get the construction slowed down a bit, Uncle Don.”
“How's that going to help, you fool? If this road is delayed, it'll cost big time. Some contributors—contractors—got to have the road done on time to reap their own dividends. They get things set up in advance. It's all costly. They'll want c
ompensation—or blood.”
Fowlkes gave a no-big-deal shrug. “Okay. How much?”
“About ten mil, at least, just for the delay. A whole lot more if it fizzles.”
“Ten million! I can't do that.”
“Guess this conversation is finished,” Kirkpatrick said. He swiveled his chair to face his desk. “How's the fishing at the Jug, anyway?”
“I'll cut you in—ten percent—of gross.”
Kirkpatrick burst out laughing. “I should take those risks for a measly ten percent?”
“Twenty-five.”
Kirkpatrick continued to smile and shake his head.
“Okay, how much?” Fowlkes said.
His face somber, Kirkpatrick turned back to Fowlkes. “Sixty, and I'm taking a big risk at any percent. And if it fails, the property is mine.”
“No way. My overhead'll eat. . .”
“Take it or leave it. If you weren't my nephew, it'd be seventy-five plus or I'd probably not even do it.”
“Appoint me State Police Superintendent and I'll go for it.”
“From outside the ranks? It’ll never happen,” Kirkpatrick said. “Get off your duff and get it done. Stack your own deck if you want that exit to Madison.”
Fowlkes scowled. “Life's going to get rough for some folks in Madison.”
“That's my boy. You know what's best for them. Give 'em tough love.”
Fowlkes rose to leave.
“Hey, take one of these with you.” Kirkpatrick opened a humidor and tossed a package to Fowlkes.
“You keep peanuts in a cigar box now?” Fowlkes said.
“Yeah. My dad did that.”
18
Gun Law
Fowlkes returned to his mansion in extremely good spirits. He knew what he had to do; he just wasn't sure how to do it. He sat in his study on one of two large, leather-covered easy-chairs and reminisced about his visit in Becky's kitchen. He envisioned her lying on white satin sheets in his bedroom overhead, with her tanned body in a short satin nightgown, beckoning to him.