The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Hanover turned and limped as rapidly as he could along his newly determined course, that of circling behind his pursuers and gaining the road. Then he would see what his options were.

  31

  Escape

  Fowlkes’ curses wafted over the valley to Hanover from behind, then the woods fell silent. The swish of dead leaves stopped each time he limped into open land. There, bent dry grass made for soft footing, and without trees overhead, the way was considerably brighter. The sky was no longer a pitch-black tent pricked by twinkling stars, but a gray canopy under which a gently rising breeze blew out each light.

  Looking up from his path, Hanover caught a glimpse of the road ahead, or rather the flash of head and taillights from the cars of workers headed for their morning shifts at Bayer, PPG and Mitchell.

  A shock traversed his spine. Who was this stranger traipsing through the woods? The real Michael Hanover was at his store greeting the early wave of short order customers, stopping on their way to work to snatch something for breakfast. This tired, aching, hungry man was, was…

  No, he couldn't let his body dominate his thoughts. He'd almost forgotten why he was running. He had to get his act together and bring an end to this mad accusation of murder. That slip of paper, the note on the back of Howie Crabapple's envelope, should do it. He had to get home, see it in his own hands. Find it before Fowlkes searched the house and found it—or before Becky gave it to him.

  And the cone, he would photograph it wedged under his parents' wreck, then pry it loose. He'd have evidence.

  By now, Fowlkes and the others would have realized that he had escaped and would be heading back to the road. Or perhaps a dog trailed him again. He could hear the whoosh of the cars on the highway now. The air, ahead of the approaching sun, had warmed a little.

  It would be so easy to hitch a ride with someone. Or just cross the river into Ohio and go on and on and start over in another part of the country. Abandon this corrupt county, his hussy of a wife, his meager livelihood. Get away from Fowlkes. Let them all dance with the devil in that casino of his. Construction was to begin next Monday, wasn't it?

  It was light enough now that anyone that knew him would recognize him. But would they know him as a friend or as a criminal? Would they wonder what he was doing there or fear him? He walked with head down and as far off the road as the narrow shoulder allowed. Without a coat his bones rattled with each gust from a passing car.

  Evidently, he had made his way south through the woods much farther than he had realized, past what used to be known as the town of Friendly, all the way to Ben's Run. Now his footsteps, instinctively, were leading him north toward home. He was tired to the point of not caring what happened. He'd chance hitching a ride.

  Ahead, the image of a parked car took form. A few additional steps and he saw the lights on top. It was a police cruiser facing him on his side of the road! He bolted down the side of the embankment and into the rough, then hunched and waited for the sound of movement, but heard only the occasional chirp of a songbird interjected into the lull between passing cars.

  Staying low, he hugged the steep embankment so as not to be seen from above. He headed toward the bend further up the highway. The sun continued to rest in the valley behind the hills to the east, casting this portion of the Ohio River valley in shadow as the sky continued to lighten. Thick moist air rising from the river to his west and the dense brush limited visibility. An offshoot of undergrowth and small trees that nearly reached the road now blocked his view of the curve ahead. Branches ripped Hanover's shirt and pants and tore at his skin as he used this cover to move toward the river and away from the road. Then he would force his way north, parallel to the road.

  A police radio squawked directly from his right. He jerked to a stop. Had they spotted him? The road was not so distant as he had expected. He wanted to bolt and run, but was already a target. No use making himself a bull’s eye.

  Careful to not set branches into motion and treading lightly, he moved to a point beyond where he had heard the radio. Was there anyone near the car? He turned toward the road where runoff had carved a path to the wooded area. With his first step on reaching the embankment, stones skittered and rattled under his feet. He hugged the bank and froze.

  Nothing but a little static from the radio.

  He pushed himself up until his eyes were above the ridge. The back of a cruiser sat not more than twenty feet behind him. All its windows were down. The radio spoke—Fowlkes cursing again. Hanover heard no reply.

  Backtracking below the rim, then rising once more, he scrutinized the vehicle's interior from behind and made out the back of a head nestled on the headrest. It was Deputy Waxter—eyes closed, mouth open, his snores sounding like a chain saw.

  By foot, Hanover was far from Madison. He was exhausted. He hurt everywhere. And this opportunity begged to be taken. The less time he was in the open, the less chance of being caught. By car, home was so close. Waxter would be accommodating.

  Hanover stole to the driver's door and thrust his pistol through the open window at the sleeping deputy's head. Drivel ran from the corner of the lawman's mouth and down his chin. “Get out! I'm taking the car.” Drowsy, Waxter blinked his eyes open and eased out of the car, hands in the air, making smacking noises with his lips.

  Waxter's eyes widened, the sleep gone. “Hanover, you're under arrest!” He reached for his Smith & Wesson.

  Hanover poked him in the belly with his pistol. “Not yet. Keep your hands up, Deputy! I’m calling the shots.”

  Waxter raised his hands. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek from under a sideburn. “Assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, that's serious jail time, Hanover. Don't be a fool. Surrender.”

  “You'd like that. Be a big star on your record, wouldn't it Deputy?”

  A distant car could be heard coming up the road. Waxter inched his hands downward. “Let me take you in—I won't mention the gun.” He suddenly thrust his hand toward his gun.

  Hanover's trigger finger twitched, but with a lightning stroke he dropped his weapon and grabbed Waxter's gun and wrist with both hands, then banged Waxter's hand against the edge of the door until Waxter relaxed his grip on the weapon.

  Hanover's knees went weak. “You twit! I could have killed you.” Hanover grimaced with pain from his injured wrist. His hold on Waxter had aggravated it.

  The car roared closer, the sound bouncing off the hills, but was still not in sight.

  Hanover curled his lips into a snarl and jabbed Waxter's own gun barrel deep into Waxter's gut. “I said, keep your hands over your head.” Waxter stopped rubbing his hand and threw his arms straight over his head. “Get down the bank. Hurry, before the car sees us. I bet killing a deputy doesn't carry much time.”

  “No, don't. I, I never even seen you. Please!”

  “Hurry up!” Hanover kicked Waxter in the rear, sending him tumbling down the bank, then jumped down after him. Waxter lay on the ground, groaning.

  The car whizzed by.

  “Please don't kill me. I . . .”

  “Shut up and don't make me have to. Now get up and give me your cuffs.”

  Hanover snapped one cuff to Waxter's wrist before dragging him to the nearest stout sapling hidden by brush. He affixed the other cuff to the tree. “No use letting you flag somebody down. Now sit.”

  Waxter slipped the cuff down the tree's trunk and sat to lean against the tree and rub his stomach where Hanover's gun had poked him. Hanover trotted toward the cruiser to retrieve his own weapon.

  “You can't leave me here to die,” Waxter said. “Just shoot me.”

  Hanover hustled back to Waxter. Waxter slunk down and put his free arm over his face. Hanover placed the deputy's gun a short distance from Waxter's feet. “If you can reach that you can fire off a few shots. Maybe somebody'll notice. Don't move yet.”

  * * *

  Hanover slid into the car and unbuttoned his third shirt button to slip his gun inside. He hit t
he cruiser's ignition, made a U-turn and headed north, toward Madison.

  Upon rounding the turn Hanover saw a pickup and two police cruisers parked. He snatched Waxter's Stetson from the seat and, ignoring its stench, stuck it on his head, then slumped low behind the steering wheel, one hand resting on his pistol. The vehicles were empty. Thank God for small blessings.

  Before negotiating the next curve he slowed and checked the parked vehicles in his rearview mirror. Men emerged from the grassy area below the roadway and were approaching the cars. Two men carried what appeared to be a dog, evidently the one that Doc and Pepper had fought. A third man held the leashes of two hounds. Hanover hoped they were too preoccupied to notice him.

  He took the back way, County Route 6 east, and then north on Clark Road, his street, and prayed he would not meet an oncoming vehicle. In some places tall grass or overgrown trees brushed both sides of the cruiser. Only once in the rising mist did lights ahead warn of an oncoming car. Then Hanover had slipped into a cutout and waited for the other car to pass.

  A half-mile from his house he turned off his street, onto Stewart Hill and left onto Big Buffalo Road. The graveled road was unkept and seldom used. The swish of tall grass and the scrape of briers along with the rattle and pop of gravel from beneath the tires became continuous. Ruts and large stones jarred him to a near crawl. The grass on each side and the mist that swirled over the vehicle reflected his headlight back into his eyes, giving him the impression of driving through a tunnel. The fog was worse on these cool heights.

  He switched off the lights. The visibility was better without them.

  Hanover looked hard to his right for the entrance into Pielke's old abandoned homestead. The large cedar at the bend signaled that he had missed the driveway and he backed up. Three times he got out of the car to look for the road in the rising mist. Finally, creeping forward, he made out Pielke's drive. The car bounced its way to the barn that now tilted precariously toward the house. A rusted 1940's tractor at the barn's entrance had saved the barn from complete collapse and prevented him from driving the cruiser inside. He switched on the headlights. They sufficiently penetrated the gloom to reveal the Ford placard on the tractor's grill. There was still some yellow paint on the sides of its body.

  Hanover pocketed the cruiser's keys, dragged himself from the car, and limped toward Clark Road. Fowlkes and his sidekicks were too new to Madison to know about Pielke's—and everyone in Madison who had known Pielke had long since died. His place was mostly forgotten. It would be a while before the cruiser was discovered. They would find Waxter first.

  32

  Stopover

  Hanover knelt on the dew-soaked grass and peered from the corner of his neighbor's shed at his own house, a hundred yards away. Time was ticking by and the cold from the ground was soaking his flesh. He squinted through the gloom into the tree branches for a glimpse of a uniform. No sign of anyone at the corners of his house or garage. No one hanging around across the street behind Joel's car—or was someone in it? No, just the headrest. More than two hundred yards beyond his own property, his other neighbor's house lay shrouded by vapor rising from the ground.

  Hanover willed himself to stay. Ten minutes. That was all he could allow. If the police didn't reveal themselves by then, he would assume they hadn't laid a trap. Of course, they could come at any time.

  * * *

  Hanover tried his back door. It was locked. Becky's doing. No one locked doors in Madison. He fumbled for his house keys but only found the squad car keys. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming and knocked softly on the door.

  Within moments the door flew open. Becky stared at him, her eyes wide, and then she jerked back.

  “Oh, Michael, I've been so worried.” She wiped her cheek with her fingers, further smearing old mascara, and bent stiffly from the waist, put her arms around his neck. She didn't pull him close. “I've been looking out the window ever since I heard that . . . ugh, you smell,” she said, and pushed him away. “You're a mess! You're hurt.” She bent sideways to look beyond him. “Where is your…?”

  Even with frazzled hair, dark circles under her eyes, and in her old sagging pajamas, she was beautiful. He looked at her lips, wanting them to meet his. Instead, she stood there with her arms crossed on her chest while her hands rubbed her arms.

  “You were expecting a deputy—or better yet, Fowlkes?” he said.

  “No. I mean, I didn't hear your Tahoe. Where were you? How did you get here?”

  “I walked.” He decided to not bring up the patrol car.

  “Was Fowlkes here?” Hanover asked.

  Becky's eyes dropped.

  “He was, wasn't he?” Hanover said. “What did he tell you? That I'm a murderer, a dangerous fugitive?”

  “It's not true, is it?” Becky stood in the doorway, her hands clenching the bottom of her pajama top.

  Hanover's shoulders sagged. “Are you going to let me in?”

  She stepped aside to allow him to pass. “You didn't answer me. Sheriff Fowlkes said you resisted arrest and injured John.”

  “Ah-ha, Fowlkes was here. Did you let him search the house?”

  “So what? Last night he was checking for you. But he didn't search the house. When he left, he said something about being short on deputies because everybody's out looking for you.”

  “You remember the note Howie wrote? The one he stuck on his refrigerator to remind him to tell me what he saw at Uncle Andy's? I need it—bad.”

  Becky shook her head slowly, her eyes wide. “That the only reason you came?” She pressed her lips together.

  Hanover smacked his fist into his palm and winced. He held his wrist and talked. “But you can remember that junk Fowlkes’ been feeding you about the date on the grocery receipt. That's no proof. Somebody could have come later that day.”

  A deep shadow crossed Hanover's face. “Did you give Howie's note to him? Why do you believe Fowlkes and not me?”

  Becky glanced down at the mud on the floor. “Those filthy shoes, Michael. Take off . . .” She clasped her hand over her mouth then reached for his arm. “I'm sorry.” Her touch was soft. A warmth flooded his body. If only circumstances were different.

  “You must be exhausted,” she said. “Sit down. Let me help you.”

  Hanover shrugged off her offer. Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and pulled off his shoes. If he sat down he might not get back up. The cold kitchen floor soothed his aching feet. “What else did Fowlkes say? That I probably wouldn't come home, but to call him if I did?”

  “Oh, Michael, just give yourself up. If you are innocent, what's there to worry about? Unless those things really are true.”

  “Fowlkes is the murderer. Can't you understand that?”

  “How do you know?”

  “You'll see. Why didn't he get help from the State Police? They'd have this place crawling with cops.” He glanced outside through the parted curtains. “Fowlkes doesn't want them nosing around.” Hanover grabbed a package of Twinkies lying on the counter top and ripped it open. “He'll screw up one day.” Hanover gulped the snack cakes down. Twinkies had never tasted so good.

  Becky twirled her fingers through the black hair brushing her shoulder. She lifted her chin. “What are you going to do, Michael?”

  He looked at her lips. “Hide here a few days until I get things worked out.”

  She flinched, but kept her eyes glued to her husband. “That's stupid, hiding in your own house. He's bound to search later. He'd find you.”

  “That's the point.” Hanover stood in his open refrigerator and chugged milk from a half-gallon carton until it was empty. “Fowlkes didn't even stake out the house. It'll be easy for you to talk him into believing I'm not here so he won't snoop around. Besides, I'll only be here to sleep a little. You've got Fowlkes under your thumb. Keep him away for a while.”

  Becky's eyes flashed. “Under his thumb! How can you say that? He does what he wants. And if he ever found out I hid you, I'd be an accessory
. He'd jail me. You can't stay here.”

  “He would. So why do you like him?”

  Becky glanced away. Then, recovering, said, “He's a respected, successful law officer.”

  “You know what I mean—your personal relationship.” Hanover felt pressure at his temples. “Never mind, I didn't mean to get into that. Look, tell him I forced you and you were scared.”

  Fear flitted across her face. “If I refuse, are you going to kill me, too?”

  Hanover laughed. “Fowlkes has you buffaloed. Trust me, he's wrong. Listen. I'm your husband. Now, I'm getting cleaned up and getting some rest.”

  “Michael, I'm afraid.”

  “It's okay. You'll be all right.” He was counting on her support, her help. He reached out and held her to him. He felt her stiffen. Finally, he released her.

  Her eyes went to his face then fixed themselves on the curtains nearby. “I've got to get those curtains washed,” she said.

  Hanover studied her. “Help me, Becky.” Her chin fell to her chest. He turned to the stairs and took them two at a time.

  In the bedroom, Hanover yanked open a drawer and looked under a stack of underwear for the note, then turned the drawer upside down on the bed. Frantic, he scattered clothes over the bed and turned over each piece.

  He packed some clothes into a backpack, then threw the rest into the drawer and slammed the drawer into the chest, rocking it back hard against the wall.

  Letting out a deep breath, Hanover ran his fingers through his hair. The milk and Twinkies in his stomach had formed into a knot. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  One quick task. Hanover picked up the phone and then suddenly put it back down. The police could trace the call.

  * * *

  “Bang!” Becky's body went rigid. He's slamming drawers again. Come on, Hot Head, get in the shower, she thought.