The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Finally. She scurried to the phone and dialed. “Hurry, hurry,” she whispered while the phone rang. “Click,” she heard the bedroom extension being picked up. She quickly slipped the handset back into its cradle. Her fingers did a little dance next to the phone. She shuddered. She couldn't stay alone in the house with him. Why do I still love him? Maybe I don't.

  She whirled to the coat closet, found the longest coat she owned, pulled it on over her pajamas and wrapped a long scarf around her head and neck.

  The engine from the big Chrysler was practically noiseless as it backed slowly out of her drive. Once out of sight of the house, the car's wheels spun in midair each time it left the unevenly paved road.

  * * *

  Hanover wished that he had time to linger in the shower, shave and rest. He hoped even more that running would not become a way of life. But most of all, he wanted Becky to believe him and love him. He wished he could trust her.

  He would take the back way, even if it were three times as far. He grabbed a heavy jacket from the closet and slipped out the door with his backpack slung over his shoulder, but jerked to a stop. Becky's Chrysler—he could have sworn it was in the driveway. It must be in their garage. The sun's rim broke over Cow Hollow Ridge as Hanover hobbled through the backyard of his house and away from the road.

  33

  Refuge

  The sun cleared the highest ridge and drove away the mist to promise a bright, crisp, mid-November day, the kind that begged you to take a walk while holding hands with your girl. The drought had encouraged leaves to rest early from their summer's life-and-death struggle, thus opening up great vistas where, from a height, you could see for miles, like from the top of the bluff at the Jug.

  But if your existence depended on escape through the countryside, the day couldn't be worse. There was scant cover for hiding along the wooded paths. Without doubt the Mills Valley View had headlined Hanover as a murderer on the lam. And everybody knew him.

  When Hanover left the house he had intended to encounter no one. He reckoned that in the woods, if he was seen from a road, the distance would render him unrecognizable.

  Surrendering to Fowlkes, hands in air, was not an option he entertained. What would the Mills Valley headline then read: “Hanover Killed in Escape Attempt?” Or if he managed to make it to the Madison County Jail: “Murder Suspect Hangs Self in Cell?” Fowlkes would not let him live long enough to see an attorney, let alone have a trial.

  At first he had thought escape would be easier with his Tahoe or Waxter's cruiser. Then the way out would be Route 2 north or south. Or Route 18 east. But those options were too few and easily monitored. Vehicles were sure traps—bound to roads and recognizable.

  Except for the Twinkies and milk, this was his third day without food—even longer since he had really slept. He had been on the move every minute.

  A half-mile from his house, excruciating pain hit every joint, bone and muscle. Hadn't he injured only one ankle? Or was it an arm? It didn't matter. His right arm hung weighted from his side, his hand a wooden claw wrapped around his pistol.

  He didn't know if he could raise it or pull the trigger. Fatigue permeated his chest, his very inner-being. He commanded each leg in turn, a chant: right step, left step, right step. He stumbled. He caught himself against a tree trunk. Soon he was staggering from tree, to outcropping of rock, to tree.

  He thought someone called. He ducked behind a rock. Silence. No one.

  He hobbled along: step, step, step. He looked over his shoulder—Fowlkes! He crumpled to the ground and crawled behind a bush. His gun! It lay among the leaves where it had been jarred from his hand when he hit the ground. His temples throbbed. He waited, flat on the ground, the cold seeping up into his bones. No one made their way down the path. He struggled to his feet, retrieved his gun and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  Someone with a black hat was approaching. Or was it a black plastic bag bobbing from a branch? Or was anything even there? He had to get some sleep.

  He had counted on Becky's help and a little time at home to recover and plan. At least he had discovered her feelings and intentions before it was too late.

  Or maybe it was already too late. If he couldn't trust his wife, who could he trust? He was being hunted like a rabid coon. The refuge he sought might not exist. Had fear of Fowlkes driven a final wedge between him and his friends? Or maybe it was greed, or simply the desire to have a part in things, things Hanover could not or would not accept.

  Fowlkes was a powerful influence in the community. To many, he represented not only the Law, but with his casino, a better way of life, a means to enter mainstream modern America. These were not terrible motives, but Fowlkes presented them only as a cover for his own self-interests. He has been willing to sacrifice the welfare of others for his own gain. No amount of wealth coming into the community was worth taking someone's life.

  He had to stop Fowlkes. Hanover had stepped outside the law, but only to defend himself. Given a chance he would gather the evidence he needed to convict Fowlkes. There must be witnesses who would step forward. Waxter might—given immunity.

  The climb was becoming steeper now. Had he been on the road and going downhill he could have seen the signs with that picture of a truck on an incline: “Truckers Stop—Shift To Lower Gear.” In the uphill direction that road, Route 18, led to the Jug.

  Hanover's body cried for rest. He sat and leaned against a tree. A breeze stirred and whipped through his hair.

  * * *

  Darkness. Candy drove, the lights from the dashboard highlighting her beautiful face. He sat next to her; his heart raced. Her white Riviera convertible whisked them up the hill, toward the Jug.

  * * *

  Hanover's chin hit his chest and snapped him awake. He struggled to his feet and shuffled on.

  A dry streambed provided a clearing across which he saw a large outcropping of rock spread before him, ten stories high with few trees. This was Cow Hollow Ridge up which his sun climbed each morning from the other side, then sat upon that cow's bony hips to rest for just a spell before soaring skyward. The rim loomed as far as he could see in either direction.

  He staggered to the incline. A strong, rested man might have difficulty scaling it. He looked for hollows and edges his hands could grip and on which his shoes could bite. He put his fingers into a cavity, found some footing, and pulled himself upward. He stopped, waited, pulled again. It was the only way. His muscles seared with pain. His limbs shook.

  Twice he nearly submitted to his body's command: rest—let go—and he felt the pull of gravity at his back. And twice the adrenalin from fear brought him back, renewing his strength and resolve.

  Gradually the hill leveled out. Small trees grew from crevices in the rock. He pulled himself from tree to tree, his feet scrambling for purchase.

  At last, after two hours, he reached the top of Cow Hollow Ridge. The level rock at his feet was a virtual bed that beckoned him to lie down. From here, through the bare trees, he could see a bit of Route 18, a ribbon carved against the hillside, winding out of sight.

  “Mikey, Mikey.” A voice again. Even crueler, it was Candy's. “Mikey, Mikey.” It came on the breeze, across the trees and swooped into his heart. A mirage. He swayed, barely able to stand.

  He saw a white car parked at the curve, on a lookout, a space for courteous truckers to pull aside and let those behind them pass. “Mikey, Mikey.” Candy's voice again. Candy's car. Tears came to his eyes—if only it was true. He yelled back. “Candy.” The words left his lips as a hoarse whisper. “Candy!” he rasped again. He waved. He slipped the backpack, took off his coat and waved it above his head. It would take him an hour to get there. Could she see him? His arms dropped with the weight of the coat. He struggled to get it back on.

  The dry leaves at his feet rustled, “Mikey, Mikey.” Ignore them. He looked back at the road. The car was gone—a mirage.

  The worst of the trek, the climb to the ridge, was over. Fortunately,
he had nibbled at hunks of this landscape on hunting trips, but had never chowed it all down at once. The familiarity had helped him to reckon, as best he could, on a southeast route that would lead him straight to his destination and cut off four miles of hiking. It was a wilderness of trees, winding creek beds, short unpaved roads, cruel rocks and brush that tore at skin. But it also put him in the boondocks away from prying eyes. By contrast, Route 18 was a well-traveled thirteen-mile dogleg: running east, before cutting ninety degrees south to his destination.

  Hanover was cold. Without leaves the countless trees still screened him from the warming sun, yet were useless against the chilly wind that dodged around the trees and found him. Tonight's clear night promised a bitter, dangerous cold. He had to set a pace that would get him to his shelter by nightfall. Yet he could barely keep himself upright. If he were to lie down to sleep, he might never rise again.

  How much time did he have to get there? He looked at his wrist. No watch. It must have come off during a fall or as he scrambled up the ridge.

  He contemplated the sun's position—noon could not be far off. At sunset the sun should be behind him. Six hours was all he had left with at least seven miles left to travel. How many times had he run that distance or more in less than an hour? Surely, he could make it in six.

  He stumbled to a downed tree and sat. He laid a broken branch onto the ground an inch from the tree's shadow. When the shadow reached the branch, he would forge on. He put his head in his hands. If he fell asleep, his fall from the log would awaken him.

  * * *

  Hanover felt his body drifting forward and down. His eyes fluttered then jerked open. The day's light had diminished. He found his arms crossed upon his knees with his head on his arms. The shadow had reached his branch and had traveled an extra four inches.

  Hanover pulled himself to his feet and steadied himself before shuffling forward. Each step further eased his joints and loosened his muscles. The rest on the log had been a healing balm. The bone-deep weariness with which he had struggled dropped away.

  He took note of his bearings and the sun's position. He figured he had slept for two hours. Maybe he couldn't walk seven miles, but he could walk a half-mile. He would rest a few minutes every half mile—1500 steps—he would count.

  He finished a mile then came to what he thought was Buffalo Run. The dry creek bed made for easy going, thanks to the drought. He strode along and forgot his counting. When he reached the town of Adonis, he'd slip across Adonis Road and headed in a more easterly direction. Then he should come upon Middle Island Creek. He'd be more than half way then. He would leave the creek when it snaked and coiled back upon itself then rejoin it as it headed southeast. Middle Island Creek would take him to The Jug Restaurant. Now owned by Fowlkes. His walking took on a smooth rhythm.

  * * *

  No doubt Fowlkes had checked for me at the house again, Michael thought. Becky was probably sobbing in Fowlkes’ arms while he told her she had narrowly escaped a violent, murderous end at the hands of her husband. “You know too much and Michael will be back,” Fowlkes would say.

  “Could I examine the store ledger—so I don't have to have it subpoenaed?” he'd then ask.

  “See,” he'd explain to her, “look at how big a debt Mr. Crabapple owed the store. That's a motive. And we have evidence Michael was at his house. Everybody knows your husband delivers him his groceries. We found a Hanover's Store grocery receipt at Crabapple's house dated the very day that Mr. Crabapple was killed. The probable cause? They were arguing over Crabapple's debt. And that note from Crabapple on the back of the envelope you showed me. That was meant for the police—but Michael stole it from Crabapple. Trying to cover his tracks.”

  * * *

  The air changed—not quite so clean—because of wood smoke. In some way, Hanover always thought the smell was pleasant. The sky opened—fewer trees. Land had been cleared and he could see houses ahead. Adonis. Hanover turned to give the little cluster of houses a wide berth. A dog suddenly barked nearby. He turned to face the animal and saw that he had nearly stumbled onto a tree-shrouded house a scant hundred yards away. The door swung open and a man holding a long gun stepped out into the yard.

  “Hey, there, fella, where ya goin'?” he said.

  “Taking a walk.” Hanover kept moving. “A little sight seeing.”

  “Nothin' here to see.” He gestured with his head. “C'mere! You that murderer—Hanover?”

  Hanover quickened his pace but kept his eye on the gun.

  “I'll split that ten grand with you,” the man said, then snickered. “I said, c'mere!” He pointed the gun in Hanover's direction.

  Hanover stopped. “What ten grand?”

  “Ain't you hear'd? The sheriff's givin' ten for 'im, dead or alive. Come over here and let me look at ya.”

  Hanover's knees buckled. He caught himself and began to walk away. It would be hard for the man to get a clean shot with so many trees between them. “I could use ten grand, myself. I hope I find him before you do,” Hanover called.

  Hanover looked back and saw the would-be bounty hunter take a few staggering steps then raise the gun to his shoulder. Hanover found a tree to put between his host and himself and began to lope away. He heard the door slam. The dog kept baying while Hanover circled the village.

  Hanover stole across Adonis Road without seeing a soul. He jogged until he no longer could see the town. Completely out of breath, he leaned against a tree. Trees had become his only friends.

  The man called me a murderer, Hanover thought.

  * * *

  “Michael couldn't kill anybody,” Becky would say.

  “And the night Michael's Uncle Andy was killed, do you know where Michael was?” Fowlkes would ask.

  “Home asleep, right here with—oh!”

  “What is it?” A smile would creep across Fowlkes’ face.

  “Well, we . . .”

  “Yes, go on. Becky, you can tell me. It could be very important.”

  “We, Michael and I, had a little fight,” Becky would say. “Nothing really important, and— he was sleeping out on the sofa.”

  “Can you be sure? Was that right after Candy Melowicz came to the store late one night?” Fowlkes would ask, barely disguising the glee in his voice.

  Becky could only nod.

  Fowlkes’ voice would ring with triumph. “It was at that time that Andy Mehrhaus was killed.”

  Becky would sob again. “Oh, Terrance, Michael couldn't . . . Why would he?”

  Hanover was not certain which were more painful, his thoughts of Becky or his current condition. He had control over neither. If he just had some water.

  Fowlkes would put his arm around her. “Finances at the store aren't so good are they?” He'd pat her arm comfortingly.

  “You know, with the new technologies, they're extracting lots more oil from the old wells,” Fowlkes would say. “Like the one at the Jug. That could solve a lot of money problems.”

  Becky would look at Fowlkes with her lovely black eyes, wet with tears. “Terrance, what am I going to do?”

  He'd hold her tight. “For now, I'll stay until I get Deputy León here to stand guard. He's feeling better now. And I'll be around to check. Don't worry, Becky, we'll get your husband before he can hurt you.”

  * * *

  The sun had set on the Ohio hillside behind him. In a few minutes it would be dark. The temperature was dropping. Hanover shivered; it sapped the little strength that he had left.

  Hanover staggered again. He fell to his hands and knees and struggled to rise, but could not get up. He crawled along the streambed to the stream's bank where he pulled himself erect and tried using the bank for support. Roots poked him from its side, fallen trees slapped at him and he tripped on large stones lying in its shadow. In places the bank sloped away. He teetered back to the center of the bed where, aided by a half moon in a clear sky, he dodged loose stones and gullies.

  He resumed his robotic cadence to block out fatigue
and despair: “Right step…” Sway and regain balance. “Left step…” Check his balance. “Right step…” He fell and crawled along washed sand and stones and over gullies and gashing rocks. Looking up he found himself face to face with an immense stone, revealed as red in the moonlight, projecting out into the dry creek. He ran his hands over its smooth surface and trembled. Tears came to his eyes. It was an old friend. The Devil's Palm. He was at The Jug Handle.

  Hanover back-tracked to a spot where the creek had formed a gently rising beach and climbed out into a wooded area that sloped up to Route 18. With his spirit soaring, he scurried along the shoulder. Lights from an approaching car struck the warning turn arrows and he dove to the ground. He retched when he realized that this was the very spot where Uncle Andy's body had lain when he had found it.

  The car zoomed on. Using the guardrail, Hanover pulled himself up and staggered over to Uncle Andy's Jug Restaurant. That this place was actually Sheriff Fowlkes’ was but a wisp of thought.

  Finding the building locked, Hanover shuffled to the second rock from the building. Uncle Andy had never felt the need to lock doors, but had shown Hanover under which of the large stones spaced along the fence he had hidden a key—just in case. Hanover pushed with every ounce of his strength and leaned panting on the stone. It had not budged. Any other day it was a one handed operation.

  The sound of a vehicle on the highway caught his attention. Within seconds its lights swung onto the parking lot. Hanover dropped flat to the ground behind the rocks. Blood hammered in his head.

  The car stopped, its door slammed, gravel crunched under heavy shoes, keys jangled and the door to the building creaked. Footsteps reverberated on the wooden floor before the door closed behind them.

  Hanover peered over the rock. Fowlkes’ cruiser! He watched lights blink on and off through windows from every room. Then the sounds started in reverse sequence and Hanover ducked. A powerful engine hurtled the car back to Route 18.

  Relief flooded Hanover's body. He clawed his way up the old wire fence to his knees. A wave of despair followed and drove him back to the ground. If he got in, what if Fowlkes or one of his deputies came?