by Bob Knapp
Fowlkes considered the unique open elevator at the right front corner of the stage his masterpiece. The base and the two-and-a-half-foot-tall sides of the elevator were crafted to give the appearance of the most famous rock in the creek, the Devil's Palm. A sheer satin curtain was attached to its bottom edge. Lights playing upon its crinkles gave the illusion of water splashing around the Devil's Palm. As the elevator descended, the curtain simply folded upon itself on the floor of the stage, giving the impression that a torrent of water rushed against the rock. The Devil's Palm could ascend or descend at a rate appropriate for the occasion.
Fowlkes’ plans were all in place. The current stage setting was that of an ice-skating pond—a frozen Middle Island Creek located above the causeway and surrounded with festive evergreens covered in candy canes, bells and ribbons. Skating carolers in modern attire would sing secular holiday music. Later in the program, this would give way to a backdrop of first-century Bethlehem and a nativity scene. Local church members had supplied the actors for a Christmas pageant. A robed choir would replace the scantily clad skaters. Fowlkes had been tempted to include a selection of Rockette style performances, but did not want to push his luck. At the show's conclusion, the orchestra would play as the patrons were served turkey, ham, baked corn, a vegetable medley, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie…he stopped. He was making himself hungry.
Fowlkes turned to look at Becky. She had been watching him, smiling. He swelled with pride at having such a beautiful woman to accompany him- especially one that had belonged to Hanover. It was his right; he had earned it. Hanover didn't deserve her.
“Come on down to the stage,” Fowlkes said, placing his hand on the small of Becky's back. Her warmth set his fingertips blazing. “I arranged for us to have special seats.” From the back of the auditorium they descended the steps to the base of the stage where Fowlkes showed Becky their reserved table.
Becky looked around, her eyes sparkling. “This will be wonderful. Front-and-center.”
Fowlkes felt time slipping away as the guests continued to trickle in. “After I make some welcoming remarks, I'll join you.”
He looked up at the Devil's Palm. The light hit its rocky front surface and cast the space above the palm in swirling gloom. Two figures writhing in agony sank to its surface. He tore his eyes away. Why didn't I fire one more shot?
One preliminary task remained. He led his Hispanic deputy up the steps onto the stage.
“Deputy León, I want you in the shadow of that Christmas tree near the steps. You'll have a full view of the audience and of me, even when I'm on stage. The opening of this resort will not be popular with every Madisonian, especially one Madisonian.” Fowlkes looked León in the eye and gave him a knowing nod. He felt the comfort of his weapon against his ribs. “You do have your sidearm, don't you?”
León grinned and unbuttoned his jacket. The butt of his Smith & Wesson protruded above his belt. “Never fear, Señor Fowlkes.” He pulled up his tux trouser leg by its crease to reveal a sheathed knife at his calf. “I'm always ready.”
40
Grand Opening
On the far right and high above the stage the Devil's Palm, the stage elevator waited. It looked every bit like it had been spirited away from Middle Island Creek and placed on stage then decorated for Christmas. Colored lights and a breeze playing on a curtain hung from the elevator's bottom edge simulated water flowing against it. A low railing of rock across its front was wreathed in boughs of fragrant fir and twinkling lights. It pleased Fowlkes to see the audience whisper and gesture excitedly.
He looked up from his seat next to Becky and watched Santa, and a chorus of long-legged, buxom elves, take their places on the Devil's Palm. The house lights dimmed and the orchestra played, “Here Comes Santa Claus.” The audience quieted. Fowlkes’ heart pounded and his fingers tingled. It was time to begin.
The Devil's Palm started its slow descent, from its maximum height, twelve feet above the stage. It could settle on the stage, at its current speed, in 120 seconds, although it could be adjusted. Today, the elevator would stop seven feet from the stage floor, allowing the audience a good view of its occupants while continuing to display all of the Devil's Palm's visual effects. Later it would lower to the stage floor to discharge its occupants.
Fowlkes strode quickly up the steps at the right, leading onto the stage. As he crossed in front of the Devil's Palm and into the spotlight, the audience burst into applause. Smiling, he looked over the crowd then held up his hands. Instead of quieting, the crowd only clapped and whistled that much louder. Pleased, Fowlkes briefly bowed his head to recognize their applause, a humble gesture that felt completely foreign to him.
Fowlkes raised his head and caught sight of a uniformed guard in the left wing of the stage. What's he doing here? I didn't ask Appleton for a uniformed guard. Maybe they sent him because Hanover escaped. They can't make up for their incompetence.
Forget Appleton Security. This is the best day of my life. Finally, I'm getting recognized for all I've done.
The audience finally calmed down. “Welcome Madisonians, friends and neighbors, to the Jug Resort,” Fowlkes said into the microphone. “It's been a long road, but we're finally here.”
He waited as the crowd applauded.
“This wonderful property, with its beauty, its recreational opportunities and its resources, will enhance the lives of all Madisonians. Today we present the first of what will be many unforgettable and wonderful–”
“Tell them the real truth!” the guard shouted.
Fowlkes turned and saw the guard limping quickly across the stage. He looked familiar, but Fowlkes couldn't quite place him. Then it hit him. Michael Hanover!
The audience burst into laughter. Hanover looked more like a clown than a police officer. The trousers' cuffs were well above his shoe tops, and the waistline was obviously much too large. The crowd began clapping again, but quickly hushed so that they could hear the next line.
Hanover is not going to ruin me. Fowlkes tried to catch León's attention and nodded toward Hanover. No response; León was laughing at the clown. Fowlkes reached inside his coat and put his hand around his pistol grip as Candy Melowicz, in a white dress trimmed in gold, started across the stage behind Hanover. Fowlkes’ eye twitched. His face turned crimson.
Just the sight of Candy elicited applause. Fowlkes didn't need this too; beauty and the beast. It was turning into a circus. Fowlkes’ gun hand froze.
The clown, now at the center, turned to face the audience and leaned to the microphone. “Sheriff Fowlkes is…”
As Hanover began to speak, Fowlkes stared past the glare of lights into the darkened control booth and made a slashing motion across his neck. Thankfully, the sound engineer had anticipated Fowlkes’ wishes; the microphone was already dead.
Did Hanover think he could get away with this just because he had an audience?
The crowd continued to cheer and clap for Candy, drowning the words Hanover directed at a dead microphone.
“…The one who murdered Deputy Chet Waxter,” Hanover continued, now shouting. “He killed my parents. He almost killed me. Listen to Candy Melowicz's testimony and judge for yourself.”
Fowlkes guessed that nobody heard Hanover's message except those on the stage. Hopefully, not even the front row. He had to stop Hanover before people heard.
From down front someone yelled, “Michael, no! Don't!” Having looked into the spotlight, Fowlkes had all but lost his vision, but he could discern a woman tripping on her gown and scurrying along in front of the stage toward the steps. “Michael, no!” she shouted again. Becky.
The stage lights went out. Thank you, lighting manager. How are we supposed to see? Only the twinkling Christmas tree lights provided illumination for the auditorium.
Fowlkes discerned the silhouettes of people suddenly moving on the steps. He drew his gun. “Halt! You're under arrest. Both of you! Stop!” The shadows melded with other dark forms.
Fowlk
es aimed in their general direction, but uncertain of the target, fired over it. The stage floor resounded with thuds from people diving to the floor. Shrieks pierced the room and high heels clattered from the chorus of elves scrambling to exit the Devil's Palm.
A return shot rang out from the shadows. He heard glass splinter, then shatter as it fell on the floor behind him.
A woman in the audience screamed. The seats clattered as people ducked below them or ran over them for the doors.
In the light from the opened doors, Fowlkes saw Hanover and Candy crawling toward the stage steps. He took aim and pulled the trigger.
A short cry came from that direction. I shot one—Candy! He cursed. Why wasn't it Hanover!
Fowlkes ignored the screaming crowd. People clamored and in their panic pushed, shoved and climbed over each other in their attempt to reach the rear exits. The more timid hugged the floor and whimpered. The shadow of the clown-policeman helping that of a woman collided and melded with those of a woman and a man coming up the steps.
Fowlkes ran for the stairway. “Get out of the way!”
It was León running up to the stage. Someone was behind him.
“How'd you miss him? Get him,” Fowlkes yelled.
León turned, crowding Fowlkes.
Fowlkes’ arm hit a Christmas tree, knocking it over. He tried to catch it, but his arm tangled in the lighting. He yanked his arm free. The tree's lights went out. It landed in the stairway in front of him. He pushed past León and the tree, but unable to see the steps, stumbled and fell, bringing the woman down with him. It was Becky.
* * *
Most of the seats had emptied but people still crowded the aisles. A recording of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” blasted from the speakers. Evidently, the musicians had fled.
* * *
Hanover was hunched over and grimacing. He pressed a hand to his abdomen. In his other hand he held a pistol. “Come on, Candy,” he gasped. He nodded toward a side door near the front seats. “Keep low.”
“Mikey, I've been hurt. You go ahead.”
Hanover looked back. Blood trickled down Candy's arm, dripped from her elbow, and was forming a jagged blotch on the skirt of her white dress.
She pressed her arm above the elbow. “Get out, Mikey. Run. It's not bad. I'll wrap it. I'll get help.”
Hanover cast glances between Candy and the steps where people were freeing themselves from each other and from beneath a fallen Christmas tree. “Okay. Yeah. Fowlkes only wants me.”
Bent and holding his gut, Hanover hobbled rapidly toward the door he had indicated. He glanced over his shoulder to look at Candy. “Be careful,” his lips said. Hanover hit the panic bar on the side door. The more distance he put between them, the safer she'd be. The door slammed shut behind him as a shot rang out and a slug hit the door.
Hanover found himself in a lighted hallway. The shorter end of the hall, to his left, went up a half-flight of steps. A door at the top apparently led outside. Limping, he raced in that direction.
The crash of someone hitting the door behind him lent impetus to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Fowlkes take aim. Forgetting the pain in his gut, Hanover threw himself against the wall as the bullet ricocheted off the tile next to his head. The sound of the shot reverber-ated through the hallway. Frantically, Hanover scrambled up the steps to reach the door. There were two doors.
A shot rang out again, this time missing wide. He heard Fowlkes yell, “Get off my arm!” Hanover caught a glimpse of Fowlkes pushing Becky against the wall, exchanging words. She saved me, Hanover thought.
He turned to aim his pistol down the hall at Fowlkes as a bevy of panicked showgoers came through the auditorium door and into the hall. Seeing the gun, they clambered back, only to run into a logjam of people trying to muscle their way in. Hanover held his fire but continued to point his gun in Fowlkes’ direction.
Fowlkes flattened himself against the wall. The mob, trapped and without Fowlkes’ body to shield them, dove to the floor.
“Get out of my way!” It was León. Hanover saw him squirm into the jammed doorway and brandish his gun above the crowd. “Get back,” León bellowed and fired into the ceiling. People clamored and pushed. Some stumbled and fell onto the people lying on the floor. León was stuck.
Strands of “Here Comes Santa Claus” replaced “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer,” piercing the hubbub.
Hanover fired another shot in Fowlkes’ direction, high and away from the crowd, to keep him hugging the wall, before throwing himself at the door. He had thought it was an exit, but a small placard read “Authorized Personnel.” It didn't budge.
Wasting no time, he tried the door at a right angle to the first, a steel-clad one that warned “Danger: Elevator Equipment”. It opened easily and Hanover dashed inside. A bullet pierced the door before he could get it closed behind him.
After the brightly lit hallway, the room seemed pitch black. The faint odor of oil and steel met his nostrils. Gradually he made out cables and pulley wheels whose upper ends disappeared into the black underside of the on-stage elevator. He was under the Devil's Palm.
The CD switched to “White Christmas,” sung by Gene Autry.
He felt along the side of the doorway for a light switch, hoping he might see a way out.
He didn't hear the doorknob turn, but a narrow shaft of light from the hallway warned that the door had opened a crack. He got a quick peek at the switch, but the glint from a diamond cufflink caught his attention. A hand thrust a gun through the opening and fired a shot. Hanover fired a return shot toward it. The door slammed shut, putting Hanover back into total darkness.
The music stopped. He put his hand where he had seen the light switch and flipped it on.
Fearing that Fowlkes might enter at any second, Hanover glanced around the room formed by the underside of the elevator. The only escape, other than the door with Fowlkes on its other side, was the curtain suspended from the leading edge of the Devil's Palm on the other side. To get out, he would have to make his way past pulleys, cables and guide rails, and hope Fowlkes would not find an open shot.
Hanover saw another option—a nook in the far corner. By hugging the wall, he could reach it without becoming snared in the machinery. When Fowlkes came back, he might be able to shoot him first.
Hanover took a deep breath, flipped off the light, and slid against the wall toward the cubbyhole. When Fowlkes enters that door, he'll be lit up like the Statue of Liberty, and it'll be me or him.
* * *
Fowlkes cursed and slammed the elevator service door shut. His ears were still ringing from the shot. He felt stumped. If he went around to the front and through the curtain, Hanover could see him coming and escape through the service door. If he opened the door again, the light from the hallway would make him a sitting duck.
Fowlkes looked down the hallway; his audience was fleeing in a panic. When this was over, it would cost him big time to get them back. Fowlkes’ eye twitched. He thrust a fresh clip of ammunition into his Glock. Hanover would now pay!
Fowlkes cracked the door open, thrust his pistol through the space, sprayed several shots in several directions and, with his other hand, flipped on the light. The odor of oil and steel, mixed with burnt gunpowder, filled his nostrils. He sent another shot into the room to make Hanover duck, and, in a crouch, slipped inside. A shot went over his head. He spied Hanover squatting in the nook behind some pulleys and cables.
He tried to plug Hanover, but Hanover threw himself into the corner. Hanover returned fire. There were sparks and a ping as the bullet struck metal. Lights recessed into the underside of the elevator flared bright then went out. Only the light on the wall next to the door remained lit. Shadows from the cables and pulleys loomed large across the floor.
Fowlkes looked for a shot as Hanover scrambled towards the curtain, but lost his chance as Hanover fell and groaned. He guessed Hanover had stepped into the recess in the floor that contained elevator equipment.
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Fowlkes fired when Hanover crawled over the edge, then crouched to follow. He sensed a movement from above and glanced up. He heard the whir of pulleys and a hum from the windlass. The elevator was coming down! He turned his wrist toward the light and glanced at his watch; it was past time for the Devil's Palm to complete its descent to the stage floor. That idiot Jimmy Bucko! Couldn't he see the show was already ruined? Why would he start the Palm now?
The shadows deepened as the elevator dropped. Fowlkes bent lower. Where was Hanover? Fowlkes inched forward.
He heard scuffling. Hanover must have been hurt by the fall. There he is. Fowlkes took aim and pulled the trigger just as the base of the elevator bumped his head. He ducked, ruining his shot. His blue sunglasses clattered to the floor.
Hanover returned fire. It wasn't even close. Fowlkes felt for his glasses, but came up empty. He cursed—they were brand new.
Now the underside of the Devil's Palm forced Fowlkes to crawl on hands and knees. The smell of oil filled his nostrils, displacing that of gun smoke. He saw Hanover, in the same position, creep around a pulley, then twist to point his gun behind him. The click-click-click of an empty gun filled the room.
Fowlkes guffawed so hard that when he aimed his own gun it shook. He scrambled forward with renewed vigor, fearing only the moving cables. He wouldn't miss—couldn't miss—with his next shot. He'd leave Hanover there dead and get out.
A large shadow moved across the floor. Fowlkes jerked his head around and looked behind him.
“Stop, you two! This is crazy.” It was Becky, crawling behind them, ruining her gown.
“Stay out!” Hanover yelled.
Fowlkes’ heart pounded. Hanover was closer to getting out than he realized. And now Becky was in danger.
“I'm not going back until you two come out!”
“No, no, go back!” Hanover pleaded from in front of him.
“You'll get hurt. Come on back before it's too late.” Becky's voice was almost behind him.