The Devil's Palm Read online

  The

  D e v i l’ s

  P a l m

  Bob Knapp

  The Devil's Palm

  Copyright © 2012, by Bob Knapp.

  Cover Copyright © 2012 Sunbury Press.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [email protected].

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  January 2012

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-017-9

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-018-6

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-019-3

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to God, who, thankfully, saw fit to send Carol back home from Anderson College after two weeks, but then returned her the next year so we could fall in love on that beautiful campus. Thereafter, she introduced me to her hometown of New Martinsville, West Virginia. Carol and I have visited there many times to enjoy its beauty, slower pace and wonderful people, and thus give rise to the setting for this novel.

  To:

  God

  Carol, My Wife

  West Virginia

  Anderson University

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my wife Carol. I depended upon her help and encouragement.

  Thanks to my critique group for their support: Bob-our leader, Sharon, Marcia, Dave, Chris, Ken. Without them the book would not exist.

  Thanks to the owner of The Jug: Gladys Fletcher Gregg. She welcomed my picture taking and gladly answered my questions.

  Thanks to the Tyler County Deputy Sheriff for his tour of the Tyler County Courthouse and Jail.

  1

  Recruits

  Orlando León, clad in black to match the night, examined the rear of a large Victorian house for an appropriate entrance. Behind him, two men, arms folded, kept a lookout while he considered a windowsill two feet above his head. “These guys are next to worthless,” León thought. “A posse' could ride up here and they wouldn't notice.”

  He preferred entering through a locked window. There was a sense of accomplishment, of power–-pushing his way in through a window reminded him of sex. But then what didn’t?

  The sound of a window air conditioner in a second floor room provided cover as León leaped for the sill and hauled himself up. He braced himself on an elbow and grimaced, his feet dangling below him. With his other hand he inserted the small crowbar between the window sashes and released the lock. Passing the pry to his thinner colleague, León pushed the lower sash up, and then drew his body from the clammy night into the cool darkness of the house. He reached through the open window and retrieved his canvas tool bag from the second man’s outstretched hand, wiped the window free of fingerprints, and pulled latex gloves from his rear pocket. He shoved the ski mask into his canvas bag.

  León sneered. His partners, Chet Waxter and Skeeter Hollins, feared coming to this house for the very reason that he was drawn to it—its imposing size and dark veneer. They saw it as sinister and well guarded. The high cast iron fence surrounding the grounds was sign enough for them. León saw wealth overflowing and free for the taking. It was not on their “approved” list--not worth the risk, Waxter had warned.

  Bumbling Waxter. León stuck with Waxter because his pawnshop in Wheeling was perfect for funneling stolen goods and laundering money. Waxter organized. León obtained the inventory.

  Skeeter was Waxter’s idea. As far as León was concerned, Skeeter was a waste. He took a share of the money and got in the way. Waxter was too soft.

  León was supposed to let them into the house when it was safe.

  Like a leopard at the edge of a rainforest, León waited while his eyes adjusted to the black interior. Waxter said they were like a cat's—they gathered light from the night. They suited him well for his chosen profession. Now they confirmed he was in a large living room. A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips.

  “Hermoso!” he gasped. A kaleidoscope of colors was splashed across the ceiling. A large crystal chandelier caught the sparse illumination from a streetlight and transformed the ceiling into a spectacle of shimmering jewels.

  León’s practiced eye absorbed the room’s opulence. Velvet furniture with ornate carvings encircled the room. A large marble fireplace stood at one end. Over it a magnificent mirror stretched to the ceiling. Rich oak panels covered the wall behind the mirror. A grandfather clock ticked near the entrance.

  Moving noiselessly, León strode between two large pillars guarding a dining room and crossed to a huge buffet on the other side. A spark, from the gems of jeweled candelabra, caught his eye. León slipped his pick into the lock of the sideboard and opened a drawer burdened with silverware. Extracting a serving fork, he hefted it to gauge its worth. Pay dirt! Encircling the base of the blade was a ring of small diamonds. León pictured gem-laden jewelry overflowing an armoire in a bedroom above him. He imagined slipping a necklace of emeralds around the neck of a woman, her bare shoulders beckoning him....

  Snapping out of his reverie, León resumed his assessment. This place would put him on Easy Street—if he could convince Waxter and Skeeter there was nothing there. Tell them the place was so rundown that nothing in it was worth the risk of a jail term. He would come back later.

  The chandelier! He couldn’t leave that, or the furniture. How stupid could he be? Of course, he would need those two—and a truck. Sharing the take would be far more profitable than forfeiting those things.

  He put the heavy silver serving-fork and candelabra into his bag for Waxter to examine , then walked quickly through the hallway leading to the back door.

  León froze. That creaking—from a displaced floorboard, he figured. His eyes widened. He strained his ears but heard only his pounding heart. He tried to silence his rapid breathing.

  The noise had caught him mid-stride. Remaining motionless required all of his concentration. Muscles burned while minutes ticked by. He had run a mile—no, miles—with far less discomfort. Years ago, as a migrant worker, he had learned to subject his body to the needs at hand, to the long rows of beets and lettuce and onions, for days and weeks at a time. Never again. This was honest labor, too. And much more profitable.

  He heard no more. Houses make their own sounds, old ones creak and groan.

  * * *

  “What in a dog’s name is keeping that punk?” Skeeter Hollins said. He wrung his hands as he stood in the shadow of a row of evergreens near the back door. “Must be a hundred degrees in this here costume.”

  Chet Waxter put a forefinger to his lips. “Shhh, give him time.” Unlike his lanky companion, Waxter was accustomed to the black pullover and ski mask. Skeeter had never been on a heist before and insisted on coming. Waxter had brought him along in the face of León’s objections.

  The back door slowly swung open and Waxter’s eyes narrowed. He hunkered down behind the evergreens a
djacent to the walkway, reached for the pistol under his belt and, losing his balance, pitched headlong through the boughs. The limbs shook as he scrambled back on all fours. A foot pressed his left hand into the earth.

  “Aaah!” Waxter yelled.

  “Shut up, Chet!” León hissed, then quickly straightened up and clapped his hand over his nose. “You've got to use deodorant.”

  “I do.” Waxter rolled his shoulders and pulled at the sweat soaked shirt clinging to his body. “I'm just hot-blooded, that's all.”

  “Look at this. See if it’s worth anything.” León thrust the candelabra at Waxter. “And don't try to get in the house, either of you. Waxter clutched the ornament as León turned on his heel, reentering the house and soundlessly closing the door. But then the lock clicked. Waxter understood its message. León would rather chance a delay in his escape from the house than have them sneak inside.

  Waxter struggled to his feet while holding the candelabra. The front of his sweat-soaked shirt and pants were covered with a mix of perspiration and dirt. In disgust, he yanked his ski mask from his head and cursed the day Orlando León had been born. He turned toward Skeeter who had not moved from behind the tree.

  “Gimme your shirt!” Waxter commanded in a hoarse whisper.

  Waxter had taken an instant liking to Skeeter Hollins, a rangy kid who appeared younger than his twenty-two years. Skeeter had a peach-fuzz of a beard and string bean arms around which his tee shirt sleeves hung in folds. A sweat-stained ball cap perpetually anchored his shaggy straw hair.

  When Skeeter was thrown out of Bobby’s Bar in South Wheeling for fondling the go-go dancers, Waxter befriended him and had put him to work in his pawnshop.

  “No! You ain’t gonna wipe your muddy, smelly self off with my shirt,” Skeeter said.

  Waxter put his finger to his lips. “Shhh! Give it to me, Skeeter. I need it.” Waxter sat on the ground behind the bushes with his legs spread in front of him with his belly in his lap. Tossing the upper portion of Skeeter’s shirt over his head, he bent forward to spread the remainder of the shirt before him.

  “Got to hide the light.” Waxter fished a penlight and a small jeweler’s loupe from his pocket, pushed his thick glasses off of his nose, then peered at the candelabra from beneath the shirt.

  Skeeter slowly wagged his head.

  “What's the matter?” Waxter glanced around, looking for something he might have overlooked, then realized Skeeter's intent. “Haven't you seen anybody that's a little overweight before?” He screwed up his mouth and stared until Skeeter looked away.

  “Hardly enough light,” Waxter said. But enough light to allow him to imagine running off with the ornament. It must have been stolen from a museum. He smiled at the thought of leaving León. León would kill him.

  * * *

  León crept through the house to the rear steps. Having Waxter inside would be like bringing in a cow. León removed his glove and felt the wear of the first few carpet treads to determine the foot pattern of the occupants. By stepping contrary to the normal footfall of the household, he avoided much of the creaking common to stairways. He listened for sounds from the floor above. There were none.

  The house's decor surpassed any home León had ever seen. Intricate wallpaper covered the walls of the halls and stairways. Oaken wainscot enriched every room he passed. Gold accented carved ceiling moldings. How did such a mansion come into existence in this insignificant town? A quiver went down his spine as he anticipated meeting the house’s owner at a later date—on his own terms, of course.

  Though observant of the house’s beauty, León was not distracted from his task. He was aware of time: too long in the house could mean disaster. But curiosity and greed pushed him on.

  Tightening his grip on his Smith and Wesson, he peered around a doorjamb and into a bedroom. No one.

  He stole past burnished brass sconces on the walls, past filigreed mirrors. He crept by unknown ancestors who stared down at him from walled portraits, but he sought to completely elude the present day residents. The difference was not lost on him: the dead allowed him to live; the living threatened death.

  This house will take us some time, but it’ll be worth it. Watch the house—who comes, who goes, and when. Set it up for a moving van. Then we'll deliver the house’s contents to more appreciative owners.

  * * *

  Skeeter paced in a little spot behind the trees. “I wanna see. I'm not gonna wait no longer. I’m going in!” He burst into a trot toward the house.

  “No, Skeeter, wait. León doesn’t want us in there.”

  “I got a mind o’ my own.” Skeeter tried the locked door, then jogged over to the window while Waxter lumbered behind him.

  “No...stop. No, Orlando will crucify us.”

  “He can’t tell me what to do,” Skeeter said, and jumped up and grabbed the windowsill.

  Waxter put his arms around Skeeter’s thighs and began to pull.

  “Let go, Skeeter!” Waxter said.

  “Ow!” Skeeter said, as his fingers were torn from the sill. Waxter staggered and then fell backwards with Skeeter on top of him. There was a thud as they hit the ground.

  * * *

  León crept back to the rear door and came face to face with Waxter and Skeeter, staring through the door window. Too bad. The risk was too great. They were sure to make a racket.

  León stepped outside and turned to ease the door shut behind him. Suddenly a shoulder edged in front of him and forced the door open. Skeeter slipped past León and into the house.

  “Oh, okay. Just one room,” León whispered. He put his finger to his lips and led them both down the hall to a wide doorway.

  “Freeze!” barked a voice. They stopped. Lights flickered on.

  Skeeter reached for the gun in his back waistband.

  “Don’t, Skeeter!” Waxter yelled.

  It was too late. A gunshot boomed, its sound deafening in the narrow space. Skeeter staggered. Falling to the floor, he held his side and screamed.

  2

  The Employer

  León dropped his weapon and threw his hands into the air. So did Waxter.

  “On the floor! On your stomachs!”

  The intruders' eyes went from the gun to the huge man holding the weapon. It wasn't his size that changed their focus nor his sharply pressed boxer shorts and blue silk T-shirt. It was because of the matching blue wraparound sunglasses hugging his face–worn inside at night: he was blind. León froze and tried to stare past the glasses at his eyes while reaching for his own gun.

  “Leave it be, or I'll drop you like I did your friend.” The voice was deep, resonant, even. “Now on the floor, like I said. With your hands above your heads—where I can see them.”

  “Who, who . . . are you?” León said.

  “Sheriff Terrance Fowlkes, of Madison, West Virginia.” He paused while it sunk in. “I may need your cooperation, although it would be a whole lot easier to shoot you.” He chuckled to himself, waving his gun toward Skeeter; now lying huddled on the floor and moaning, his lifeblood pouring out. “What’s two more? I’m still deciding.”

  Fowlkes handcuffed the two robbers’ hands behind them while they lay with their faces pressed to the floor, then collected their guns. “Now get up.”

  León rolled onto his back and sat upright while Waxter, helpless without the use of his hands, wallowed and grunted. Fowlkes grabbed a handful of Waxter’s shirt and hauled him to his feet, then did the same with León.

  Their eyes followed Fowlkes’ gun, a Glock 37.

  The crying and groaning from Skeeter pulled Waxter’s eyes away. Tremors ran the length of his body as tears formed and wet his cheeks. “What about Skeeter?” He turned his head aside and gagged. “You got to help him.”

  Fowlkes displayed a wide set of white teeth, then thrust the barrel of his pistol into León's cheek, forcing León to turn his head. León grimaced, but didn't give Fowlkes the satisfaction of making a sound.

  “Well, well, I see. It'
s our weary travelers from Wheeling,” Fowlkes said. “I saw your mugs in yesterday’s police bulletin.” His left eye twitched. Using his thumb, he settled the sunglasses closer to his face.

  León felt a pang of envy. The sunglasses complemented Fowlkes’ bronzed face and well-groomed, dark-brown hair. His T-shirt accentuated the muscles in his chest, and when his arms bent, the biceps bulged, stretching his sleeves. The smell of expensive cologne clung to him. It reminded León of his own favorite, Dolce & Gabbana. Could Fowlkes have taken time to shave before confronting them?

  “Sheriff, I didn’t know this was your house.” León felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his backbone. “I’ll make it up to you. I can't stand prison. I'll kill myself first.” The sheriff’s eye, twitching spasmodically, added to León’s discomfort.

  “Hey. I can help you out with that now.”

  León's pupil's widened.

  “Ha, ha, not quite yet, huh?” Fowlkes said.

  “So, you got stuff on me from Wheeling, too?” Waxter said.

  “I received your pictures—such handsome fellows—over the Internet yesterday afternoon. But my interest in you is not what you think. Someone of your, ah, occupation is impossible to find in this hick town. Madison County has the lowest crime rate in this state, the lowest in the country, actually. Hah, hah, no thanks to me.

  “Now turn around and face the wall, please. Lean against it with your head. Spread those feet!”

  “For the love of God, how about Skeeter?” Waxter waddled up close to the wall and caught himself with his forehead. “Let me have some bandages, or something to stop the blood.”

  “Too late now, he already ruined my rug—and spattered the wallpaper. I’ll get him for that.”