The Palm Reader Read online

  Praise for THE PALM READER

  “The Palm Reader is action-packed and exciting, with twists and turns, fantastic characters and a truly spellbinding plot—the best book in its genre I have ever read. Highly Recommended!”

  —Susan Keefe,TheColumbiaReview.com

  “Jackson Walker is back in this thrilling, fast-paced sequel to best-seller Devil in the Grass, this time taking on evil itself as his family is threatened by the Church of Satan. An edgy, action-packed thriller!”

  —Raymond Khoury, New York Times Best-Selling Author of The Last Templar

  “A Florida noir in the vein of Randy Wayne White—with a tight plot, well-drawn primary and secondary characters, and a climax most readers won't see coming, The Palm Reader is a most satisfying summer read. One can only hope that the Jackson Walker series continues.”

  —Betsy Ashton, author of Unintended Consequences and Uncharted Territory, Mad Max Mysteries, Eyes Without A Face

  “The Palm Reader is a fast-paced read with twists, turns and excitement around every corner. It is delightfully scary and full of frightening events. A real delight for the imaginary senses. This is the best book in its genre that I have ever read.”

  —Chick Lit Cafe

  “Wow! I absolutely loved this book. Even better than the first, the best-selling Devil in the Grass—could not put it down.”

  —Maxine (Booklover Catlady) ***** Five Stars—Top Amazon Reviewer

  “The setting for Christopher Bowron’s The Palm Reader isn’t the Florida of blue hair and walkers and early-bird specials and family theme parks— seedy and gritty, The Palm Reader will keep you turning pages long past the time those household chores have grown tired of calling your name.”

  —David Patneaude, author of Fast Backward and other best-selling novels

  Goodreads; Barnes & Noble; Indie Book Reviewers:

  “Sometimes when I read and like a book by an author, I am apprehensive to read the sequel because they are usually not as good as the first. I call it the ‘sophomore slump.’ But I needn’t have worried at all! I was hooked from the first pages of The Palm Reader by Christopher Bowron and my interest never faded for a moment!”

  — Steph Coleman

  “I was impressed with how Bowron can draw out the suspense and high-octane tension through the whole book … even after something crazy happens, there is more to come. A great read that works as a standalone, but I suggest reading the first one of the series (Devil in the Grass) for the full effect. Recommend to mature fans of thriller/suspense.”

  —Darlene Cupp

  “Great writing, great action, great characters, great plot … Overall a terrific read that I feel has really opened my eyes to a new genre of reading for me. The ending was great—Gramps is the man! I can totally see this book being a movie. I hope Mr. Bowron’s next book isn’t too far off.”

  —Carla Biggins

  “There is such strong, vivid writing, and the characters are all fascinating, flawed, and going through their own problems. Jack is a total badass (can I say that?) and everything just felt ‘authentic’ for lack of a better word.”

  —Cody Brighton

  “For those who enjoy drama and high-stakes action thrillers that expose the darkest, most vile sides of humanity in a highly readable and ‘entertaining’ way, then this is a good one for you.”

  —Anabella Johnson

  “The Palm Reader is a Southern thriller filled with supernatural elements. This is one book that I will be reading again. I highly recommend it to all thriller and supernatural lovers and those that are interested in the real-life scenarios of the Church of Satan and the supernatural.”

  —Chick Lit Cafe

  “Suspenseful, fast-paced, multi-faceted, multi-layered, the plot keeps twisting right to the explosive end.”

  —Sam Law, author of It’s Good To Read

  “I really enjoy Mr. Bowron’s books and always look forward to the next one. They’re a little edgy and a lot creepy. They flow easily and are so detailed that I always feel like I’m there with his unfailingly interesting characters. Lolita? Priceless! The Palm Reader delivers, as did the previous book, lots of macabre situations with escalating tension and action-filled endings.”

  —Susan Phend

  The Palm Reader

  by Christopher Bowron

  © Copyright 2018 Christopher Bowron

  ISBN 978-1-63393-638-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  212-574-7939

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  Dedication

  Estero Bay

  Look away

  For the sun is bright

  The sand is hot

  The sea shimmers in the light

  Open your eyes

  The stars are shining

  The moon sits low

  Their reflections dance

  I remember you

  The way you were

  Once again

  I sadly close my eyes

  To my wife, Carmen, and my children, Molly and Jack—for your support

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
/>
  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BIOGRAPHY

  CHAPTER ONE

  A TALL, MUSCLE-BOUND POLICE officer ushered Jackson Walker reluctantly away from his grandfather by putting a forceful hand on the back of his head, the other on one of his bound arms. The McFadden property, now overrun by cops, news crews and forensic teams, no longer seemed creepy. Lit-up, it looked ready for a film shoot—not the house of horrors it had been an hour back, shrouded in darkness with the smell of the Everglades and death all-pervading. The carnage strewn across the estate would be picked apart, piece by piece, every inch scoured for incriminating evidence until its dark secrets were revealed to all who might have the stomach and desire to know them.

  Jack, with the help of his Seminole cousins and a law clerk named Janie Callaghan, heroically brought down the Church of Set, a satanic cult based in Southwest Florida. Its evil leader, Henrietta LePley, along with her henchmen, the McFadden brothers, Eric, Isaac and Jimmy, all found their lives at an end earlier in the evening, and deservedly so. They were evil, hearts rotten to the core, especially the McFaddens, who were killers of a serial nature.

  Though Walker would most likely be cleared of the alleged killings of two elderly people a week back in Clewiston, he would first need to be detained. The burly officer ushered him into a police van; the reinforced double-back door slammed shut with a loud clang before the locking mechanism engaged. Sitting across from Jack, to his utter shock, was Mason Matye, a high-ranking leader within the American branch of the Church of Satan. The cops surely made a mistake placing the two in the same vehicle. Matye, like Jack, was one of the few survivors of the haunting events of that evening. Jack felt slightly better seeing the Satanist’s hands were similarly bound with plastic flex cuffs. Their eyes met in the dark van.

  “Jackson Walker,” said the man in his thick, Parisian French accent. His coal-black eyes were like lasers searing into the back of Jack’s skull and drying his throat. A wry smile formed on the man’s lips. “You have proven very resourceful.” His eyes were unrelenting. “You made a deal with the Devil, Mr. Walker, about a week back. I know you remember.”

  Jack laid into him. “The Devil? Stop with the crap, you satanic fuck. I made no such deal with any Devil: Satan, or Set, or whatever name you want to call him!”

  Mason only smiled, the way any Satanist would, his eyes narrowing and his mouth forming a taut smile. “Ah. Perhaps you thought you made a deal with Henrietta. We both serve a higher being—as agents, you might say, Mr. Walker. I hope you will not make the same mistake twice. It’s time to pay up, one way or another. You see, the beauty of being a Devil worshiper . . . it’s expected of you to be dastardly. I take great pleasure in it.” His eyes narrowed as he whispered through pursed lips, “We know where your family lives. We will watch your every move, be it as a free man, or in a prison cell. This isn’t finished.”

  Jack studied the man, his eyes not leaving Mason. “Don’t tell me,” Jack said sarcastically, “the Church of Satan has connections within the state prison system?”

  “Each and every state, Mr. Walker. Your incarceration will be a perfect hell. If you are lucky enough to make it there.” He lifted his foot to his cuffed wrists, resting it on the detention van’s bench seat. He deftly pulled out a thin blade hidden in the heel of his shoe. With his fingertips he ran the steel edge across the plastic tie and, gritting his teeth, began to cut through the plastic.

  Jack couldn’t believe this was happening after all he’d been through that day. “Fucker!” He hurled himself at the vile little Frenchman, catching him in the chin with his shoulder. The force of the blow drove Mason’s head into the wall of the van. The blade clattered to the floor. Both men ended up face to face on their sides trying to capture the blade.

  Mason spit at Jack, covering his face with blood and saliva. “Merde! You will die, Walker. Count on it!”

  Jack did his best to head-butt the man but didn’t have the leverage with his hands tied, so the effort ended in more of a head rub than a useful smack. Mason scrambled to grab the knife. Jack pushed himself up against the bench and tried to regain his footing. Mason pulled his feet back to his hands and, with a couple of frantic pulls, cut his bonds.

  Jack, having only freed his feet, hauled back and kicked Mason’s throat. There was a sickening crack and Jack hoped something gave way. Mason made a horrible gurgle, like a clogged drain being emptied. Jack kicked him again, this time in the face. He felt the man’s nose snap.

  Clank. The back doors to the van opened abruptly. Two armed officers jumped into the back, grabbing both of them.

  Jack yelled, “The fucker’s got a knife!”

  One officer grabbed Jack by the hair, expertly herding him out of the van. Within seconds, and with the aid of a fellow officer, he found himself in the back of the police cruiser. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matye receiving similar treatment. After that, the night became a blur.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACK SHOOK HIS HEAD as he drove down Route 29 to Everglades City, remembering the attack in the van. Amazingly, five years had passed. He’d been pardoned by the governor for all of his transgressions, with the backing of Senator James Hunter. Jack deservedly came out of the fiasco a hero. With his grandfather’s backing, he returned to the University of Florida and finished a degree in law. Now he worked for Peter Robertson at Robertson and Robertson LLP.

  Jack was visiting his Seminole grandfather, whom he and the rest of his family affectionately called Gramps. A year back, the old man signed on as Jack’s first client, much to the delight of Peter Robertson. Gramps invited him down to the Seminole gaming offices to sort out some business. The drive through the Everglades after turning south off I-75 brought back memories, most of them not good. The vast swamp spread out before him, seemingly ready to swallow him up once again; mile after mile of saw-grass savannah and the odd stand of trees, all framed by an endless blue sky, worked to pull at his soul. He loved the place but reluctantly came back, like someone returning to a small town after living in the big city for years. He didn’t want to admit defeat, yet it would be easy to fall back into the embrace of the ancient swamp and its simplicity.

  Pulling his red Rubicon Jeep into the Seminole Gaming Agency’s parking lot, he slipped out of the vehicle and retrieved a satchel containing the requested documents. He two-stepped up a set of wooden stairs and barged into the building.

  A young Seminole woman, who gushed every time she saw him, looked up and smiled. “Hello, Jackson. We haven’t seen you in months!”

  He remembered her: very attractive, tall and slim, with shoulder-length black hair.

  “Hello . . . Beth, right?”

  “Yes!” she beamed. “Your grandfather asked me to show you right in. Come along with me.”

  Jack gladly followed the shapely female along the hallway to his grandfather’s office. When Beth gave him her best sexy walk, he had to remind himself to focus. “Thank you, Beth. I’ll see you on the way out.” He knocked, stepped inside and closed the door.

  Gramps sat behind an old desk made from driftwood, the legs carved by a famous Floridian artist and the top varnished to perfection. Black-and-white Clyde Butcher photos of Florida wildlife adorned the walls around him.

  Nathaniel Portman loosened his tie, grinning at his beloved grandson. “Jackson, you leave that girl alone unless you have honorable intentions. Your mother would have loved to see a few little ones running around with the blood in them.”

  Jack felt talked down to at the mention of kids. Snapping out of the ego-inflated trance Beth put him into, Jack raised his brows. “Gramps, no hocus-pocus, y’all hear? I can handle my own women.”

  “Rea
lly?” The old man jumped out of his chair and hugged him.

  Jack nodded and smiled at the distinguished-looking man. His grandfather was referring to Jack’s near-fatal attraction with a satanic cultist. “Point taken!”

  “Jackson, I asked you to come down for a few reasons. First, I promised when you were released I’d keep an eye on you.” He paused to stare at his grandson, even though he knew how much Jack hated when he did. “I believe in looking people in the eyes from time to time.” The old man’s eyes probed his until Gramps finally said, “I see no mischief in them. Good.” He motioned for Jack to sit.

  “So, Gramps, what’s up?”

  “We have some business to talk about. We’ve made a few land purchases, and we want you to represent us, but we can talk about that later.”

  “Okay?”

  “Jackson . . .”

  “Gramps, you call me Jackson like that when there’s something up, like when we were kids and Josh and I did something bad, which was not uncommon.”

  Gramps suddenly smiled. “You’re strong with the spirit.” He sat back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked with a touch of irritation.

  “Just what I said. Jack . . . the cultists were drawn to you and I saw it. I didn’t know it to be you, but now I can see your spirit. It shines bright around you, like a beacon.”

  “So?” Jack chose not to believe in such nonsense, while Gramps was known within the Seminole tribe to be a spirit talker—some called him shaman. The gift passed to Jack’s mother, who died several years back. Gramps believed Jack carried the gift to some degree, but it would be hard to tell the strength until the young man openly accepted it. Up to this point in his life, besides when he’d been quite young, Jack utterly denied its existence.

  “You, if anyone, should know the truth in what I say. I see danger again, Jack. It’s not the same, but it’s bad. I have to tell you . . . you attract badness. Evil is attracted to you like when you were attracted to drugs in your youth.”

  “Aw, come on, Gramps.” His short college attraction to a socialite group heavily into drugs wasn’t one of Jack’s favorite topics. He wanted to banish all the bad times and the bad people from his memory.