Free The Black Palmetto by Paul Carr Page B

Madame Zena's, the door opened, and he dropped down at the corner of the building.
    A seductive voice of indeterminate age called out. “Who's there? Is that you, Morton?”
    Sam hadn't expected anyone to be sleeping in such a tiny place, and he certainly hadn't expected anyone who knew Morton Bell. He wondered if that might be an omen.
    He crept around the building, then through the shadows for a hundred yards or so until he saw Simone coming down the street. Though reasonably sure Madame Zena hadn't seen him, he did wonder about the extent of her powers, and if she had already viewed the undoing of Morton Bell in her crystal ball.

Chapter Eleven
    Sam asked Simone to pull to the side of the road next to a wooded area. Finding a place to ditch the wad of plastic took only a few minutes. A large pine lay on the ground, probably blown over by high winds that left the root system hanging above a four-foot-wide hole in the ground. He stuck the plastic into a crevice in the dirt wall at the bottom of the hole and jammed in a sandstone rock to conceal and hold it in place. It wouldn't be discovered for years, if then.
    Back in the car, Simone said, “What about the cap?”
    He had forgotten about that. It probably contained his and the dead man’s DNA. Taking it off, he said, “I’ll get rid of it later, along with our gloves. I don't think we should stay in the motel tonight.”
    “Yeah, me either. Let's get our stuff and head up the road, maybe to Marathon.”
    Remembering their earlier conversation about Homestead, he said, “You mentioned a psychiatrist that had been associated with the Black Palmetto, who wasn't there at the end. Why would they employ a psychiatrist?”
    Giving him a sidelong glance, she said, “Because the Palmetto wasn't your normal black ops unit. I was told that those guys were crazy. It's one of the reasons they all crashed and burned.”
    “Crazy? You mean insane?”
    “Yes. Each of the assassins had killed someone or attempted it before being recruited into the program. Somebody high up, probably the congressman J.T. mentioned, had the bright idea that sociopaths would be more effective as hit men than traditional candidates, the rationale being that it's easier to teach a killer how to use weapons than it is to turn a sharpshooter into a killer.”
    Sam raised an eyebrow. “That's an interesting idea, but I can't imagine anybody actually thinking it would work.”
    “Well, they did, but it didn't last long before self-destructing.”
    “What happened to the psychiatrist?”
    “I heard he turned sour over the whole concept, after a couple of bad incidents, and the leadership sent him packing.”
    “You remember his name?”
    She squinted her eyes in the glow of the dash lights. “It was Emerson something. Like Whitehurst. No, Whitehall. That's it, Emerson Whitehall. He lived in Miami.”
    “Shouldn't be too hard to find somebody with a name like that.”
    ****
    Harpo didn’t know how long he’d been out this time, but he finally felt like standing and pacing around the little shack. His chest wound had been nothing less than a miracle. Maybe a little sore, but no swelling or pain.
    The name of the woman who had saved him was Twyla. She came into the room, saw him on his feet, and told him he should lie down, get his rest. Twyla fussed a lot over Harpo, but he thought she might be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; flawless skin the color of creamed coffee, and almond shaped eyes. That first day when he awoke in the yard, he knew she had been sent from heaven to guard over him, the aura around her face so bright it burned his eyes.
    “Don't worry. I just need to walk around a little, get my legs back.”
    “But that knot on your head. I'm afraid you'll have a stroke or something.”
    “I’ll be fine.” He patted her hand and felt an uncommon warmth course into his fingertips and up his arm. “You just sit on the porch and have some lemonade. I'll be back in a little