Hell Comes To Chapel's Place

  Typically, when someone said they were going to Forrest Hill, it lead one to envision a lush, foliaged valley with a picturesque little town nestled safely in it’s center. Just the name itself caused mental illustrations of a quiet place where a man could raise his family in peace.  It was the ideal place for a body who had no wish to ever strike it rich, but instead build what they had with their own two hands. It was for the kind who perpetuated the cliched American dream of the little house with a white picket fence. Unemployment would never be a problem because work was always in abundance. Forrest Hill was just such a place and had remained so since the first wanna-be forty-niners had went bust and figured ‘why not here’? From the humble beginning with a mere handful of only thirty-two people, twelve spinning wheels, some mining equipment, a dozen horses and a month’s rations grew a boomtown that flourished for the next eighty years. The population had bloomed to a comparable six hundred and was growing year by year. The past was steeped in pride while the  future looked brighter all the time.

  In the late summer of 1931, however, the contented burg had succumbed to the plague that had infested the rest of the country as well as a large majority of the planet. The Depression had effervesced textile, marketing and manufacturing from every corner of the New World. At first, the village’s only connection to the great catastrophe was the newspaper headlines that came screaming Wall Street’s untimely demise. Although the crash had been steadily coming for the last forty years or so on a global scale, most weren’t directly effected and was caught in sheer horror when it happened. While New York’s elite were diving from skyscrapers and eating pistol rounds, Forrest Hill kept on keeping on oblivious to the financial bloodbath. It wasn’t until the beef market nosedived at hyper speed that the local farmers began feeling the pinch. Soon after, the textile mills ran out of work due to no money-holding customers. With all major forms of income going belly-up, the stores and private businesses were given no recourse but to close their doors indefinitely. Most decided to head westward on nothing more than the cheap rumors and outright lies about the “untold wealth” that awaited them in California. Hollywood awaited, and the silver screen was just waiting for a new Valentino or Mary Pickford. Little did they realize that they were being swayed by the same lines that brought their forefathers to the valley all those years ago. Only now, it was the silver screen instead of gold veins. What was left of their beautiful town was a wrecked shadow of its former prosperity.

  A few businesses somehow managed to remain. Ely Smith still maintained his barber shop. His wife had taken in local laundry and mending thereby bringing in enough extra income to allow her husband to keep cutting hair and shaving faces. The shop was necessary not only for the service it provided, but also served as a meeting place for most of the town’s menfolk. Another establishment that kept occupation with a somewhat steady clientele was Red Chapel’s Saloon & Hotel. The watering hole brought back the classic nostalgia of the Old West. Red had never intended for the place to be a nostalgia-theme landmark. It had been standing and operating since just after the Gold Rush and had never underwent a remodeling. Outside of it’s swinging half-doors, hitching posts for a weary cowhand’s horse and a trough still awaited occupation. The saloon’s marginal success could be credited mostly to one or two-time only customers. The highway that passed just outside of the town’s limits drew travelers in looking for a bathroom, a shot of whiskey or beer, and a bed for the night. Being the only place of its kind for nearly fifty miles, Red could have charged an arm and a leg for the convenience of his facility. Times being what they were, though, he knew that most folks just simply didn’t have much cash, and was content to get what he could. He couldn’t, in good conscience, drain his customers of their last penny. He believed that a good, sound business and honest practices not only drove a business, but built a customer base that would either repeat itself or at least build a word-of-mouth reputation. These things, Red believed, would pay for themselves. He knew that by being an honest man with an honest store, he would not only survive, but people would come. This depression that the country was suffering from couldn’t last forever, and he would be there waiting for the pay-off when the smoke cleared.

  It was on an early September day of that same year that Red Chapel received a new and quite unique customer. The choking, dust-filled dry heat had begun to give way to an only slightly cooler evening breeze. Tufts of road dust swirled and pitched like a will-‘o-the-wisp. Ely Smith had been sitting on the front stoop of his shop passing the day with other denizens who happened to laze by. He had spent nearly an hour discussing the pros and cons of Prohibition with the town’s pastor, Reverend Glendon. After a nondescript span of time without  visitors, Ely happened to glance up toward the setting sun and spotted a cloud of dust in the distance rise in a trail as if following a stampede of cattle. The apparitional image was soon joined with the low rumbling of an engine smoothly changing gears as it climbed a neighboring hill. The blinding sunset reflected a sharp, piercing glimmer like a scout sending mirror flash-messages back to his charge. Ely leaned forward, righting his chair that had been leaning back against the barber shop’s outer wall to get a better look at the oncoming visitor. There were so few then. Someone riding into town was just about as good as a parade passing through.

  The vehicle slowed as it entered the corporate limits of the village. The car was a 1931 Doge De Soto Six. A hideous contrast was created by the automobile’s presence in the dilapidated hovel of a borough. The great clouds of dust pulled from the barren road seemed to be repelled by the high sheen of the car’s exterior. It’s black paint and silver radiator reflected the day’s dying sunlight. To catch a glimpse of it was like trying to look directly into the eye of the sun through a spyglass. The De Soto passed by Ely Smith without acknowledging his curiosity and pulled directly in front of the saloon. As the car came to a lurching halt, the entourage of dirt in it’s wake surrounded the automobile and settled slowly as if to herald the coming of an ominous and sinister force.

  From the saloon, a swinging door parted slightly to allow a snooping gaze to observe the driver in suspicious curiosity. The eyes of the watcher were narrowed to opaque slits that shot hateful daggers in the direction of the town’s new guest.  From behind the bar, Red Chapel wiped the counter top and adjusted the position of his tobacco from one jowl to the other. He spied the other occupant of the tavern curiously, becoming exasperated in his obvious lack of basic manners. Red’s expression altered from passive to mildly annoyed.

  “Clem, why don’t you sit down and mind yer own damn business? Settle down fer Christ’s sake. You don’t hafta go lookin’ fer a fight with everybody that strolls in here.”

  “Shaddap”, Clem retorted, “I ain’t lookin’ fer a fight. I just wanted to catch a peek at the fancy-pants drivin’ that slick roadster. Betcha five bucks he’s another one from Memphis lookin’ fer a deal.”

  “First off”, Red admonished, “I ain’t got five bucks. Second, if’n he is from Memphis, his money’s as good here as anybody else’s. And you know damn well that you are lookin’ fer trouble, Clem. I don’t wanna hafta fetch Roberts down here to cart yer ass back to the clink again. Every damn time we get new people in here, you gotta go an’ chase ‘em off.”

  “Shaddap”, Clem repeated. He couldn’t argue or deny his employer’s accusations, neither did he possess the mental capacity to match wits with Red on his level. A silencing exclamation was all he could muster to try to gain the verbal advantage. Before Chapel could begin further assaults on his character, Clem craned his neck in a dismissive fashion to avert more discussion. He leered at the driver exiting the De Soto and rubbing the vehicle with a white handkerchief he had produced from his breast pocket. The gesture was aimed more at the interloping spy in the doorway. Dirt that should have accumulated from the journey still never settled on the paint. The shine lingered as if some cosmic force had repelled foreign bodies and unwanted cling-ons.

  The stranger was immaculately dressed in a black tuxedo with white linen gloves and a silk top hat. A crimson carnation jutted proudly from the left lapel of the finely tailored jacket. After dusting off the De Soto, he repeated the process to his own being in brisk, authoritative strokes. Afterward, he began strolling around the front of the vehicle and sauntered lightly up the front step of the drinking establishment while carefully retreating his handkerchief to it’s home. Clem backed away slightly, letting the swinging door fall back into position, trying to mask his obtrusive gawking while still holding his ground behind the passage to await the visitor’s entrance.  Slowly, the customer pushed back the door and entered. He was very gaunt, like a pleasantly fragrant flesh-covered skeleton dressed for a macabre wedding of the deceased. Clem figured a slight push would send the prissy little stranger into the far wall. It was time, Clem deduced, to show who ruled this little hole-in-the-wall called Forrest Hill. He forwent the slight push and opted for a full shouldered slam into his chest. No more than two steps into the saloon, Clem took three long, hard steps and planted himself forcefully into the visitor’s broadside.

  The finely dressed man never even stumbled. Clem felt like he had tried to knock over a Black Angus steer. Without giving much thought to what he may be facing, the dim-witted bully tried to cover his failure with tough words.

  “Why dont’cha watch where tha fuck yer goin’ there, ya goddam tin-horn!”

  The visitor bowed his head slightly with the trace of a submissive smile.

  “Pardon me, sir. I did not see you. I will be more careful in future, I can assure you”.
  The linguistic skill of the newcomer was crisp and annunciated to a degree that neither Clem or Red had ever heard before. His vocalizations spoke volumes of culture and the finest of education. His manners and grace were impeccable. Walking across the floor for him was more like a ghost floating from landing to landing of his favorite haunt. One watching his moves would guess him to be a high-caliber ballroom dancer. His face was as fine porcelain, his demeanor as fragile and as elegant as morning dew condensed on a spider’s web. Everything about the new apparition said ‘wealth, advantage and style’.

  Dreamily, the visitor advanced to the bar to address the proprietor, gently ignoring the poor mannerisms of the oaf in the doorway. He sat himself effeminately upon a stool directly in front of Chapel himself. He settled into his seat and smiled a quiet greeting. Red realized that he had discontinued cleaning the counter sometime around the stranger’s first few steps into the saloon and had become fixated on his every move. His jaw hang slack threatening to drop his chaw out onto the bar. He was so infatuated by the new man’s actions and movements that he had frozen all other voluntary movements to focus solely on his next action. When he realized how inane he must have looked to his guest, he casually snapped himself back into the reality of business.

  “Howdy”, Red greeted trying to conceal his obvious curiosity. After all, even as rare as customers were nowadays, and this one was not just any customer, he was still a customer. Business was business, and Red couldn’t afford to let one slip away. “Can I get you somethin’ mister”? During the first several seconds of the exchange, Clem had moseyed to the edge of the bar and snatched a bottle of Red Eye. It was an acceptable payment for the limited services he rendered to the owner. Sheriff Roberts had talked Chapel into giving his slovenly cousin a job in an attempt to keep him out of the dreaded poky. Red had reluctantly complied as a favor for a friend and put up with his laziness and destructive attitude for Clem’s need for someone to watch over him. In lieu of pay, Red shared what little stock he had with Clem. Many times he regretted his decision.

  Clem never once took his doleful eyes off of the newbie and was swimming with doubt over the dubious origins (and sexual orientations) of the walking spindle. Slowly, he took his bottle of hooch and sat at the poker table at a safe distance from the priss, yet close enough to monitor all of his business and conversation.
“Yes, my good man. Might I trouble you for a glass of cold water”? The visitor produced another clean handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and used it to mop nonexistent perspiration from his pallid brow. Red found himself frozen again by the strange request. After a second or two of deliberation, he once again shifted his chew from one side to the other and spat into the brass spittoon at his feet. Before he could answer, Clem tossed in his two cents.

"Water? What tha hell...?  If’n you’re wantin’ water, there’s a trough outside! Why dont’cha go stick yer scrawny-assed head in it and not come up?” Clem followed up his witticism with a hard, long cackle.

  “Clem! Shut yer mouth and drink yer bottle! You’ll have to excuse him, mister. We don’t get too many visitors in here. Especially ones that look like you...no offence.”
“None taken, sir.”

  “Its just that”, Red began while scratching his well-oiled scalp, “we don’t get much call for water in here, either. Most folks come in here lookin’ for whiskey or beer. Now, I got water back here, but its well water. Its kinda dirty, but with this big ‘ol dry spell we’ve been goin’ through, water has become a might expensive. Hate to hafta charge ya fer it, but I gotta make a livin’ too, ya know.”

  “That’s perfectly alright. By chance, would you happen to be the Mr. Chapel who’s name so handsomely decorated the sign on this operation?”

  “Huh?”, Red asked, confounded by his guest’s eloquent vernacular. “Oh, yeah. I’m Red Chapel”, he introduced and offered the visitor his hand. The exotic, nimble hand of the new man lightly gripped the proprietor’s palm and shook twice courteously. “That over there is Clem Arnell. He cleans up the place fer me an’ kinda watches the place when I’m not here”. By this time, Clem had discarded his shot glass and resorted to barbarically chugging straight from the bottle. If his intent was to get inebriated quickly, he was well on his way. Not wishing the queer man to mistake his curiosity for an invitation, Clem had resigned to flipping playing cards into his hat to pass the time between sobriety and the sweet, null and void escape of liquored bliss.

  “Well, Mr. Chapel, I would be more than happy to pay well for a drink of your water. I understand that times being what they are that a businessman must ‘get it where he can find it’.”

  “Yessir”, Red replied apologetically, “but I’d feel bad taking money from a fella and only givin’ him a sip ‘o water”.

  The man inserted his hand into his trouser pocket.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Chapel. I have seemed to forgotten my manners. My name is Oscar Medlin. As far as the offer of a more potent beverage, I thank you, but I never touch the stuff.”

  “That’s your business, I reckon”, Red replied as courteously as he could.

  “No, Mr. Chapel. You see, when I begin to drink, I begin to lose control. When this happens, most unfortunate things happen to those in the vicinity”. As his hand returned from his pocket, he returned it to the bar’s surface caressing a money clip that neared breaking from an enormous compilation of bills. “Payment is no issue, Mr. Chapel, but what say we make this interesting? Are you a gambling man?”

Red’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t a man who typically got taken, especially in his own place. He prided himself on knowing all the old parlor tricks and barroom games. He also enjoyed thinking he knew a con-artist when he saw one. The man before him was truly a hard read. Still, the money  the sweet-talking skeleton beared was beginning to make Red’s mouth water. It was not only more money than he had seen since around 1928, but more than he had seen collectively in one place over the span of his lifetime.

  His curiosity was more than piqued, it was literally screaming below his quiet surface. He would have to force himself to proceed with extreme caution.

“You a hustler?”,he asked suspiciously. Medlin grinned to convey no malice. Meanwhile, Clem Arnell had nearly choked on his whiskey at the sight of the money clip.

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Chapel. I just thoroughly enjoy a good game.”

  Clem had managed to break himself from his hypnotic greed and found himself several steps behind in the conversation. He then did his usual thing and chimed in inappropriately.

  “Hey”, Clem stabbed, “what the hell do you mean by ‘unfortunate things?’”

  Turning to Clem, Medlin’s grin faltered into a doe-eyed type of exasperation. He addressed Arnell softly and slowly as if explaining a particularly complicated concept to a rather inept child.

  “Well, Mr. Arnell, when I start to drink, people start to die”, he held his sincere yet sarcastic expression on Arnell momentarily for more emphasis. Clem, not completely comprehending the threatening veracity of Medlin’s bold statement, grunted and imbibed another mouthful from the bottle’s neck.

  “Sheeeit”, he scoffed under his breath and chased the statement with yet another slug of redeye.
       
  Chapel, trying to move past the tense moment between his guest and his idiotic employee decided to intervene to digress the exchange.

  “What kind of bet you talkin’, there?”

  “Simple, actually”, Medlin explained as he turned back towards the owner. He fished a silver dollar out of the pocket opposite of the money clip’s home and sat it upright on the counter holding it in place with his left index finger. “I’ll spin the coin. If it comes up heads, you will serve me the water for free. I will reciprocate by leaving you a rather healthy tip for your generosity at the end of my visit to your lovely but dry little town.. If it’s tails, I will buy that glass of water from you for the sum of one-hundred dollars. The way, I see it, Mr. Chapel, you can’t lose”. To emphasize his point, he pulled the appropriate bill from the roll and laid it on the bar.

Red shook his head incredulously, as if trying to test himself. No, he was not dreaming, he decided.

  “Watch it, Red”, Clem warned. “There’s gotta be a catch some damn where. If’n ya lose that bet, I’ll betcha another hundred bucks that he’s gonna lure ya out back and clean yer tan track fer ya. I’ll guran-damn-tee ya he’s a goddam faggot!”

  Medlin ignored Arnell’s rambling and kept his focus on Chapel. Red measured the alluring visitor closely for signs of sinister intent. He indeed seemed genuine. If there was a catch to his game, he would have more than likely have introduced it by now. Even if he had, it would be worth it for the chance of winning a crisp c-note. Without acknowledging Clem’s homophobic speculations or his own embarrassment over his employee’s lack of tact, Red nodded at Medlin’s coin hand to proceed. With a slight broadening of his thin smile, the elegant stranger casually flipped the side of the silver coin. It spun hard and long threatening to drill its way into the bar itself. It wavered and swayed flickering the gaslights above the bar as it slowed. As it settled to its base, the winning side gleamed stoically upward at the two contestants.

  Tails.

  Medlin smiled broadly taking his defeat with tranquillity and grace. He pushed the bill to the bartender.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Chapel. I believe you have just set a new world’s record for the most expensive glass of water ever sold”. Red smiled, spit into the brass container at his feet, and took Medlin’s money. He hated to do it, but pride can only take a man so far. In the times they were living in, the bill he had won in their little game of chance was, quite literally, a small fortune. It would be enough to keep the saloon in business for another couple of months, easily. He decided he liked the stranger. More appropriately, he liked the stranger’s money and his reckless abandon with throwing it around. Chapel figured if he played his cards right, before the night was over, he could clean up.

  Red reached behind himself into a wooden icebox. From it, he produced a large pitcher of opaque, milky looking water. From under the bar, he produced a large beer glass and preceded to pour the dingy refreshment into it. As he watched the fluid fill the glass, Red couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Here he was, pouring a pathetic looking glass of almost non-potable water for a man who (on a bet, no less) was paying one hundred dollars for the pleasure of drinking it.

  ‘Oh well’, he humored to himself to ease his aching conscious, ‘I did warn him. If this is what he wants, its what he’s gonna get’.

  Red sat the glass in front of Medlin. As soon as the visitor gripped the stein’s handle, the film within the water started to swirl like a miniature tornado. Seconds later, the vortex had been enveloped and dissolved by cool, clean water. Red watched in amazement.

  “How did you do that?”, he said in quiet awe. Clem was well absorbed in his game of pitch-the-deck, and Chapel didn’t want to alarm him or stir him from his seat. Medlin only smiled and dismissed the question with a quick shake of his spindled head. After taking an enormous gulp of water, he sat the glass down and focused his attention back to Chapel.

  “A true illusionist never reveals his secrets, my good man.”

  Red looked as if enlightenment had just been bestowed. His eyes narrowed as he took a slight shift backwards in his stance. It was all clear to him now. He had wanted to pay for the water. It was how he set the trick up.

  “Aww. I get it. You’re a magician. Hell, I shoulda known. You on yer way to a show?”

  “No, actually. I’m just out seeing the country”. The exclamation from Red had perked up Arnell’s attention away from his hat and his cards. He scooped up the deck and stumbled over to where Medlin was sittingas the red-eye’s toxic effects were just beginning to take hold.

  “Well then, boy”, Clem loudly announced, slamming the deck on the bar in front of his boss’s guest, “if’n yer a magician, lets see some tricks with these here cards”. Clem had leaned down, supporting himself on the bar and settling himself nose-to-nose with Medlin. His proximity and noxious breath was beginning to annoy Medlin to the brink of anger. He looked as if he had been insulted beyond response. He sighed, composing himself, and glared at Arnell through half-masted, exasperated eyes and turned back to his beverage.

“Some other time, maybe.”

“Naw”, Clem pushed, shoving the cards at him, “you’ll do it now”. Medlin had gone (very quickly) from mildly exasperated to bordering on full-blown rage.

  “I said some other time, Mr. Arnell. Now please, leave me alone."

  Clem laughed out loud.

  “Or what, ya goddam fairy? You said when you lose it, people start dyin’. Well, here I am, ya fuckin’ pussy! Kill me, goddam ya!”

  Medlin took another large drink of his water and smiled.

  “Mr. Arnell, how would you like a chance to win another hundred dollar bill like the one your employer just won?”

  “Who’s to say yer gonna leave with any money at all, ya fuckin’ tin-horn? Howzabout I just take it from ya?”

  Ignoring the threats of the half-drunken bully redneck, Medlin again produced the silver dollar from his pocket.

  “If it’s my money you want, Mr. Arnell”, Medlin again took out the clip and sat it on the table “I’ll give it to you gladly. That is, of course, if the coin lands on tails. All the money I have on my person if the coin turns up tails.”

  “And if’n it’s heads?”, Clem asked curiously. Medlin gazed at Arnell and dropped his tone in tambour to illustrate his gothic sincerity.

  “Then, Mr. Arnell, you die”, the words almost hissed from the visitor’s lips. Arnell looked Medlin over for signs of armament.

  “How ya gonna do that, asshole? Yer not even carryin’ a gun! If’n you think you can even get close enough to put yer goddam hands on me, I’ll have yer fuckin’ throat cut ‘afore yew can get two steps!”

  Medlin smiled a sly, patient grin.

“How I collect is my business, Mr. Arnell. Now, do we have a bet?”

  Clem stared at the money on the bar. No matter how that coin landed, he was taking the money and killing this fool. Nobody came into Forrest Hill and threatened him. Nobody came into his town and talked down to him, either. This sone of a bitch was gonna pay for waltzing in here and throwing his money around.

  “Spin yer coin, asshole”, Clem commanded. He readied the hunting knife on his belt to defend himself and offend the slick stranger. The coin spun madly on the counter-top. Medlin raised his hand and slapped down on the bar to stop the coin. When he lifted his hand, the coin lay with the heads end facing the ceiling. Medlin shot his glare over to where Clem was standing.

  When Clem saw the coin, he reared his head back and began a hideous howl-laugh. He rocked back on his heels guffawing towards the upper level where the rented rooms were found. Medlin continued his frozen gaze on the idiotic creature standing in the center of the barroom. In mid-howl, Clem’s laugh stopped cold. He slowly righted himself. His face had gone from that of a maniacal bully to that of a deer frozen by a spotlight. His eyes bugged from their sockets. His mouth hung agape. Chapel stood perplexed trying to decipher what was happening. Without as much as another breath, Clem Arnell collapsed to the floor in a liqour-riddled, filthy heap. His eyes still stared at the ceiling.

  Red ran over to his employee and knelt quickly to see what had happened to him.

“Clem?”, Chapel called, “Clem! You alright?” Red reached out to grasp Arnell’s wrist. He then felt on the left side of his neck. Without turning around, he addressed his new “friend”.

“Jesus Christ, mister! He’s dead!”


  Unending cold.

  A flood of sensations.

  Blackness on top of blackness.

  He was keeling. His arms were anchored onto a jagged rock surface. His feet were fused into the frozen rock beneath them. Movement was impossible. Silent wind colder than any arctic gale cut him to his very core.

  From up ahead, a blue, thunderless flash of lightning like a photograper’s flash in a pitch dark room would pierce his eyes, blinding him. In the negative after-image, Clem noted himself in an infinitely vast area. No walls. No ceiling. Just the icy, jagged floor, the sub-zero, unending wind, and legions upon legions of other beings in the same pennant position as himself.

  The lightning flashed again. He discovered that he could not defend against the light. His eyelids were no longer there. He then realized why the torrent was freezing him to the very core. His skin was also missing. Every nerve ending stood exposed and undefended, screaming back at the frigid zephyr that came from every direction at once.

  The more torment suffered, the more he felt. His mouth was jammed open by his tongue. It had swelled to gigantic proportions from thirst. From his abdomen, he felt a lifetime of waste that had collected and cemented in his bowels and bladder. There was no releasing the pressure.

  There was no screaming.

  There was no sound.

  There was, however a hand. A single, brittle hand on his shoulder. It burned into his dermis.

  Even with the swollen tongue blocking his windpipe, Clem Arnell began to scream.

  In mid-scream, Clem realized he was screaming into the face of Red Chapel. Red looked as if he was looking into the abyss of Hell itself. It was a reflection of the expression on Clem’s face. He stopped screaming and panted, trying to regain his breath. The two men, while seated on the floor, turned their gazes toward the bar to behold the magic man that had done this to Clem. The stranger was gone, leaving half of his water behind. Clem struggled to his knees and half-crawled to the bar grasping for the glass. He literally poured the water down his throat spilling most of it on his sweat-stained shirt. He dropped the glass to the floor where it thudded and rolled until settling against it’s own handle. Still gasping, Clem leaped up onto his rubbery legs and dashed out of the door. Without touching a single step in front of the saloon, he sprinted down the street toward the little one-room church at the end.

  Chapel watched as Clem’s feet made small clouds of dust as he ran for his life. Red slowly sauntered back to the bar, still having no idea where Medlin had gone or exactly what had transpired in his little, humble establishment. He reached to put away the pitcher when he noticed that beneath it was another one hundred dollar bill. He stared at the portrait of Ben Franklin gratefully, temporarily forgetting the customer who left it there.

  That was, until he looked at the counter-top. Medlin had left the silver dollar, too.
 
  It laid in the middle of a hand print that was burned into the bar.