The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (20 page)

“Is that the only reason?”

“I was afraid for Sammie.” Trevis's look puzzled her. “What else would there be?”

“There's nothing between you and Falon?”

She stared at Trevis.

“I didn't tell her,” Caroline said. “She hasn't heard the gossip.”

Becky looked from her mother to Trevis. “What gossip?”

“There's a story around town,” Trevis said, “that you're seeing Falon. That you and Falon planned the bank robbery, that the two of you set Morgan up, wanted him sent to
prison, to get rid of him. Some folks say you're living with Falon, in Atlanta.”

She looked at him in silence. Her closest friends couldn't think this. She found it hard to believe that Morgan's automotive customers, or even the bookkeeping clients who had let her go, would believe it, and certainly not the members of their church.

Yet nearly the whole town seemed to have bought into what the jury believed, to the lies, under oath, on the witness stand. So why wouldn't they believe this?
“
Does everyone think that?” she said softly

“Where are you living?” Trevis said.

“With my aunt, Mama's sister. But if you talked with the Atlanta police, you already know that. How long . . .” she said, “how long have people been saying this?”

“Not everyone—” Trevis began.

“How long?”

“The stories began shortly after the trial.”

She looked at her mother. “Why didn't you tell me? Is this part of why I lost my accounts, not just Morgan going to prison, but these lies?” She didn't know much about the rest of the world, but gossip, in a small Southern town, was a cherished commodity, a traditional and beloved pastime.

“For a long time,” Caroline said, “I didn't hear the stories, no one said anything to me. I suppose they knew I'd be furious. No one treated me any differently, except maybe for a look or two, as if some people felt sorry for me. I didn't hear this story until you'd moved to Atlanta.” She put her hand over Becky's. “When you had so many other troubles, I couldn't add one more ugliness, there seemed no point in it.”

Across the table, Sergeant Trevis busied himself with his coffee and brownie. Becky said, “The police, all of you, believed Morgan was guilty. So when you heard this, you believed that, too.”

“We didn't believe Morgan was guilty,” Trevis said.

“You acted like you did. You were terrible to him.”

“We are not supposed to voice judgment.”

“You
showed
judgment,” she snapped. “You're supposed to be fair. The way you treated Morgan, the way you acted, you believed he was guilty from the minute you hauled him out of the car that morning, after he'd been drugged. You thought he was drunk when you know he doesn't drink. You thought he killed the guard and robbed the bank. Afterward, when Morgan was in jail and Falon broke into my house, the officer who came was unforgivably rude.”

“Sometimes,” Trevis said, “when we have to keep a professional distance, we seem—gruff, I guess.”

She just looked at him.

“Some of us were wrong,” Trevis said. “Becky, we want Morgan to get an appeal.” He looked at her evenly. “To be truthful, I don't know what made us so surly. We were all caught up in something, some violent feeling that I can't explain, that was not professional.” Trevis's face colored. “Like a bunch of little boys torturing a hurt animal. You're right, we weren't fair to Morgan.

“Not until after the trial was over,” he said, “after Morgan was down in Atlanta, did we seem to come to our senses, realize how ugly we'd been, how grossly we let him down. Becky, I don't believe the story about you and Falon. I went to school with Falon, I know what he's like.” He was quiet, then, “I do have some good news.” Trevis grinned, his tall frame easing back in his chair. “There's a warrant out for Falon.”

“What, for the break-in? Not for the bank robbery?”

“No. He's wanted in California. The warrant came in this morning. That's why I got over here so fast. Seems he was involved in a series of real estate scams out there, and fraud by wire. The bureau traced him from California to Chattanooga, to some large bank accounts there under fictitious names, and then traced him here.”

“Then when you find him, he'll be in jail? He'll be locked up where he can't reach us?”

“If you didn't kill him, on the bridge,” Trevis said with the hint of a smile. “If we can find him, he'll be transported by the U.S. marshal's office to California, he'll be held in jail there to await arraignment and trial.”

She wanted to hug Trevis. She couldn't stop smiling.

“The U.S. attorney in L.A. seems hot to move on him,” Trevis said. “There were five men involved. The other four have been indicted. With any luck, Falon should be in federal court in L.A. fairly soon.”

“And if he's convicted?” Becky said. “Oh, he won't be sent back here, to prison in Atlanta?”
He won't be imprisoned with Morgan,
she thought,
where Falon would hurt or kill him.

“If he's convicted in California, there's no reason to return him to Georgia. Terminal Island, maybe, that's the closest to L.A. where he'd be tried.”

“How long would he be there? How long would he get?”

“On those charges, the maximum might be thirty years, the minimum maybe twenty. With parole and good time, maybe half that.”

“Ten years at least,” she said softly. “Ten years, free of Falon.”

“If he comes out on parole,” Trevis said, “and is caught doing anything out of line, he'll be revoked and sent back.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “If you file a complaint now and amend the complaint you filed with Atlanta, give them his name, then the probation department will have that information. That means, if he comes out on parole they'll do their best to keep him away from you. Have you heard anything on the appeal? Quaker Lowe has been up from Atlanta several times, reading the reports, talking with the witnesses.”

“He's working hard on it, Trevis.”

Trevis rose. “He's a good man, good reputation.” He came around the table and hugged Becky. That startled her. His closeness was caring and honest, this was the Trevis she knew. In that moment, she felt as soothed as Sammie must have felt when Grandma wrapped the plaid blanket around her.

I
N THE NIGHT-DIM
cellblock, rain beat down on the high clerestory windows, sloughing across their steel mesh. Lightning flashed, bleaching the cells below as pale as bone. Lee paced his own small cubicle fighting the ache in his side. It had eased off some, until a bout of coughing brought the pain stabbing sharp again. Pain and the cold had kept him up most of the night. He thought Georgia was supposed to be hot and humid. He'd asked the guard twice for another blanket. At last, on his third round, the man had brought it, grumbling as he shoved it through the bars.

Back in his bunk, rolled up in the extra warmth, Lee tried to sleep, the thick scratchy wool pulled tight around him. He badly wanted a hot cup of coffee. He tossed restlessly until daylight crept gray and tentative across the high glass, until he heard the guard's footsteps again, then the harsh clang of the lever as the overhead bars were withdrawn and the cells unlocked. Lee stood for the count, washed and dressed, pulled on his coat, and moved out to the catwalk. Men crowded him, hurrying him along, surging down the
metal stairs and outside into the rain, double-timing to the mess hall hungering for coffee.

In the mess hall he poured two cups from the coffeepot and headed for a small, empty table. He sat with his back to the wall shivering. Rain poured against the glass, its cold breath biting to the bone. Not until the hot brew had warmed him did he get in line, pick up a tray of scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, and two more coffees, and return to the table. By the time he finished eating, the worst of the storm had passed. He was on second shift for the kitchen, hours away yet; leaving the mess hall, he headed back for his cell. There were advantages to his illness, that he could rest when he pleased. The rain had stopped but wind whipped water from the eaves down across the walk, wetting Lee's pant legs. A lone slit of sun slanted down between the heavy clouds, reflecting up from the puddles. Ahead on the walk a flock of cowbirds was splashing, drinking, screeching to wake the dead. They went quiet at his approach, then exploded into the sky and were gone; and a figure was walking beside him. Appearing out of nowhere, a tall man in prison blues, an inmate he had never seen. When Lee looked square at him his bony face seemed to shift and change, Lee couldn't look for long into those hollow eyes.

Where the man stepped through deep puddles the water didn't move, no ripple stirred. A flock of sparrows soared in on a gust of wind, paused in the sky hovering, then fell dead on the rain-slick walk. When Lee didn't alter his stride or look at the wraith again the dark presence grabbed his hand, its fingers cold as death, making Lee jerk away. “Leave me alone. Back off and leave me alone.”

“I can offer you one more opportunity, Fontana. One you'd be a fool to refuse.”

“I haven't done what you wanted yet. And I'm not doing it now.” He headed for the cellblock, shivering. The dark one kept pace with him.

“If the authorities find the post office money, Lee, find any track leading to where it's buried—perhaps with a little help—they'll have all the evidence they need. They'll lift fingerprints you only thought you destroyed. You'll be in prison until you die. Unless,” he said, “you are willing to strike this one bargain.” The wraith looked at him so intently that Lee had to look back. One instant and he turned away again, colder than before.

“One small favor, Fontana, and it is not a difficult task. You will gain much, when your dream of Mexico is fulfilled.”

Lee kept walking.

“You are seventy-two years old. You are sick. If I choose, I can cure the emphysema. I can make your lungs whole again, make you strong again. You will breathe as easily as a young man. I can give you new life, Lee, many more years of healthy, vigorous life, a whole new beginning.”

“I'd pay hard for anything
you
offered.”

“You would pay nothing, you would acquire the ultimate prize. Not only renewed health in this life, but a new life when this one ends, a new and unblemished future designed to your own choosing. A new life where you'll be anything you want to be. Meantime, you finish out this life in perfect health and comfort. All you need to do is help Morgan Blake.”

The tall figure warped and shifted so darkness drifted through him, then he was whole again. “If you agree to help Blake, I will see that you escape from here undetected, free and unharmed.”

Lee was silent as they passed other prisoners, though none took any notice, he didn't think they saw or heard his companion.

“Without my help, your lungs will quickly grow worse. The short time you have left will be even more miserable. When you can hardly breathe at all, panic will entrap you. You will slowly strangle to death, choked by the emphysema. Wouldn't you prefer perfect health and a long life? Wouldn't
you prefer to escape this concrete trap and enjoy the benefits I promise?”

Coughing hard, Lee clutched at the wound in his side. “There's no way out of this cage. Even if there were, why would you want to help Blake?”

“I will help get Blake out of here, help him find Brad Falon, help him force Falon to confess. That is exactly what you are planning, so, you see, I simply want to assist in your venture.”

Morgan's escape was what he'd planned, ever since Becky came to visiting day so excited she could hardly get it out fast enough, that there was a warrant for Falon. That as soon as Falon was found he'd be shipped off to L.A. for arraignment and trial, with a good chance he'd go to prison out there.

I
N THE VISITING
room, Becky had spoken in heated whispers, sitting in the far corner on an isolated couch close between Morgan and Lee. She hadn't brought Sammie; she said Anne had taken the child to a movie. This was a different kind of visit, she was all business, was strung tight with her news and seemed to want no distraction.

But still she'd left a lot unsaid, questions to which Lee still wanted answers. Who had shot Falon? She said she didn't know but Lee thought she did know. Maybe, if Becky had shot him herself, she didn't want to upset Morgan? Maybe that was why she hadn't brought Sammie, because Sammie would say too much?

But Lee sensed, as well, something more left unrevealed. The way Becky looked at him puzzled and embarrassed him; she was holding something back. Yet how could it affect him, when he hardly knew her? Whatever it was, it left him with questions that, he thought, he might not want to ask.

Morgan had sat stone-faced, saying nothing. Lee hadn't been able to tell what either one was thinking. But questions
or not, with a warrant out for Falon, Lee's plan had begun to take shape. If Falon was arrested, was out on the West Coast—if Lee and Morgan
could
get to him, could break out of prison, hightail it out there, get themselves arrested and locked in the same institution, they'd have Falon where he couldn't escape. Could force a confession from him, make him reveal where the bank money was hidden. Once the money was found, and maybe the murder weapon, Morgan should have more than enough to clear him.

A lot of ifs and maybes, Lee thought. But that was what life was made of.

But it was not the devil's plan that they force information from Falon. Now, standing there on the wet walkway, the wraith kept pressing at Lee. “Once you've broken out of here, Fontana, and Blake thinks you're helping him, you will be in a position to crush him. You will raise his hopes high. Then you will destroy him.”

Lee glanced along the walks again, and now they were alone.