The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (30 page)

Falon's face was flushed. Still the guard watched him. Falon hunched over his plate finishing his coffee and pie. He left the room quickly. Misto abandoned Falon, brushed Lee's arm, and received an amused smile.

I
T WAS AFTER
lunch when Morgan was locked in his cell, that Lee was ushered by two guards to Warden Iverson's office. He found the warden at his desk, his suit jacket dangling from a prison-made coat tree, his pale tie loosened, his thin, bony face flushed from the heat. “Sit down, Fontana.”

Lee sat, in a hard wooden chair facing the desk.

“You want to tell me, Fontana, why you and Blake turned yourselves in? Why you took the trouble to climb the wall—no mean task—why you hitched all the way across the country only to give yourselves up? Headed right back to prison, as docile as starving dogs?”

“I guess that's the way we were feeling,” Lee said. “Seemed like, every move we made, every train or truck we hitched, the cops were on our tail. Almost like they were pacing us. They never made a move, but they made us nervous, we couldn't seem to shake them.” He looked levelly at the warden. “When we got to California we'd run out of steam. We were hungry and scared, and my emphysema was real bad from that blizzard weather. Right then, prison looked pretty good. Free bed, hot meals, a place to rest and quit running.” His lie sounded plausible to him.

“This was the only place we knew,” he said, “where the law would back off, stop tailing us, where we could rest easy for a while.”

But, watching Iverson, he could see the warden wasn't buying it.

“Why did you scale the wall in the first place? What were you looking for, why make that hard trip all the way out here?” Iverson leaned back, watching him. “What's this really about, Fontana?”

“We thought by the time we got out to the coast we'd lose the tail on us, we'd be home free and could head either down into Mexico or up to Canada, somewhere we might shake the law. But then,” Lee said, “by then, I was feeling too sick.”

“You were practically
in
Mexico. We know you got off at Blythe, your PO called us. The bank called him. But it took them a while. Before they caught up with you, you could have made it across the border. You knew you had a good chance, right then. But you turned north instead. Why? And what about Blake's wife and child? Did he plan to send for them, down in Mexico? Or never to see them again?”

“He thought he could get them up to Canada,” Lee said. “They have relatives up there that he thought would hide them.”

Iverson wasn't warming to this.

“By the time we hit L.A.,” Lee said, “I didn't think I
could make it much farther. That's when Morgan said, ‘Let's give it up.' Maybe he did it for me, maybe he thought I might die on him. He knew I'd get medical care in here. He swears not, swears he just didn't want to run anymore.” Lee knew he was talking too much. He tried to look sicker than he felt, to look more despondent.

Iverson pressed a buzzer calling a guard, signaling the end of the interview. Did he believe any of what Lee had told him? “You'll both be confined to the civilian unit. We used to enforce a month's complete isolation to prevent spread of disease, but with the war over and not many men coming in from overseas, we've lightened the rules. You'll see the doctor three times a week. When you're better, you can think about industries, something not too demanding. We like to keep the men busy.” He nodded. Lee rose and turned away, meeting the guard at the door.

He was escorted to his cell and locked in, a cell like all the others except this one was cleaner and had the luxury of a small, barred window through which he could see a bit of the ocean. He looked out through the barred glass at a glimpse of the island, of boats and ships, and the mainland beyond. Long Beach, he thought, or maybe San Pedro, and beyond these, the far, green hills.

I
T WAS THE
next morning at breakfast that they saw Falon again, sitting alone at a small table as Morgan joined Lee in the chow line. Again Morgan was accompanied by a guard, but the uniformed man didn't linger. He watched them settle at a table, then turned away. Once he'd left the cafeteria, they picked up their trays again and joined Falon.

“Lots of empty tables. Go sit somewhere else.”

“Does it bother you,” Morgan asked, “to sit with the man you framed?”

“What're you doing here, Blake? What kind of stupid stunt was that, to break out, make it across the country, and then turn yourselves in? You get scared out in the big world, Morgy boy? Lose your nerve? What, were the feds on your tail? You crawl to them like a beaten dog that can't get away?”

Lee laid a hand on Morgan's arm until he eased back. Under the overhead lights the sleeves of Falon's prison shirt sparkled with tiny bits of steel, as if he'd been working the lathe or jigsaw in the metal shop. “Maybe,” Lee said, “maybe after we've been here a while, Falon, our escape won't seem so stupid.”

“What does that mean, you crazy old creep?” Falon rose, picking up his tray. “You'll stay out of my way, if you plan to leave here in one piece.”

Lee smiled. “Doesn't take much to get you fluffed, does it, Falon?”

A wash of red moved up Fallon's face. “I don't know what you want, old man, but you'll be sorry you took up with this punk.” They watched him cross the room, shove in where two men had just sat down. In a moment the other two turned, staring at Morgan and Lee.

“I thought it would be simple,” Morgan said softly. “I thought when we showed up he'd get scared.”

“You knew better than that. You never thought that, you know he's dangerous. Take your time,” Lee said, “play it close.” Lee was nervous, too, but they needed to move on with this, they didn't have much time. Once Iverson received the paperwork from Atlanta, he'd start putting it together, Morgan's connection to Rome and to Falon, Falon's testimony at Morgan's trial.

It was late that afternoon, after seeing both his doctor and his counselor again, that Lee got permission to work in the metal shop for a half shift. He was in luck, there was an opening, maybe things were turning their way. It was the ghost cat who didn't feel good about the plan.

“This isn't smart,” Misto murmured softly, materializing on Lee's bunk. “That shop's dangerous. Falon knows the moves, and you don't.”

Lee pulled off his shoes, eased back against the folded pillow. “I'm a quick learner.” He stroked the cat's shaggy, invisible fur.

Misto sneezed with disgust. “You blow it in there, you get hurt and it's all over for Morgan, too.”

“I don't have a choice. That's where Falon works.” He watched the line of pawprints pace neatly down the bed, little indentations appearing one by one. “If I can get Falon
alone in there,” Lee said, “maybe in one of the storerooms, I can work on him.”

“Is that
your
idea? Or is that another dark plan to trap you?” The cat, not waiting for an answer, vanished, hissing. Nothing remained but his anger. Lee stretched out on his bunk listening to the bellow of the foghorns, watching through his barred window the lights of the naval station blurred by mist. The foghorn's eerie cry rang through him like a train whistle, the lonely call he'd followed in his youth, the siren cry that had led him ever deeper into the life he had made for himself.

Every time he was locked up he grew nostalgic for the old times, for the open prairie. No locks, no bars, no one telling him what to do. Every time he was incarcerated he had to get used, all over again, to confinement and too many people and nowhere to get away.

Well, he could have stayed in Atlanta. Could have been out and free in a few months. Now, unless Storm came through not only for Morgan but for Lee himself, a whole new sentence could be tacked on. At his age, no matter how he dreamed of a new life in Mexico, he might never live to see the buried money.

Yet he wouldn't do it any differently, he'd climb that wall again in a damn minute. Coming after Falon was the right thing to do; he felt it in his gut that they were going to free Morgan. That this was what they were meant to do. He lay sleepless a long time listening to the foghorns, assessing just how much pressure it might take to unwind Brad Falon, to force from him the information they needed

L
EE DIDN
'
T EXPECT,
when he reported for work at the metal plant, to be paired with Falon. He'd only thought to position himself nearby, where he could get at Falon—not where Falon had the split-second upper hand.

The factory was a big, well-lit room with plenty of space between the equipment, but still, it was a dangerous workplace. There was a layout table, and near it a metal shear, a metal break, spot welders, pipe benders, and saws. Falon was working the metal break, pulling a lever that dropped the blade, lethal as a guillotine, onto a sheet of steel. At the far end of the room were paint vats and spraying equipment, and a bake room for drying painted items. The men were making machine parts for the military. As Lee cut across the room toward the glassed-in office at the back, the plant foreman, a broad-hipped man dressed in khaki, came out chewing on an unlit pipe. When he stopped to light up, Lee introduced himself and handed him the note from his counselor. Mr. Randolph glanced at the note, his square cheeks sucking in to get the pipe going. He stuck the paper in his pocket and motioned
Lee to follow him, skirting past the layout table to the metal break, where Falon stood watching them.

“Falon will give you instructions,” Randolph said, handing Lee a pair of leather gloves. “You'll operate this unit, Falon will work the machine next to you, see that you're doing the job right.” He nodded to Lee, turned to leave, then glanced back. “Pay attention, Fontana. That machine's not a toy.” He left them, moving on down the room.

As Lee stepped up to the machine Falon smiled, coiled tight as a rattlesnake. “Any retard could run it, old man. Stand in front of the machine. Take a square sheet of metal off that stack. Place the chalk line that runs down the metal directly under the blade, lined up with the line on the table.” Falon stared at Lee. “You understand so far? You just step back, old man, reach over your head, and give the lever a hard pull. Don't ever forget to step back,” Falon said. “You think you can reach up over your head and pull the lever?”

Lee pulled on the gloves, picked up a square of sheet metal and slid it onto the break table. He lined it up, stepped back, pulled the lever hard, watched the blade strike down powerfully, bending the metal to a neat, ninety-degree angle.

“Try it again.”

Lee looked at Falon and reached for another sheet. But when he swung it onto the table it slipped, sliding beyond the raised break. Alarm touched him as he reached to retrieve it, darting his hand beyond the break line. He swung away fast when Falon grabbed the lever. The blade fell, catching the tip of Lee's glove as he jerked his hand out.

Swinging around, he grabbed Falon's collar, threw him against the break, and rammed Falon's arm under the blade, grabbing for the lever. Falon fought him, his face drained white, staring at Lee's hand on the lever. Beyond Falon at the other side of the room, Randolph had his back to them. Lee let Falon lie frozen against the blade until Randolph started to turn, only then did he release Falon. “I see how this thing
works, Falon. And I see how you work. I don't think,” he said softly, “that I'll have trouble with either one.”

The next two days, working with Falon, Lee was mighty careful. He learned some of the other machines under Falon's supervision, learned them all with a wary respect for the man. He didn't like having Falon in a superior position, he hadn't planned on that. As short a time as Falon had been there, he must have sold the foreman a bill of goods—though he did know the equipment. It was the second evening after work that Lee got Falon alone between the buildings and goaded him, told him the feds were still working the case, that they'd picked up new information in Rome, had lined up new witnesses. Told Falon he could soon be arraigned for murder. Falon laughed at him, but Lee could see doubt in his eyes. The third evening, Lee went into the dormitory to locate Falon's cubicle.

The room was a typical military layout, freestanding partitions around the individual bunks, low enough so a guard could look over, high enough to give a man some sense of privacy. Falon was in his cubicle, Lee could see his narrow head and shoulders where he sat on his bunk, his back to Lee, talking with two other inmates. Two sleazy types slouched in the small space, half sitting against the low wall. Lee didn't pause long, but moved on past, smiling now that he knew where he might corner Falon.

But then before Lee could make a move, Morgan got Falon alone. He told Falon that Natalie Hooper was dating several men, said she'd talked pretty freely about the robbery. Told Falon that, with the feds still working the case, if he opened up to the law now, revealed where the money was hidden, they'd go easier on him, maybe he could go for a plea bargain and minimum time.

Of course Falon laughed at him; and with every passing hour the arrival of the court documents drew nearer, the time when Iverson would see their connection to Falon
and move them where they couldn't get to him at all. Lee was growing edgy when, the fourth day on the job, Morgan joined him in the lunch line tense with excitement.

“He admitted it,” Morgan said softly.

“Keep your voice down,” Lee snapped. “Wait until we find a table.” He thought Morgan would explode before they got settled. Morgan set down his tray next to Lee's and scooted his chair close, as bright faced as a kid. “I got him alone in the shower room, told him a lot of lies, got him so angry he lost it.” Morgan smiled.

“I've seen him do that before, his temper flares, he didn't even hit at me, didn't try to fight, he just went kind of—glazed. Hissed right in my face, ‘Damn right I robbed that bank, damn right I shot that guard. What was I supposed to do, old geezer couldn't even get his gun out of the holster.' He admitted it, Lee. Admitted the murder, stealing the money, admitted everything.”