The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (32 page)

L
EE AND
S
TORM
sat in the prison interviewing room. Two folding metal chairs and a scarred oak table, on which Storm had dropped his briefcase. A guard was stationed outside the door. Storm looked like he'd already put in a hard day. His rumpled suit coat hung crookedly over the back of his chair, his tie hung loose, his shirtsleeves were rolled up. When Lee told him Falon had spilled, had revealed where the bank money was hidden, a grin transformed Storm's tired, rugged face.

It had taken the attorney only twenty minutes to get out to the prison from downtown. In that time, Lee had returned to the infirmary hoping to see Morgan, but he wasn't allowed in. He did get one of the medics to talk to him. The freckled, towheaded medic told him, “Blake's alive. In and out of consciousness. We're doing our best to keep him awake, he sure has a concussion.”

But no one would let Lee see him. Did they think Lee himself might have bashed Morgan? All Lee could think was, Morgan
had
to recover. They'd come this far, they were so close. Morgan wouldn't give up, Lee couldn't let him give up.

Now, across the table, Storm said, “If the money's there, if the feds and Georgia Bureau of Investigation can find it,
can identify it as the bank money, we'll have enough for a new trial. With an honest jury, we'll have enough to hang Falon.”

“They'll fly Morgan back to Rome, for a new trial?”

“Let's find the money. If it's there, if we can put together a solid case, I'd rather transfer jurisdiction out here to L.A. I think Lowe would, too.” Storm leaned back in the hard, folding chair. “I've talked with Lowe. The picture I get, Rome is a small town with a mind-set dead against Morgan. That can happen, you get that kind of thinking started, it's hard to reverse. Lowe doubted that with the lies and trumped-up evidence, they could
find
an impartial jury. And the federal court in Atlanta is booked six months ahead.

“Another thing,” Storm said, “as violent as Falon seems to be, it would be safer to keep him locked down here than to transport him back to Georgia.” Storm glanced at his watch. “Nearly midnight in Atlanta, but I'll call Quaker. Once he's contacted the FBI and GBI, I'm hoping they'll head right on up to Turkey Mountain Ridge. Meantime,” he said, “I'll call the bureau here, I know a couple of the agents. See if I can get them out here tonight to meet me, to talk with Falon.

“And,” he said, “I'd like to know the details of what Falon did to Morgan, I'd like to file a charge.”

“As soon as Morgan's conscious long enough to talk,” Lee said. “As soon as he
can
tell us. I knew nothing until I saw him on the stretcher, headed for the infirmary. They wouldn't let me near him.”

“As for what
you
did to
Falon,
” Storm said, his gray eyes amused, “I don't know anything about that.”

“While they search for the money,” Lee said, “will Falon's transfer be postponed?”

“I'd guess it would. In the morning I'll talk with Warden Iverson.” Rising, Storm picked up his briefcase.

“And you'll call Becky?” Lee said, pushing back his chair. “Tell her Morgan's hurt? You can break it to her more gently
than when the prison calls. Tell her I'm . . .” He winced at the inadequacy of saying he was sorry. There were no words to undo what had happened. Lee had talked Morgan into this trip, into harassing Falon. He might have talked Morgan into his last trip. Sure as hell, Becky would see it that way.

Leaving the interviewing room, Lee shook Storm's hand, mighty thankful for the day he'd flipped through the L.A. phone book and, with luck and the grace of God, had gotten through to Reginald Storm.

But, stepping out into the hall where the guard stood waiting, Lee wondered if he'd had other help as well. Wondered, as crazy as it seemed, if the yellow tomcat had guided his hand as he ran his finger down the page of that battered phone book and stopped at the name Storm.

Then he wondered if Sammie already knew about her daddy. Had she waked seeing Morgan on the stretcher, awakened from her dream crying out for him?

Returning to his cell, lying back listening to the foghorns, all he could do now was wait—wait until the bureau interrogated Falon, wait until the feds had found the money—hope to hell they'd find it. Wait until he could see Morgan. Wait, and try not to think how this would all end.

A
SINGLE LIGHT BURNED
behind the hospital bed, illuminating the white bandage that circled Morgan's scalp. Light caught across his stubble of beard and picked out the IV tube that ran down his arm, draining through a needle into the vein of his wrist. Lee couldn't see Morgan breathing, couldn't see the blanket move, but each time he laid his fingers along Morgan's free wrist he found a faint pulse. Morgan had been unconscious all night and it was now nearly noon, the high sun slanting down through the half-closed Venetian blinds of the small hospital room. Lee sat in a wooden chair beside the bed, his knees pressed against the metal rail, talking; he'd been talking most of the night. Except for a short break to eat the breakfast an orderly had brought him, and for a brief nap on the other bed. A few minutes' sleep, then he'd risen to groggily feel Morgan's pulse and to start talking again.

He had no idea if Morgan could hear him. The constant effort wearied him, but Dr. McClure had said to keep talking; he said the sound of Lee's voice could be a lifeline for Morgan. Said the contact between Lee's voice and whatever
within Morgan was alert enough to listen might keep him from sinking deeper into an oblivion from which he could not return.

Lee had no idea if that was so. He had no idea how much the medical profession really knew, and how much they could only guess. Dr. McClure was a strange man. You'd think a prison doc would be hardened, that after the twenty years he said he'd spent at T.I., he wouldn't give a damn who lived and who died. But McClure's sad, dark eyes under those bushy brows had shown Lee a whole world of caring inside that middle-aged, pudgy man. “Talk to him, Fontana. If you're his friend and you want to help him live, talk to him and keep talking.”

“But he can't—”

“You don't know what he can hear. There's a lot in this world we don't know, maybe a lot we'll never know. I say he can hear you and that talking to him might keep him alive. Sit here and talk, as long as you can, no matter how foolish that seems.”

So Lee talked. McClure had gotten permission for him to stay with Morgan. The orderlies and male nurses moved around Lee doing their work, silently accepting his presence. Lee told Morgan over and over that Falon had spilled, had confessed where the money was hidden. He just hoped Falon wasn't lying. He told Morgan that FBI and GBI agents were already on their way up Turkey Mountain Ridge to look for the evidence, for the proof that could clear Morgan—that could put Falon on trial for the robbery and murder. In between telling him about Falon, Lee talked about anything he could think of just to keep going; he dredged up memories that, after several hours, turned his voice rough and straining.

He told Morgan about life in South Dakota when he was a kid, how he broke his first colt when he was eight. How he'd hobbled the youngster, dragged an old jacket over his neck and back and legs until the colt no longer snorted and bolted,
how the colt finally settled down to lead. He told Morgan about spring roundup, how the steers and cows would hide among the mesquite or down in a draw and you had to rout them out. How the ranchers all helped each other rounding up the cattle, separating out their own stock during branding. The scenes of roundup came back so clearly, he recalled scanning the far hills where you could barely pick out a few head of steers, watching them slip away among the brush as a rider or two eased after them. He could still hear the calves bawling during the sorting and branding, could still smell the burning hair and skin under the smoking iron, though it didn't hurt them but for a minute or two.

Sometimes, as Lee talked, he was aware of another presence, a warmth between the comatose man and himself, the touch of rough fur against his hand, and he could hear soft purring as the ghost cat pressed against Morgan. It seemed to Lee then that he could see the faintest of color in Morgan's white, cold cheeks. Lee knew as well when the ghost cat had gone and wondered if he was with Sammie. He remembered Morgan's description of Sammie's sickness when Morgan, after the bank robbery, had been left drugged and unconscious in the backseat of his car, and Sammie herself was unable to stay awake. Now, with Morgan in a coma, was the child again lost in darkness? As Lee kept talking, hoping to reach Morgan, was he reaching out to Sammie, too?

He told Morgan about his first train jobs, when he was barely seventeen, described how his chestnut mare would race alongside the engine keeping close to it as he dove off her back onto a moving car, how he'd taught her to follow the train, waiting for him. He tried to explain the fascination of the old steam trains, to describe his excitement when he, just a kid, was able to stop a whole train and haul away its riches. He told Morgan that was the life he'd always wanted, that he'd had no choice—but he knew that wasn't true. No matter what you longed for, you always had a choice.

Late on the second afternoon as dusk crept into the hospital room, Morgan stirred. His free hand moved on the covers, but then went still again. His eyes slit open for an instant unfocused, but then closed. At the same moment the shadows grew heavy around them. Suddenly Lee's rambling voice sounded hollow, sucked into emptiness. The walls had vanished into shadows, the floor had dissolved except for the one ragged section that held Morgan's bed and Lee's chair. They drifted in dark and shifting space.

And Morgan woke, staring at something behind Lee.

Lee turned to face the dark presence looming over them, its cold seeping into Lee's bones. Morgan's hand, then his whole body, grew so cold that Lee scrambled to reach for the call button.

“They won't hear it,” said the dark spirit.

“What do you want? Get out of here. What do you want with Morgan, what does he have to do with your vendetta against me? He's not of Dobbs's blood.” Lee wanted to lunge at the figure but knew he would grapple empty air.

“Morgan's little girl is of Dobbs's blood. She is descended from Dobbs just as you are. There is no finer prize,” Satan said, “than a child. Now, through her father, I will destroy the girl. Through her father and soon through you as well.

“Oh, she dreams of you, Fontana. You
are
her kin. She saw you kill Luke Zigler, she saw his smashed face. She saw you and Morgan scale the wall; she was with you on your journey, suffering every misery you endured; she felt cold fear at the sight of the tramp's switchblade, fear not as an adult would experience but as a child knows terror. Her pain, as she watched, is most satisfying.

“She saw you pull the cable around Falon's throat, she felt your urge to kill him, she watched you smile and pull the cable tighter.”

Lee's helplessness, his inability to drive back the dark
spirit, enraged him. Nothing could be so evil as to fill a child with such visions, to torment a little girl with an adult's lust.

But at Lee's thought, the invader shifted. “
I
do not give the child her nightmares,” Satan snapped. “
I
have no control over her dreams.”

“How could she see such things if the dreams don't come from you?”

The shadow faded, then darkened again. “
I do not shape her dreams,”
he repeated testily
.
“I do not control her fantasies.”

But then he laughed. “Soon I
will
control them, soon I
will
break the force that gives her such visions, and then,” he said, “then I
will
shape the images she sees, I
will
shape her fears until, at long last, I use that terror to break her. To own her,” Lucifer said with satisfaction.

“In the end,” he said, “the child will belong to me. My retribution will be complete. You might resist my challenges, Fontana. You might have won a bargain, as you put it. But Sammie Blake won't win anything. She will soon be my property. As I destroy her father, so I will destroy her. She is my retribution, the final answer to my betrayal by Russell Dobbs.”

I
T WAS EARLY
morning in Georgia, the sun just fingering up through dense growths of maples and sourwoods. A Floyd County truck stood parked in the woods at the foot of Turkey Mountain Ridge, its tires leaving a fresh trail along the narrow dirt road. Agents Hillerman and Clark of the FBI and GBI respectively, and Deputy Riker of the Floyd County Sheriff's Department, had already climbed halfway up the steep slope. Sweating in heavy khaki clothing and high, laced boots, they shouldered through thorny tangles and dense, second-growth saplings. Hillerman was perhaps the most uncomfortable in the hot protective clothing, with his thirty pounds of extra weight. Clark, the youngest, was fit and tanned, blond crew cut covered by a sturdy cap, his ruddy face clear and sunny. Each man wore a backpack fitted out with water, snacks, and the tools they would need if they found the hidden well.

Though the three men wielded machetes, cutting away the briars that tripped and clawed at them, still the thorny tangles ripped through their clothing, tearing into their skin leaving their pants and shirts dotted with blood, their hands
and legs throbbing. They had driven up the old rutted logging road as far as the truck would go. When the incline grew too steep they had left the vehicle to climb the eastern slope on foot. Riker was in the lead, a rail-thin, leathery man as dry and wrinkled as if the cigarettes he smoked, two packs a day, were surely embalming him. Breathing hard, he led the two men back and forth, tacking across the steep hill searching carefully, stopping often to study the ground, the surrounding growth, and the mountain that rose above them. He was looking for signs of old, rotted fences, abandoned farm tools. He did not smoke while in the woods, he chewed.