Three Classic Thrillers (46 page)

Ray glanced around the cell and took a quick inventory of his worldly possessions. In eight years he had accumulated a black-and-white television, a large cassette player, two cardboard boxes full of tapes and several dozen books. He made three dollars a day working in the prison laundry, but after cigarettes there had been little to spend on tangibles. These were his only assets. Eight years.

The guard fitted a heavy key in the door and slid it open a few inches. He turned off the light. “Just follow me, and no cute stuff. I don’t know who you are, mister, but you got some heavy-duty friends.”

Other keys fit other doors, and they were outside under the basketball hoop. “Stay behind me,” the guard said.

Ray’s eyes darted around the dark compound. The wall loomed like a mountain in the distance, beyond the courtyard and walking area where he had paced a thousand miles and smoked a ton of cigarettes. It was sixteen feet tall in the daylight, but looked much larger at night. The guard towers were fifty yards apart and well lit. And heavily armed.

The guard was casual and unconcerned. Of course, he had a uniform and a gun. He moved confidently between two cinder-block buildings, telling Ray to follow and be cool. Ray tried to be cool. They stopped at the corner of a building, and the guard gazed at the wall, eighty feet away. Floodlights made a routine sweep of the courtyard, and they backed into the darkness.

Why are we hiding? Ray asked himself. Are those guys up there with the guns on our side? He would like to know before he made any dramatic moves.

The guard pointed to the exact spot on the wall where James Earl Ray and his gang went over. A rather famous spot, studied and admired by most of the inmates at Brushy Mountain. Most of the white ones anyway. “In about five minutes, they’ll throw a ladder up there. The wire has already been cut on top. You’ll find a heavy rope on the other side.”

“Mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Make it quick.”

“What about all these lights?”

“They’ll be diverted. You’ll have total darkness.”

“And those guns up there?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll look the other way.”

“Dammit! Are you sure?”

“Look, man, I’ve seen some inside jobs before, but this takes the cake. Warden Lattemer himself planned this one. He’s right up there.” The guard pointed to the nearest tower.

“The warden?”

“Yep. Just so nothing’ll go wrong.”

“Who’s throwing up the ladder?”

“Coupla guards.”

Ray wiped his forehead with his sleeve and breathed deeply. His mouth was dry and his knees were weak.

The guard whispered, “There’ll be a dude waiting for you. His name is Bud. White dude. He’ll find you on the other side, and just do what he says.”

The floodlights swept through again, then died. “Get ready,” the guard said. Darkness settled in, followed by a dreadful silence. The wall was now black. From the nearest tower, a whistle blew two short signals. Ray knelt and watched.

From behind the next building, he could see the silhouettes running to the wall. They grabbed at something in the grass, then hoisted it.

“Run, dude,” the guard said. “Run!”

Ray sprinted with his head low. The homemade ladder was in place. The guards grabbed his arms and threw him to the first step. The ladder bounced as he scurried up the two-by-fours. The top of the wall was two feet wide. A generous opening had been cut in the coiled barbed wire. He slid through without touching it. The rope was right where it was supposed to be, and he eased down the outside of the wall. Eight feet from pay dirt, he turned loose and jumped. He squatted and looked around. Still dark. The floodlights were on hold.

The clearing stopped a hundred feet away, and the dense woods began. “Over here,” the voice said calmly. Ray started for it. Bud was waiting in the first cluster of black bushes.

“Hurry. Follow me.”

Ray followed him until the wall was out of sight. They stopped in a small clearing next to a dirt trail. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Bud Riley. Kinda fun, ain’t it?”

“Unbelievable. Ray McDeere.”

Bud was a stocky man with a black beard and a
black beret. He wore combat boots, jeans and a camouflage jacket. No gun was in sight. He offered Ray a cigarette.

“Who are you with?” Ray asked.

“Nobody. I just do a little free-lance work for the warden. They usually call me when somebody goes over the wall. Course, this is a little different. Usually I bring my dogs. I thought we’d wait here for a minute until the sirens go off, so you can hear. Wouldn’t be right if you didn’t get to hear ’em. I mean, they’re sorta in your honor.”

“That’s okay. I’ve heard them before.”

“Yeah, but it’s different out here when they go off. It’s a beautiful sound.”

“Look, Bud, I—”

“Just listen, Ray. We got plenty of time. They won’t chase you, much.”

“Much?”

“Yeah, they gotta make a big scene, wake ever’-body up, just like a real escape. But they ain’t coming after you. I don’t know what kinda pull you got, but it’s something.”

The sirens began screaming, and Ray jumped. Lights flashed across the black sky, and the faint voices of the tower guards were audible.

“See what I mean?”

“Let’s go,” Ray said, and began walking.

“My truck’s just up the road a piece. I brought you some clothes. Warden gave me your sizes. Hope you like them.”

Bud was out of breath when they reached the truck. Ray quickly changed into the olive Duckheads and navy cotton work shirt. “Very nice, Bud,” he said.

“Just throw them prison clothes in the bushes.”

They drove the winding mountain trail for two miles, then turned onto blacktop. Bud listened to Conway Twitty and said nothing.

“Where are we going, Bud?” Ray finally asked.

“Well, the warden said he didn’t care and really didn’t want to know. Said it was up to you. I’d suggest we get to a big town where there’s a bus station. After that, you’re on your own.”

“How far will you drive me?”

“I got all night, Ray. You name the town.”

“I’d like to get some miles behind us before I start hanging around a bus station. How about Knoxville?”

“Knoxville it is. Where are you going from there?”

“I don’t know. I need to get out of the country.”

“With your friends, that should be no problem. Be careful, though. By tomorrow, your picture will be hanging in every sheriff’s office in ten states.”

Three cars with blue lights came blazing over the hill in front of them. Ray ducked onto the floorboard.

“Relax, Ray. They can’t see you.”

He watched them disappear through the rear window. “What about roadblocks?”

“Look, Ray. Ain’t gonna be no roadblocks, okay? Trust me.” Bud stuck a hand in a pocket and threw a wad of cash on the seat. “Five hundred bucks. Hand-delivered by the warden. You got some stout friends, buddy.”

W
ednesday morning. Tarry Ross climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the Phoenix Park Hotel. He paused on the landing outside the hall door and caught his breath. Sweat beaded across his eyebrows. He removed the dark sunglasses and wiped his face with the sleeve of his overcoat. Nausea hit below the belt, and he leaned on the stair rail. He dropped his empty briefcase on the concrete and sat on the bottom step. His hands shook like severe palsy, and he wanted to cry. He clutched his stomach and tried not to vomit.

The nausea passed, and he breathed again. Be brave, man, be brave. There’s two hundred thousand waiting down the hall. If you got guts, you can go in there and get it. You can walk out with it, but you must have courage. He breathed deeper, and his hands settled down. Guts, man, guts.

The weak knees wobbled, but he made it to the door. Down the hall, past the rooms. Eighth door on the right. He held his breath, and knocked.

Seconds passed. He watched the dark hall through
the dark glasses and could see nothing. “Yeah,” a voice inside said, inches away.

“It’s Alfred.” Ridiculous name, he thought. Where’d it come from?

The door cracked, and a face appeared behind the little chain. The door closed, then opened wide. Alfred walked in.

“Good morning, Alfred,” Vinnie Cozzo said warmly. “Would you like coffee?”

“I didn’t come here for coffee,” Alfred snapped. He placed the briefcase on the bed and stared at Cozzo.

“You’re always so nervous, Alfred. Why don’t you relax. There’s no way you can get caught.”

“Shut up, Cozzo. Where’s the money?”

Vinnie pointed to a leather handbag. He stopped smiling. “Talk to me, Alfred.”

The nausea hit again, but he kept his feet. He stared at them. His heart beat like pistons. “Okay, your man, McDeere, has been paid a million bucks already. Another million is on the way. He’s delivered one load of Bendini documents and claims to have ten thousand more.” A sharp pain hit his groin, and he sat on the edge of the bed. He removed his glasses.

“Keep talking,” Cozzo demanded.

“McDeere’s talked to our people many times in the last six months. He’ll testify at the trials, then hit the road as a protected witness. He and his wife.”

“Where are the other documents?”

“Dammit, I don’t know. He won’t tell. But they’re ready to be delivered. I want my money, Cozzo.”

Vinnie threw the handbag on the bed. Alfred opened it and the briefcase. He attacked the stacks of bills, his hands shaking violently.

“Two hundred thousand?” he asked desperately.

Vinnie smiled. “That was the deal, Alfred. I got another job for you in a couple of weeks.”

“No way, Cozzo. I can’t take any more of this.” He slammed the briefcase shut and ran to the door. He stopped and tried to calm himself. “What will you do with McDeere?” he asked, staring at the door.

“What do you think, Alfred?”

He bit his lip, clenched the briefcase and walked from the room. Vinnie smiled and locked the door. He pulled a card from his pocket and placed a call to the Chicago home of Mr. Lou Lazarov.

Tarry Ross walked in panic down the hall. He could see little from behind the glasses. Seven doors down, almost to the elevator, a huge hand reached from the darkness and pulled him into a room. The hand slapped him hard, and another fist landed in his stomach. Another fist to the nose. He was on the floor, dazed and bleeding. The briefcase was emptied on the bed.

He was thrown into a chair, and the lights came on. Three FBI agents, his comrades, glared at him. Director Voyles walked up to him, shaking his head in disbelief. The agent with the huge, efficient hands stood nearby, within striking distance. Another agent was counting money.

Voyles leaned into his face. “You’re a traitor, Ross. The lowest form of scum. I can’t believe it.”

Ross bit his lip and began sobbing.

“Who is it?” Voyles asked intently.

The crying was louder. No answer.

Voyles swung wildly and slapped Ross’s left temple. He shrieked in pain. “Who is it, Ross? Talk to me.”

“Vinnie Cozzo,” he blurted between sobs.

“I know it’s Cozzo! Dammit! I know that! But what did you tell him?”

Tears ran from his eyes and blood poured from his nose. His body shook and gyrated pitifully. No answer.

Voyles slapped him again, and again. “Tell me, you little sonofabitch. Tell me what Cozzo wants.” He slapped him again.

Ross doubled over and dropped his head on his knees. The crying softened.

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” an agent said.

Voyles dropped to one knee and almost whispered to Ross. “Is it McDeere, Ross? Please, oh please, tell me it’s not McDeere. Tell me, Tarry, tell me it’s not McDeere.”

Tarry stuck his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. The blood dripped neatly into one little puddle on the carpet. Gut check, Tarry. You don’t get to keep your money. You’re on the way to jail. You’re a disgrace, Tarry. You’re a slimy little scuzzball of a chicken, and it’s over. What could possibly be gained by keeping secrets? Gut check, Tarry.

Voyles was pleading softly. Sinners, won’t you come? “Please say it ain’t McDeere, Tarry, please tell me it ain’t.”

Tarry sat straight and wiped his eyes with his fingers. He breathed deeply. Cleared his throat. He bit his lip, looked squarely at Voyles and nodded.

DeVasher had no time for the elevator. He ran down the stairs to the fourth floor, to the corner, a power one, and barged into Locke’s office. Half the partners
were there. Locke, Lambert, Milligan, McKnight, Dunbar, Denton, Lawson, Banahan, Kruger, Welch and Shottz. The other half had been summoned.

A quiet panic filled the room. DeVasher sat at the head of the conference table, and they gathered around.

“Okay, boys. It’s not time to haul ass and head for Brazil. Not yet, anyway. We confirmed this morning that he has talked extensively to the Fibbies, that they have paid him a million cash, that they have promised another million, that he has certain documents that are believed to be fatal. This came straight from the FBI. Lazarov and a small army are flying into Memphis as we speak. It appears as though the damage has not been done. Yet. According to our source—a very high-ranking Fibbie—McDeere has over ten thousand documents in his possession, and he is ready to deliver. But he has only delivered a few so far. We think. Evidently, we have caught this thing in time. If we can prevent further damage, we should be okay. I say this, even though they have some documents. Obviously, they don’t have much or they would’ve been here with search warrants.”

DeVasher was onstage. He enjoyed this immensely. He spoke with a patronizing smile and looked at each of the worried faces. “Now, where is McDeere?”

Milligan spoke. “In his office. I just talked to him. He suspects nothing.”

“Wonderful. He’s scheduled to leave in three hours for Grand Cayman. Correct, Lambert?”

“That’s correct. Around noon.”

“Boys, the plane will never make it. The pilot will land in New Orleans for an errand, then he’ll take off for the island. About thirty minutes over the Gulf, the
little blip will disappear from radar, forever. Debris will scatter over a thirty-square-mile area, and no bodies will ever be found. It’s sad, but necessary.”