A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  He cleared his throat. It took a few minutes before Berrien managed to sit somewhat steadily in the chair.

  “These little deductions that popped up, Monty.” He nodded with approval. “To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t think I ever would have noticed them. In fact, I had to take this copy of the books back home, let Christina—that’s my wife, you know—go through them. And I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t noticed your suits.” He found a handful of other receipts and flashed them briefly. “That struck me as, well, a bit above your means. Anyway, Christina, she has a lot of experience at these kinds of things. She was a detective before we married, you see. American Detective Agency. Out of Chicago. That’s where we met. But I digress.”

  He propped the feet back on the desk, and leaned back. “What I was looking for, at first, was a way to get a few items in our budget. Make things easier on my guards. They work their butts off, Monty, for practically nothing. You get to go home at night. To your wife. Or”—he had to find the paper again—“Sienna Ginevra Di Genova.” He grinned and shook his hand. “That’s a lot of name.” Then he winked. “For a lot of woman, right, Monty?”

  The man was about to bawl his head off, so Fallon stopped the taunts.

  He rose, grabbed the ledger, and moved to the vacant chair, which he dragged forward and settled in beside the small man with big ideas.

  “Monty.”

  The bookkeeper wiped his nose and eyes with Fallon’s silk handkerchief and, lips quavering, tried to focus.

  Fallon handed the book to Berrien. “See, Christina figured out what you were doing. Or what somebody was doing. Then we did what we in the private detective business call . . . snooping. Once we had enough to bring to Judge McDowell, we sat down with him, got the warrant, did our work, and here we are. Me and you. Mano a mano.”

  He gave Berrien a few moments to try to compose himself before Fallon reached across and pointed at the books. “All I started out trying to do, Monty, was figure out how we could hire someone to teach school. Teach school to the inmates, I mean. Say . . . five hundred dollars a year.”

  The tear-filled eyes blinked.

  Fallon pulled out a receipt of his own from another pocket and showed it to Berrien. “And the . . . see what it would take to buy all these supplies. For the prison. Make things easier. Make things safer. And not have to dillydally around and wait for the pencil pushers to figure out a budget for next year. I want this done”—he waved the receipt—“immediately.”

  Fallon leaned back. Berrien saw the receipt, wet his lips, and found a pencil in his shirt pocket.

  “This . . . is . . . for . . .” Berrien looked up.

  “The library. Just the materials. That number right there. And the five hundred dollars for the teacher. That’s a woman teacher, you understand. A man would earn a little over a hundred dollars more per annum. We’ll supply the labor from our own pool.”

  The little bookkeeper went to work, and when Fallon saw that this would take a while, he rose, dragged the chair back, opened the door, and went to find some coffee. Five minutes later, he was back inside, closing the door behind him, and returning to his desk. He gathered the papers, stuck those in a folder, found the Post and the Sentinel, and began to read.

  Noise from the hallway told him that Preston and others had finished their dinner and were back to finish the day’s work. The bookkeeper kept working, and finally, as Fallon was reading about the goings-on in a country he had never heard of, Montgomery Berrien cleared his throat.

  “Warden Fallon,” the little man said.

  Fallon closed the Sentinel, laid it on his desk, and nodded.

  “You don’t have the money.” He swallowed. “The penitentiary, I mean, does not have the money.”

  “Even if we added back all the money you stole?”

  He thought Berrien would break down into tears again, but he maintained his dignity—whatever was left—and shook his head again after blowing his nose. “Even . . . yes . . . that’s based on the . . . real . . . budget.”

  Fallon sighed. “I see.”

  The man stared at his shoes, which were new, and expensive, too. Fallon said, “I suppose, at some point, later, we would have fallen short of funds when we tried to . . . oh . . . pay for the fire engine we’ve been renting from the city?”

  “Perhaps.” Montgomery Berrien managed a quick grin. “But you know how the government works.”

  “Yes.” Fallon laughed. “Yes, I’ve worked long enough for the good ol’ US of A to know that route.”

  The little man began to pale again.

  “So the prison doesn’t have the money, right?” Fallon said.

  “Yes. Right. The prison doesn’t have the money.”

  Fallon nodded. “But you do. Right?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Fallon, Christina, and Rachel Renee found the duplex that Elliott and Janice Jefferson rented without difficulty. It had been a nice enough walk from their home to the neighborhood. Rachel Renee loved the picket fence and whitewashed gate, asked if they could have one at their own house. They let her go in and out of the gate three times before Christina said she might break it if she kept that up, and so they moved up the cobblestone walkway and climbed the steps. Fallon lifted his daughter up high enough so that she could twist the knob that rang the buzzer.

  “That sounds funny,” the girl said and laughed. Fallon lowered her to the porch before she could buzz the house again.

  The door opened, and Elliott Jefferson, dressed as best as a prison guard could, with a black string tie hanging from underneath the paper collar buttoned to his starched white shirt, grinned widely. “Welcome to our humble abode,” he said, and stuck out his hand. Fallon figured he had been practicing that often-used line over and over for the past hour and a half.

  They shook, Fallon introducing his family, and stepped into the foyer, with Fallon removing his hat and Elliott Jefferson taking it.

  Christina breathed in deeply. “I don’t know what’s for supper,” she said, “but it smells divine.”

  Fallon smiled. For he knew his wife had been practicing that sentence during the walk from their home.

  Fallon’s dress hat was hung on the top hooks on the coat rack, and Elliott beckoned them down the hall and to the dining room, but showed them the parlor, the piano, and the fireplace, and the wedding-day photograph of Elliott’s parents. Fallon held the tintype up close, nodding, and remembering.

  “Best lawman in the Indian Nations,” Fallon said as he handed the photo back to the young guard.

  “It’s kind of you to say that,” Elliott said somberly as he returned the small photo to its place on a corner case.

  “I didn’t say that,” Fallon said. “Those words came from Judge Isaac Parker himself. At your father’s funeral.” Fallon nodded, liking the way the kid’s eyes beamed. Fallon added, “But I will say I agreed with Judge Parker’s assessment.”

  That lightened the mood, and they stepped into the dining room. Elliott pulled out a chair for Christina, then one beside her for the five-year-old, and quickly slid to the sliding door, which he opened, stuck his head inside the winter—and only—kitchen and called for his wife.

  She stepped out of the entryway, wiping her hands on the apron, and grinned.

  Fallon found her beautiful—not the same as Christina, and certainly not as tough, but a lovely blonde with piercing eyes, freckles on her face, a young girl who looked younger than her husband.

  “Elliott,” Janice suggested, “why don’t you offer our guests a drink?” Her eyes settled on Rachel Renee. “Would you like lemonade or milk, sweetheart?”

  “Lemonade,” the girl practically screamed.

  Both the five-year-old and the young bride quickly looked at Christina for confirmation.

  “Is that all right?” both asked the mother. Grinning, Christina said, “Lemonade would be fine. It’s a special occasion.”

  “I’ll have a lemonade, too,” Fallon said, before some
one offered him bourbon or a beer.

  “The same,” Christina said.

  “I guess that’s unanimous,” Elliott said.

  “Can I help you?” Christina called to Janice as she slipped back into the kitchen.

  “On, I’ll be fine,” the panicked wife of the young guard said.

  Christina stood. “And I’ll be fine, too, if I don’t have to listen to the silly banter of these two men. Come on, Rachel Renee. It’s high time you learned how to cook a fantastic supper.”

  * * *

  And supper, Fallon had to agree, was fantastic. Braised beef, stewed cabbage, mashed potatoes so creamy each spoonful melted in your mouth, seasoned perfectly with garlic and rosemary. The baked bread, coated with slabs of butter, was what Fallon had heard a greased-mustached waiter call “a fine cleanser of your palate,” and what followed was apple pie, perfected with cinnamon and served with heaping spoonfuls of rich, delectable cream.

  The adults drank coffee to wash down the last remnants of dessert. Rachel Renee had milk.

  “Well . . .” Fallon set his fork on the bowl. “I don’t think I can fit another morsel in my mouth.”

  “Let me help you clear the table, Janice,” Christina said, and Rachel Renee sang out, “I’ll help, too.”

  “Excellent,” a nervous but winding-down Janice Jefferson said. “You men take your cigars outside on the back porch. We’ll join you when the smoke has cleared.”

  * * *

  “Warden Fallon,” Elliott Jefferson said nervously when he closed the screen door to the porch. “Well, sir, I . . . I don’t smoke. No cigarettes. Not even cigars. I don’t even chew tobacco.”

  “I don’t, either, Elliott,” Fallon said. They looked at each other, then laughed.

  “And I haven’t had much taste of wine, liquor, beer, or even cider since I wore a badge pinned on my chest,” Fallon continued. They stared at each other, grinning. “But I do have a particular fondness for coffee. Black. It doesn’t keep me up, either.”

  “I’m the same way, Warden.” He was heading back toward the screen door. “There’s a pot on the stove morning, noon, and night.”

  * * *

  The sun was setting, bathing the backyard of the rented house in brilliant, warm spring light.

  Rachel Renee lay sleeping in her mother’s arms while Christina rocked the wicker chair gently on the wooden porch. Somewhere in Leavenworth, a dog barked, and birds chirped the last choruses of their songs. A church bell chimed. No gunshots. No curses. No whistles, shouts, breaking of glasses, windows, or heads. Leavenworth, Kansas, on this particular night, was at peace.

  Fallon set the empty china cup on a saucer, looked up at Elliott and Janice, and nodded his approval. “It has been a long, long time, folks, since I’ve had . . . we’ve had . . . such a wonderful supper and such a relaxing, great evening.”

  “We’re so glad you could come,” Janice said, “and share this evening with us.” She smiled down at the sleeping child. “She’s adorable. And a perfect child.”

  Christina laughed. “Oh, you should see her when she’s a tigress.”

  Elliott drank more coffee. “How was your day, Warden?”

  “Let’s make it Hank, Elliott,” Fallon said, and leaned back in the comfortable chair. “I got a few things done.” He thought about his accomplishments, felt satisfied, and nodded at the guard. “How about yours?”

  “All prisoners accounted for.”

  They grinned. Janice said, “That’s a start.”

  “Actually,” Fallon said. “I think I made some headway.” He nodded at the young man sitting across from him. “That might make your days and nights a little easier.”

  He had struck a deal with the bookkeeping swindler and embezzler—not to mention two-timing cheat—Montgomery Berrien. The bookkeeper agreed to fund two of Fallon’s pet projects in return for not going to federal prison for the maximum sentence Judge McDowell could give a rake, scoundrel, and idiot. He’d even keep his job, with the understanding that if one penny turned up missing in the books, he’d become the best friend on Friday nights of Bowen Hardin.

  “I’d love to see my husband,” Janice said.

  Fallon slid cup and saucer to the center of the table. “Well,” he said, “you might.” He told them his plans, his project—he did not have to explain how he had come up with enough money to cover the expenses; Christina already knew, of course, after discovering the strange, illegal, inappropriate entries in the Leavenworth pen’s books.

  “You mean . . . ?” Janice sounded hopeful after Fallon had given a short overview.

  “I mean ten-hour shifts six days a week,” Fallon said. “Seven in the morning till five in the afternoon.” He liked the way that sounded. “The shifts might change. Night duty or daytime hours. The days off would have to rotate. But we’ll be getting rid of these ridiculous hours, draining my men—men who are paid to be alert for anything when they’re on duty. We have to do it this way. By thunder, before we know it, we’ll be living in the twentieth century—and working like men were four centuries earlier.”

  “That’s great,” Christina said, though she was aware of Fallon’s plan long before he had ever blackmailed Montgomery Berrien.

  “And here’s something else I have in mind,” Fallon said. He had not even gotten the chance to tell his wife about this. “It’s a possible way to help actually rehabilitate the prisoners we have, those not doomed to execution or never to be released from this prison. Education.”

  They stared at him.

  “Eighty-three percent of the inmates here can’t read or write,” Fallon explained. “They can’t add. They can’t write their own names. If we can educate the prisoners, the illiterate, they might have a chance. Once they get out. It’s a long shot. But it’s at least . . . a chance.”

  “You think that’s possible, Hank?” Elliott Jefferson asked.

  “I’d like to think it is,” Fallon conceded.

  “You might be dreaming,” Elliott told him. “I’ve worked with most of these men.”

  “I know. But if you can reform one man, then it’s worth it.”

  “Maybe.” Christina sounded doubtful.

  Hell, Fallon couldn’t blame her for that. “Warden . . . Mr. Fallon . . .” Janice Jefferson was stuttering. She laughed, shrugged, and tried again. “You need . . . a teacher.”

  Fallon nodded. “Yeah. And that’s the next mountain I have to climb. Find someone willing to teach men in a federal penitentiary. For five hundred dollars a year. That’s where my groundbreaking idea ends.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Fallon and Elliott looked at their wives. Both had spoken those two words at the same time.

  Janice started to blush. “Well.” She forced a smile. “Well, before I got married, I taught school. At Pleasant Hill. Over toward Monticello.”

  Fallon frowned. “Why’d you quit?”

  His own wife laughed. “Harry,” Christina said, “most schools will not hire a female teacher unless she is not married.”

  Fallon studied his own wife. “You learn that from your years with the American Detective Agency?” he asked.

  “I learned that when I was seventeen years old, darling,” she told him. “For two and a half years, before I found another line of work, I taught school in a one-room log cabin in Pike County, Illinois.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Scrambled eggs with plenty of salt and pepper, fried bacon, wildflower jam to go on the thick slices of fresh bread—Fallon thought he could have become a chef at a fancy restaurant in some big city with the breakfast he had whipped up this Monday morning. He even plated the dishes, poured Christina a cup of coffee, and put milk into a glass for Rachel Renee before fixing his own breakfast.

  They sat and Rachel Renee insisted on praying. Finally they all said, “Amen,” and Fallon dropped his napkin on his lap and tested the coffee.

  Even that tasted great.

  “What are you doing today, Papa?” the girl asked, and Fallo
n grinned at her milk mustache.

  “Find a place we can use for a schoolhouse,” Fallon told her.

  “Can I go to school?” his daughter practically screamed.

  “You’ll be going soon enough, sweetheart,” Christina said, and bit into the eggs. Her eyes showed amazement. She turned to Fallon and nodded, “These are great.”

  “I had to cook for prisoners when I was just starting out as a lawman in Fort Smith,” he explained. “But trust me, nothing they ate ever tasted like this.”

  “I want to go to Papa’s school,” Rachel Renee said. “I bet he can teach me gooder than anybody else could.”

  “Better than,” Christina said. “Not gooder than. Gooder is not a word. You’ll learn that in school—next year.”

  Fallon grinned. “You were a schoolteacher.”

  Christina gave him a menacing look, at least as long as she could hold it, then laughed.

  “I want to go to Papa’s school,” their daughter continued.

  Fallon shook his head. “This school won’t be for little girls or even little boys,” he explained with patience. “It’s for the inmates—some of the prisoners—here.”

  “The bad men?”

  “Yes, honey, the bad men. But not the meanest. Not those . . .” He had to figure out how he could get out of this. “Not the . . .”

  “Only the gooder ones,” Christina said.

  Rachel Renee laughed, and Fallon joined them. “That’s right. The gooder prisoners.”

  His daughter pointed her fork at him. “Mama said gooder ain’t a word.”

  “Isn’t,” Christina said. “Not ain’t. Remember?”

  “Yes.” She looked at her plate, then moved back to the glass of milk and drank again. “Is Mama going to teach the prisoners?”

  “I think Mr. Jefferson’s wife might be taking that job,” Fallon said.