“Police,” a man shouted. His back was to the light, he was only a silhouette, she couldn’t see a uniform. At the same moment she heard Anne call from the top of the stairs, then the figure on the terrace moved into clearer view where the sitting room light struck across his badge and sergeant’s stripes. A tall, thin man with sandy hair.
She told him she was armed, slowly drew the gun, opened the action, and laid it on the dresser. “Come in,” she said dryly.
“Sergeant Krangdon,” he said, entering, glancing at the gun. Anne was coming down the carpeted stairs beside a second officer. The two men searched the suite while two more officers searched for Falon outside, their lights moving among the bushes, circling the garden and the neighbors’ gardens and then up the hill. The sergeant took samples of blood and photographed bloodstains, out to where Falon’s trail disappeared among the mulch and bushes. Anne didn’t stay downstairs long. Seeing that Becky and Sammie were safe, she went up again, as Sergeant Krangdon asked her to do, to avoid disturbing any evidence. Sammie stood huddled against Becky, cold with the aftermath of fear. But something else shone in Sammie’s eyes. She looked up at Becky with a deep and secret amazement. Becky looked back at her, shaken with what she’d seen.
Earlier, after Falon attacked Becky in the parking lot, Sammie had said, Misto couldn’t help you, Mama, the dark was too strong.
If the cat couldn’t help her then—if there was a real ghost cat, Becky thought—why had he been powerful enough tonight to attack Falon? To make Falon pause so she could get in that one telling shot?
Had the difference to do with Sammie? With the fact that Sammie was in danger?
When Sergeant Krangdon returned she watched him unload her gun and bag it for evidence. He didn’t seem concerned that he was leaving her with no protection from Falon. Quietly she answered his questions. Told him how Sammie had awakened screaming, and that she had grabbed the gun from her purse. She showed him where she had stood when she fired. She didn’t tell him who the man was, she didn’t say she knew him, and Sammie remained silent.
“If you could ID him,” Krangdon said, “if you would file a complaint, you can take him to court, put a restraining order on him.”
“How can I? I don’t know him. I can’t identify a man I’ve never seen before.”
If Falon were caught, if he learned that she had identified him, and if he were then released, as he likely would be, he would come after them with even more vengeance. And what did the police have, to hold him? They had only her word against Falon’s. They couldn’t hold him long on that. She had heard of women attacked, brutally beaten, where the story proliferated, in gossip, even in the papers, that they had led the man on, had enticed him. Maybe the day would come when women were treated more fairly, but it hadn’t arrived yet and she wasn’t taking chances.
Most damning of all, Falon’s testimony had helped convict Morgan. If she identified Falon for the break-in, what would the police or the court say? That she’d filed the complaint to get back at Falon? That she had enticed Falon, had set him up?
She thought of calling Quaker Lowe, but maybe she didn’t want to know what he would advise. If she called Lowe now, in front of the police, they’d know there was more to the story, that this hadn’t been a random break-in. She was courteous to Krangdon, cooperative in every other way. When he’d finished the interview he assigned young Officer Bishop to stay on the premises so that Becky and Sammie might get some sleep. He suggested they get a carpenter to install a metal barrier over the French doors. “An open grid,” he said, “that can be locked but will let in air in hot weather. Make sure he installs it so the drapes can be pulled. And,” he said, “you could put better locks on some of the solid doors, replace the thumb locks with dead bolts.”
When the thin-faced officer had left them, moving out into the yard, Anne came down again and sat on the bed, holding Sammie. “It’s all right. The police are here, it’s all right now.” But Sammie, like Becky, didn’t have much faith in the police, after Rome PD had abandoned Morgan, had done nothing to uncover the real facts of the Rome murder. When Anne had said good night, Becky turned out the lamp and crawled into bed with Sammie. Not until the next morning did she call Quaker Lowe.
When she told him about the break-in and that she had shot Falon, Lowe was quiet, noncommittal. Did he really understand why she had withheld Falon’s name? He said, “A complaint against Falon might have been useful in getting the appeal. Did you think of that?”
“I did. And it might also have gotten me or Sammie killed.” Had she been wrong in not identifying Falon? She didn’t want to cross Lowe, she couldn’t afford to turn him away. She didn’t want to lose the appeal. She ended the phone call feeling alone and uncertain, more frightened and upset than she would have thought, at losing Lowe’s sympathy.
18
LEE SAT ON the metal examining table, his shirt off, waiting for Dr. Floyd to come in and poke the cold stethoscope at him. He’d felt rotten this morning, he’d coughed so bad in the cotton mill that the foreman had fired him and sent him straight here to the infirmary. He wasn’t sorry, he should have known when he started that it was a dumb thing to do. But even now, sitting on the table staring at the orderly who stood in the doorway, what Lee was seeing in his mind wasn’t the cotton mill but Sammie Blake and Mae, their mirror images that had stayed with him ever since visiting day. He was fretting, wondering if Mae was still alive somewhere, when Dr. Floyd came in.
The doctor took one look at Lee and shook his head. “You’re pale as a dead flounder.” He pressed the stethoscope against Lee’s chest, listened, moved it again and again, listening. “You should have known better. The slip from your counselor said you’d wear a mask. Why didn’t you? Even so, it was iffy. What did you think that lint would do to your lungs? You don’t have much room in those air sacs, at best.”
“I didn’t have any choice if I wanted to work.” Lee didn’t mention that he could have asked for kitchen duty. “I don’t like just sitting around,” he said crossly.
“You’ll be sitting around now. You’re done with the cotton mill, you’re going to sit in the sun and do nothing until you feel better.”
“You ruling out all jobs? What about the kitchen?”
Floyd hesitated. “The kitchen would be all right, if you can work around the steam equipment. Steam would be good for you.” The doctor shook his head. “You’re a stubborn SOB, Fontana. I’ll talk to Bronski about a job.”
Lee pulled on his shirt and slid down from the table. “I didn’t see Karen Turner when I came in.”
That made Floyd laugh. “You’re as bad as the young bucks. I think she’s down in the lab.”
“Guess you were right,” Lee said, “it’s nice to see a pretty face, gives a guy a lift.”
Heading out, he was halfway along the corridor when he paused beside a closed door, listening. A series of soft thuds, then a muffled cry. He grabbed the knob and flung the door open.
Karen writhed on the floor beside a desk, fighting Coker. He crouched over her, pinning her down with his knee, blood streaking his dark hair. She hit and struck at him, her white uniform open to her waist and bloodstained, her brassiere torn away. Coker had wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and was pressing a prison-made knife to her throat. Lee lunged, brought the toe of his shoe crashing up under Cocker’s arm, lifting the knife away. Coker came up swinging at him. Lee got in a kick to Coker’s groin and dodged, shouting for help. Coker grabbed him, threw him against the desk, and bolted out the door, his eyes cold with hate and with promise.
Lee knelt over Karen, unwinding the cord from her neck. Long red lines circled her throat. Her forehead was already swelling and turning dark; she was bleeding pretty bad, red stains soaking her uniform. Lee propped her up against the side of the desk and ran for the hall, shouting again, but already Dr. Floyd was there, an orderly behind him. They dropped to their knees beside Karen.
“Who was it?” Floyd said, glancing up at Lee. �
�Did you see him?”
“Coker,” Lee croaked, coughing hard, then he ran, chasing Coker.
By the time he reached the double doors of the dispensary he was gasping for air. He saw Coker between the buildings, making for the mess hall. Lee slowed, moved across the yard taking deep, slow breaths. Why chase him? There was no place Coker could hide for long. When Coker turned and saw him he quickened his pace and headed for the cellblock. Moving fast across the compound, his crew cut dark against the pale buildings, he swung in through the heavy door. Lee ran, pushing into the cellblock behind him.
From the entry he had a full view of the zigzag metal stair leading up. Hamilton, at his desk, saw Lee looking and followed his gaze. Coker was already scrambling onto the third tier. Ahead of Coker on the catwalk, Bronski was coming along, his eyes down on the book open in his hands, reading as he walked slowly toward the stairs. Lee thought Coker meant to play it innocent, to go on casually by Bronski and into his cell, but when Bronski glanced up at him, then looked over the rail toward Lee, Coker froze.
He stared down at Lee and Hamilton watching him, knew he couldn’t go down again, that he was cornered. Swinging around he charged Bronski, his knife flashing. Bronski crouched, dropped his book, grabbed Coker’s arm, diverting the knife inches from his own face. Bronski clutched Coker’s belt and in one move lifted and rolled Coker up over the rail. Coker hung for an instant over open space, then fell, arms flailing, his body twisting down the three tiers. He hit the concrete headfirst with a sound that sickened Lee.
Behind Lee the big doors burst open and armed guards came running. Shaken, Lee headed for the stairs and his cell. They’d be locked down now, until the guards got it sorted out.
He sat on his bunk hoping Karen Turner would be all right, seeing her blood-smeared uniform, the red marks circling her throat. He’d been right in the first place, the authorities were damn fools bringing a woman in here. He heard the guards’ shouted orders, heard the prisoners moving in for the lockdown. He didn’t see Karen Turner again.
The prison staff got the action sifted out in a hurry when Karen told them what had happened. Lee heard that she’d left the prison, that she was working in a civilian hospital. A week later, Dr. Floyd was gone, too. Whether he was fired or took an “early retirement,” as they called it, Lee never knew. And even though he was glad Karen was out of there, he missed that pretty smile. Two days later he was working again, this time in the warm, steamy kitchen.
19
ANNE SAT AT the kitchen table sipping coffee. “Did you and Sammie sleep at all?” Becky and Sammie had just come upstairs, Sammie moving to the stove to watch Mariol flip pancakes. Becky poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Surprisingly, we did sleep.” She didn’t say they’d slept with a warm cat between them, Sammie’s arms circling that unseen presence who had comforted Becky, too.
“Last night . . .” Anne said, “I wish you’d killed him.” That shocked Becky, coming from her proper aunt.
“I’ve prayed every night,” Anne told her, “that Brad Falon was dead.” She seemed amused at Becky’s expression. “He tried to kill you, he’s made nothing but trouble, he’s doing his best to ruin your lives. What good is he, in the world?” This Aunt Anne whom she was seeing now was far different, indeed, from the way Becky had always thought of her.
Beside the stove, Sammie turned. “I dreamed he broke in, I dreamed of a hand reaching through.”
Anne nodded. “That dream may have saved your lives.” And, as if half to herself, “The same . . . affliction . . . our mother called it, that our aunt Mae endured. She had the dreams, too,” Anne said softly. “Mother did tell me that, because of my own dreams, but she told me as if they were shameful. Otherwise she seldom talked about family, I know only a smattering of our history. I know that Mae was the youngest of our great-aunt Nell’s five children.
“Nell and her three girls moved to North Carolina after the children’s father died. He left them with very little, they sold their Arizona land for practically nothing, they had nowhere else to go but to her sister there. Mae’s two older brothers had already left home. Later Mae’s sister Nora married and settled in Georgia, our mother Nora.”
Becky laid her hand over Anne’s. “Do you know where Mae is now?”
Anne shook her head. “I don’t. It’s strange, embarrassing sometimes, shameful knowing so little about our family. Most Southern families are steeped in their history, from before the Civil War. But that’s the way we grew up. No discussion, so Caroline or I weren’t really interested. I didn’t realize then the emptiness that left in me, having no real ties to our past.”
Anne sipped her coffee, looked up at Becky. “I had a sense, too, that there might be more in our past even than the dreams, other ‘shameful’ things that Mama didn’t want to talk about.”
Becky, too, sometimes felt adrift not knowing their family history. Caroline had kept no letters, no pictures, nothing to define the past. She watched Mariol pour a glass of milk for Sammie and set her breakfast on the table. When Sammie slid into her chair, reaching for the syrup, Mariol kissed the top of her head, then turned away to test the skillet and pour more batter. Interesting, Becky thought, how comfortable Mariol seemed with the mention of prophetic dreams. As if she and Anne might have talked openly about Anne’s dreams. Maybe, in Mariol’s family, such talents were not considered strange. Whatever the case, Mariol’s acceptance comforted Becky, made her feel easier.
THREE DAYS AFTER Fred Coker died on the cellblock floor, Coker’s friend Delone cornered Lee between the buildings, flashing a thin, a prison-made knife. Lee had just left the kitchen after his shift and was heading for the automotive shop, when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He spun around, saw Delone coming on him fast, a blade shining in his palm.
“You cruddy old bastard, it’s your fault he’s dead.”
Lee wanted to reach for the garrote but something told him no, told him to get away. Puzzled, not used to backing off, he swung in through a side door of the masonry shop, a big, cavernous room. He saw no one, heard no sound. Dodging away among the freestanding practice walls and tall piles of stones and bricks, he lost himself in their shadows. He heard Delone behind him, heard him trip, maybe over a wooden support that steadied the masonry barriers. Dodging toward the back of the building where, Lee knew, another door led out again, he didn’t see above him the yellow shadow slipping across the tops of the stone and block walls, a shadow thin as smoke.
The tomcat could not have materialized if he’d wanted to. He was spent, his attack last night on Falon, as he diverted the intruder to protect Sammie, had left him weak as a new kitten. If this was Satan’s influence, he didn’t like it much. This happened sometimes when he sought to function in both worlds; and he had heard, last night as he dropped into sleep, the cold laughter of the dark prince; he didn’t like that much, either. Now he followed Lee along the tops of the freestanding walls until, at the far corner of the dim room, Lee slipped into darkness between the back door and tall piles of blocks.
Lee tried the door and found it locked. There was no knob to turn, no key in the keyhole. He shouldered uselessly against it, was unable to force it open, and, at the scuff of shoes behind him, swung around, waiting. Stood palming the ball of string, his finger in the loop.
It all happened too fast. A chunk of concrete fell and Delone rushed him, the knife-edged ice pick low and lethal. Lee saw too late there was no room to swing his weapon. He dodged but Delone was on him, the knife flashing as Delone rammed him into the wall. Lee felt the knife go in, low in his side.
Delone jerked the blade free, blood spurted. The weapon flashed again. Lee kicked Delone in the knee and kicked the blade from his hand. The effort doubled Lee over, the cat could feel the pain of his wound as if it were his own. He crouched to leap as Delone closed in, but instinctively backed off when Lee swung the garrote. He watched it circle Delone’s leg. Lee jerked the cord hard, the blades cut through cloth and flesh, D
elone stumbled, clutching his torn leg. But when Lee jerked the weapon free again, Delone lunged. Lee dodged and swung higher, the cord whistled, light shattered off its arsenal of blades as it snaked around Delone’s throat. Lee grabbed the heavy nut, yanked the cord hard. Delone fell, clutching his torn throat. The ghost cat crouched lower, his yellow eyes burning, his own fear eased, his sense of Satan’s presence fading.
LEE, WATCHING DELONE die, knew he could have been dead in Delone’s place. He worked the garrote loose and backed away from the body. He found the lavatory, untied the nut from the cord, washed it off, and tossed it in the corner. He flushed the bladed cord down the toilet, stringing it out long, hoping it wouldn’t get stuck. He washed the blood off his hands and pressed a wad of paper towels under his shirt against the knife wound. The blade had gone through at an angle, piercing the flesh along his side and maybe cracking a rib; it hurt like hell. He prayed it hadn’t reached anything vital.
He stripped off his shirt and pants, soaked and scrubbed the blood out as best he could and dried them with paper towels. Tearing the towels in pieces, he flushed them down a little at a time. He cleaned his shoes and disposed of those towels the same way. He dressed in his wet clothes, securing the wadded towels under his belt. He scrubbed the floor, using the last of the towels; the pain turned him dizzy when he knelt. He walked out slowly, stopping only once on his way to the cellblock, at the back door of the cotton mill.
He got up to his cell all right, keeping his arm over his side against the bleeding. He pushed inside, chilled not only with the pain but with fear. This could blow his release, could put him in prison for the rest of his life. He’d snuffed a few men in his time, every one of them trying to kill him. He’d been lucky so far. This time maybe his luck had run out?
The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape Page 13