The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Lying on his bunk keeping pressure against the wound, he must have dozed some. He heard the Klaxon for supper, he’d have to skip that meal. He rose from his cot meaning to clean the wound better. He was standing at the small steel basin, his back to the bars, his shirt open, washing the jagged knife hole with soap and water, when he heard a thump behind him. Turning, he saw no one. On the floor inside the bars lay a little rag bundle.

  He retrieved it fast, going sick with pain when he bent over. Inside were adhesive bandages, gauze pads, iodine, and ten aspirin tablets wrapped in a tissue. Thanks, Gimpy. Gimpy hadn’t batted an eye when Lee told him his needs. Lee swallowed three aspirin and, his back to the bars again, smeared on the iodine, working it in deep, clenching his jaw against the pain. He bandaged the wound, listening for the guard’s footsteps on the catwalk. He tore the bloody paper towels into small pieces and flushed them. He changed to his other shirt, pulling on the thick, prison-issue T-shirt under it. He hung the wet shirt on the hook to dry, and why would the guard ask questions? He often came in from the kitchen splashed with dishwater. When he stretched out again on his bunk he felt the cat land on the bed.

  “Does it bother you,” Misto said softly, “that you killed him?”

  “He tried to kill me,” Lee said gruffly.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Maybe,” Lee growled. “What difference? If I hadn’t done him, I’d be dead.”

  Misto lashed his tail against the blanket. Lee felt him curl up as if prepared for sleep. Maybe Lee slept, too, he wasn’t sure. The wail of a Klaxon brought them both up rigid, the cat standing hard and alert beside Lee. The body had been found. The cellblocks would be locked down, double security set in place. Fear chilled him at thoughts of the search. Before the guards reached his cell he rose, took three more aspirin, and lay down again, listening to the clang of barred doors as the search began.

  WHEN THE PRISON team reached Lee’s cell, he stood in the middle of the small space, sucking in his gut when the guard patted him down. He willed the man not to feel the bandage under the heavy T-shirt. The guard jerked off his bedcovers, flipped and examined his mattress, inspected his damp shoes and wet shirt. “You fall in the dishwater, Fontana?”

  “The guy works beside me,” Lee said, “sloppy as hell.” He waited, hiding his nervousness until the man finished his nosy prying and left, giving Lee a last appraising look. Alone again, Lee crawled back under the covers. That was when the devil returned, descending as if Delone’s death had kept him near. Again the cat stiffened, the air grew icy, and Lucifer’s grainy voice struck through Lee.

  “That guard,” Satan said, “he could have made you strip down, Fontana. He would have if I’d nudged him a little. Or,” the devil said, “think of this. When you killed Delone, I could have led a guard in there at that moment, led him into the masonry room to find you standing over the body.

  “I took pity on you, Fontana. Now, you can return the courtesy.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I have a mission for you.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Get someone else for your lackey.” Lee rolled over, turning his back, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  The wraith shifted again so it faced Lee. “I want you to gain Morgan Blake’s full confidence, I want him to completely depend on you.”

  Lee stared at the heavy shadow. “What do you want with Blake?”

  “I want him to trust you in all matters, to follow you unquestioningly. In return, I will let up on you, Fontana. I will make your life easier. Blake is already your friend, you are special to him because of his child. Now he must seek your wisdom in whatever he undertakes. It should be easy enough to manipulate him in this way.”

  “Why? What do you mean to do?”

  “Blake thinks you can help him, Fontana. And you can help. When you do so, my pressure on you will ease. The wound will heal, the pain will be gone. So easy to do, to gain Blake’s absolute confidence no matter what you might ask him to do . . . A fine bargain,” the devil said. “Think about it, Fontana . . .” And the voice faded, the shadow faded, the dark wraith was gone. Lee was left only with questions.

  IN THE NEXT days, as prison authorities investigated Delone’s murder, Lee’s wound continued to throb; everything he did, even eating a meal, left him chilled and weak. He didn’t change his work routine, he took painkillers, went to the kitchen as usual and pulled his shift. The pain came bad when he carried the heavy trays. The third afternoon near the end of shift, as he hoisted a stack of trays, cold sweat beaded his face, and he saw Bronski watching him. Bronski stepped over and took the trays from him. “Go sit on the steps, Fontana. I’ll take care of these.” It was the only indication he ever had that Bronski knew how Delone died.

  By the time security dropped back to normal, Lee’s wound had begun to heal. Gimpy passed by the back door of the kitchen twice, slipping Lee more aspirin, iodine, some sulfa powder, and fresh bandages, turning away quickly as Lee slipped the package under his shirt. Lee and Gimpy went back a long way, and Lee was mighty thankful for his friendship. He had no idea that, within only a few days, he would abandon Gimpy, that the Atlanta pen would be the last time he would ever see the old safecracker.

  20

  LEE HAD STARTED down toward the big yard, meaning to sit quietly in the thin morning sun and try to ease his hurting side, when he saw something that stirred a shock of challenge—but sent a jolt of fear through him, too. He was heading down the hillside steps when he noticed something different about the thirty-foot wall towering over him. The way the sunlight fell, he glimpsed a hint of shadow running up the concrete, the faintest blemish. Not a cloud shadow, it was too thin and straight. Some imperfection in the wall? He paused to look, leaning casually on the metal rail.

  In the yard below, half a dozen younger inmates were jogging the track. Two men were playing handball against the wall itself, and beyond them three convicts were throwing a baseball, the figures dwarfed by the giant wall. He looked carefully at the thin line but when he started down the stairs for a closer view it disappeared, was lost in the way the light fell.

  He moved on down, trying to recapture the shadow, but not until he reached the lowest step did he see it again. A thin vertical line running from the ground straight up thirty feet to the top. When Lee moved, the line disappeared. He moved back a step, and there it was. He propped his foot on the lower rail, looking. It must be an interlocking joint, though he couldn’t find another like it. This was the only flaw he could see along the bare expanse between the near tower and the distant one, away at the far corner. Could this be a defect when the forms were up? So faint a blemish that when the forms were removed it was missed, had been left uncorrected with no last-minute touch of the trowel to smooth it away? His gaze was over halfway up, following the line, when he saw something else.

  Some six inches on either side of the line he could see a small round indentation, the faintest dimple picked out by the slanting sun. Following the line itself, he found two more dots, and two above those, blemishes so indistinct that his slightest move made them vanish.

  He noted where the line struck at the base of the wall in relation to the curve of the jogging track. Taking his time, he moved on down the stairs, across the yard and the jogging track. He sat down against the wall just at the joint, casually watching the joggers and ballplayers. No one paid him any attention. When he ran his hand behind him he could feel the joint. When he felt up and down, he found the lowest small dimple. He scraped it with his thumb, then pressed it hard and felt the heavy paint break away. He pushed his finger into the hole. A snug fit, but so deep he couldn’t touch the end.

  If all the dimples were this deep, a man had only to figure out how to use them. He found the chip that had fallen behind him, and took a good look. Layer after layer of dried paint hinted at the venerable age of the wall. He visualized it being built. First, a metal interstructure, then the plywood or metal forms both inside and out to receive the wet ceme
nt. The line had to be a joint between two sheets of the form. The forms themselves, angled in from the thicker base, would have had supports to keep the cement from collapsing as it dried.

  There had to be other lines and other groups of holes. Or did there? Maybe the other holes had all been carefully filled, the lines smoothed away and plastered over. How could this one joint have been overlooked? Maybe this was where two workers met at quitting time? Maybe they had applied one coat of spackle, and the next day they moved on, forgetting to finish this joint? Soon it was painted over by other, uncaring workmen? Leaning back against the wall, he looked up its great height to where it rounded at the top.

  If a fellow were to push an iron bar into each hole, he could climb this baby, easy as going up spikes in a telephone pole.

  Except, the guards in the tower would pick you off like a cockroach on a barn door.

  But when he looked up toward the tower, he couldn’t see the windows that circled it, not from where he was sitting. He could see just a little of the room’s base flaring out atop the wall. Frowning, he glanced toward the farther tower down at the end but couldn’t see any more of that one. If he couldn’t see the windows, the guards inside couldn’t see him, unless they leaned dangerously far out.

  Maybe they wouldn’t see a climber scaling the wall until he got near the top, and that thought ripped a thrill of challenge through Lee.

  When he looked down the full stretch of the wall, sighting in both directions, he could see that it bowed in. The forms had been bowed here, something had gone badly awry. Either no one noticed or no one wanted to take responsibility. No one had wanted to tear out the forms or maybe tear out part of the wall itself and rebuild it. Maybe some foreman thought no one would ever notice, and that it wouldn’t matter anyway. Once the cement was dry and painted over, why would such a tiny flaw matter? Excitement made his hands tremble. Had he stumbled on something that maybe no one else in this entire prison knew or didn’t think important? Sitting there against the wall, Lee had to smile.

  You wouldn’t need a bar at each hole. All you needed was three short iron rods to push in and out. One to hold on to, one to stand on, the third to set for the next step. Lean down, pull the lower pin, insert it over the handhold pin. Step higher, pull out the bottom pin, and replace it in the hole above you. At the top where the guards could see you, you’d have to be quick. You’d leave the last pin in, hook the looped end of a rope over it, and slide down the outside. Slide to freedom.

  Lee’s own time was so short that he had no need to escape. But Blake, if his appeal was denied, could be looking at the rest of his life in this trap.

  If Blake was to get out of here, if he and Blake together left this joint and could find Brad Falon and get new evidence, maybe make Falon tell where he’d hidden the bank money, Blake would have a chance. The chance he’d never had when, before he knew there’d been a bank robbery, before he knew anything about the crime, he was handcuffed and hauled off to jail.

  If they could get out of there, get their hands on Falon, make him tell where he hid the money . . . Maybe it was still in the canvas bank bags where the tellers had stuffed it, bags like the one Falon had planted in Morgan’s car. That was the evidence Morgan needed. Those bank bags, most of them, were edged with leather around the top and had leather handles, and leather should retain fingerprints. If the cops got lucky and found Falon’s prints, that was all Becky’s lawyer would need. He could get a warrant based on new evidence, and the DA would have to indict Falon. There would be a new trial and, if it was a fair trial this time, Blake would be on his way to freedom.

  Leaning back against the cool concrete, Lee wondered. Had he stumbled on this by accident? Or had he been led, could this discovery be Satan’s trap? Had he been enticed into this view of the wall? Was he being teased to make an aborted try that could leave them both locked up for the rest of their lives or get them shot and killed?

  Picking up a handful of dirt, he crammed it in the hole in the wall and smeared it across the concrete, then he rose and left the big yard. Crossing toward the cellblock he told himself he wasn’t going to think about this, that the idea would never work. That he wasn’t going to screw up his release and mess up what chance Morgan might have for an appeal, he wasn’t going to blow Morgan’s possible new trial all to hell.

  But in the next few days it wasn’t easy to leave the idea alone. He thought about the wall at night when he woke with his side hurting. Thought about it when he woke in the morning and all during his shift in the kitchen, thought hard about it when a train rumbled screaming by headed across the country. Thought about it until he wished he’d never seen the damned flaw.

  21

  TWO DAYS AFTER Becky shot Brad Falon, she and Sammie headed for Rome just for supper and to stay overnight. Despite Anne’s and Mariol’s support she needed to be with her mother, and Sammie needed her grandmother, they needed Caroline to talk with and to soothe them both. She watched the streets as they left Morningside but was sure that no black car followed them. She wondered if Falon might have made it back to Rome, to Natalie or to his long-suffering and usually ignored mother. She hoped he was holed up somewhere in Atlanta hurting bad from the wound she’d inflicted. They left directly after work, Becky swinging by Anne’s to pick up Sammie and tuck their overnight bag in the car. The traffic wasn’t heavy once they were out of the business and residential areas and on the two-lane highway heading north. Before they pulled away from the house she had slipped her new revolver from under the seat and belted it to her waist.

  The day after the police took her gun for evidence she’d driven out to a gun shop on Decatur Road and bought a .32-caliber snub-nosed revolver and a holster, a gun small enough to wear under her suit jacket or under a two-piece dress. Such a move might seem silly, and even the .32 felt unnatural against her side, but it might save their lives. She’d given Sammie strict instructions about not handling the gun, and they had gone over the rules carefully. Becky had also shown her how the revolver worked, in order to fully understand the principles of safety. Maybe she was foolish to be driving to Rome when she didn’t know where Falon was. Maybe he’d found a doctor who wouldn’t report the wound, maybe he’d been properly treated and was up and moving again. She’d read that some psychopathic personalities could ignore a lot of pain. As they moved north between vegetable plots and chicken farms she was sharply aware of any car parked on a side road, as well as those few approaching from behind. Sammie wanted to know when she could start school, she talked about the hamsters they’d had in her classroom in Rome, the playhouse they’d built from cardboard cartons, about the colored Georgia map on the wall and the stories their teacher had read to them. Sammie didn’t mention Falon’s attack; she sat close to Becky, a favorite book in her lap, was soon buried in the story. Only when she’d turned the last page did she look up, her words startling Becky.

  “Are you going to tell Daddy you shot Falon?”

  “No, I’m not. Daddy has enough on his mind.” Becky pulled Sammie closer, hugging her. “We don’t need to worry him. I hope, after I shot Falon, he’ll stay away from us.” She looked down at Sammie. “We’ll be watchful, though?” Sammie nodded. Becky knew the ugliness mustn’t be buried, that they must talk about it. If they shared their fear, discussed what to do about it, tried to understand it, she thought Sammie could deal with it better. They were perhaps an hour north of Atlanta on the narrow, deserted two-lane when she saw a car pulling up fast behind them.

  She thought it would pass them quickly, a black car, sleek and low, but there were plenty of black cars in the world. Probably some local farmer who had turned out of his gate behind them. Though few locals drove so fast, knowing there might be loose livestock or a dog on the road. This was all open country, pastures and woods separating the scattered farms. They were east of Kingston, had already left the larger town of Cartersville behind. They would not pass through Kingston, only near it, and then there were no more towns until Rome. Feeling sud
denly vulnerable, she eased her jacket open to better reach the revolver.

  But when the car drew close she saw that it wasn’t black at all, it was dark blue, and was pulling a small trailer. It passed them, a low, dark blue sedan driven by a white-haired woman, pulling a slat-sided trailer with a big yearling calf inside. Becky felt silly, as if she were too wildly dramatic. Falon was probably miles away, laid up from her gunshot. The next car that approached gained on her quickly, speeding up behind her. She slowed to let it pass, watching in her rearview mirror the lone driver—then staring at him, at the silhouette of his thin head and puffed hair, backlit behind the car’s windshield. As he drew up on her tail, her rearview mirror reflected back to her Falon’s thin, pinched face.

  They were nearly ten miles from Rome, there would be no more gas stations, no towns before Rome, only small homeplaces that didn’t have police but depended on the county sheriff, who might be miles away. She scanned the passing farms, praying to see a sheriff’s car parked in one of the yards and wishing she had a more formidable weapon than the small revolver. When Sammie started to turn in the seat, to look back, Becky stopped her. “Don’t, honey, don’t turn. Don’t let him know you see him.”

  Sammie sat very still, looking straight ahead. They were coming to a narrow bridge across a creek that fed the Etowah River. When, starting across, Becky gunned the car, Falon sped up beside her, crowding her against the rail. She floored it, burning rubber. He slammed against her so hard she skidded and careened, thought she’d go through the flimsy rail. She slammed on her brakes, grabbed Sammie to keep her from going into the dashboard. They were in the middle of the bridge, her fender crumpled against the rail. She spun the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and swerved out. Their fenders caught, metal screaming against metal. She leaned on the gas; it took everything her car had to jerk free, bent metal squealing as she surged ahead. She was past him for only an instant, enough to careen off the bridge onto the rough road, and now his car was even with her again. She unholstered and cocked the .32, laid it on the edge of the open window. She fired, hardly taking her eyes from the road.