Behind the Iron

by William W. Johnstone

  Fallon did not have to think very long. “The Centennial Exposition?”

  “Perhaps. And it was shortly after we heard word that Wild Bill Hickok had been assassinated in the Black Hills.”

  “My God,” Fallon said. “That was back in ’76.”

  “That sounds correct. Yes, 1876. They removed my ball and chain and shoved me back into the cell.”

  “How often do they let you out?”

  The Mole sighed. “They came and said they had jobs I could do for them. And they let me out at night. Always at night. I did not like the jobs.”

  “What kind of jobs?” Fallon asked. He could imagine. Emptying spittoons, slop buckets.

  “We will not talk of those jobs.”

  The Mole sighed, spit, and sighed again. “One job I did not like at all. I did it. I had to do it. After that, I told them I would never do a job for them again. They were angry. But I have been on no more jobs. They left me here to die. But I have not died.”

  “For how long?”

  “Many years,” The Mole said. “You are here for a job?”

  “No. They’re punishing me.”

  “But the only time I have visitors is when they put men in here to do jobs. That is why I killed that man. He told me of the job he was to do. I could not allow that job.”

  Now, Fallon was confused.

  “What kind of job?” he asked.

  “I am tired. Jobs give me bad dreams. You are not here for a job.”

  “I’m here,” Fallon said, “for punishment.”

  “I am glad you are here. It makes me happy that I tended your wounds. I am glad you are not going on a job. I am tired of killing. So tired.”

  Fallon shook his head. He still didn’t know what The Mole was talking about. He tried again: “Sixteen years in darkness. In solitary confinement?”

  The Mole laughed. “Not always solitary. You are here. As I have said, there have been others. No women, though. That has always disappointed me. I really liked Martha Castro. She was the first one, the one who escaped, the one who worked for the warden. She was handsome. But after they brought her back, they put her into a cell and allowed no one to see her. Except guards. Some of the guards had their way with poor Martha, and when she became in the family way, she was pardoned. It would not be right to let a baby grow up in prison.”

  Fallon thought about Jess Harper.

  “Some of the men left with me for a day or two were interesting men. They were given interesting jobs. Some jobs needed to be done. Or so I thought. But other jobs . . . And the men to do those jobs.” He sighed. “Many were despicable, but they never stayed for long. They only left one, and it angered them that I killed him, but he deserved to die. His bones have come in handy. I will give you a rib. It has been filed down. The guards have line sticks. Prisoners have their own weapons. The late Mr. Sherman’s rib might save your life.”

  His mouth open, Fallon just stared into the darkness.

  After a long while, he managed to ask: “How did you see to fix my leg? And my other cuts?”

  “I am The Mole. I see in the dark. Only when they open the doors, as when they threw you into my abode, am I blinded. It is the light that blinds me. Even in the mornings, when they open the slot at the bottom of the door to slide in my bread and water, even then—with just that sliver of light—I feel the pain in my eyes and I scream, and squeeze my lids shut, till I am comforted again by the blackness.”

  Fallon sat with his mouth still open, completely dumbfounded.

  “Would you like to eat?” The Mole asked. “I have good jerky.”

  Fallon hoped the jerky did not come from the late Mr. Sherman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  He had always enjoyed sleeping in a dark room with the temperature low, in the fifties or thereabouts, but Harry Fallon could not sleep that night. If it were night. For all Fallon knew, it could have been noon. Somewhere in the darkness, The Mole snored. Yet the rumbling a few feet beyond Fallon’s cot was not the reason Fallon lay there, staring up—or was it down—at the ceiling.

  He remembered his brief stay in the Snake Den in the territorial prison in Yuma. That had been dark—and here in Jefferson City, there were no rattlesnakes to deal with. But this was beyond dark. This was an eternal darkness. A world without light.

  The guards hired by Warden Harold Underwood had done a thorough job of giving Fallon a beating like none he had ever endured. Only now a few bits of conversation began returning to his memories.

  So why are you here, you damned sneak detective?

  Fallon twisted his head, as though he might hear the guard’s words more clearly. Yes, that’s what the leader had said, just when the beating started. And then, the question had been repeated, during punches and kicks. Why . . . are . . . you . . . here?

  He squeezed his ribs again as he sat up, grimacing from the pain, and once breathing did not hurt that much, he checked for the tenth time to make sure none of his ribs had been busted.

  Yes, Underwood’s guards were very, very good. They could beat a man half to death and not break any bones. When they wanted to.

  There was something else, Fallon could just make out the words from one of those men doing most of the beating.

  You think . . .

  You think . . .

  Fallon squeezed his eyes closed. You think . . . ? Think what? What was it the guard had said?

  You think . . . You think . . . That’s about all that Fallon could get. He remembered a trick he had learned years ago, something his mother had maybe told him. If you have trouble remembering something, just try to think of something else. Something not related to what you want to recall. That’s all you had to do. Sometimes it had worked for Fallon. Other times he had remained without a clue about what it was he wanted to remember. But Fallon tried. He wet his lips, released the grip on his ribcage, and remembered . . .

  * * *

  “Here.” Renee lies on the bed in their home in Van Buren. She looks so fragile, but her smile is radiant, and her eyes are beaming. The midwife stands against the wall, pouring tea from a kettle into a china cup. Fallon stares at the little loaf wrapped in soft cotton blankets.

  “What?” Fallon says. His mouth is filled with cotton.

  Renee laughs.

  “Take your daughter, silly.”

  “But . . .” Fallon has faced down some of the worst killers in this part of the country. Yet he has never known fear, true fear, until this minute.

  “Take her.” His wife’s voice is stern, but her face shows a playfulness.

  “But . . .” Fallon feels the sweat. “What if I drop her?”

  “Hon,” the midwife calls over her cup of tea. “I’ve been a-doin’ this since afore yer mammie entered this worl’. Ain’t never seen a new daddy drop no baby in all my birthin’s. Take that girl, Mistuh Hank. Don’t make Miss Renee hold her like that. She needs to gets her strength back.”

  So Fallon takes the swaddled newborn, and Renee lies back onto the bed, still smiling, still so lovely, so wonderful.

  Fallon can’t help himself. At first he holds the baby far from his body, but gradually, a curiosity commands him to bring the bundle of cloth and flesh and bones closer. He looks at the white-and-blue-and-pink-striped blanket.

  “She’s beautiful,” his wife calls from the bed. “Isn’t she?”

  Fallon peels back a layer of fabric, and he sees his daughter for the first time. His heart pounds. The baby is so tiny, eyes closed, a little patch of dark hair on her tiny, tiny head.

  “She . . .” There must be something in Fallon’s eye, but he can’t brush it away because he holds the package of a new daughter in his arms. A smile fills his face. And whatever is tormenting his eyes, well, who cares about that bit of nonsense.

  Beaming with pride, filled with joy and a love he never thought a deputy United States marshal could feel, he looks down at his wife.

  “She looks just like you,” he says.

  * * *

  In
the darkness, again Fallon feels that something in his eyes, but the sensation quickly passes, and the memory of those years long passed is replaced by something else.

  You think Underwood’s a fool?

  The guard’s voice echoes in the confines of the dark, dark cell. You think Underwood’s a fool . . . Underwood’s a fool . . . a fool . . . a fool . . . fool . . . fool . . . fool?

  Fallon whispers the words: “You think Underwood’s a fool?”

  The rest of the words come back to him quickly, and clear.

  . . . who the hell told you about our sweet little deal?

  There’s no damned way you’re here to talk to some little hussy who got herself in the family way by some cut-rate train robber?

  Why . . . are . . . you . . . here? Answer us!

  Fallon lay back on the straw-stuffed mattress.

  Warden Harold Underwood had ordered his men to get some information out of Fallon. The agreement Dan MacGregor had arranged was that nobody except Harold Underwood was to know Fallon’s true purpose for being imprisoned. So much for that important secret. The warden with the long whiskers and a beautiful house, probably one of the finest in Jefferson City, thought Fallon was actually here to learn about that sweet little deal.

  Whatever the hell what was.

  Dan MacGregor had told the warden that Fallon was here to help find money stolen in a train holdup by Linc Harper’s gang. And that was the truth. But Underwood was so damned crazed with suspicion, he thought Fallon was here to find out about him.

  So Fallon knew he had two jobs while he was in Jefferson City. He had to get that information from Jess Harper to give to Dan MacGregor so that Fallon could get closer to learning what the MacGregors—or at least Dan MacGregor’s father—knew about the murder of Fallon’s family. And who had set Fallon up and sent him to that dangerous prison in Joliet. Who had cost Fallon his freedom, his job, ten years of his life . . . and murdered his beautiful wife and daughter.

  And somehow, Fallon would learn about this sweet little deal that Mr. Underwood wanted to keep a secret. So maybe Fallon could send Harold Underwood and at least three of his guards to prison.

  A man like Underwood would be ripped apart in a matter of weeks in a place like Joliet. Or Yuma. And from everything Fallon had heard, the Missouri State Penitentiary—all forty-seven of those bloody acres—was far worse than The Hellhole in Arizona or that slave shop in Illinois.

  He made himself stand and shuffled his feet until he knew he was at the foot of the mattress. Fallon heard the snores in front of him, so he turned to his right. He drew in a deep breath, released it, and took a very short step forward. He had to take short steps. Long steps might wrench his guts out after the beating he had taken.

  Reaching out with both hands in front of him, palms forward, Fallon counted as he walked. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . His hands touched the cold hard rocks of the wall to his cell. That would be another step. Eight. Eight feet. He turned around and walked back, counting those eight steps, and he stopped, and moved his left foot, hoping to feel the mattress.

  He didn’t. He inched forward and tried again. Nothing. One more time, and this time he breathed out with relief after his foot felt the prickly straw stuffing and he heard the crumple of straw beneath the coarse wool covering.

  It did not take long for Fallon to reach the other wall. Basically, the mattress ended near the far wall. Fallon guessed twelve feet. Twelve feet deep.

  The Mole’s snores were to Fallon’s left and sounded like the old man was sleeping a few feet across from Fallon’s bed. Staying against the wall, Fallon moved carefully, counting his small, baby steps. His boot kicked something, and Fallon heard water. He smelled something foul, and his stomach turned into a rocking ship.

  Well, Fallon told himself, when he managed not to throw up the jerky The Mole had given him for supper, or dinner, or maybe breakfast. Now I know where the slop bucket is.

  He felt ahead and touched the stones, and turned, careful not to kick the bucket again. Keeping his right hand against the far back wall, Fallon moved slowly, still counting his steps, hoping to feel the door or something, but there was nothing but stone. His left hand stretched out forward, and a short walk later, though it took quite a few minutes, Fallon had reached the other corner after his feet managed to kick away sticks or trash or . . . His stomach seesawed again.

  Mr. Sherman’s bones?

  Fallon turned back, counted his paces, turned right, and returned to his bed.

  Twelve feet. By eight feet. That was the size of the cell in the basement. How could a man live in a hole in the ground for days, or months, or in The Mole’s case, roughly sixteen years? In complete darkness?

  Fallon spit on the floor to get that awful taste out of his mouth.

  He wasn’t done, though. The Mole snored contentedly, and Fallon counted his steps back to the first wall he had touched. Turning around, he moved toward the side wall, keeping his hands on the stones, but found no door. So he moved back, and this time, his right hand slipped forward and fell against the hard iron door. He kept going. It was a small door. The next wall came to him, no shorter, no longer, at least not by much.

  Yes, Fallon was in an eight-by-twelve-foot cell.

  Back at the door, Fallon knelt to the floor, feeling along the cold metal until he was at the ground. Yeah, there was a slot, and fairly big. Too big, Fallon thought for just sliding trays of bread and water. Not big enough, however, for a man to squeeze through.

  “Hell,” Fallon said at last. He was too damned stupid. The slop bucket. The opening had to be able to fit the slop bucket through, too. And maybe toss in a bedroll or a change of clothes.

  He rose and leaned against the cold iron of the door. He stared at the far wall but saw nothing. He brought his right hand up and toward his face. It was like there was nothing there. It was like he was God.

  Years had passed since Harry Fallon had read his Bible. But Genesis came clearly to him now, as he lowered the hand he could not see.

  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  He woke.

  Fallon did not remember returning to his bedding, or lying down, but he stared up at the nothingness before him, stretched his stiffening limbs, and stopped quickly.

  He heard nothing. The small cell was completely quiet.

  “You are awake,” The Mole said across the room.

  Fallon relaxed. “Yes,” he said.

  “I feared you might be dead, till I heard your breathing,” The Mole said.

  “I thought the same of you.”

  “Did I snore?”

  “Very loudly,” Fallon answered, and The Mole’s laugh pleased him.

  “They brought us no bread and water,” The Mole said. “That is a bad sign . . . for you.”

  “I am sorry that you must suffer on my account.”

  The Mole chuckled again. “I have tasted better food.”

  Grinning hurt Fallon’s entire face.

  The Mole said: “But if they do bring food tomorrow, pour half of your water into the bucket. And save part of your food. That is how I have managed to live, and keep on living, all this time.”

  Fallon tried to imagine what The Mole looked like.

  “Almost sixty years. The last sixteen in utter darkness.”

  “I am sorry,” The Mole said. “What is that you said?”

  Fallon wasn’t aware that he had voiced his thoughts verbally. “You could not have been sentenced for all this time just for stealing a watch,” he said.

  The Mole sighed. “You are young. It was the year eighteen hundred and thirty-six, remember, and things were different all those years ago.” Fallon envisioned the long-haired, bearded man shaking his head. “Your laws are much softer now.”

  That made Fallon straighten. After spending ten years in Joliet and a short stay, for the American Detective Agency, in Yuma, Fallon could not think of t
he laws of this day and age being soft.

  “For sixty years or more,” Fallon said, “that must have been a hell of a watch.”

  “It was,” The Mole said. “Or I would not have stolen it. I believe, the gentleman said, it was valued at thirty-four dollars.”

  At 1836 prices, Fallon thought, that would have been a mighty fine watch.

  “Still . . .” Fallon said.

  But The Mole waved him off. Fallon blinked. Had he imagined that, envisioned The Mole, leaning his back against the hard, cold stone wall, waving good-naturedly at Fallon and grinning underneath that mass of hair that covered his face and head? Surely, Fallon wasn’t becoming a mole himself, able to see in the dark and blinded by the sun. Hell, he had only been in this hellhole for a day or so.

  “All these long, dark years later, I do not recall how many years I was sentenced to prison for my lapse in judgment and for forgetting my Christian upbringing,” The Mole said. “It was more than two years. Maybe eight months and sixteen days. But such matters are trivial. I broke the law and was sentenced accordingly.”

  Fallon felt himself frown. Two years, eight months, sixteen days for stealing a watch that wasn’t worth over forty bucks. Yes, maybe The Mole was right. Perhaps the law was much softer now than it has been back in the years of The Alamo and whatever else had happened before Harry Fallon had been born.

  “I do not remember the man’s name,” The Mole said. “But even in this eternal midnight, never do I not see his face. He was the man who brought me to the forge. He heated the iron and locked the shackles around my ankle. He was the man who forced me to carry the heavy iron ball. So when the warden decided I had carried the ball and chain long enough, that I surely would have no more urges to run through the woods or to try to swim across the Big Muddy and try to find my freedom, I let the man use his hammer and the . . . what is it called? . . . the tool . . . the tool he set upon the metal rod that kept the iron connected to my ankle. The hammer struck. My leg bled. The shackle parted. I was freed from the weight of the heavy ball. And the blacksmith laughed at me. So I took the shackles and placed them over the front and back of his throat—he was such a tiny man, puny as Ma would have called him. And I squeezed. And I squeezed. And the smithy no longer laughed. But eventually, mercifully, he died.”