The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (31 page)

“But then,” Morgan said, “then he laughed at me. He said, ‘What are you going to do about it? You're the one got convicted.'”

“He didn't tell you where the money's hidden,” Lee said quietly.

“No, he said he'd never admit anything in court. But it's . . .”

“It's what?” Lee said tiredly.

“It has to be proof. He
told
me. He—”

“But you
have
no proof. It doesn't matter what he tells either of us if we can't come up with the money or the gun. That's the proof. Nothing's any good until we have solid evidence.”

“I did the best I could,” Morgan said glumly. “I told him if the law could retrieve the money, if he told them where it is, he'd get a lighter sentence.”

“You know that's a lot of bull and so does he. The charge for murder, they're not going to plea-bargain that. What did he say then?”

“He said, ‘You're the one doing time. I'll be out in a few days.'” Morgan laid down his fork. “I won't let that happen, Lee. I have to make him talk. I tried naming places around Rome where he might have hidden the money, thought maybe he'd give himself away but he didn't. He's too good a liar,” Morgan said glumly.

L
EE
'
S HALF-DAYS IN
the metal shop grew agonizingly long; he was always tense and on guard. Trying to do his job while protecting himself from Falon, he was more bushed after each succeeding shift. He remembered wryly Dr. Floyd's advice to pace himself, to pick jobs that didn't stress him. And then suddenly Falon was taken off the job, he wasn't there when Lee checked in for work.

The foreman said he was being transferred, that Falon would be out of there in a couple of days, and Lee knew the court transcripts had come through. They were moving Falon out fast, before there was trouble. He wondered if they would move Morgan, too.

He finished his shift and then quit his job, forcing his cough, telling the foreman his emphysema was worse, that his chest hurt and he needed to see the doc. When he went on into the medical office he did have a ragged cough and did feel pale and cold, it wasn't hard to feign exhaustion. The examining doctor told him to quit his shift. Lee said he already had. The doc gave him a form with a note on it and sent him to his counselor.

He'd seen John Taylor only once since he and Morgan were checked in. Taylor was a short, tight-knit man, well tanned, who'd seemed fair enough with Lee. He nodded, signed and filed the form, and didn't suggest that Lee look for another job. It was that afternoon that Lee returned to the metal plant one last time.

The shift changed at four, men were leaving the industry
shops. He hoped the metal shop wasn't locked. Earlier, while at work, he had hidden a piece of thin cable under a stack of metal. When he left, there had been too many men around, he couldn't retrieve it. Now he found a guard standing inside the door and gave him a sheepish smile. “I think I left the safety latch off on my machine—I'd like to go back and check it.”

The guard looked wary. “Make it quick. The paint crew's cleaning up, I'm about to lock the door.”

Lee hurried the length of the plant, past the break. Glancing in the guard's direction, he reached under the stack of metal sheets, scooped up the coiled cable, and slid it under his shirt. He pretended to check his machine, reaching as if to flip a safety latch, then moved on out of the building, nodding to the guard. He was strung tight, hot to get at Falon before he was gone. He told himself to slow down, to work out the moves, don't go off half-cocked. He'd already failed once, earlier in the day when he found Falon alone in the yard and came onto him. Falon had lunged viciously at Lee; he thought Falon had him until three inmates appeared from among the buildings, talking and laughing, and Falon had to back off.

They had little time to make Falon talk before the paperwork arrived from Atlanta. Lee didn't sleep well that night, and the next day he overheard from a guard that Falon's transfer to L.A. county jail was being processed in connection with the land-scam trial. Blake was so wild to get at Falon that Lee knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew this could blow up in their faces—and the next afternoon, it did blow. Blew sky high, shutting down the entire prison, leaving Lee shocked, panicked, unable to do anything to help Morgan.

He was cutting across the yard when a small scuffing behind him made him pause, the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two guards came racing between
the buildings, and behind them two white-coated medics moving fast carrying a stretcher with a body strapped to it. Lee saw blood, got a glimpse of Morgan's face, a gash across his forehead spurting blood. Lee ran, caught up with them just outside the medical ward. Morgan's head was drenched with blood, his face gray and still. Lee bent over him searching for a spark of life. The guards shoved him away hard, double-timed in through the ward door, and slammed it in his face. Lee heard the lock slide home.

L
EE WAITED A
long time by the infirmary door before the two guards came out again. When he tried to question them they would say nothing, they turned away, ignoring him. When a medic came out hurrying past, he wouldn't talk to Lee, either. No one would tell him anything, he didn't know whether Morgan was dead or alive. He was scared as hell and boiling with rage when he headed for Falon's dorm; he had a hunch the little scum would go to ground right there lounging on his bunk as if he'd been idling about for hours. Even as Lee entered the building he could hear Falon's laugh.

Telling himself to take it easy, cool down and not blow this, he moved silently along the hall past a short turn to the showers, past the doors to a janitor's room and a supply closet. He tried both doors, silently turning the knobs knowing they'd be locked. Janitor's room was locked, all right, but Lee paused, startled, when the door to the supply closet swung in. Shelves of sheets, blankets, towels pale in the dim light from the hall. He located the light switch but left it off, left the door barely cracked open. Moving on, he
stood against the wall outside the open door to the dormitory, glancing in.

Above the low barriers he could just see just the top of Falon's head, and again his two friends stood leaning against the wall. Was that Falon's mode when he was in prison, to collect two or three sleazy sidekicks to play lackey for him? The pudgy kid was crossing his eyes and staggering around with his tongue out, grinning evilly.

“Knock it off,” Falon snapped. He rose and pulled off his prison shirt, dark with bloodstains. “Now,” he said softly, “I can't wait to bust the
old
son of a bitch. Hand me that towel and the soap—no, the big bar.” Carrying the soiled shirt under his towel, he headed for the door. Lee drew back, stepped into the supply closet, and eased the door closed.

When Falon had passed, Lee followed, his bridled anger making his heart pound. Followed Falon down the short corridor to the showers. Just before Falon entered the tiled room, Lee grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Falon lunged for Lee's throat. Stepping back fast, Lee judged his distance, brought his foot crashing into Falon's crotch. Falon doubled over holding himself, groaning, rocking back and forth.

It took all Lee's strength to drag him to the supply room and shove him inside; Falon sprawled on the floor, still holding himself. Lee pulled the door closed, switched on the light, and straddled Falon, whipping the cable around his neck. The man was hurting too bad to fight much, his blows were weak and off center. Lee locked his knees, pinning Falon's arms, tightening the cable around his throat. Writhing, Falon began to choke.

“I've killed men like this before, Falon. It isn't hard to do.”

When he saw Falon was strangling he loosened the cable a little, let him gulp a breath, then tightened it again. “Tell me where you hid the money.”

Falon slammed his body against Lee's imprisoning legs.
Lee tightened the cable until Falon's face grew red, sucking for breath.

“What's the matter, Falon? You can't talk? Well, that's all right, just tap with your hand when you're ready to tell me and I'll loosen your tie.”

Falon didn't respond. Lee increased the pressure, sinking the cable deeper. “Talk to me. Tell me where you hid the money.” He pulled again, carefully. If he killed Falon, it would be all over. Nervous sweat ran down Lee's face. “Tell me or you're finished. Where's the bank money?” As he tightened the cable again a hot desire surged through Lee, to see Falon die, a viciousness that was not part of his plan. He fought to hold himself in check, tightening the cable only slowly. “Where?” he hissed. “Where did you hide it?” He felt himself losing control, filled with a hunger that was not his own, suddenly wild to kill, drawing the cable too tight. Falon's eyes began to bulge; fear made Lee loosen the cable, he watched Falon suck in air. Would Falon die before he talked? Tighter, gently tighter . . .

Falon gave a weak tap on his arm, staring up blearily at him. Lee released the pressure and leaned close, straining to hear.

“Georgia,” Falon rasped. “North of Rome.”

“Where north of Rome? Tell me where, or you're dead.”

Falon's look became pleading. “You'll be getting out soon. I can't get at the money, but I know someone who can. I'll split it with you, I'll have them put it in a bank, send you the deposit book. Half of all the money, Fontana.”

“That's hogwash.” But even so, a hot greed hit Lee, his blood quickened at easy money. Shaking off the dark hunger, he pulled the cable and twisted and felt Falon's body jerk. “Tell me where. I don't want your deal.”

Watching Lee, Falon grabbed at the cable. “North . . . North of Rome. Tur . . . Turkey Mountain Ridge,” he whispered, gasping.

“Where is that? Where on the ridge?”

“Morgan will know,” Falon said, choking. “East side—old homeplace.”

“Where on the homeplace?”

Silence. Lee shoved his knee in Falon's belly, pulling . . .

“The bot . . . bottom of the well . . . abandoned well.”

“Does anyone else know?

“No.”

“Natalie Hooper?” Lee said, easing off a little.

“Not her, she'd have gone for it.” Falon's eyes were begging. “Half the money if you let me live. We'll go together when I get out, I'll show you where.”

“I don't need you to show me anything. If you're telling the truth,” Lee said, shifting his weight but still holding Falon pinned. “You nearly killed Morgan. Now you're going to talk to the law, tell them where to find the money. You're going to do it now, tonight. You're going to swear to me, Falon, that you'll tell the law the whole story.” He tightened the cable again. “If it's there, it should take only a few hours to find it. If you're lying, if they don't find anything, I'll kill you before you're out of here.”

“I—I'll tell them,” Falon wheezed.

There was little more Lee could do. He removed the cable, revealing angry red lines circling Falon's throat. “You go back on me, Falon, you refuse to talk, you're dead.”

He knew Falon would sing a different tune as soon as he felt secure. “Once I talk to the warden, they won't release you until you tell what you know. And it better be straight talk.” Lee stood up, coiled the cable, and dropped it in his pocket. Falon didn't rise, he rolled over, avoiding pressure on his tender crotch and one hand caressing his throat. Lee flipped off the light, casting the storeroom in blackness, peered out to check the hall, then left, shutting the door behind him. It must be nearly an hour since Morgan was taken to the infirmary. He wanted to go back there, wanted to see
Morgan, but instead he headed for the administration building, before his counselor left for the day.

There had been no lockdown, no Klaxon, though he saw guards everywhere. He found John Taylor still at his desk, putting away files. Lee approached the desk, his adrenaline pumping hard. “I know it's late in the day, but it's important.”

Taylor gestured for him to sit down.

Reaching in his pocket, Lee dropped Reginald Storm's business card on the desk. “Storm is my attorney and Morgan's. We need him bad, tonight. Could you call him, ask if he could come on out?”

Taylor studied Lee. “Why the hurry? I know Blake was taken to the infirmary. Tell me what's going on. Why suddenly an attorney?”

“
Because
Blake's hurt,” Lee said. “I need to talk with Storm. In person, not on the phone. Afterward, Storm will fill you in.”

Taylor sat watching him. Lee could read nothing in his expression. “How bad is he?” Lee said warily. “He's not . . . They wouldn't tell me a damn thing.”

“He has a concussion. He's conscious only some of the time. They're doing their best to keep him awake, there's an orderly with him.” He looked again at the attorney's card. “Tell me what's going on, and I'll see about calling Storm.”

“I'll tell you after you call him. I promise you that. This could mean Morgan's life, if he makes it, there in the infirmary. This could mean the rest of his life.”

Taylor was silent again. Lee wondered how straight the young man would be, how much he could trust him. “I can tell you this,” Lee said, “it was Brad Falon who attacked Blake.” He was taking a chance on this. If they locked Falon down, and they sure as hell would, and if Falon had lied to him, Lee couldn't get at him again.

On the other hand, Falon couldn't get at Morgan, either.

Still Taylor said nothing.

“New information has come to light,
”
Lee said. “Evidence that could clear Morgan of all charges, that could free him . . . If he lives,” he said softly.

Taylor looked tired suddenly, looked knowing and weary. Lee thought he was going to refuse. But prisoners
were
allowed two phone calls a week, and so far he hadn't made any calls. He looked steadily at Taylor until, sighing, Taylor ran a hand through his crew cut hair, set Storm's card before him and picked up the phone.