Shirley Murphy - The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

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

L EE SAT ONthe 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

A NNE SAT ATthe 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.