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

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

T WO DAYS AFTERBecky 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 suddenly vulnerable, she eased her jacket open to better reach the revolver.