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

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.

“Get that box in my purse. The bullets.” She fired again, and a third time as Sammie scrambled to find the box. She wondered if she could reload while driving. But suddenly Falon’s car slowed and fell behind. Had she hit him? Or he was only afraid she would? Wishing she’d killed him this time, she jammed her foot to the floor, took a curve on squealing tires, and headed fast for Rome.

22

T HEY PULLED INTORome still shaken, Becky still watching behind her though she’d seen no more of Falon’s car. Easing along the familiar streets beneath the bright maples, their red leaves half fallen, past the familiar houses where she had played when she was small, she began to relax. The cold sky was silvering toward darkness, the shadows beneath the wide oaks pooling into night, the lighted windows beckoning. She didn’t head for their own empty house but made straight for Caroline’s. Pulling into the drive behind the bakery van, she gathered Sammie up as if she was still a small child, not a gangling nine-year-old, and hurried inside.

A fire burned on the hearth, in the big living room. Only when they were safe in Caroline’s arms did Becky feel her pounding heart slow. Caroline held them quietly, seeing how upset they were. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, her jeans old and faded, her apron a colorful patchwork. They stood for a long time holding each other, then moved into the big kitchen, the bright room warm from the ovens and filled with the scents of cinnamon and chocolate. The timers ticked away in a rhythm that was part of Becky’s childhood. The bakery racks were filled with trays of brownies and cinnamon rolls, with lemon cakes and sweet potato pies. The aura of home, the rich patterns and scents of Caroline’s kitchen seemed, for a moment, to wipe Brad Falon from their lives.

Becky hadn’t stopped at the police station to file a report that Falon had tried to run her off the road and that she had shot at him. What good? Why face more of their disdain, their chill disbelief?

Not since Morgan was first arrested had she come to terms with the change in the officers of Rome PD, these men who had been his lifelong friends, with their cold disregard for Morgan’s own version of what had happened to him the day of the robbery. All the time Morgan was in the Rome jail, and all through the trial, she couldn’t believe the hard, judgmental testimony from those officers, from the men Morgan had trusted.

Granted, evidence of the robbery had been found in Morgan’s car, the empty canvas bank bag with blood on it, the scattered hundred-dollar bills. But never once did a police witness suggest that those items could have been planted. These were men they had played with as children, men whose weddings they had attended, who went to the same church, the same picnics and celebrations. Even Morgan’s own attorney, the lawyer Becky had picked herself only to regret it later, had done little to help him; everyone in town, it seemed, had thought him guilty.

Now, sitting at the bakery table as Caroline warmed up homemade soup and made sandwiches, Becky described Falon’s midnight break-in, the shooting and his escape. She described how, this evening on the deserted road, he had forced them against the bridge rail. “Trying to drive and fire, I most likely missed him,” she said regretfully. “But your poor car, Mama . . . You don’t want to look at your car.”

“It’s only a car, Becky. You can leave it for Albert to work on,” Caroline said, setting supper on the table. “You can take your own car now, he already knows how to find you. Did you stop by the station to report Falon?”

Becky shook her head. Caroline rose, turned to her planning desk, and picked up the phone.

“Don’t, Mama. Don’t call the police. What good will it do?”

Caroline turned to look at her. “You can’t not call them. This is evidence against Falon. As is the break-in at Anne’s,” she said, starting to dial.

“Please, Mama. I didn’t identify him for the break-in, either.” She let her glance linger on Sammie. Caroline nodded but went right on, identifying herself, making the verbal report and discussing a written report. When she hung up, she was smiling. Becky was rigid with anger.

“The desk sergeant said they’d send someone out.” She rose and moved to the table. “Becky, they’ve already talked with the Atlanta police. Sergeant Trevis is coming, let’s have supper before he gets here.”

Becky looked at her, puzzled. “They know about the break-in at Anne’s? But why . . . ?” She picked up half a sandwich. She didn’t feel like eating, but then found herself wolfing the lean roast beef and good homemade bread. “Atlanta PD knows I live in Rome, it’s on my driver’s license. But why would they call Rome?” She looked at Caroline. “To see if Rome knows me? To get a character witness?” she asked angrily.

“Falon lives in Rome,” Caroline said. “Did Atlanta take fingerprints? Maybe they’ve identified him from those. Maybe they’re interested, for some reason, even if you didn’t file a report.”

It was full dark when they’d finished supper and moved in by the fire to wait for Sergeant Trevis. As Caroline pulled the draperies to shut out prying eyes, Sammie leaned, yawning, against her grandmother. Caroline led her to the window seat, settled her among the cushions, and pulled a warm throw over her. Becky, watching them, was filled with nostalgia for when she was small and was sick. Caroline had tucked the same plaid blanket around her, warm and safe. Within minutes, Sammie was asleep. Becky and Caroline stood looking down at her until they heard a car pull up the drive, heard the static of the police radio.