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

He said nothing.

“But here’s the good news,” she said. “Morgan, please look at me.”

He turned toward her, his face hard and closed.

“There’s a warrant out for Falon. A federal warrant.”

“A warrant for what? Not the robbery?”

“The FBI wants him. For some land scams out on the West Coast, and for fraud by wire. The other four men in it have already been indicted. If they’re convicted, if Falon’s convicted, Sergeant Trevis said he could get ten to twenty years.”

“If they find him,” Morgan said. “If they can get him to trial. If they can convict him.”

“The FBI will find him. If he’s arrested in Georgia, he’ll be shipped out to the coast. Trevis says he’d be tried out there, that if he’s convicted he’ll most likely be in prison out there—far away from us.”

Morgan took her in his arms, holding her close—but not believing Falon would ever be imprisoned.

“We have to go with this, Morgan. We have to put our faith in this. If Falon’s wanted for another federal crime, the U.S. attorney will look at him differently. He’ll look differently at our new try for an appeal.”

“Maybe,” he said noncommittally.

“Believe it will happen. We have to believe, have to hang on to something.” Holding his hand, she looked across the room again at Lee and Sammie, so engrossed in the frail album. “Our family pictures,” she said gently. “Lee as a child. His sister Mae, aunts and uncles, they all belong to us and to Lee.”

Watching Morgan as he considered her words, as he considered the tough old man and Sammie, so comfortable together, she saw his face soften, saw the hint of a smile.

25

B RAD FALON, AFTERattempting to run Becky’s car off the bridge, had slipped on into town behind her. He didn’t think she’d go to the police, and the cops wouldn’t listen anyway. They’d been down on Morgan ever since the robbery and they had no more use for Becky. He’d seen to that, had done enough one-on-one talking with selected officers to sour the validity of what either Morgan or Becky said. The rumors he’d spread about Becky and him, through a couple of friends, had further tarnished her credibility. Damn woman. Her gunshot wound in his leg hurt bad, and now, so did the crease in his shoulder where she’d winged him back there on the bridge. The pain made it hard to drive. Leaving the bridge he’d popped a couple of the Dover’s Powder pills, the same pain pills with which he’d drugged Morgan before the bank robbery—only then, he’d used enough to leave Blake sleeping like a dead flounder.

Washing the pills down with the last of an open Coke, he threw the bottle out the window and, staying well behind Becky out of sight, headed for Natalie’s place. He needed his shoulder bandaged, needed the bandage on his leg changed, needed someone to take care of him, cook for him, needed a place to hole up until he healed. He wouldn’t go to his mother’s, she was too judgmental, he didn’t see her often. The cops would already have been there looking for him; they didn’t waste time when there’d been a shooting no matter who the victim was. They would have searched Natalie’s apartment, too, late last night or maybe this morning. Natalie wouldn’t rat on him, she wouldn’t like the consequences.

He’d moved in, sent her out for a steak and a bottle of bootleg, was settled in just fine. He’d been there three days when the Rome cops found him. It was two A.M., he was asleep in Natalie’s bed tossing with fever from the wound in his leg. Earlier that evening just after supper, the first time the cops showed up, they didn’t have a warrant. Natalie had helped him hide in the attic crawl space. It hurt like hell getting up the folding stairs, his leg burning like fire. Natalie had refused to let the law in without the proper paperwork. When they’d gone, he’d been too sick to leave. He’d gone back to bed, had thought, if the cops came back with a warrant, he could make it out onto the balcony, could handle the five-foot drop to the concrete. The damn cops wouldn’t be looking for him if Becky hadn’t reported the bridge incident. She’d sure as hell sworn out a warrant, why else would they be there?

Natalie had been careful to keep his presence secret, had made no increased purchases of food, had pulled the drapes at dusk as was her habit. She had some antiseptic and an old sheet to tear up, so she needn’t buy anything incriminating; she had nursed him as best she knew how. When, at night, he grew too fevered and restless to lie still she’d brought him cold compresses for his leg; and she’d moved out of the double bed into the living room, and slept on the couch. She was asleep there when, two hours past midnight, the cops pounded on her door again.

When they kept pounding, she shouted at them to shut up and go away. When Falon himself, groggy from the Dover’s Powder, heard the sharp bite of a cop’s voice, he rolled out of bed, shocked to wakefulness, pain jarring through him. He’d pulled on his pants and was sliding the balcony door open when he heard the front door crash open and two cops stormed in. One of them lunged and grabbed him, jerked his arms behind him, striking pain through him. The other cuffed him, and it was all over. They searched his pockets and found a set of car keys. They looked at his bandaged wounds. Once they were done questioning him and jerking him around, he pulled on his shirt, Natalie tied his shoes for him, crying, and handed him his jacket. She had a talent for crying on cue, she had done that to perfection in the courtroom when she took the stand at Blake’s trial.

Two of the cops escorted him out of the apartment, forced him down the stairs and out the back door to a squad car, hustling him along, making no effort to allow for the pain he was experiencing. A third officer went to try Falon’s keys in the cars that were parked behind the building. Falon’s Ford coupe wasn’t among them; he and Natalie had ditched it outside town behind an empty barn, returning in her car.

Falon was housed in the Rome city jail in a private cell to increase security while Rome police waited for the U.S. marshals to pick him up. His shoulder began bleeding again, soaking through the bandage and through his shirt. He was treated by the doctor who tended the prisoners, his wound was rebandaged, and he was given a shot for the infection. His rage at being arrested was directed equally at Becky Blake, at every bastard cop on the Rome force, and at Natalie for not alerting him soon enough to get him out of the apartment—but most of all at Becky. Somewhere down the line she’d pay for this and for all the snubs and injustices she’d forced on him over the years.

I T WAS FIVEA.M. the next morning that the ringing phone jerked Becky from a heavy sleep. She rolled over, fighting the covers, grabbing for the receiver—afraid it was the prison, that Morgan was hurt.

“It’s Quaker. I’m sorry to wake you.”

She sat up in bed, glancing over at Sammie, who had come wide awake and lay watching her. “Quaker? What is it? What’s happened?” His last call hadn’t been good news. What had happened now?

But there was a smile in Quaker’s voice. “Becky? The Rome police have picked up Falon. He’s locked down tight. They hauled him out of Natalie’s at two-thirty this morning. He was hurting real bad from your gunshot wounds,” he said cheerfully.

“Can they keep him locked up, now that they have the warrants?”

“They can. Do you want me to tell Morgan? I have an early appointment down that way.”

“Oh yes, please. That’s the best news he could have. It’s a pain to try to call. I tried twice in the last weeks; they said I could talk to him on visiting day. But, Quaker, you won’t tell him that Falon attacked us? I’ve told him none of that, I couldn’t bear to worry him, he has enough to deal with.”