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

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.

L EE AND STORMsat in the prison interviewing room. Two folding metal chairs and a scarred oak table, on which Storm had dropped his briefcase. A guard was stationed outside the door. Storm looked like he’d already put in a hard day. His rumpled suit coat hung crookedly over the back of his chair, his tie hung loose, his shirtsleeves were rolled up. When Lee told him Falon had spilled, had revealed where the bank money was hidden, a grin transformed Storm’s tired, rugged face.

It had taken the attorney only twenty minutes to get out to the prison from downtown. In that time, Lee had returned to the infirmary hoping to see Morgan, but he wasn’t allowed in. He did get one of the medics to talk to him. The freckled, towheaded medic told him, “Blake’s alive. In and out of consciousness. We’re doing our best to keep him awake, he sure has a concussion.”

But no one would let Lee see him. Did they think Lee himself might have bashed Morgan? All Lee could think was, Morgan had to recover. They’d come this far, they were so close. Morgan wouldn’t give up, Lee couldn’t let him give up.

Now, across the table, Storm said, “If the money’s there, if the feds and Georgia Bureau of Investigation can find it, can identify it as the bank money, we’ll have enough for a new trial. With an honest jury, we’ll have enough to hang Falon.”

“They’ll fly Morgan back to Rome, for a new trial?”

“Let’s find the money. If it’s there, if we can put together a solid case, I’d rather transfer jurisdiction out here to L.A. I think Lowe would, too.” Storm leaned back in the hard, folding chair. “I’ve talked with Lowe. The picture I get, Rome is a small town with a mind-set dead against Morgan. That can happen, you get that kind of thinking started, it’s hard to reverse. Lowe doubted that with the lies and trumped-up evidence, they could find an impartial jury. And the federal court in Atlanta is booked six months ahead.

“Another thing,” Storm said, “as violent as Falon seems to be, it would be safer to keep him locked down here than to transport him back to Georgia.” Storm glanced at his watch. “Nearly midnight in Atlanta, but I’ll call Quaker. Once he’s contacted the FBI and GBI, I’m hoping they’ll head right on up to Turkey Mountain Ridge. Meantime,” he said, “I’ll call the bureau here, I know a couple of the agents. See if I can get them out here tonight to meet me, to talk with Falon.

“And,” he said, “I’d like to know the details of what Falon did to Morgan, I’d like to file a charge.”