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

Pulling on clean cotton gloves, Hillerman dropped the cap, bank bag, and revolver into clean paper bags. Carefully he checked the serial numbers on several of the bills, lifting their edges with the point of his knife. “Now,” the overweight agent said, grinning, “let’s see what the lab makes of this.”

“The lab and the U.S. attorney,” said Riker.

Latching the lid, they placed the box in a larger evidence bag. The agents fitted the bags into their backpacks and, all three smiling, they headed back down the mountain. Ever since Quaker Lowe had filled them in fully on Falon’s long record, on Blake’s murder trial, and on comments made by prison authorities, and knowing Lowe’s honest reputation as a straight shooter, they wanted to see Falon fry. Descending the ridge on the trail they’d partially cleared, Riker said, “That old parolee, the old train robber? Whatever his reasons, if it was Fontana who made Falon talk, I’d say he’s earned the court’s blessing.”

“And maybe the Lord’s blessing,” said Hillerman, smiling.

40

T HE GHOST CAT,lingering unseen on Morgan’s bed, was well aware of the search in Georgia and of the morning’s find in the old well. He was as pleased as the three lawmen as they moved down the wooded hill packing out the bank money. The cat, lying close to Morgan listening to Lee’s verbal marathon, reached out a soft paw whenever Lee started to drift off. He alerted Lee more sharply to any slightest movement as their patient began slowly to return to the living, his spirit reaching up again from the darkness beyond all dark. The yellow cat, lying close to Morgan, knew that Lee’s and Morgan’s lives had begun to brighten into the shape of hope.

The two men might not yet sense it, but from the time they scaled the wall, all across country and then into T.I., even to Morgan’s present battle, the cat knew that hope touched them. He started suddenly, hissing, when an orderly bolted into the room.

The man reached for Lee, his meaty hand on Lee’s shoulder. “Phone call, Fontana. It’s your lawyer, he said it was urgent.”

Rising, Lee headed for the door not knowing whether the man meant Quaker Lowe in Georgia or Reginald Storm, and not wanting to stop and ask. He followed the orderly to an empty office, the young man staying behind Lee, where he was in control. Stepping into the small space, Lee picked up the receiver that lay on the blotter next to the tall black phone.

“Sorry to wake you,” Storm said, “I know it’s early. Quaker just called. They’ve got the bank money. A sheriff’s deputy went up Turkey Mountain Ridge this morning with two agents. They found the old homeplace, the old dry well, the ammo box there at the bottom. The money, the canvas bags. They found the gun, Lee.”

Lee stood grinning, clutching the receiver tight, as if it and Storm’s words might vanish.

“The bank has records of some of the packs of bills,” Storm said. “The bureau has lifted a number of Falon’s prints, that match those from the L.A. files. And ballistics is working on the gun. They even found the mask he wore, that wool cap with the eyeholes.”

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe our good luck.”

Storm laughed. “We’re on our way, Lee. We have something to work on, you’re on your way to court.”

“If anything can rouse Morgan,” Lee said, sitting down at the desk to steady himself, “this will wake him.”

“This,” Storm said, “and the sight of Becky and Sammie, in the morning. They’re flying out today, the first flight they could get. Lowe said Becky’s been really down, worrying about Morgan. Said with this news, she’s not so furious anymore, at the two of you.”

That made Lee smile wryly, almost tenderly.

“They have a number of layovers, they’ll be in around midnight. I’ll pick them up, get them settled in a motel over there near the prison. Becky’s aunt paid for the flight,” Storm said. “I guess Becky argued, but she didn’t have much choice.” There was a smile in Storm’s voice. “Lowe says her aunt Anne’s a pretty stubborn woman.”

That made Lee smile. Storm said, “I’ll be over later this morning to talk with Iverson, make sure Falon’s . . . satisfactorily detained,” he said with amusement. “How’s Morgan doing?”

“Some better,” Lee said. “He wakes a little sometimes, and his sleep seems more normal. Maybe this news will bring him around. The wound’s beginning to heal, the swelling’s going down, they can’t detect any inner bleeding. I want to thank you,” Lee said, “for getting Iverson to let me stay with him.”

“That was Dr. McClure’s doing. Maybe by the time we get this on the docket Morgan will be raring to get into the courtroom. I just hope we can transfer jurisdiction. Lowe’s working with the U.S. attorneys on that. If Falon’s arraigned and tried out here, and if he doesn’t ask for a jury, that’s our best bet. Our L.A. judges are a pretty good bunch.”

Returning to Morgan’s room Lee stood looking down at him; laying his hand on Morgan’s arm, he told Morgan the news, that the law in Georgia had found the money and gun, told him everything Storm had said. He thought a little color came into Morgan’s face, a brief spark of awareness. As Lee talked, the yellow cat suddenly appeared beside Morgan, looking up at Lee, flicking his tail, twitching his whiskers, gazing deep into Lee’s eyes. They looked at each other for a long time, the cat filled with triumph and goodness; but when Lee reached to touch him he vanished again. Disappeared flashing Lee a cattish smile, was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared.

S AMMIE’ S EXCITED CRYjerked Becky upright from napping among the plane’s pillows. On the hard seat, Sammie no longer huddled dozing against her. “Wake up!” Sammie demanded again, shaking Becky so hard she knocked their pillows to the floor. “Daddy’s awake, he’s waking up.”

“Shhh,” Becky said, hugging the child against her, glancing around at awakened and annoyed passengers. Curious faces rose up from the seats ahead, looking back staring at them. Becky turned away, cuddling Sammie to quiet her. They had left Atlanta in mid-morning, had already changed planes in Dallas, with two more stops ahead before they reached L.A., and every moment of the journey excruciating as they worried over Morgan

“He’s awake,” Sammie repeated, then, “He knows. Daddy knows they found the money. He’s waking up and he knows. Oh, Mama . . .” The child’s face was alight, she hugged Becky hard.

“Shhh,” Becky said again, “tell me quietly.”

“ This is what it’s about,” Sammie whispered, sounding very grown-up, “ this is why they climbed the wall.”

Every night since Morgan and Lee escaped, Sammie had cried out in her dreams, afraid and often defiant; she had traveled with them all that long journey, not sleeping much, not eating well. But now, tonight, she seemed stronger. Now it was Becky herself who was shaken and clinging, who needed Sammie to hold her.

Around them passengers continued to stare and some to grumble. Mother and daughter were silent, their tears mingling against each other’s faces. When Misto pressed suddenly between them warm and comforting, Sammie put her arms around the ghost cat, too, and smiled contentedly at Becky. Everything was all right now, everything would be all right. She hugged Misto. What should be would be. Their life, despite the bumps and hurts yet to come, was moving on in the right direction, just as her good cat knew it should.

L EE WOKE ATdawn from a short nap on the empty bed, his wrinkled clothes binding him. He swung to the floor—and there was Becky sitting beside Morgan’s bed on the straight wooden chair.