The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape Read online

  Only when the old steam trains began to vanish, replaced by diesels too fast for any horseman, did Russell change his methods. He took on a few partners and moved into the new era. But Lee didn’t like the diesels; he stuck to the few steam trains remaining, on the smaller lines. He had stayed away from the large and vicious train gangs that Russell sometimes confronted. Detective Pinkerton had long ago become a whole army of Pinkertons, and for a long while Russell avoided them, too, as he avoided the shadow that hounded him.

  The cat looked down from the dresser at Lee so deeply lost in tales of the past century, then nosed with curiosity at the picture of Lee’s little sister that Lee had placed beside the lamp, the tintype of Mae taken some sixty years ago, the picture that could easily be of Misto’s own Sammie.

  Sometimes in Misto’s spirit life distant events came to him clearly; other times they remained uncertain, endlessly frustrating. Lee knew nothing of Sammie Blake, but Misto felt clearly that the child and the old man would meet.

  The ghost cat lost in speculation, and Lee lost in the past, were jerked back to the present when the noon whistle blasted.

  Carefully closing the book, Lee rose, washed his hands and face, and headed out to the mess hall. Misto, leaping on the bed, knowing Lee would return to his room directly after lunch for the noon count, pawed out a warm nest among the covers and snuggled down, purring. A count was taken every morning, another after lunch, a third count before supper. Lee had no work detail at Springfield. It still amused Lee and amused Misto that the prison work, the gardening and kitchen, the farm work, the cleaning and maintenance was handled by trusties from other prisons. Men assigned from Leavenworth, from El Reno, or from the Atlanta Pen, first offenders chosen as the most responsible among their prison populations.

  Once Lee had left for lunch, closing the door behind him, the cat’s thoughts turned back to Georgia where the murder trial of Sammie’s daddy was about to begin. The tomcat was well aware of Morgan Blake’s arrest. He knew Morgan hadn’t committed the murder he was charged with, he had suffered with Sammie when her daddy was jailed. He didn’t doubt this trial would herald a painful time in the lives of the Blake family; he didn’t like to think what life would be like if Morgan was found guilty and sent to federal prison on a life sentence. Bank robbery and murder weren’t looked upon kindly in rural Georgia. Morgan was just a young man, a clean-living, hardworking man who did not deserve the bad luck, the cold and deliberate evil that now surrounded him and his family.

  The ghost cat, vanishing and reappearing as he pleased, visited Sammie often. He would snuggle into her dreams at night and into her arms to comfort her. Though he remained unseen, Sammie stroked and cuddled him, put out a finger to feel his soft paw or gently scratched his ragged ears the way she’d done when he was alive. She didn’t question that he was a ghost, she loved and needed him. But when, deep in the night, Sammie slept soundly, at peace again, Misto would return to Lee.

  Often at night Misto was filled with Lee’s sickness; he could feel within his own body Lee’s struggle for breath, his fear of what lay ahead, his desperate bouts of depression. And often at night Misto puzzled mightily over the connection between Mae and Sammie. Always the future blurred, as undefined as if the dark spirit himself had stepped between the ghost cat and whatever beckoned, whatever waited for Lee.

  4

  LATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT shone in through the Blakes’ living room windows, brightening the white wicker furniture and flowered cushions, the potted red geraniums on the sill, the hooked rug Becky’s mother had made. Slanting sunlight heightened the carved details of the antique pie safe that had belonged to a great-aunt Becky had never known. All her treasures gathering the afternoon glow would normally comfort her, warm and welcoming; but now, at this moment, Becky’s beloved retreat seemed close and constricting, the colors too bright, the sunlight brassy. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair like a stranger in her own house, holding her white purse awkwardly on her knees, her dark hair damp with perspiration. She had no idea how long she had sat there. Thinking too much and then not thinking at all, just sitting, numb and unfeeling, incapable of thought.

  The trial was over. After a long and shattering three days in the hot, crowded courtroom, Morgan had been found guilty on one count of murder, three counts of assault and attempted murder, and one count of armed robbery, sentence to be pronounced after an extended noon break.

  During the trial she hadn’t slept much at night, had lain awake staring into the dark, unable to deal with the concept of a death sentence. Praying, praying it would at least be a life sentence, but then wondering what that would do to Morgan. Wondering if all the rest of his life spent in prison was better than death, when he had done nothing? When he had not killed that man?

  In court this afternoon waiting for the judge to pronounce sentence she had been so shaky and so terribly cold. She had attended all of the trial alone, unwilling to bring Sammie into the courtroom, make the child listen to the ugly accusations. Alone, she had listened as Morgan received sentence. Life plus twenty-five years.

  She didn’t remember leaving the building. The last formalities of the trial had swirled around her without meaning. She had been allowed to embrace Morgan and kiss him awkwardly as he stood handcuffed and desolate between the two guards. He had been taken away to a cell, shackled and helpless. He would be driven to Atlanta tomorrow morning, in a U.S. marshal’s car. She and Sammie must be there by eight if they were to say good-bye. A few minutes with him at the jail before he was taken away. After that she and Sammie would see him only when they drove down to Atlanta to visit with him like a stranger inside the prison walls.

  She felt uncertain about taking Sammie to the jail in the morning to say good-bye. Sammie having to part with him there behind bars, part with him maybe forever. But how could she not take her? The child had a right to be there no matter how painful the parting. To be excluded would be far more heartbreaking.

  She didn’t remember coming home after the sentencing. She remembered coming in the house, sitting down in the chair. She didn’t know how long she had sat there, but evening was falling, the sun slanting low. She had not gone to her mother’s, where she and Sammie were staying. She’d needed to pull herself together before she faced Sammie, before she went to tell Sammie.

  Tell her they must begin now to live the rest of their lives without him.

  Unless they could get an appeal, could win an appeal. That was the only chance they had. The only chance for Morgan to come home, to ever set foot inside his own house again, for him to live his life in freedom, the only chance for them to hold each other close, to be a family again.

  Was he never again to play ball with Sammie, take her to the automotive shop to hand him his tools, as she so loved to do? Tomorrow he would leave Rome for the last time, to be locked in that vast concrete prison that rose on the south side of Atlanta, its high gray walls austere and forbidding, its guard towers catching light where loaded rifles shone in the hands of grim-faced guards. The world they had built together had ended. Their family’s carefully nurtured life, their gentle protection of one another against whatever chaos existed in the world, had all been for nothing. Morgan’s war years fighting against the tyranny of Japan and Germany, his safe return, had been for nothing.

  But, she thought, Morgan’s contribution to his country, to America’s successful campaigns, had not been for nothing. And yet now, after all he had given, Morgan himself had been betrayed.

  The jury of their own neighbors had believed—all of them believed—that Morgan had murdered the bank guard, had beaten those women and taken the bank money. The jury’s unanimous vote was beyond her comprehension. Such unfairness didn’t happen, not under the free government which, in the war, Morgan and so many men had fought to preserve. Morgan faced the rest of his life behind prison walls for crimes he’d had nothing to do with, to be harried by armed guards, harassed and maybe beaten by other prisoners, at the mercy of men as vicious as caged
beasts. He didn’t belong in there, she didn’t want him in there; she wanted to scream and never stop screaming, wanted to put her fist through the window and smash it, hurt and bloody herself. She wanted to arm herself and find Brad Falon and kill him, wanted to destroy Falon just as he had destroyed Morgan and shattered the life of their little girl. She would kill him, except for Sammie, for what that would do to Sammie.

  Falon had always been hateful. When they were kids in high school Morgan hadn’t seen how twisted Falon was, he’d seen Falon’s adventurous side, his boldness, had admired Brad Falon for the brash things he did that Morgan was reluctant to do. Though Morgan hadn’t wanted Falon hanging around her. She’d never told Morgan the extent of Falon’s unwanted attention when he found her alone; she’d tried never to be alone with him. Falon was possessed of a cruelty that she guessed some young men, with all that animal energy, found exciting. They were halfway through high school before Morgan realized how twisted Falon was and backed off, leaving Falon to pull his petty thefts alone. But after Morgan left for the navy, Falon started coming around, increasingly pushy, refusing to leave her alone. He had frightened her then. Now he terrified her.

  There was no doubt Falon had set Morgan up, had drugged him, left him unconscious in Morgan’s own car that afternoon. Had left him parked there in the woods overnight while Falon himself, disguised as Morgan, had walked into the bank, killed the guard, beaten the bank clerks, locked them in the vault and walked out with the money. Falon’s planted evidence, the scattered hundred-dollar bills and canvas bank bag in Morgan’s car, had incriminated Morgan well enough, coupled with Morgan’s inability to remember where he’d been all afternoon and night. Though it was Natalie Hooper’s testimony that, in the end, had sealed the conviction.

  Anyone with common sense could see that the woman was lying, but the jury hadn’t seen it. Gullible and unthinking, they had bought Natalie’s story that Falon had spent the afternoon and all night with her, in her apartment. It was Natalie’s lies that the jury believed. That fact alone left Becky hating her neighbors.

  Rome was a small town, everyone knew Morgan, knew he was a good man, knew how hard he worked at the automotive shop he had built. And everyone knew Brad Falon, knew he’d been in trouble all through school, had been in Juvenile Hall and later in prison. Everyone knew that Falon meant trouble, and that Natalie wasn’t much better. What dark and twisted leverage, what illusion, had been at work in the courtroom while that slovenly woman occupied the witness stand? That slattern with her wild black hair and tight skirts and jangling jewelry who had already gone through three husbands and a dozen lovers? What magnetism had been in play among the unseeing jury of townspeople, of six men and six women, to make them believe Natalie, to allow her to successfully hoodwink them?

  Becky didn’t know how she was going to tell Sammie that her daddy wasn’t coming home. She felt drained, wanted to be with her own mother, wanted Caroline to hold and comfort her as if she herself were a child again. Wanted Caroline to reassure and strengthen her as they must now support Sammie. She wanted to be the little girl again, to be held and soothed, to be told what to do, told how to live her life, now that they were alone.

  After the verdict Becky had phoned Caroline from the glassed-in phone booth at the courthouse, trying not to cry. Later, after the sentencing, she had phoned her mother again, had stood with her back to the glass door that faced the courthouse hallway, avoiding the eyes of her neighbors as they crowded out of the courtroom glancing at her with righteous or with embarrassed stares. She had wanted only to be away from them, to remove herself even from the few awkward attempts at sympathy. She hated her neighbors, she hated the jury that was made up of her neighbors, she hated the courts, hated the judge, the police, hated the damned attorney who had lost for them.

  Sitting rigid on the edge of the chair, she thought of making herself a cup of tea. She hadn’t eaten since last night, but she didn’t care enough to get up and put the kettle on or to rummage in the refrigerator for something she thought she could keep down. She needed to pull herself together, needed to go on over to her mother’s and tell Sammie. She didn’t know how to face Sammie, didn’t known how to present the truth to her. Even if she talked about an appeal, tried to say he might be coming home, that wouldn’t be straightforward, the hope was too slim. If one attorney couldn’t win for them, how could another? She and Morgan had always been honest with Sammie. With the perceptive dreams Sammie had, one couldn’t be otherwise, couldn’t sidestep the true facts even though they were painful.

  Sammie knew as well as she did that Brad Falon had set Morgan up, that the child feared and hated Falon and with good cause. While Morgan was overseas Falon broke into their house, terrified them both, and killed Sammie’s cat: Sammie knew too well what he was. The fact that this man had destroyed her daddy made the blow all the more frightening. That night when he broke in, Sammie’s yellow tomcat had leaped on Falon and done considerable damage before Falon killed him with a shard of broken glass. Sammie had never gotten over Misto’s death, she still dreamed of him. Sometimes she imagined he was there in bed snuggled close to her, she imagined that Misto’s ghost had come back to her. But lots of children had imaginary companions. The dreams comforted Sammie, and they hurt no one.

  It was Sammie’s dreams of future events that were upsetting. Powerful predictions that, days or weeks later, would turn out to come true: the courthouse fire that Sammie dreamed in surprising detail exactly as it would later happen, its fallen brick walls, every detail occurring just as she’d seen.

  There were happy dreams, too, the birth of the neighbor’s kittens, each with the same exact coloring that Sammie saw in her dream. But then had come the terrifying nightmare that brought Sammie up screaming that her daddy had been arrested and shoved behind bars, that he had been locked in a cell by the very officers who had been Morgan’s friends. That was the beginning. It had all happened, the robbery, Morgan’s arrest, Morgan locked in jail just as she’d dreamed.

  On the witness stand, Falon told the jury that, originally, Morgan had driven over to look at Falon’s stalled Ford coupe, which was parked in front of Natalie’s apartment building. He said Morgan had noted the parts he must order and then had left, saying he was going back to the shop. Morgan’s mechanic testified that Morgan had never returned there, that at closing time he’d locked the shop up himself and gone home.

  Falon said when Morgan came to look at his car he had acted nervous and seemed anxious to get away. He said he’d gone back upstairs to Natalie’s after Morgan left. Said he’d come down again shortly before three, walked across the street to the corner store and bought some candy and gum. The shopkeeper had testified to that, he said he’d seen Falon go back to the apartment building and in the front door. Falon testified that he had been with Natalie the rest of the afternoon and all night. When Natalie took the stand to corroborate his testimony she had blushed and tried to act shy that they had spent the night together. Right, Becky had thought angrily, and how many dozen other men over the years.

  The court had allowed Becky to sit at the table with Morgan and Sed Williams, their attorney. She’d had a hard time avoiding the stares of the packed gallery. She had listened to the bank tellers identify Morgan’s voice, identify his hands with the thin lines of grease that clung in deep creases and around his nails, from his work in the auto shop when he forgot to wear gloves. The empty bootleg whiskey bottle the police found in Morgan’s car had Morgan’s fingerprints on it. Everyone in town knew that Morgan and she didn’t drink. A shopkeeper across the street from the bank had heard the shots, had seen Morgan’s car pull away, and had written down the license number.

  Why couldn’t the jury see that Falon had planted it all? Why couldn’t they see that? Her helplessness there in the courtroom, her inability to speak up and correct this evil, had made her physically ill.

  Now, when she rose from the wicker chair to go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, her stomach twisted so hard
that she ran for the bathroom. She threw up in the sink, angrily cleaned the sink and scrubbed it with cleanser, then began to pace the house, living room to the two small bedrooms to kitchen, then back again, aimless and lost, desperate with rage.

  An appeal was the only chance they had, was all they had to cling to. She had to think about that. How to get the money together? The best way to find a more competent attorney. She shouldn’t have hired Williams; he was too quiet, too low-key. She had thought he was a family friend, that he really cared about Morgan and would work hard for him. She’d thought that his quiet, professional manner in the courtroom would help them get to the truth. But when he had a witness on the stand she’d seen how weak he was, with no ability to defend his client.

  She didn’t know how to start an appeal. She didn’t know if there was a waiting period, didn’t know how appeals worked. She’d been so sure Morgan would be acquitted that she hadn’t bothered to find out. She had to find a new attorney and figure out how to pay him. They’d bought the house after Morgan went in the navy, with the smallest payments they could obtain. Maybe she could get a second mortgage or borrow money on the shop. She wanted an attorney who would dig harder, a man strong enough to make a new jury see the truth. She tried to cheer herself that an appeal would end the nightmare, that Morgan would be out soon, that it wouldn’t be long and he’d be home again. Meantime she could run the shop just fine. Albert, the new mechanic, was a skilled worker even if he was dull about everything else. She knew she could take on more bookkeeping jobs, she always had a waiting list. Sammie would be in school, and she’d have plenty of time to work. Long empty nights in which to work. Long, empty weekends.