The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

22

THEY PULLED INTO Rome 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.

Answering the door, Caroline led Sergeant Trevis through to the kitchen, where they wouldn’t wake Sammie. She set a cup of coffee and a plate of brownies on the table before him, and coffee for her and Becky. Trevis took off his cap, laid it on the table beside his field book. The tall, lean officer had just had a haircut, leaving a pale line against his fading tan.

Becky described Falon’s attack on the bridge and, at Caroline’s insistent look, she told Trevis about the break-in, and that Falon had attacked her earlier behind the drugstore.

“You filed reports in both cases? And identified Falon?” Trevis looked doubtful. He knew she hadn’t given Falon’s name, the department had already talked with Atlanta.

“I filed a report only for the break-in. I said I didn’t know who the man was,” Becky told him.

“Why?” Trevis asked.

“I was afraid. That when they released him, if he knew I’d given his name, he’d be all the more dangerous.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I was afraid for Sammie.” Trevis’s look puzzled her. “What else would there be?”

“There’s nothing between you and Falon?”

She stared at Trevis.

“I didn’t tell her,” Caroline said. “She hasn’t heard the gossip.”

Becky looked from her mother to Trevis. “What gossip?”

“There’s a story around town,” Trevis said, “that you’re seeing Falon. That you and Falon planned the bank robbery, that the two of you set Morgan up, wanted him sent to prison, to get rid of him. Some folks say you’re living with Falon, in Atlanta.”

She looked at him in silence. Her closest friends couldn’t think this. She found it hard to believe that Morgan’s automotive customers, or even the bookkeeping clients who had let her go, would believe it, and certainly not the members of their church.

Yet nearly the whole town seemed to have bought into what the jury believed, to the lies, under oath, on the witness stand. So why wouldn’t they believe this? “Does everyone think that?” she said softly

“Where are you living?” Trevis said.

“With my aunt, Mama’s sister. But if you talked with the Atlanta police, you already know that. How long . . .” she said, “how long have people been saying this?”

“Not everyone—” Trevis began.

“How long?”

“The stories began shortly after the trial.”

She looked at her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is this part of why I lost my accounts, not just Morgan going to prison, but these lies?” She didn’t know much about the rest of the world, but gossip, in a small Southern town, was a cherished commodity, a traditional and beloved pastime.

“For a long time,” Caroline said, “I didn’t hear the stories, no one said anything to me. I suppose they knew I’d be furious. No one treated me any differently, except maybe for a look or two, as if some people felt sorry for me. I didn’t hear this story until you’d moved to Atlanta.” She put her hand over Becky’s. “When you had so many other troubles, I couldn’t add one more ugliness, there seemed no point in it.”

Across the table, Sergeant Trevis busied himself with his coffee and brownie. Becky said, “The police, all of you, believed Morgan was guilty. So when you heard this, you believed that, too.”

“We didn’t believe Morgan was guilty,” Trevis said.

“You acted like you did. You were terrible to him.”

“We are not supposed to voice judgment.”

“You showed judgment,” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be fair. The way you treated Morgan, the way you acted, you believed he was guilty from the minute you hauled him out of the car that morning, after he’d been drugged. You thought he was drunk when you know he doesn’t drink. You thought he killed the guard and robbed the bank. Afterward, when Morgan was in jail and Falon broke into my house, the officer who came was unforgivably rude.”

“Sometimes,” Trevis said, “when we have to keep a professional distance, we seem—gruff, I guess.”

She just looked at him.

“Some of us were wrong,” Trevis said. “Becky, we want Morgan to get an appeal.” He looked at her evenly. “To be truthful, I don’t know what made us so surly. We were all caught up in something, some violent feeling that I can’t explain, that was not professional.” Trevis’s face colored. “Like a bunch of little boys torturing a hurt animal. You’re right, we weren’t fair to Morgan.

“Not until after the trial was over,” he said, “after Morgan was down in Atlanta, did we seem to come to our senses, realize how ugly we’d been, how grossly we let him down. Becky, I don’t believe the story about you and Falon. I went to school with Falon, I know what he’s like.” He was quiet, then, “I do have some good news.” Trevis grinned, his tall frame easing back in his chair. “There’s a warrant out for Falon.”

“What, for the break-in? Not for the bank robbery?”

“No. He’s wanted in California. The warrant came in this morning. That’s why I got over here so fast. Seems he was involved in a series of real estate scams out there, and fraud by wire. The bureau traced him from California to Chattanooga, to some large bank accounts there under fictitious names, and then traced him here.”

“Then when you find him, he’ll be in jail? He’ll be locked up where he can’t reach us?”

“If you didn’t kill him, on the bridge,” Trevis said with the hint of a smile. “If we can find him, he’ll be transported by the U.S. marshal’s office to California, he’ll be held in jail there to await arraignment and trial.”

She wanted to hug Trevis. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“The U.S. attorney in L.A. seems hot to move on him,” Trevis said. “There were five men involved. The other four have been indicted. With any luck, Falon should be in federal court in L.A. fairly soon.”

“And if he’s convicted?” Becky said. “Oh, he won’t be sent back here, to prison in Atlanta?” He won’t be imprisoned with Morgan, she thought, where Falon would hurt or kill him.

“If he’s convicted in California, there’s no reason to return him to Georgia. Terminal Island, maybe, that’s the closest to L.A. where he’d be tried.”

“How long would he be there? How long would he get?”

“On those charges, the maximum might be thirty years, the minimum maybe twenty. With parole and good time, maybe half that.”

“Ten years at least,” she said softly. “Ten years, free of Falon.”

“If he comes out on parole,” Trevis said, “and is caught doing anything out of line, he’ll be revoked and sent back.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “If you file a complaint now and amend the complaint you filed with Atlanta, give them his name, then the probation department will have that information. That means, if he comes out on parole they’ll do their best to keep him away from you. Have you heard anything on the appeal? Quaker Lowe has been up from Atlanta several times, reading the reports, talking with the witnesses.”

“He’s working hard on it, Trevis.”

Trevis rose. “He’s a good man, good reputation.” He came around the table and hugged Becky. That startled her. His closeness was caring and honest, this was the Trevis she knew. In that moment, she felt as soothed as Sammie must have felt when Grandma wrapped the plaid blanket around her.