The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

40

THE 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.

SAMMIE’S EXCITED CRY jerked 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.

LEE WOKE AT dawn 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.

The room was barely light. Morgan had turned on his side, Lee could see the rise and fall of his chest, see the IV tube swing when Morgan shifted his arm. He watched Morgan reach up and tenderly touch Becky’s face. Lee wanted to shout and do a little dance. Morgan was awake. He sat silently on the bed, looking.

Becky’s navy suit was rumpled from traveling, her eyes red from either crying or fatigue, her dark hair limp around her face. He saw no suitcase, then remembered that Storm had put them in a motel last night. Sammie lay curled up at the foot of Morgan’s bed, her head on a pillow so she could see Morgan, her blond hair tumbled across the prison blanket. He remembered how warm she had been the times he had held her, infinitely warm and alive. Sammie’s gaze didn’t leave Morgan. But slowly Becky looked up at Lee.

It was all there in her face, her pain from the long weeks when she didn’t know where they were or what was happening to Morgan, didn’t know whether he was alive or dead. Her relief when at last Storm called to say they had turned themselves in, relief that Morgan was alive—and then the phone call that he was injured, that the doctors couldn’t wake him. She looked at Lee for a long time in silence, then, “Lee? How did you make him talk?”

Lee smiled. “I had a piece of steel cable. After he hurt Morgan, I showed him how to tie a necktie.”

Becky thought about that. She didn’t ask any more questions. Lee knew the guards would have found cable marks on Falon’s throat. So far no one had hauled him into Iverson about it; he wasn’t looking forward to that confrontation.

Maybe Storm’s friendship with Warden Iverson had stifled such inquiries. He could only hope so. When he looked again at Becky, there was amusement in her eyes. He grinned back at her, rose, grabbed the clean clothes the orderly had laid out for him, and went down the hall to the shower.

When he returned, Sammie lay snuggled in her daddy’s arms, Morgan’s face buried against her shoulder. Becky still sat in the chair, her hand lying against Morgan’s face, below the bandage. Lee looked at Morgan. “What did Falon hit you with, a brick?”

“A sock full of something hard as hell,” Morgan said. “Before I woke, you were talking to me. I kept reaching for your voice, trying to come awake, trying to make sense of what you were saying. Something about horses, about cattle. I kept trying to reach up to you, like swimming up through heavy molasses.”

“I figured you’d come awake when you got tired of hearing me.”

“You made Falon talk,” Morgan said. “The money . . . they have the money? His prints . . . ?” He eased up against the pillows, lifting Sammie with him, holding her close. “When do we go to court?”

“Storm’s hoping for a transfer of jurisdiction,” Lee said. “An arraignment out here, get it on the L.A. docket. You’ll have to be strong enough,” he said, “so you don’t go to sleep in the courtroom.”