A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Barker lifted his half-empty glass of Scotch.

  “Till that day, Hank, bottoms up!”

  The coffee arrived, and Fallon sipped while the bartender refilled Barker’s tumbler.

  “How you doin’, Hank?” Barker asked. “I mean. Your head and all? That was some doin’ with that riot and all.”

  “I’m fine. You know how dense my skull is.” Barker was drinking, then wiping his mouth, and asked, “Wife? Kids?”

  “Fine. But just one daughter.”

  “What’s keeping you from increasing the size of your herd?”

  Fallon made himself smile, but got to the point. “Why do you want to move the prisoners to the courthouse?”

  “Bowen Hardin?” Barker laughed and took another sip of Scotch. “Hank, the scaffold for hanging that cretin is in back of the courthouse. A barricade has been put up. Public executions are a thing of the past, ol’ hoss. Too gory for common folks. Indecent for kids to see.” Fallon started to interrupt, but the prosecutor raised his hand and kept right on talking. “You have to get a special invitation to watch Bowen Hardin swing. Last I heard, a ticket was selling for two hundred and twenty dollars. But you can get in free, of course.” He smiled, Fallon opened his mouth, but Barker kept talking. “Anyway, it made sense to get Hardin to the courthouse’s cellar. Lock him up there. That way all we have to do is bring him up the stairs, through the door, into the enclosure, and then march him up the thirteen steps to the trapdoor, read the death warrant, and send him on his long drop and short rope to the hereafter.”

  He needed a drink after that, and took a healthy swallow.

  “I understand Hardin. But Indianola Anderson?”

  “Security.” Barker set the glass down. His face turned serious. “That comes from the A.G., Hank. It wasn’t my idea. My understanding is that he—and all of the big to-do’s in Washington, D.C.—they were more than a little concerned about the security at the federal pen.”

  Fallon could even accept that. “And Aaron Holderman?”

  “He’s a key witness. You should know that, too, Hank. If you can keep a secret, Holderman is going to plead guilty on the first day—reduced sentence, to serve concurrently with what he has left. He’ll testify for us. We’ll make sure that son of a dog—Indianola Anderson, I mean—swings, too. Maybe we can use the same gallows we put up for Bowen Hardin.”

  “There are only two holding cells in the courthouse,” Fallon said. “Hardin gets one to himself, I hope.”

  “Yeah.” He finished his drink, but, to Fallon’s surprise, told the bartender that he was finished . . . at least until after he took his dinner.

  “So you’re going to put Anderson and Holderman in the same cell?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If Anderson knows what Holderman’s going to do, Holderman’s a dead man.”

  “He won’t know what Holderman has agreed to do for us, Hank. And once Bowen Hardin drops through the gallows, there will be an opening in the other cell.” He grinned. “Don’t you see? It all works out perfectly. And you don’t have to worry about escorting prisoners and witnesses—at least these key ones—to the courthouse from your penitentiary every day. Though I don’t think the trial will last more than two days at the most. Should be short and quick.”

  He drew in a deep breath, held it, and grinned again. His face was ruddier now.

  “All right,” Fallon said. “So what is Sean MacGregor doing in the holding cell in the courthouse?”

  Barker’s eyes narrowed.

  “Sean MacGregor,” Fallon said. “He was in the old penitentiary during the breakout attempt. I checked the records and the log. He works once a week on the new pen. He wasn’t working when all that hell broke out.”

  Barker shook his head.

  “Well?” Fallon showed him the judge’s order that included MacGregor’s transfer. “Why would he testify?”

  The prosecutor scowled. “Who the hell is Sean MacGregor?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Troubled, Fallon stepped through the hotel doors, and turned down the boardwalk, moving faster than most of the pedestrians. Something was wrong. Wrong with Judge Lawrence Mitchum’s order, and perhaps something wrong with the federal judge himself. But why . . . ? A thought flashed through Fallon’s mind, and he ducked inside the alcove of a grocery store and pulled the telegraph from his pocket.

  “Idiot.” He cursed his casualness, that lack of concentration. Orders from a federal judge. Strictly routine. The warden didn’t even have to see them, and, as Fallon read the scribbled line at the top, he knew Judge Lawrence Mitchum had not meant for Fallon to get the telegraph. Preston the clerk probably hadn’t even looked at who the telegraph was for, and the clerk from the telegraph office had likely just handed it to the first person he saw in the building.

  TO: Montgomery Berrien,

  Federal Penitentiary, Leavenworth, Kans.

  Poor Monty’s path down the straight and narrow had not lasted too long. Maybe he had been blackmailed. The bookkeeper got the order, but he simply passed it on to the guards. No one would have thought anything about it until after. After what? When? Where? He knew this had to mean another breakout, and he figured that Sean MacGregor was among the conspirators. MacGregor was the only person with money, likely stashed away so that only his crooked lawyer had access to it, to pay for anything this big. He’d bring Aaron Holderman because of what little loyalty MacGregor had. And the others because they were just as ruthless as the crooked detective—but a whole lot handier at cold-blooded murder. Exactly the kind of men MacGregor would need to get his sorry hide down to Mexico.

  Now all Fallon had to do was stop it. Which would be easy enough, he thought, and he stopped at the corner, about to turn to head back toward the old prison, when he felt the hard jab of steel against his backbone.

  “Why don’t we walk to the landing instead?” a voice whispered.

  Fallon started to turn to his right, but another man bumped against him, casually opening his palm to reveal a derringer. “Ain’t this burg seen enough blood on its streets already?” the man whispered, and closed his big hand around the hideaway gun. The revolver in his back pushed harder, and Fallon turned away from the prison and when a beer wagon rolled past, he crossed the street. The man with the derringer stayed at Fallon’s right. The one with the gun—likely in a coat pocket—stayed right behind Fallon, although not close enough to press the barrel against Fallon’s backbone.

  “Kidnapping,” Fallon said as he walked with the crowd, but not loud enough for anyone to hear him but the one with the hideaway piece of iron, “is against the law.”

  “So’s murder,” the man said with a malevolent grin. “Herzog and me . . . well . . .” He stopped, tipped his Texas-size black cowboy hat to a woman carrying a basket coming at them. She paid no attention. And the man with the derringer did not finish his sentence. Not that he needed to, because Fallon knew what the gunman meant.

  The throng thinned, eventually vanishing to only Fallon and the two gunmen, as they proceeded toward the Missouri River’s banks. Mosquitoes now buzzed, and the smell of stagnant water, rotting weeds, marsh, and dead fish grew thicker. Smoke belched from a stern-wheeler near the banks, and another large boat was making its way downstream toward Leavenworth, but the man with the derringer said, “This way.” And they turned away from the landing.

  Getting me far enough away from town so no one will hear the shot, Fallon figured, and tried to think when he should make his play. He wasn’t just going to let these vermin put a bullet through the back of his head without something resembling an argument.

  The approaching steamboat laid on its horn, and Fallon tensed as he walked. That horn would definitely drown out a gunshot, but now Fallon saw something even more troubling. He heard the singing and the laughter as Fallon and the two killers moved toward the river’s edge. A bunch of schoolchildren—no, these boys and girls were no older than Rachel Renee, too young to be in a private or public school in town�
�splashed in the water as two elderly ladies told them to be careful, not to wade in too deep, and for Billy Joe to quit pulling on Norma’s pigtails.

  Church group, Fallon figured. Bible school or something like that.

  “The boat,” the one behind Fallon ordered, and Fallon saw the rowboat on the banks just beyond the kids. He nodded politely and tipped his hat at the two chaperones and stopped twenty yards later in front of the boat. The man with the derringer got in first.

  “Your turn,” Herzog said, and Fallon felt the pressure of the revolver’s barrel again.

  He looked up the bank. Still too close to those children. His boots splashed in the water and he climbed into the center row. Then Herzog, bigger than the man with the derringer and big cowboy hat, pulled his hands out of the pockets of his ratty-looking coat, leaned forward and pushed the boat into the current, quickly stepping in and finding a place facing Fallon.

  “Don’t just sit there like an anchor, Festus,” Herzog grumbled. “Row.”

  The man cursed but pulled a paddle from the boat’s bottom. He knew how to row a boat. Fallon figured that out in a hurry. And the current quickly swept them downstream.

  The boat bounced off a piece of slow-moving driftwood, causing the men to tilt port and starboard a few times, but not long enough, not hard enough for Fallon to make a play at survival. “Hellfire, Festus. Watch where you’re goin’?”

  “Well, tell me what’s ahead of me, you damned fool. I can’t see through you.”

  “I gotta keep my eye on our special guest,” Herzog said.

  The Missouri was wide, and they kept the boat in the middle of the muddy, powerful water.

  “How far are we going?” Fallon asked.

  “You’re going farther than we are, pal.” Herzog grinned. Behind Fallon, Festus laughed. “To the depths of this river, and the deepest pit in hell.”

  Fallon sighed.

  Herzog leaned to the right. “Those big paddleboats aren’t coming our way. Yet.”

  Festus brought the oar up and over to the port side. “Let’s get around this bend,” Festus said. “There’s a thicket of woods, real swampy, they’ll never find his body.” He laughed. “Might even been some gators in there.”

  “There damned well better not be.” Herzog shuddered.

  All right, Fallon figured. This was part of the breakout plan. Get Fallon out of town, kill him. The prisoners would be transferred in the morning, before anyone thought enough to realize Harry Fallon was missing. A bit of a gamble. Someone might have spotted Fallon on the banks of the Missouri River, and there was still a chance one of those chaperones of the Bible school would mention it. But in this part of the country, three men getting in a boat and rowing downstream was nothing out of the ordinary. And that’s what made Fallon think his luck had soured even more.

  “Nobody’s fishing this afternoon,” Festus said.

  Herzog grinned. “Like my ol’ pap often said, ‘too hot to fish’ this time of year.”

  “Too hot to row this damned boat, too,” Festus grumbled.

  Herzog turned around as the boat rounded the bend, but not long enough for Fallon to make a move. He was facing Fallon again, the Colt .45 now out of his pocket and resting casually on his leg. “It’s clear, Festus,” he told his rower. “Make for the shore. We’ll get this over with and be back in Westport for breakfast.” He grinned at Fallon.

  “Hell,” Fallon said, and brought his hands off his thighs. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Hell, no,” Herzog said. “As long as you roll one for me.”

  Fallon shook his head. “Sorry. I have a cigar. Not a cigarette.”

  “Well.” Herzog straightened. “I’m partial to that particular weed, too. What about you, Festus? You want a cigar?”

  “Don’t take your damned eyes off that sneaky bastard,” Festus warned.

  But by then, Fallon had pulled the Schofield .45 from the back of his waistband. Had Herzog put the barrel of his Colt three more inches to his left, he would have felt the walnut butt of the big revolver. Now he was standing, swearing, rocking the boat while trying to get a better grip on the short-barreled Colt Peacemaker.

  “What the hell!” Festus yelled, not seeing either gun. “Sit down, you dumb . . .”

  “Nooooo!” Herzog was screaming as his thumb managed to find its proper spot on the Colt’s hammer. But he never got the weapon cocked.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Schofield kicked like a cannon, silencing Herzog’s scream. Crimson and carnage exploded from the center of Herzog’s shirt and sprayed the rowboat’s bow and the muddy water ahead of it with red drops and gore. The Colt arced and spun wildly, splashing in the river, and at the same time Herzog, already dead, was toppling into the river.

  Keeping his balance proved awkward, but Fallon managed to turn, seeing Festus, face grim, eyes hardening. He was smarter than Herzog. That much Fallon knew because the oarsman knew better than to try to find the derringer in his coat pocket. Instead, he brought the oar up and swung. He didn’t have enough time, or strength, for a crushing, killing blow, but the wet hickory paddle’s thin side slammed hard into Fallon’s hip, a stinging, painful blow that likely would leave a bone bruise—if he lived long enough.

  His feet slipped on the wet bottom of the boat. Fallon felt himself suspended in air, wondering if he would hit the water. Instead, the boat managed to catch him. His shoulder throbbed. He rolled over, aware that he still held the Schofield in his right hand, but had not had enough time to thumb back the hammer. And the boat rocked violently, a ship in a gale in the North Atlantic.

  The paddle came down again, but Fallon twisted his head away and felt the shudder of the blow just inches from his ear. That blow, and the boat’s violent actions, caused Festus to lose his own footing. He came down on his knees, cursing, his teeth cracking hard against one another. And he lost his hold on the long end of the paddle. It bounced on the bottom, but the bottom was now filled with at least four inches of water from the Big Muddy.

  Fallon came up, began thumbing back the hammer. Festus was reaching for the derringer he had slipped inside a pocket, but realized he’d never be able to get it. So he dived, extending both arms, lunging and cursing and praying. The Schofield came to half cock, then Festus’s river-hardened mitts clasped on the big .45 and Fallon’s right hand. The hammer slipped, ripping off a chunk of skin below Fallon’s pinky. They rolled, and that caused the waterlogged boat to capsize, sending Fallon and Festus, locked together, into the dark, deep, dangerous waters of the Missouri River.

  Head-first they disappeared into murkiness, then blackness, dropping into the depths like a heavy anchor. Festus wrestled with the Schofield, tried a punch into Fallon’s exposed ribs, but that had no effect. Fallon opened his mouth, tried to breathe, but quickly stopped. His eyes opened, but he saw what appeared to be bubbles and nothing more. They kept going down, as though Festus was driving with his legs, pushing them deeper and deeper and deeper.

  The pressure built in Fallon’s head. In his lungs. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his breath, and for a Missouri boy in the hills, he never had been much of a swimmer. Decent. Enough to save himself. But in the creeks and streams and ponds. Not in anything like this impenetrable ugliness.

  Suddenly he was freed. Festus had lost his hold, or was trying to swim back to the surface. Fallon felt himself twisting in the current, and he kicked his legs, reached out with his arms, grabbed water, and pulled and pulled. He realized he still held the Schofield. His mind told him to get rid of that extra weight. His fear made him unable to work the muscles and joints in his fingers. He swam. Swam. Until he realized he wasn’t swimming to the sky, the beautiful air, but to the depths of the Missouri. To the muddy bottom.

  To his own watery grave.

  He stopped, somersaulted in the mud and thick and wetness, and kicked hard. Up now. His lungs almost exhausted, his arms and legs spent. The pressure screaming in his head. But faint light appeared ahead. Almost. Alm
ost. Just keep grabbing that water and pulling it back. Don’t stop kicking.

  He stopped so suddenly he felt he had been hooked. And soon realized he had, but not by a fisherman. A hand grabbed his ankle, pulling him down, down, down again.

  Panic rose so quickly, he almost breathed in water. Almost drowned. Another hand grabbed his waistband, jerked. And Fallon realized he was dancing in the dark deep water with Festus. The killer was trying to force him down, make him give up. Festus, Fallon realized, was the seaman, the man of the water, the swimmer. Fallon was doomed. He couldn’t see the killer’s face, could hardly make out anything about the man’s body, but he knew Festus was pulling him down. Festus could outlast Fallon under the water. Festus had all the advantages.

  But Harry Fallon still held the Schofield.

  The hammer cocked. He shoved the barrel into what he thought was Festus’s belly.

  Fallon squeezed the trigger.

  For a moment, Fallon wasn’t sure what had happened. In water, he didn’t know if the gun would fire or not. Yes, the Schofield fired brass cartridges, not the paper cap-and-ball bullets that Fallon had used as a boy. Those would never work when wet. But a brass cartridge sometimes protected the powder. Sometimes. Not always.

  Yet his hand shuddered, and whatever had been holding Fallon stopped. Now he dropped the Schofield. It was like cutting loose the ball and chain bringing him down. He pushed up, using his hands against the shoulders of the sinking corpse of Festus, forcing Fallon up, and Festus’s body down. He reached up, brought water back. Kicked. Kicked. Fallon kicked as hard as he could, wanting to scream, to pray, wanting to reach that whiteness that he could just make out.

  His head and arms and shoulders emerged into bright sunlight. He sucked in air, and dropped beneath the water. He came up again, and this time he was above the water long enough to scream: “HELP!”