Behind the Iron

by William W. Johnstone

  Fallon looked down at the ground floor. He hoped to see one of the guards running outside, to get help. Fallon had been in Joliet during an incredibly bloody riot. In fact, his actions during that riot had led to his parole. He had saved the lives of some guards. Of course, all that parole got him was working, though not officially, for the American Detective Agency and landing back in prison. Twice. But if a riot broke out here, the only life Fallon wanted to save was his own.

  A few feet from Fallon, Kemp Carver stopped. They were closer to Fallon’s side of the chamber, but not by very much. The heckles, the catcalls, the curses, and the jeers became louder. When there was finally a bit of quiet, Kemp Carver swallowed and pointed behind Fallon.

  “I wanna see my cousin.”

  Fallon nodded. “Come ahead,” and he stepped to the side. There wouldn’t be much room for Carver to pass.

  “You go first,” Carver said.

  Fallon shook his head. “And let you come up behind me?”

  The one-armed man swallowed. The catcalls, hisses, and obscene gestures started up again.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Carver asked.

  “Come on, Carver,” Fallon said. “You’ve heard about me. I’ve been behind the iron for years now.”

  The man’s cold eyes brightened and he grinned. “Yeah. Joliet, though. You didn’t make it to Detroit. Detroit was the toughest house I ever got sent to. Till Linc Harper sold me out and I come here. You never been to Detroit, buster. You don’t know hell.”

  “I know Joliet,” Fallon said.

  “Yeah but . . .”

  Fallon cut him off. “You want to keep talking, Carver? My horse can outrun your horse? My pa can whup your pa? Is that your game?”

  The jeers echoed now. Fallon thought that some of the guards down below were joining the raucous commotion.

  “You want to see Ford, come ahead. But you try something, and you’ll lose your other arm.”

  The big hand turned again into a knot. Carver’s lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed into the tiniest slivers. He spit over the side and started toward Fallon, slowing his pace, then moving over toward Fallon’s left. Fallon gave him room, gripped the railing with his left hand, turning to his side to give the one-armed man room. Fallon’s right hand remained free. And ready.

  Now all of A-Hall turned silent. Every convict, every guard seemed to be holding his breath.

  As Kemp Carver came nearer, Fallon could see the sweat on the man’s face. He smelled sawdust. Maybe Carver was working in the furniture factory. He kept his eyes locked on Carver’s face, but he never lost sight of the man’s one, strong arm.

  Carver stopped, pushed his back against the railing, and slid his feet sideways. Eventually, he looked away from Fallon and concentrated on moving past him. He focused on the distance, on his cousin, on everything but the former deputy marshal he had pulled even with. He looked like all he wanted to do was get around Fallon and to the other side, to see to his sick, dying cousin.

  Fallon did not buy that for one second.

  So when Kemp Carver brought his left arm up quickly, Fallon was ready. He stepped toward Carver but kept his left hand tight against the railing. His right hand connected against the side of Carver’s face, a hard, rocking blow that landed before Carver’s swing could slam into Fallon. Only his balance, a good deal of luck, and the handrail that stretched about waist high from one end to the other kept the one-armed man from falling to his death.

  The one-armed man grunted but quickly shook his head to clear his vision and mind. His left hand held the railing tightly, and somehow he managed to lift himself off the pathway and kick both legs at Fallon.

  Fallon could not have expected that move from a one-armed man, but he was fast enough, experienced enough, to twist his body. One foot missed Fallon completely, and the second just grazed his new, rough prison pants. But even a graze from a man like Kemp Carver was enough to knock Fallon aside.

  He turned, jumped aside, and made sure he kept his balance while keeping both eyes on the murderous convict before him. Carver released his hold on the railing and touched his feet down near the side. His momentum carried him into the other railing, but his side and the stub of his right arm took the force of the blow when he struck the round iron bar. His left hand came over and caught the bar, too, and quickly, and very smoothly, Carver pushed himself away from the railing. He found his balance, spread his legs as far apart as he could on the narrow catwalk, and brought his one hand up, balling it into a rock-hard, crushing fist.

  Fallon, however, had not just been standing and waiting. He was moving, despite the twisting and shuddering of the walkway. Fallon had stepped toward Carver, and now he put both of his hands on each side of the railing, lifted his feet, and kicked out at the convict. The boots caught Carver in his stomach, and he almost doubled over. Fallon brought his feet down and pushed himself forward as he released his hold on the rails.

  Men cheered. Men cursed. Men howled with delight. Even those locked inside the cells, unable to see what was going on, began pounding the floors with their feet. It felt as if all of A-Hall was rocking as though the biggest earthquake since the one at New Madrid was striking Jefferson City.

  Carver saw Fallon coming, but he wasn’t quick enough to start a counterattack or bring his good hand up in a defensive movement. Fallon swung hard with a right that pounded Carver’s stomach, two jabbing lefts to his other side, and another blow just beneath his ribs. When Carver brought his good arm down to defend his midsection, Fallon was ready. He swung wide and hard, and the haymaker caught the whiskey runner, thief, and robber hard.

  Carver was hurtled backward by the crushing blow, spinning to one side, landing against the handrail and rolling across the iron bar for perhaps two feet before falling onto the walkway, which shuddered. Fallon stepped away, kept his left hand tight on that rail. Carver rolled more. Fallon’s right hand stretched across and grabbed the other railing.

  A-Hall became nothing but furious noise. Fallon had been in gunfights that had not seemed so loud.

  Now the prisoners across the way erupted into cheers and jeers. Some seemed to be yelling for Carver to roll underneath the railing and drop. Others sang out praises for the fresh fish.

  Fallon started toward Carver, who cried out in terror as the edge of the flooring drew nearer, but before Fallon could take another step, the man’s left hand reached up and grabbed the railing. The catwalk shuddered again, but Carver stopped himself, and pushed himself away from the edge. He lay there, on his back, breathing in and out deeply. His one hand still gripped the railing, and he used that to pull himself into a seated position.

  He glared at Fallon. “I’ll kill you for that.”

  The prisoners jeered.

  When something that might have passed for quiet returned, Fallon said softly, “You got three paths, Carver. Go back to the other side. Go see your cousin. Or go down to hell. You try to pull a stunt like you just did, and I guarantee I’ll make sure your next stop is three stories down.”

  Carver spit onto the flooring, wiped his mouth with the stub of his right arm, and used his left to pull himself back to his feet.

  “Kill him this time, Carver!” someone across the way shouted. “Don’t let no fresh fish knock you on your arse.”

  “You better hurry, Carver,” said another. “Before Under-the-covers Underwood shows up and makes us stop our fun’n’games.”

  Carver was standing now, the stump and the good arm hanging at his sides. He looked paler, though, and his breath had turned ragged, while his jacket and shirt shook from the pounding of his heart.

  The one-armed man knew his fight was over. He knew he could not win. He knew the abuse and beatings he would take because of this, too.

  “I want to see Ford,” Carver said.

  Fallon nodded.

  On the other side of the prison, two of the inmates glanced at each other and raced toward the catwalk. The guards shouted, and one even pointed his line stick in
their direction, but none of them dared to move.

  Instinctively, Fallon realized what those two convicts, big men, with bulging arms and thick necks, intended to do. He grabbed hold tightly to both bars on the sides of the narrow path.

  The railings were attached to the banister and balustrades on both sides of the prison. If the catwalk fell, the rails would still be attached.

  “Grab hold, man!” Fallon shouted and nodded behind Carver. “They mean to knock us off.”

  Carver stopped but did not reach out for the handrails. He didn’t trust Fallon and thought this was some kind of trick.

  “Damn it, man, grab those bars!” Fallon shouted, as he tightened his grip on the rails and braced his feet tight on the narrow path.

  “Good God in heaven above,” said the younger guard who stood near the cells behind Fallon.

  Too late, Kemp Carver turned just as the two convicts stepped onto the walkway and began jumping up and down.

  The path was not the sturdiest bit of construction, and those convicts were big, big men. Carver slipped. The men began trying to rock the path, one pushing toward A-Hall’s rear wall, then pulling, while he worked in tandem with his evil, murderous friend. They pushed, the pulled, and the path swayed.

  Fallon’s muscles tightened. He gritted his teeth and held his breath while watching Kemp Carver roll. The prisoner screamed while he clawed desperately for anything he might grab ahold of to save his life. But the railing was too high for him to reach. His fingers reached out for the edge of the path, but at that moment, both of the callous big men on the far side of the catwalk began pushing hard toward the back wall. The path seemed to dip. Now, Kemp Carver cried out in terror as he rolled over the edge and dropped.

  But not to the ground. Somehow, someway, Carver managed to grab one of the support rails underneath the catwalk. He shouted, the inmates across the way cheered or booed. The prisoners on the bottom floor standing near or under the path quickly scattered, before stopping and looking up. Some pointed. A few hooted. A couple even dropped to their knees, bowed their heads, and prayed.

  The two burly men kept jumping on the catwalk, and Fallon had to use both hands to keep from being knocked over the railing or to his knees. Yet many of the inmates now rushed to the catwalk. Fallon held his breath, wondering if they meant to help them. Maybe even knock the whole bridge loose and send it crashing to the floor.

  The guards, instead of doing their job, backed farther away.

  But the men proved to be a rescue party. They grabbed the two bullies and pulled them off the end of the walkway, forcing them to the floor, where other convicts came and started kicking the bullies, spitting on them, stomping them with their boots, and letting their howls echo across the chambers.

  Fallon did not wait for the catwalk to stop shaking. He made a beeline, but not for the safety of the floor behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  He did not have to go far. Fallon dropped onto the floor, used his left hand to grip the side of the catwalk, and dropped his right over the other side, toward the dangling, screaming Kemp Carver.

  “Grab hold,” Fallon said tightly.

  Fallon cursed at his own stupidity. Grab hold? Hell, man, Carver’s got only one arm.

  He twisted his body, until he lay crossways on the path, his long legs dangling over the far side. Fallon was tall enough, maybe heavy enough to anchor himself. By now, guards had begun to storm through the door. Fallon heard the barking orders from the warden, Underwood, and the deputy warden, Fowlson. He could see teams of guards heading up both stairwells, and others running down the bottom floor. He even saw Underwood and Fowlson near the entrance. Fowlson pointed up at the third-level center catwalk, at Fallon, but Fallon couldn’t look at those men, or anything else, now. He bent his head and shoulders over the edge and grabbed for Kemp Carver.

  Maybe the guards would come help.

  Whistles shrieked. The pounding of boots on the stairwells seemed to rattle the entire building. Fallon felt the shuddering of the catwalk beneath his chest, his stomach, and around his waist—but the catwalk did not rock nearly as much as it had when those two inmates had tried to knock both Fallon and Carver to their deaths.

  Over the shouts of the guards and the curses of the prisoners, Fallon heard Underwood’s orders: “Captain Brandt, see to those men. Pronto.”

  Fallon paid little attention. He held his breath, let it out, and pushed himself a little farther over the edge.

  “Help me, Fallon!” Kemp Carver cried out. “For God’s sake, help me.”

  Fallon’s arms swept down. But still he wasn’t close enough.

  “No!” Carver shrieked. “No! Don’t leave me. Don’t let me die!”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Fallon said, though he wasn’t sure Carver could hear him. Fallon barely heard his own voice. Grunting, sweating now, Fallon nudged himself even farther over the edge.

  “I swear to God, Fallon!” Carver was wailing. “I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it. I swear to God. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.”

  What the hell was Kemp Carver talking about?

  Fallon felt the footsteps on the catwalk now. He turned his head to see the leader of the guards who had escorted the men from the work detail earlier. The mean brute—but then, weren’t most of the guards?—who had asked Fallon, “You ever killed a man, Fallon?” and to whom Fallon had answered, “Never a prison guard.” Maybe he was coming to help. But his face revealed no sympathy, and his pace showed no urgency.

  “I’ll tell you everything, Fallon! Everything!”

  “Shut up,” Fallon barked. “Tell me later!”

  He didn’t need any distractions. Getting this son of a bitch up was going to be hard enough.

  Gritting his teeth, Fallon stretched both hands toward Carver’s left arm. He cursed as the left hand missed, and tried again as his arms came back, but without any luck. Sweat now covered Carver’s face, and the inmate’s eyes were wild and wide with fright. The man was trying to scream but could not find any voice. And his fingers were losing their grip on the support beam.

  The catwalk began bouncing and twisting again. Fallon could hear footsteps, but these would not have been from Captain Brandt, for they came from the opposite side. And these feet were moving at a desperate pace. The last time Fallon had seen Captain Brandt, he was taking his time, and walking deliberately, as though hoping both Fallon and Carver would drop over the side.

  Prison guards usually didn’t care much for the idea of dying to save a convict who most likely wouldn’t lift a finger to help a guard.

  Out of the corner of his eye, though, Fallon saw two guards in their black getups racing across the walkway. Then Fallon could not pay them any attention. He reached out once more, and this time his fingers brushed against the coarse wool sleeve.

  He saw Carver’s face, the lips moving, and even heard the desperate whisper, “Please.”

  Above him and to Fallon’s right, Captain Brandt yelled at the two guards, “Stop, you damned fools. This whole bridge might collapse.”

  The guards did not stop, though. Maybe they couldn’t hear. The catwalk trembled.

  Fallon’s left hand came back, just as Carver lost his grip.

  Got him! Fallon’s mind rang out.

  Somehow, he had managed to snag Carver’s wrist. The skin was slick with sweat, and though Carver did not weigh as much as he had fifteen years ago, he was not a slight man. His weight began pulling Fallon over the side.

  Let go! Fallon’s mind told him.

  “No!” Fallon moaned, and saw his right hand swing over and lock onto Carver’s good arm.

  Yet still he felt the weight pulling him across the path.

  Then a crushing blow landed on Fallon’s legs, just below his knees. He bit his lips, cut off his curse, and kept a desperate grip on the convict’s arm. But Fallon knew one thing. He wasn’t sliding over. And somehow, despite the pain and the roaring of the men in A-Hall, Fallon realized what had happened. One of the
guards had dived atop his body and stopped Fallon from being pulled over. Easily, the blow could have shocked and hurt Fallon enough that he might have released his grip on Kemp Carver, but Fallon had often been called a bulldog. When he got his mind set on something, it stayed set on that something. And his mind was set—though Fallon couldn’t figure out why—to keep Kemp Carver alive.

  Yet Fallon felt his calf bleeding again. The guard had reopened that wound, but right now, the blood did not appear to be gushing, just leaking. Hell, Fallon thought, he probably didn’t have that much blood left in his body anyway.

  “Don’t drop me, Fallon!” Kemp Carver had found his voice, though it was hard to hear over the booming voices, curses, pounding feet and hell that had descended into the prison.

  “It wasn’t me, Fallon!” the dangling man cried out in full panic. “I swear it wasn’t me. But I know . . .”

  Fallon’s neck was pulled up. Someone had grabbed the collar of his shirt. That had to be the other guard.

  “I’ve got him.” That had to be one of the two men. Fallon realized he had been wrong about prison guards. Maybe he had spent too much time in Joliet, and Yuma had not changed his views. But maybe all prison guards weren’t complete sons of bitches. Maybe some of them cared. Maybe some of them knew a thing or two about what a man behind bars had to live with or deal with.

  Fallon found more strength and kept a tight hold on Carver’s good arm.

  “I don’t want to get up,” said the other guard, “because he might fall.”

  “Yeah,” said the first guard. “Then we might lose the both of ’em.”

  Fallon realized something. He had heard the two guards clearly. He heard everything. It felt like he could even hear the sweat dripping over his forehead, into his hair, or falling, falling, falling to the hard, cold floor of stone below.

  A-Hall had turned quiet and not just silent. It was an eerie, deafening stillness. All Fallon heard was the clopping of Captain Brandt’s boots as he walked toward them.

  But the silence did not last long, for almost as soon as Fallon had recognized the stillness, even what could pass for tranquility, the prisoners began cheering. No, not just the convicts. Fallon could see guards raising their hats, their mouths open. Cheering, praising, amazed that something like this could occur behind the iron, behind the stone walls of the Missouri State Penitentiary.