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  He wanted to believe that the reason he had accepted Brad’s proposition was his fear that Marion might leave him, taking Susan with her. He could have borne losing a wife; his daughter was different. She was just over a year old, just beginning to take her first faltering steps, and he was already worrying about finding a house where she would have more room.

  Brad’s friend — in all that time Parker only knew him as Mac — left first. Brad and Parker followed two days later. Parker told his boss that there were family problems back home in Chicago and he would return in a week.

  When Parker returned to Jonesville, it was not to work. The raid went wrong from the start. The set-up was supposed to be that the day guards had been bribed to offer no resistance. Brad said there would be no violence. As soon as they stopped the van, the guards would come out, throwing down their weapons. The guns that Parker, Brad and Mac carried were only for show — to substantiate the guards’ stories when they reported the hold-up. Brad claimed later that the crew had been changed, but Parker did not know the truth. The guards emerged shooting. Parker got hit in the leg, and one guard was badly hurt. Parker was left in the road, and the other two were picked up within twenty-four hours. He drew a light sentence — as a result of favourable testimony from the police who were rewarding him for his co-operation, although that ‘co-operation’ was largely due to their refusal to take him to hospital until he talked.

  At Florida State he had been allowed out on a work party almost from the start. On his third day on the party, other prisoners tried to escape. A guard had been bribed to shoot high. Parker went with them, more afraid to stay than to run.

  He made his way back to Jonesville, desperate to know what was happening there. He waited until night to check the trailer. He tried the door and it opened.

  They were there. He heard the sounds before he saw them.

  The bedroom door was open. At first Parker thought the cries were the whimpers of an animal and then, halfway to the door, he realized he was hearing a woman making love.

  He pushed open the door and there was a frozen moment before his eyes. He was surprised that the pain went as deep as ever. The bedroom was in semidarkness. He could just make out the crib and the child’s face, pushed against the bars, eyes wide. A yard away a single sheet covered the two moving bodies.

  Then the scene exploded. Susan screamed. The man swung himself off the bed, reaching for something on the chair. The woman pulled herself up. Almost too late Parker realized the man was raising a gun. He moved in and, in his mind, the grappling was in slow motion.

  There was a shot, not loud, more a plop, muffled by the stomach pressed against the barrel. The woman’s scream joined that of the child. The man had fallen and was curled in the corner and Marion was tearing at Parker now. He pushed her away and realized, for the first time, that he held the gun. It was a .38 special, from the feel of it.

  Parker clenched his teeth and felt the sweat beading on his forehead. He breathed deeply, willing himself not to be sick. At the trial, his counsel claimed everything that happened next happened during a few seconds of passion, but Parker knew otherwise. True, there was passion and hate and hurt. But everything he did in those seconds was calculated. The man was alive and moaning, curled, clutching his stomach. Marion was on the bed, her hands raised to protect her face. Parker shot her first, once in the chest and once in the head. Then he emptied the gun into the man. He dropped the gun on the floor, picked up Susan, carried her into the living room, and held her tight as he used the telephone.

  When the police arrived they were gentle until the child was taken from his arms, and then, once they had seen that the dead man was their own police chief, one pistol whipped him until he lost consciousness.

  Parker lifted the bottle high and poured until it overran the corners of his mouth. Then, staggering, he undressed, replaced the almost empty bottle and climbed into bed. It was nearly four.

  He was now drunk enough to sleep.

  *

  ‘You should have pushed him,’ said Cory.

  Williams and Cory were holding another night-time meeting, again at the Marriott. Cory had stayed on; there was nothing he could do back in Washington until he knew the answer. Williams shrugged. He had done the right thing and Cory knew it. The older man was just suffering the nerves of impatience. Well, he would have to live with it.

  He put down the sandwich.

  ‘You’re sure,’ Cory said for the second time that night, ‘that he understands that without us he’ll just go on rotting?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Williams picked up a turkey sandwich from a plate on the coffee table. The bread was curling in the heat. Williams took a bite. The meat was dry, too.

  ‘He’s been inside seven years’, said Cory. ‘The time a lifer usually gets considered for parole.’

  ‘Yes’, said Williams, ‘but not with a dead cop on his record. Especially in a town like Jonesville.’

  Cory wiped a hand across his forehead.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘You’re calling the prison at what time?’

  ‘Eleven. I’ll let you know.’

  *

  Parker tried to evaluate the problem carefully and dispassionately. Throughout a sleepless night he continuously listed the arguments for and against co-operating.

  On the balance side, he would be out of prison. Hopefully, too — although he could not be sure — whoever did it would have enough organization to keep him outside.

  Like most prisoners Parker had toyed with the thought of trying to escape. The problem of remaining free, without money, papers, or help, was one of the reasons Parker had never considered it seriously.

  There was also the promise that he would be reunited with his daughter, although that was something that would have to be taken on trust. Even so, he ought to be able to exercise some sort of control over that — insist on guarantees before undertaking whatever job he had to do. Even see that money was deposited for her; that would be something …

  On the debit side, there were many arguments: he had done seven years and one day he would be paroled — why risk it?

  There was even a lingering fear of how well he would survive outside Folsom: he had licked life inside, but outside …

  And how free would ‘freedom’ be: would he have to keep running? He wished he could ask them questions, even though he knew he would have to take the answers on trust.

  But all the reservations and fears kept coming back to just one: he didn’t know what they wanted him to do. It could, for all he knew, be an operation from which his chances of survival were small — or even nil.

  In the early morning he exercised through habit, the same few questions and arguments running through his mind.

  Would it matter if it was that dangerous? Wasn’t almost anything preferable to the almost certain fact of spending another twenty years inside Folsom? He dismissed that: Folsom was better than death. Full point. But if he saw that Susan was taken care of …

  *

  He continued to wrestle with the problem through breakfast and afterwards, as he tried to work in the library.

  When the summons came soon after eleven, he was still undecided.

  This time the assistant warden was noticeably curious. ‘You’ve another request for a visit?’ he said, his expression questioning.

  ‘The same man?’ Parker knew the answer but had to be sure.

  ‘Yes.’

  Parker was quiet for so long that the deputy governor prompted him: ‘Parker!’

  There was still silence. The assistant warden made as though to speak again, but the prisoner’s look stopped him: Parker was staring ahead, his eyes fixed as though on a vision.

  Finally when he did speak his voice was sympathetic. ‘Parker, your answer?’

  And Parker, who was gazing at the face of a young girl, hardly recognized his own voice as he said, ‘No, no, I won’t see him.’ After all the careful and dispassionate inward debate the decision was made — emotio
nally. Whatever the price he would pay it.

  *

  Williams had to awaken Cory to break the news even though it was 11.40 in the morning. Cory came to the door, stumbling, still half asleep.

  ‘It’s go, go, go, go,’ said Williams the moment he was inside.

  The decision was the prelude to two hectic days for Cory.

  First he flew to Nassau, where he collected a message which told him to stay overnight in a certain hotel room. The next morning, again following instructions, he took a cab back to the airport where he was directed to a private Cessna. The aircraft landed him on Little Kingmead Island less than an hour later.

  The short drive from the airstrip revealed miles of trees which the driver explained had been imported from Florida to fill the bare stretches of space. Cory noted a new golf course fringed by expensive holiday homes and, where the road touched the coast, work in progress to enlarge a natural harbour.

  He congratulated Louie Rosen on the improvements when he reached the house, a white bungalow made distinctive by its high walls and guard dogs — to protect his art collection, as Louie always explained to new visitors.

  Louie Rosen greeted Cory warmly. ‘It’s nice of you to say that. I’m kind of proud of it myself. A man needs something to occupy himself in his retirement and if he can do something like taking a beautiful place and making it more beautiful, well …’

  He insisted that Cory change and bathe before lunch, after which they sat on the porch and sipped cool drinks.

  It was not until late in the evening that the two men talked business.

  ‘I’ve retired,’ said Cory. ‘Just like you’ve retired.’

  Louie acknowledged the tribute to his power with a faint smile.

  Cory explained his request. Louie listened, curled in a huge black leather chair, looking like an elderly gnome.

  At the end he asked one question.

  ‘Why come to me, why not use people on the Coast?’

  Cory replied, ‘I know you, Louie, I don’t know them.’ Cory could have said ‘You owe me.’ It was not necessary, and he knew it.

  Louie stood and offered cigars which Cory refused. He lit his own, taking exquisite care.

  ‘Best Havana,’ he said. ‘Direct from Castro. Paying me back in cigars for the casinos he stole.’ He laughed and returned to the subject of Cory’s request. ‘I’d need to ask the boys on the Coast.’

  ‘Of course.’ A polite formality, they both knew.

  Louie walked to the door and opened it. ‘Get me Georgie,’ he said to the man outside.

  Georgie appeared seconds later. ‘Yes, Mr Rosen.’

  ‘Georgie,’ said Louie, ‘you’re a lucky man. I’m sending you off to get some smog. There are some people I want you to take messages to.’

  Five minutes later, Georgie dismissed, the two men shook hands.

  ‘I appreciate it, I really do,’ said Cory. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Don’t, Jim,’ said Louie. ‘Don’t thank me.’ He stood back and opened his arms wide. ‘What would life be if a man couldn’t do a simple favour for a friend?’

  Chapter Nine

  IT HAD BEEN almost a week since Parker had seen his visitor and five days since he reached his decision. The only result so far had been a hangover, noted and commented on by other inmates but not in front of Parker.

  They were sure the visitor brought him bad news about his daughter.

  Parker knew what they were thinking and let it go. It provided a reason for his transparent shock. The visitor’s offer made him think of freedom as a serious possibility for the first time for years, making the decision had been difficult: prison was bad but bearable, and the alternative was the unknown.

  But once the decision was made, Parker expected it to be easy. And it was not. He smelt freedom and as the days passed by he began to sweat and panic that it had never been serious, or that something had gone wrong. Suddenly he faced endless more years inside, and he had lost his ability to cope.

  Still he forced himself to follow his self-imposed routine: wake at 5.30, fifteen minutes of pleasant thoughts, exercise … But the visit had its effect. Where he had always worked hard at the exercises, he now forced himself to limits as though the pain of exercising would cleanse him of his thoughts. He developed a habit of drifting off into fantasies he had always avoided — what would it be like?

  And he pictured himself with Susan.

  The relief when something happened was so great that he began to shake as though he had a fever. The water had just arrived and he was shaving when the guard stopped outside the bars.

  ‘After breakfast,’ he said. ‘Assistant warden wants to see you.’

  *

  This time the man had in front of him a whole file. He spoke slowly, savouring his own words, wanting to enjoy the other’s reaction.

  ‘The Adult Board has decided you should be revaluated,’ he said. ‘You realize what that means?’

  Parker did. He had seen it happen to others. You went to Chino, the prison everyone entered when first convicted. You were put through a battery of tests. From those and from the many reports, recommendations were made to one of the boards. The result might be back to Folsom. It could also be transfer to a less stringent prison or, unlikely in Parker’s case, parole.

  He made himself smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Lot to do before you can thank anyone.’ He handed the file to one of the guards. ‘But I think you have a good chance.’

  Parker realized he was being dismissed. ‘When do I go?’ he asked.

  The assistant warden looked surprised. ‘Why, right now. This minute.’

  There were two officers outside, waiting to escort him. Both were in civilian clothes. Before they signed for him, they had him stripped and searched. Then he was handed the clothes he had worn when he first entered Folsom seven years before.

  They were so strange, so foreign that he could not remember them at first. When parker tightened the belt of the brown trousers, they gathered round the waist. He must have lost four inches there. The jacket, on the other hand, would not button.

  One guard noted Parker’s struggles with the clothes with amusement. ‘Don’t sweat,’ he said, ‘you ain’t going to no fancy parties.’

  Once he was dressed they handcuffed his hands in front of him and chained his legs. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Parker hobbled out of the door, along the corridor, across open ground and down into the tunnels. The car was parked just outside the walls, the engine already running. Parker was helped into the back, where his footchains were attachéd to a hook built into the floor. One guard got into the back with him, the other into the driving seat.

  As the car drew off, Parker looked back at the prison. All he could take in was walls. He felt a strange mixture of emotions: elation at being out, and fear at being taken away from the familiar.

  The guard in the back with him must have read his expression correctly. ‘Don’t you get worrying,’ he said, ‘we’re probably gonna be bringing you right back to your little old cell before the month’s out. No call to start getting homesick.’

  Both guards laughed loudly. Parker joined them, realizing that all three were sharing a collective need to release tension. Heading away from the prison brought release for the guards, too — even though they were men who walked out of the prison every day.

  For most of the journey Parker sat still, drinking in the scenery. Open farmland gradually gave way to desert. The guards took turns driving and kept up a fast, even pace. They wanted to reach Chino in one day because they were allowed two for the journey. They could take a day free, perhaps spend it driving down to San Diego.

  They ate at a drive-in restaurant and were back on their way in fifteen minutes. Parker fell asleep in the heat. When he awoke it was late afternoon. One of the guards offered him a can of beer and volunteered, ‘We’re just out of Mojave.’

  Parker took the can and peeled back the tab. He drank, the warm b
eer trickling out over his chin.

  ‘Better tell him,’ said the guard up front to his colleague.

  Parker drank again and waited. ‘In a few minutes,’ explained the guard beside Parker, ‘we’re gonna make a short stop. Just a coupla seconds. We hand something over, someone hands something to us.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you don’t see nothing. Okay?’

  Parker shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Good.’ Both guards were smiling. ‘There’ll be a little something in it for you.’

  Parker was not surprised. Prison walls could not stop the fact that some men wanted things and did not have them and others were eager to supply them. Over the years he found that it was easy to get almost anything in or out, provided you had the funds.

  He dropped the empty can on to the floor and lay back, his eyes closed. ‘I think I’ll take another sleep,’ he said.

  He remained slumped, his eyes closed; the car began to slow and Parker felt it turn off the road and stop.

  There was the noise of a window being wound down, and of footsteps approaching. He heard the sound of paper and the feet retreating, and then the car pulled back on to the road.

  He heard the rustle of money; the guard beside him would be counting. ‘All there?’ asked the voice from upfront.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ said the other guard. ‘Hey, did you catch the guy in the car, the other one? He was using a two-way radio or something, I swear.’

  ‘Reporting it had gone according to plan, I guess. Christ, these guys are organized.’

  Parker waited a few more minutes and then opened his eyes and gave a loud theatrical yawn. ‘Sure needed that sleep,’ he said. ‘Can’t remember even dropping off.’

  The guard next to him laughed and pushed a note into Parker’s shirt pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you dropped that while you were asleep.’

  Parker thanked him, but did not look to see what denomination the note was. That would have been bad manners.

  The guard checked his watch and then turned to look out of the window.

  ‘Christ, it’s deadman’s country.’

  The car rounded a bend, into the sun, and for a moment the driver was blinded. He pulled down the vizor. ‘Hey,’ called the guard in the back, ‘ease up, there’s something up ahead.’