him that Rucker had abandoned him about twenty minutes ago. It was a head start that would likely make it impossible to catch him. Because if he did, he would-
Stop. He focused his thoughts. First he needed to get his tool to catch on the other side of the masonry. Then he needed to climb over the wall. Then he could let his anger boil and entertain thoughts about what he would do to Rucker should he find him.
The rake clanged against the wall and came flying back down at him. It struck the dirt and buried itself an inch deep. It was heavier and larger than the cleat, and that meant it was more difficult to arc forty feet into the air. He pulled it from the ground and tried again.
On the fourth attempt, it cleared the top. MacNally pulled and brought tension to the rope. He started to laugh-a nervous, anxious energy that told him he was confident he would get out of there.
He gave it a firm tug to test its viability, and using the knots as grab points, he began the climb. His injured hand still ached, and each grasp-and-pull maneuver sent pain shooting up his arm. But he’d have plenty of time to worry about that once he was en route to Henry.
He had made it about twenty paces, his humidity-induced sweaty palms chafing against the cotton, when an alarm sounded-followed instantly by two bullets that buried themselves in the brick wall, inches to the right of his torso.
“Stop right there!”
“Don’t move!”
“Not one fucking muscle, you hear?”
Different voices. Multiple guards. He did not dare turn around because he did not want to lose his balance. But he did as ordered, and froze in place.
“Get down here. Now,” said one officer.
“Slowly,” yelled another.
MacNally descended the wall and dropped the last ten feet. His ankles burned, but his heart ached more. Henry. That was all he thought of as four men converged, shoved his face into the dirt, and snapped metal handcuffs and leg irons on him.
“Where do you think you were going, asshole?” a guard said by his ear.
MacNally was yanked to his feet by two of the officers.
“Where’s your buddy?” another hack asked.
“On his way to hell.”
The man stepped closer, his jaw set. He apparently did not care for that answer.
“Gone, over the wall. That’s all I know. He screwed me. I hope you find him, because I’m-” He stopped himself. He needed to contain his anger, because anything he said could cause more problems for him. And as it was, he was now in enough trouble.
MACNALLY SAT IN SEGREGATION, HIS head bowed. The morning came but he had not slept. He cried silently much of the night, knowing that he had lost his best shot at getting out of Leavenworth. Once he was released from the Hole, he would be watched more closely. If he was released. He had no idea how seriously they would treat his offense. Probably very.
Three days passed, but they seemed like weeks. He didn’t need the prison counselor to tell him he was in a bad way emotionally. He had stayed in bed most of the time, trying to sleep. Rather than bars and masonry and homemade ropes, this was an escape of a different sort: something less concrete… He was attempting to avoid his thoughts. And consciousness. Or perhaps life itself.
As he lay on his bed, he heard the click of an officer’s boots on the glossy cellhouse floor. Voorhees appeared, an open envelope in hand.
“This just came.” He slipped it through the bars and held it out for MacNally.
MacNally lifted himself up and swung his legs off the cot-which took all his energy. He tore open the letter and pulled out the single piece of paper. The note read:
I figured this was better revenge than just killing you for blinding Gormack. He sends his regards. Have a nice time in the Hole, motherfucker.
Hatred surging through his veins, MacNally looked out at the officer, doing his best not to react. Revenge, that was what this was about. Did Anglin know that when he vouched for Rucker?
Voorhees stared back, but did not speak. MacNally had to give the man credit: though he knew what was in the letter and knew what it meant, he was not gloating. He did not use the opportunity to lecture him. Then again, he had already expressed his thoughts the last time they had spoken. What more needed to be said? What more could be said?
Voorhees maintained eye contact. “You’re being transferred this afternoon.”
“Transferred,” MacNally said. “To a different cellhouse?”
“Different prison.”
MacNally stood up and grasped the bars, the letter in his hand crumpling around the curve of the metal. “Why?”
“When a guy gets outside the institution like you did, he’s considered an escape risk. Adding in your attack on Wharton and Gormack and the Anglin escape attempt…” He shook his head. “The warden’d had enough. He figured you were too big a risk to stay at Leavenworth.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means your time here’s done. Officers’ll be by in thirty minutes to get you. You’ve got an afternoon flight.” Voorhees turned to walk off. “You’ve been a big goddamn disappointment, MacNally. Good luck where you’re headed. You’re gonna need it.”
“Hang on,” MacNally called to the back of Voorhees, who was already moving down the corridor. “Where am I going?”
“End of the line, a place you’ll never escape from,” he yelled back. “Alcatraz.”
Vail and Dixon returned to the Hyatt and spent the remainder of the evening in their room gathered around Dixon’s laptop, pouring over the crime scene photos Friedberg had given them. They had a pad full of theories and notes, but nothing that took them in a particular direction worth pursuing.
Vail had been tempted at various points in their brainstorming session to confide in Dixon about the private note the killer had left her last night. But she could not get herself to broach the topic.
Dialing up her stress-as if it wasn’t high enough-Hartman had still not called back. If she didn’t make contact with him in the morning, she would go through the switchboard operator and have her walk the message over to his desk-or she’d have to pay him a visit in person.
She slept fitfully that night, her mind unwilling to shut down and her heart rate breaking speed barriers. She finally rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Dixon, and went down to the lobby. She sat there for an hour, staring at the lights. At one point, she laid down on the cold tile floor beneath the rows of bulbs and let her eyes roam them, counting them, hoping that sleep would come to her.
Fortunately, no one ventured into the lobby-because it would’ve been
