"I'll be leaving now, Mrs. Brannigan."
"What? Oh. Didn't anyone tell you, Tracy? We're having a delegation of VIP visitors today. They'll be having lunch here at the house, so Amy won't be having her nap. You may take her with you."
Tracy stood there, willing herself not to scream. "I--I can't do that, Mrs. Brannigan."
Sue Ellen Brannigan stiffened. "What do you mean you can't do that?"
Tracy saw the anger in her face and she thought, I mustn't upset her. She'll call the warden, and I'll be sent back to my cell.
Tracy forced a smile. "I mean...Amy hasn't had her lunch. She'll be hungry."
"I've had the cook prepare a picnic lunch for both of you. You can go for a nice walk in the meadow and have it there. Amy enjoys picnics, don't you, darling?"
"I love picnics." She looked at Tracy pleadingly. "Can we, Tracy? Can we?"
No! Yes. Careful. It could still work.
Be in the utility room by one-thirty. Don't be late.
Tracy looked at Mrs. Brannigan. "What--what time do you want me to bring Amy back?"
"Oh, about three o'clock. They should be gone by then."
So would the truck. The world was tumbling in on her. "I--
"Are you all right? You look pale."
That was it. She would say she was ill. Go to the hospital. But then they would want to check her over and keep her there. She would never be able to get out in time. There had to be some other way.
Mrs. Brannigan was staring at her.
"I'm fine."
There's something wrong with her, Sue Ellen Brannigan decided. I'm definitely going to have George get someone else.
Amy's eyes were alight with joy. "I'll give you the biggest sandwiches, Tracy. We'll have a good time, won't we?"
Tracy had no answer.
The VIP tour was a surprise visit. Governor William Haber himself was escorting the prison reform committee through the penitentiary. It was something that Warden Brannigan had to live with once a year.
"It goes with the territory, George," the governor had explained. "Just clean up the place, tell your ladies to smile pretty, and we'll get our budget increased again."
The word had gone out from the chief guard that morning: "Get rid of all the drugs, knives, and dildos."
Governor Haber and his party were due to arrive at 10:00 A.M. They would inspect the interior of the penitentiary first, visit the farm, and then have lunch with the warden at his cottage.
Big Bertha was impatient. When she had put in a request to see the warden, she had been told, "The warden is very pressed for time this morning. Tomorrow would be easier. He--"
"Fuck tomorrow!" Big Bertha had exploded. "I want to see him now It's important."
There were few inmates in the prison who could have gotten away with it, but Big Bertha was one of them. The prison authorities were well aware of her power. They had seen her start riots, and they had seen her stop them. No prison in the world could be run without the cooperation of the inmate leaders, and Big Bertha was a leader.
She had been seated in the warden's outer office for almost an hour, her huge body overflowing the chair she sat in. She's a disgusting-looking creature, the warden's secretary thought. She gives me the creeps.
"How much longer?" Big Bertha demanded.
"It shouldn't be too much longer. He has a group of people in with him. The warden's very busy this morning."
Big Bertha said, "He's gonna be busier." She looked at her watch. Twelve-forty-five. Plenty of time.
It was a perfect day, cloudless and warm, and the singing breeze carried a tantalizing mixture of scents across the green farmland. Tracy had spread out a tablecloth on a grassy area near the lake, and Amy was happily munching on an egg salad sandwich. Tracy glanced at her watch. It was already 1:00. She could not believe it. The morning had dragged and the afternoon was winging by. She had to think of something quickly, or time was going to steal away her last chance at freedom.
One-ten. In the warden's reception office Warden Brannigan's secretary put down the telephone and said to Big Bertha, "I'm sorry. The warden says it's impossible for him to see you today. We'll make another appointment for--"
Big Bertha pushed herself to her feet. "He's got to see me! It's--"
"We'll fit you in tomorrow."
Big Bertha started to say, "Tomorrow will be too late," but she stopped herself in time. No one but the warden himself must know what she was doing. Snitches suffered fatal accidents. But she had no intention of giving up. There was no way she was going to let Tracy Whitney get away from her. She walked into the prison library and sat down at one of the long tables at the far end of the room. She scribbled a note, and when the matron walked over to an aisle to help an inmate, Big Bertha dropped the note on her desk and left.
When the matron returned, she found the note and opened it. She read it twice:
YOU BETTER CHEK THE LAUNDREY TRUCK TO DAY.
There was no signature. A hoax? The matron had no way of knowing. She picked up the telephone. "Get me the superintendent of guards..."
One-fifteen. "You're not eating," Amy said. "You want some of my sandwich?"
"No! Leave me alone." She had not meant to speak so harshly.
Amy stopped eating. "Are you mad at me, Tracy? Please don't be mad at me. I love you so much. I never get mad at you." Her soft eyes were filled with hurt.
"I'm not angry." She was in hell.
"I'm not hungry if you're not. Let's play ball, Tracy." And Amy pulled her rubber ball out of her pocket.
One-sixteen. She should have been on her way. It would take her at least fifteen minutes to get to the utility room. She could just make it if she hurried. But she could not leave Amy alone. Tracy looked around, and in the far distance she saw a group of trusties picking crops. Instantly, Tracy knew what she was going to do.
"Don't you want to play ball, Tracy?"
Tracy rose to her feet. "Yes. Let's play a new game. Let's see who can throw the ball the farthest. I'll throw the ball, and then it will be your turn." Tracy picked up the hard rubber ball and threw it as far as she could in the direction of the workers.
"Oh, that's good," Amy said admiringly. "That's real far."
"I'll go get the ball," Tracy said. "You wait here."
And she was running, running for her life, her feet flying across the fields. It was 1:18. If she was late, they would wait for her. Or would they? She ran faster. Behind her, she heard Amy calling, but she paid no attention. The farm workers were moving in the other direction now. Tracy yelled at them, and they stopped. She was breathless when she reached them.
"Anythin' wrong?" one of them asked.
"No, n-nothing." She was panting, fighting for breath. "The little girl back there. One of you look after her. I have something important I have to do. I--"
She heard her name called from a distance and turned. Amy was standing on top of the concrete wall surrounding the lake. She waved. "Look at me, Tracy."
"No! Get down!" Tracy screamed.
And as Tracy watched in horror, Amy lost her balance and plunged into the lake.
"Oh, dear God!" The blood drained from Tracy's face. She had a choice to make, but there was no choice. I can't help her. Not now. Someone will save her. I have to save myself. I've got to get out of this place or I'll die. It was 1:20.
Tracy turned and began running as fast as she had ever run in her life. The others were calling after her, but she did not hear them. She flew through the air, unaware that her shoes had fallen off, not caring that the sharp ground was cutting into her feet. Her heart was pounding, and her lungs were bursting, and she pushed herself to run faster, faster. She reached the wall around the lake and vaulted on top of it. Far below, she could see Amy in the deep, terrifying water, struggling to stay afloat. Without a second's hesitation, Tracy jumped in after her. And as she hit the water, Tracy thought, Oh, my God! I can't swim...
BOOK TWO
12
New Orleans<
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FRIDAY, AUGUST 25--10:00 A.M.
Lester Torrance, a teller at the First Merchants Bank of New Orleans, prided himself on two things: his sexual prowess with the ladies and his ability to size up his customers. Lester was in his late forties, a lanky, sallow-faced man with a Tom Selleck mustache and long sideburns. He had been passed over for promotion twice, and in retaliation, Lester used the bank as a personal dating service. He could spot hookers a mile away, and he enjoyed trying to persuade them to give him their favors for nothing. Lonely widows were an especially easy prey. They came in all shapes, ages, and states of desperation, and sooner or later they would appear in front of Lester's cage. If they were temporarily overdrawn, Lester would lend a sympathetic ear and delay bouncing their checks. In return, perhaps they could have a quiet little dinner together? Many of his female customers sought his help and confided delicious secrets to him: They needed a loan without their husbands' knowledge...They wanted to keep confidential certain checks they had written...They were contemplating a divorce, and could Lester help them close out their joint account right away?...Lester was only too eager to please. And to be pleased.
On this particular Friday morning, Lester knew he had hit the jackpot. He saw the woman the moment she walked in the door of the bank. She was an absolute stunner. She had sleek black hair falling to her shoulders, and she wore a tight skirt and sweater that outlined a figure a Las Vegas chorine would have envied.
There were four other tellers in the bank, and the young woman's eyes went from one cage to the other, as though seeking help. When she glanced at Lester, he nodded eagerly and gave her an encouraging smile. She walked over to his cage, just as Lester had known she would.
"Good morning," Lester said warmly. "What may I do for you?" He could see her nipples pushing against her cashmere sweater, and he thought, Baby, what I'd like to do for you!
"I'm afraid I have a problem," the woman said softly. She had the most delightful southern accent Lester had ever heard.
"That's what I'm here for," he said heartily, "to solve problems.'
"Oh, I do hope so. I'm afraid I've done somethin' just terrible."
Lester gave her his best paternal, you-can-lean-on-me smile. "I can't believe a lovely lady like you could do anything terrible."
"Oh, but I have." Her soft brown eyes were wide with panic. "I'm Joseph Romano's secretary, and he told me to order new blank checks for his checking account a week ago, and I simply forgot all about it, and now we've just about run out, and when he finds out, I don't know what he'll do to me." It came out in a soft, velvety rush.
Lester was only too familiar with the name of Joseph Romano. He was a prized customer of the bank's, even though he kept relatively small amounts in his account. Everyone knew that his real money was laundered elsewhere.
He sure has great taste in secretaries, Lester thought. He smiled again. "Well, now, that's not too serious, Mrs.--?"
"Miss. Hartford. Lureen Hartford."
Miss. This was his lucky day. Lester sensed that this was going to work out splendidly. "I'll just order those new checks for you right now. You should have them in two or three weeks and--"
She gave a little moan, a sound that seemed to Lester to hold infinite promise. "Oh, that's too late, and Mr. Romano's already so upset with me. I just can't seem to keep my mind on my work, you know?" She leaned forward so that her breasts were touching the front of the cage. She said breathlessly, "If you could just rush those checks out, I'd be happy to pay extra."
Lester said ruefully, "Gee, I'm sorry, Lureen, it would be impossible to--" He saw that she was near to tears.
"To tell you the truth, this might cost me my job. Please...I'll do anything."
The words fell like music on Lester's ears.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," Lester declared. "I'll phone in a special rush on them, and you'll have them Monday. How's that?"
"Oh, you're just wonderful!" Her voice was filled with gratitude.
"I'll send them to the office and--"
"It would be better if I picked them up myself. I don't want Mr. Romano to know how stupid I was."
Lester smiled indulgently. "Not stupid, Lureen. We all get a little forgetful sometimes."
She said softly, "I'll never forget you. See you Monday."
"I'll be here." It would take a broken back to keep him home.
She gave him a dazzling smile and walked slowly out of the bank, and her walk was a sight to behold. Lester was grinning as he went over to a file cabinet, got the number of Joseph Romano's account, and phoned in a rush order for the new checks.
The hotel on Carmen Street was indistinguishable from a hundred other hotels in New Orleans, which was why Tracy had chosen it. She had been in the small, cheaply furnished room for a week. Compared to her cell, it was a palace.
When Tracy returned from her encounter with Lester, she took off the black wig, ran her fingers through her own luxuriant hair, removed the soft contact lenses, and creamed off her dark makeup. She sat down on the single straight chair in the room and breathed deeply. It was going well. It had been easy to learn where Joe Romano kept his bank account. Tracy had looked up the canceled check from her mother's estate, issued by Romano. "Joe Romano? You can't touch him," Ernestine had said.
Ernestine was wrong and Joe Romano was just the first. The others would follow. Every one of them.
She closed her eyes and relived the miracle that had brought her there...
She felt the cold, dark waters closing over her head. She was drowning, and she was filled with terror. She dived down, and her hands found the child and grabbed her and pulled her to the surface. Amy struggled in blind panic to break free, dragging them both under again, her arms and legs flailing wildly. Tracy's lungs were bursting. She fought her way out of the watery grave, hanging on to the little girl in a death grip, and she felt her strength ebbing. We're not going to make it, she thought. We're dying. Voices were calling out, and she felt Amy's body torn from her arms and she screamed, "Oh, God, no!" Strong hands were around Tracy's waist and a voice said, "Everything's fine now. Take it easy. It's over."
Tracy looked around frantically for Amy and saw that she was safe in a man's arms. Moments later they were both hauled up from the deep, cruel water...
The incident would have been worth no more than a paragraph on the inside page of the morning newspapers, except for the fact that a prisoner who could not swim had risked her life to save the child of the warden. Overnight the newspapers and television commentators turned Tracy into a heroine. Governor Haber himself visited the prison hospital with Warden Brannigan to see Tracy.
"That was a very brave thing you did," the warden said. "Mrs. Brannigan and I want you to know how grateful we are." His voice was choked with emotion.
Tracy was still weak and shaken from her experience. "How is Amy?"
"She's going to be fine."
Tracy closed her eyes. I couldn't have borne it if anything had happened to her, she thought. She remembered her coldness, when all the child had wanted was love, and Tracy felt bitterly ashamed. The incident had cost her her chance to escape, but she knew that if she had it to do over again, she would do the same thing.
There was a brief inquiry into the accident.
"It was my fault," Amy told her father. "We were playing ball, and Tracy ran after the ball and told me to wait, but I climbed up on the wall so I could see her better and I fell in the water. But Tracy saved me, Daddy."
They kept Tracy in the hospital that night for observation, and the next morning she was taken to Warden Brannigan's office. The media was waiting for her. They knew a human-interest story when they saw one, and stringers from UPI and the Associated Press were present; the local television station had sent a news team.
That evening the report of Tracy's heroism unfolded, and the account of the rescue went on national television and began to snowball. Time, Newsweek, People, and hundreds of newspapers all over the country carried the story. As
the press coverage continued, letters and telegrams poured into the penitentiary, demanding that Tracy Whitney be pardoned.
Governor Haber discussed it with Warden Brannigan.
"Tracy Whitney is in here for some serious crimes," Warden Brannigan observed.
The governor was thoughtful. "But she has no previous record, right, George?"
"That's right, sir."
"I don't mind telling you, I'm getting a hell of a lot of pressure to do something about her."
"So am I, Governor."
"Of course, we can't let the public tell us how to run our prisons, can we?"
"Certainly not."
"On the other hand," the governor said judiciously, "the Whitney girl has certainly demonstrated a remarkable amount of courage. She's become quite a heroine."
"No question about it," Warden Brannigan agreed.
The governor paused to light a cigar. "What's your opin ion, George?"
George Brannigan chose his words carefully. "You're aware, of course, Governor, that I have a very personal interest in this. It was my child she saved. But, putting that aside, I don't think Tracy Whitney is the criminal type, and I can't believe she would be a danger to society if she were out in the world. My strong recommendation is that you give her a pardon."
The governor, who was about to announce his candidacy for a new term, recognized a good idea when he heard it. "Let's play this close to the chest for a bit." In politics, timing was everything.
After discussing it with her husband, Sue Ellen said to Tracy, "Warden Brannigan and I would like it very much if you moved into the cottage. We have a spare bedroom in back. You could take care of Amy full-time."
"Thank you," Tracy said gratefully. "I would like that."
It worked out perfectly. Not only did Tracy not have to spend each night locked away in a cell, but her relationship with Amy changed completely. Amy adored Tracy, and Tracy re sponded. She enjoyed being with this bright, loving little girl. They played their old games and watched Disney movies on television and read together. It was almost like being part of a family.