Inmate 1577 (43 page)

Finelli grinned broadly, as if MacNally had said something ridiculously humorous. To an outsider, it may have seemed like just that.

“I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers of assistance. What’s your son’s name?”

MacNally clenched his jaw. He did not want to talk about Henry, unless it meant blazing a path for reuniting with him. But perhaps this man could help him in ways he did not yet understand. “Henry.”

MacNally told him about his wife’s murder, the fact that Henry witnessed it, the trial, and his subsequent difficulty in holding down a job. But more importantly, he talked about the guilt of not being there for Henry’s formative years, of losing total contact with him, of longing to see him. He had to admit that his chat with Finelli was therapeutic. It lifted his spirits, as if the emotion of what had been building during his time in the Hole had been tamed by their ninety-minute talk.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Finelli said. “I’d like to talk with you some more. And I’ll see what I can do about locating your son for you. Why don’t you write a letter to him tonight? I’ll make sure it gets to him.”

“You can do that?”

Finelli bobbed his head. “Normally, I’d write it myself and send it on your behalf. But I can tell this means a great deal to you. And I’m a pretty persistent fellow when I need to be. Besides, that’s why people like Father Raspa and I are here. The way I see it, if I can’t make a difference in the lives of you men, my job is largely meaningless.”

The whistle blew. MacNally gave him a nod, then rose from his seat. As he lined up to return to the cellhouse, he started composing the letter to Henry in his head.

HE WROTE SEVEN PAGES. It flowed like nothing he had written before: a heartfelt apology for doing the things that resulted in their separation, an accounting of what he had been through, of advice for his son on how to deal with adversity, and a plea to never allow himself to fall victim to influences that could land him in a place like Leavenworth or Alcatraz.

MacNally folded it in half, then half again, and brought it with him to the yard the next day. Finelli was already there, in the same location, waiting for him.

He handed over the letter, which Finelli took and slipped into his pocket. “All prison communication is supposed to be screened. But rest assured...the staff will not be reading this. I’m willing to trust that you don’t have any escape plans sketched out amongst these pages.” Finelli grinned.

MacNally looked out at the men in the yard, the ones playing shuffleboard in front of him and those to his right, choosing up sides for a baseball game on the grass diamond. “I have been thinking about it, Father.”

“About what? What’s
it
?”

MacNally glanced around, then leaned closer to Finelli’s ear. “Escaping.”

Finelli jerked back, seemed to compose himself, then said, “My understanding is that it didn’t work very well for you last time.”

“Worked better for the guys who got out, I’ll admit that much.” MacNally grinned—the first time he could recall smiling in years.

“I heard they’re presumed drowned.”

MacNally nodded slowly. “That’s what the prison staff and FBI want to believe. But it’s not true. At least one, maybe two of ’em made it. John Anglin sent a postcard.”

“I see. Well, I would be remiss if I didn’t seek to discourage you. How serious are you about doing this?”

“I’ve had three months to plan it. Solitary does that to you. It was either think of that, or think of Henry. Thinking of Henry is very painful.”

Finelli’s hand went to his pocket where the letter sat. “You have my promise that I’ll get your note to him. But I would like you to give serious consideration to not participating in a foolish escape attempt. Eventually, you’ll be released from prison. You got lucky the last time. Because of your cooperation, the Classification Committee didn’t add time to your sentence. But if you make another attempt, not only will they increase your time—maybe even to life—but prisoners who’ve been caught in the act have been shot and killed by tower guards.”

“The way I see it, I’m not doing anyone any good rotting away in this shithole. Pardon my language, Father. But I’m definitely not doing Henry any good. If I make the attempt and get shot...” MacNally shrugged a shoulder. “That’s what’s in the cards, I guess.”

Finelli looked down, clearly disappointed in MacNally’s answer. “You’ve obviously given serious thought to how you’re going to do it. When would you leave?”

“Two or three months, if things work the way I think they will.”

“Then I have some time to discourage you from making your attempt. You don’t mind, do you?”

“How about you focus your energies on finding my son and getting that letter to him.”

Finelli promised he would do just that—and each Saturday, when released out onto the yard, MacNally asked if the seminarian had made any progress. Three weeks later, he informed MacNally that he had located Henry in Peekskill, New York, and that he had mailed his letter.

“I think your note was beautiful,” Finelli said as he gazed out at the Golden Gate. “Your son is going to be touched by what you wrote.”

MacNally swung his head toward the man. “You
read
it?”

“In view of the comments you made about your desire to escape, I felt I had no choice. I told you I wasn’t going to turn it over to prison officials, and I honored that vow. But I had a responsibility to...review it. If there had been something in it pertaining to your escape, I could be arrested for aiding in your felony.”

MacNally felt his face turn hot, despite the constant chilled wind blowing off the Bay. “That was a violation of our trust, Father. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m a seminarian, Walton. And I did not violate anything. I did what I felt was required of me, in keeping your private matters private, between the two of us. I did not share the contents of your note to Henry with anyone. And I will never speak of what you wrote. You have my word.”

The anger MacNally felt building within was something he had not experienced since his time in isolation. He felt that his innermost feelings had been exposed, raw emotions he had reserved for, and decided to share with, his son. He had been violated. There weren’t many things he had in prison he could call his own, but what he had written to Henry, the personal sentiments he had shared, were the last things he was able to claim as sacred.

MacNally rose abruptly from the cement step. “I need to take a walk.” Finelli stood as well, but MacNally held up a hand. “Alone.” It was better than assaulting a priest—or a seminarian—or whatever he preferred to call himself. If MacNally wanted to have a shot at implementing his escape—at seeing Henry again—he needed to keep his anger in check.

But as MacNally would soon find out, his failure to heed the wisdom Officer Voorhees had given at Leavenworth—the part about making the correct choices in life—would once again have catastrophic effects.

The Zodiac sped through the rough San Francisco Bay waters in the darkness, the lights of the city behind them attempting to poke through the misty fog that was hanging low over the tops of the buildings.

“ID yet on the vic?” Burden asked.

“Nothing, from what I heard over the radio,” the officer yelled above the din of the engine.

“How old is he?” Vail asked.

“Pretty old.”

Vail, Dixon, and Burden shared a glance: not Friedberg.

As the Zodiac ventured closer to the island, the vapor got denser, to the point where they appeared to be whipping through an undulating opaque curtain.

With visibility so poor, the officer slowed the craft and motored in blindly, as if approaching by braille. Finally, he called out, “There we go. Up ahead.”

Vail craned her neck and saw what appeared to be a lighthouse in the front of the island, slinging its beacon around at regular intervals.

He brought the craft alongside the dock, behind a larger boat. He tied off the Zodiac, and then the three of them climbed up onto the dock. Vail looked over the area: multiple amber-lit buildings, some shedding their coats of paint and others burned out hulks, shells of what they used to represent.

And then, as they approached what appeared to be a windowed National Park Service booth, her eyes locked on the silhouette of two men: a National Park Police officer and a man she had not seen in years, dressed in a leather jacket and slacks: Special Agent Mike Hartman.

Vail couldn’t make her way over to him fast enough. “Mike! I’ve been trying to reach you.”

He turned to face her, but the brightness behind him prevented her from seeing his face. “Just landed in Oakland. ASAC told me to double-time it over here.”

“Nice to see you answered your ASAC’s call. You’ve been ignoring mine.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you, Karen.”

Vail jutted her chin back.
That’s usually my line.
“You can’t still be pissed.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t be feeling.” Hartman rubbernecked his head; the whites of his eyes seemed to settle on Dixon, before shifting to Burden. “This isn’t the time. Or the place. We’ve got a DB and I’m goddamn tired.” He turned to the Park Police officer. “Where’s the body?”

“Hold it,” Vail said, stepping forward. “I really need to talk with you. In private.”

Dixon and Burden shared a look. “Can’t that wait?” Burden said. “That DB may help us locate Robert.”

“Actually,” Vail said, “No. I need to find out—”

“We’ll talk later,” Hartman said. “Maybe.” He turned back to the officer. “Where’s the body?”

“This way.”

“Inspector!” The Zodiac officer was approaching on the run. “Dispatch wants an ETA on my return. You three need me to hang around?”

Vail remembered seeing a boat at the far end of the dock. She looked over and saw it was a Coast Guard cutter, with a uniformed man on deck. “I don’t think we need him hanging around. Who knows how long we’ll be here. We’ll find a way home.”

“Agreed.” Burden shooed him away with a hand. “Go on back, but stay on alert.”

Vail, Burden, and Dixon turned—and saw Hartman heading up the inclined roadway in a red, two-seater Toro flatbed vehicle.

“Gotta be kidding me,” Vail said, her hands on her hips. “What an asshole.”

“Just an observation,” Burden said, starting up the hill. “He doesn’t like you.”

“No guessing required. Back in New York, after he was reassigned and given a new partner, I was involved in a bank shooting. He responded to my call for backup, his partner was killed, and Mike took some lead. Had nothing to do with me or anything I did, but I was a convenient scapegoat for him because I made the call. Anyway, he was laid up for months and thinks he got passed over for promotion because of it. Of course, none of this was an issue till I got the BAU gig. Then one day he goes off on me. Haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

As they trudged along the sharply inclined roadway at a quick pace, Dixon said, “You think the offender knows we’re here? We’re bumping up against the deadline.”

“Depends on how he’s tracking our movements. Out here, in the middle of the Bay, in a fog-socked night, I doubt he’s watching from the mainland.”

“Unless he’s monitoring the radio band,” Dixon said.

Burden swung his head over. “I’m him, that’s what I’d do. No way for us to track that. But if that’s the case, he knows we’re here.”

“It’s possible he’s here, too. On the island,” Dixon said.

“Anything’s possible,” Burden said. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, then we’ll have a better idea as to when he killed this vic. I doubt he’d stick around, on an island. His getaway options’d be limited if the place was suddenly swarming with cops.”

Sodium vapor lights provided barely adequate illumination along the roadway, which was steep and took a good few minutes of uphill hiking. “Now I know why you stair climb at the gym,” Vail said between huffs. “So when you’re trudging up the hills at Alcatraz in search of an UNSUB, you’re able to do it without losing your breath.”

“Exactly,” Dixon called back, ten paces ahead of Burden and Vail. “Because I come here so often tracking serial killers.”

Ahead, the small vehicle that had transported Hartman was parked outside the Alcatraz cellhouse, an imposing, and aging, prison structure.

When they arrived at the top of the hill, they hung a right and entered the building through the main entrance, where an arched, three-dimensional sign over the door read, Administration Building. An eagle protruded from above, perched atop a rendition of the American flag—though the vertical red stripes were modified to read, FREE.

“Someone has a sense of humor,” Burden said.

They entered the facility where, ahead of them, a man in a suit held out a hand. Vail immediately pegged him as FBI.

“ID?”

Burden, Vail, and Dixon displayed their badges.

“This is federal jurisdiction,” the agent said, his gaze dwelling on Burden’s and Dixon’s state credentials.

“They’re with me,” Vail said. “We’ve got reason to believe this vic was done by the same offender we’re tracking in the city.”

The man waved them through.

They entered the large cellhouse. Ahead on a flesh-toned wall, a tourist-friendly sign read B BLOCK. The interior was in decent condition, the ceilings bright white and the cell bars wellworn but intact.

Off to the left, voices. They moved in that direction following another modern-era sign that read, Broadway. Down the main corridor, which featured cells on either side, stood a sharply dressed black man, US Park Police Detective Peter Carondolet, who was huddled with a suited Asian man. Mike Hartman was talking with a woman holding a camera—Sherri Price, the FBI forensic technician they had previously met at Inspiration Point.

Burden reached into his pocket and handed out paper booties.

“There’s your buddy,” Dixon said to Vail as she slipped a set over her shoes.

After heading down Broadway toward the knot of law enforcement personnel, they made introductions: the man they had not previously met was FBI Special Agent Ignatius Yeung, a field office colleague of Hartman’s.

“Who’s the vic?” Vail asked.