Inmate 1577 (46 page)

“Hold it! Don’t move—put your arms behind your head and get down on your knees.”

MacNally knew that voice. Officer Jack Taylor. He instantly broke out in an aggressive sweat. His heart started racing, and he nearly whimpered anger and frustration into the night air. But he fought to keep his emotions muted.

What to do?

“Where’s MacNally?” Taylor yelled.

“Who?” Shoemacher asked.

“Don’t fuck with me, boy. You’re in a whole lotta trouble.” A second’s hesitation, then, “MacNally! Where the hell are you?”

Taylor’s voice rode away on the wind, but MacNally knew he did not have much time. Taylor was only feet away, on that sloping cement slab where he had been standing only a minute ago.

Could he reason with Taylor, explain why he was doing this? No—hacks have a job to do, and that’s to keep prisoners in line and prevent them from doing what MacNally was attempting to do.

There was no way out. If he surrendered, he would be thrown back in the Hole. Dozens of years would be added to his sentence. When he did get out of Seg, he would likely not be granted work privileges again. The thought of a lifetime behind bars in a cell, twenty-four hours a day, some of it in darkness with little human contact... It was not something he could live with. He had nothing to lose.

MacNally slipped his hand inside the sack and pulled out the knife, then straightened up and put his back to the doorway. He heard Taylor key his radio.

And that’s when he struck.

MacNally stepped out of the room and plunged the knife into Taylor’s chest. The officer stiffened, dropped his handgun, released his radio, then looked at MacNally with wide eyes. Shock or fear, MacNally couldn’t tell.

Taylor fell to his knees, gasping for breath, his hands grappling with the knife handle, unable to generate enough strength to pull it from his body. He fell onto his side and went still.

“The fuck did you do?” Shoemacher’s disbelief was as genuine as Taylor’s had been. “Are you out of your mind?”

Perhaps. And perhaps not. As Voorhees had once told him, life was about choices, and he had just made one. Good or bad, he didn’t yet know, for his goal of reuniting with Henry was something that he valued above all else. It was all that mattered. But righting the wrongs he had done—including the one lying at his feet—that would have to be reconciled at a later date.

There was, however, one thing that could not wait for future evaluation and analysis. And that was the man standing five feet away: Reese Shoemacher. MacNally was amped up, huffing rapidly, puffing vapor into the chilled wind, which whipped its away around his neck. He reached down and lifted Taylor’s .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from the ground.

Shoemacher had gone into the room to grab his flotation device. As he stepped back onto the Caponier, he said, “You’ve lost it, man. I’m gettin’ out of here.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” MacNally said. “I’m not going back.” He stepped closer to his partner and pulled the trigger, sending a round into the man’s chest. And another. Shoemacher slumped forward, then fell face forward to the cement.

There could be no witnesses to Taylor’s murder. If the failed escape of ’46 that Clarence Carnes had related was an indicator of what would be done to him, should he and Shoemacher be caught, MacNally’s killing of an officer would surely earn him a trip to San Quentin’s gas chamber across the Bay.

MacNally’s eyes darted around at the two bodies. He had to cover his tracks.

Fingerprints.

Then get the hell out of here.

He pulled the denim shirt out of his khakis and wiped the knife handle clean. Then he dragged Shoemacher’s stilled body toward the weapon, pressed the man’s fingers around it, and then did the same with the revolver, using Taylor’s right hand. Need be—and he hoped it didn’t come to this—his story was set in motion, and it would be bolstered by the evidence: MacNally was in the Powerhouse room preparing their plunge into the water when Taylor surprised Shoemacher, they struggled, and Taylor got off a couple of shots as Shoemacher plunged home the knife.

MacNally ran back into the Powerhouse and finished inflating his flotation device. He stepped out—and saw an officer. He reached back to throw a punch, but was struck from behind with a crushing blow to the head. It stung—his hearing winked out—and his vision went momentarily blank. MacNally went down hard to his knees.

“The fuck have you done?” a voice yelled.

“He killed Jack.”

“Son of a bitch. Who is it?”

“Negro’s Shoemacher. This asshole’s 1577. MacNally.”

MacNally shook his head, then cricked his neck to get a look at the men who were standing over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shoe moving toward his face. He threw up a hand, but missed. The foot did not.

The first kick to his head knocked him onto his back. The next one, and the ones after that, seemed progressively further away, the pain growing duller and more distant.

Until, eventually, he felt nothing at all.

Vail looked at Dixon. “Okay. John William Anglin. That’s great.” She looked sideways at Burden. “Who the hell’s John William Anglin?”

“You never heard of John Anglin?” Agent Yeung asked.

Detective Carondolet cleared his throat. “John Anglin was one of the three men who escaped from Alcatraz back in ’62. But their bodies were never found. The debate has raged for decades as to whether or not they made it. According to the FBI, they were assumed dead.”

“Well,” Vail said. “We all know what happens when you assume.”

Carondolet frowned. “Marshals Service still has active case files on these guys.”

Vail hiked her brow. “Looks like they can close one of them.”

“So,” Dixon said. “John Anglin. Fifty years or so later, he ends up right where he started. Just a guess, but I’ll bet this was his cell.”

Vail turned to look at the victim. “The UNSUB must’ve had some kind of beef with Anglin. He brought him back to Alcatraz as a gigantic fuck you—you worked so hard to get out of here, I’m going to lock you up in here—and this is where you’re going to die. He got the last word. It took him a while, but he finally got even. We figure out who Anglin pissed off before he left Alcatraz, and we may have our offender.”

“There was one guy, if I remember my history,” Carondolet said. “MacNeil, or MacNally. Something like that. He was in on the escape but he thought Anglin cut him out at the last minute. True or not, who knows. But he’d be the first guy we should look at.”

“Good,” Burden said as his phone rang. “I think it’s time you officially joined our unofficial task force.”

“Come again?” Carondolet asked.

MacNally. Where have I heard that name?
Vail looked around the cellhouse.
Why isn’t Hartman back?
Vail turned to Yeung. “Still nothing from Hartman?”

Yeung’s eyes narrowed. “No.” He pulled his BlackBerry and hit a few keys.

Burden hung up from his call and said, “One of the students found a pattern in the vics’ backgrounds. There were a few odd things that cropped up on two or three, but only
one
thing that’s common to all of them.”

“Let me guess,” Vail said. “Alcatraz.”

“You got it. Six were correctional officers. Two were former convicts.”

“Why didn’t this come up in our backgrounders?” Dixon asked.

“The damn place closed almost 50 years ago,” Burden said. “The people on his kill list moved on with their lives. According to what I was just told, the younger officers took jobs in the civil service system, or they moved to other Federal employment or they went into the private sector and retired after another thirty, thirty-five years of work. They had whole other lives after Alcatraz. The two inmates paroled out, got married, straightened themselves out. Didn’t happen often, but it did happen.”

Dixon wiggled an index finger at Burden’s BlackBerry. “Have them look up an inmate named MacNeil or MacNally. He would’ve been incarcerated here around the same time as John Anglin. Let’s also see what inmates had a problem with these murdered COs and cons. If this guy keeps coming up, I’d say it’s a bull’s-eye.”

Vail slapped a hand against the bars. “It’s MacNally. The guy who worked with Father Finelli, right? They had some kind of problem.” She turned to Carondolet. “Who’d have those records, the Bureau of Prisons?”

“Yeah. But if you want an answer tonight, you might be able to dig up some stuff on the Internet. Depending on the inmate, there is info up there. May not have what we’re looking for, but we could get lucky.”

“Good,” Vail said, “then let’s find out if this MacNally guy is still alive. If he is, get an address, cell phone, credit card—anything that’d help us pinpoint his whereabouts.” She looked at Yeung. “And where the hell’s Hartman?”

“Not answering,” Yeung said. “Went to voicemail. Probably in a bad zone, without cell service. I was warned about that on the way over from the city.”

Vail shook her head. “If Hartman walked out of here talking on the phone, and he’s not come back, either he’s still on the phone—which can’t be because he doesn’t have service—or he’s turned off his phone, or—”

“Something’s happened to him,” Dixon said.

Burden held up a hand. “Before we assume the worst, let’s get all available personnel together—”

“Wrong,” Vail said. “Assume the worst. The offender took Friedberg, and now he’s got Hartman. Count on it.”

Burden brought his fingers to both temples. “All right. We’ll do a grid search of the island. Hell with the crime scene. Anglin’s not going anywhere. Carondolet—you know this place. Coordinate.”

“Roxx,” Vail said. “Burden, you too. Can I have a word?”

“Now?” Burden asked.

“Now.”

“Get it together,” he said to Carondolet. “I’ll be right there.”

Vail led them down Broadway, to Times Square. Standing beneath the large clock and the West Gun Gallery, Vail took a deep breath and said, “There’s something you two should know.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Burden said.

“Trust me,” Vail said. “It gets worse. There was a note. When the UNSUB broke into our hotel room, he left a note.”

“No, he didn’t,” Dixon said.

“Yes, Roxx, he did.” Vail locked eyes with Dixon, who was clearly not pleased. In fact, she looked angrier than Vail had ever seen her—and that was saying a lot. “Before you say anything, I apologize. I—I didn’t say anything about it but I’ve got a good reason. No—I’ve got a reason, but it’s not very good.”

Burden folded his arms across his chest. “Karen, get to the goddamn point.”

“Mike Hartman. He was my partner in New York, remember? Before I was promoted to BAU. Something...happened...during that time. No one knew about it except me and Mike.”

“And?” Dixon asked.

“And the note. It said, ‘I know what you did in New York.’”

“How the hell can the UNSUB know what you did in New York if only you and Hartman knew?”

“There was another person who knew. But she’s out of the picture.”

“And why’s that?”

“She’s dead. A few months ago.”

“Who was she?”

Vail bit her lip. “My CI.”

Burden held up a hand. “What the hell does an old confidential informant from New York have to do with a serial killer in San Francisco who did time on Alcatraz decades ago?”

“Nothing,” Vail said. “Like I said, she’s out of the equation. Which leaves me and Mike. And that really leaves Mike. That’s what I was trying to ask him, down on the dock. Actually, I’ve been calling him for a couple days now, but he wasn’t returning my messages. I called his field office and they told me he was out of town and due back tonight.”

“So let’s rule out Hartman as the killer,” Dixon said. “Right?”

“Mike’s got his issues, but he’s not a psychopath.”

“Okay,” Burden said. “So what’s the connection?”

“That is the question.”

“That’s not the only question.” Burden’s gaze was penetrating. “What did you do in New York? What’s the UNSUB talking about?”

Vail curled a lock of red hair behind her ear and broke eye contact. “Eugenia. My CI. For over two years, I paid her by the book, two to three hundred at a time for info she gave me on illegal firearms, drugs—her info was always spot on. Bureau’s very strict about how you handle, develop, and pay your CIs. Forms have to be filled out specifying the amount you’re paying them—and the CI has to countersign.”

Carondolet came jogging over. “I called for some backup, but it’ll be fifteen to twenty before they get here. And we can’t leave the Coast Guard cutter unsupervised, so there’s seven of us, plus the island security guard. I’m dividing us up into pairs, and the island into quarters. This isn’t gonna be easy without flashlights.”

Burden checked his watch. “Where are you assigning us?”

“Just so you know, searching this place properly would take hours.”

“We don’t have hours,” Vail said.

“Right. So we’ll do what we can. Vail and Dixon, take the northwest quarter. Burden, you and the guard have the northeast. Price’s coming with me to cover the southeast, and Yeung and the other agent have the southwest. The island’s kind of a bird sanctuary, so if someone wandered into their nesting areas, we’d probably have heard a ‘bird alarm.’ I’m not sure if that means anything, but keep it in mind if you hear the gulls going off.”

“I’ve seen one of those already,” Vail said. “At that Palace thing.”

“In the dark, it can just about give you a heart attack. Just warning you.” Carondolet held up his phone as he started backing away. “Stay in touch, if you’ve got service. Regardless, let’s meet back here in forty-five.” The detective turned and jogged off.

Burden swung his gaze back to Vail. “Finish. And make it fast.”

“This can wait—”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Dixon said.

Vail sighed. “Fine. So Eugenia comes to me one day and tells me she needs nine hundred bucks. Her father has cancer and the drug he needs is expensive. She can’t wait the two weeks it usually takes for the paperwork to go through channels. And no way would they’ve approved a nine hundred dollar advance. Mike told me not to do it, but...”