MacNally gave the cleat a twirling heave, and it soared up and out of sight. They felt the slack go tight, then heard a clunk as the metal claw struck the other side of the wall. MacNally tugged, and then, convinced it had sufficiently secured itself somewhere on the masonry, nodded at Rucker.
But as he gave Rucker the signal to proceed, he heard the crunch of footsteps on fine gravel. They both spread their bodies against the cellhouse limestone, and waited, hoping the officer would not look in their direction.
They were wearing standard issue dark blue prison jeans, and the area in which they were standing was poorly illuminated-the reason why MacNally had chosen this spot for scaling the wall. As long as they did not move, shuffle a foot, sneeze, or cough, the approaching officer might merely pass them by.
MacNally’s heart thumped in his ears as he awaited a shout, a spotlight-anything to go wrong. But the footsteps faded, and once they had vanished completely, he pushed away from the cellhouse wall and silently signaled Rucker to get moving.
Finally, as planned, Rucker began his ascent, moving upward, hand over hand, footstep after footstep, deeper into the darkness until MacNally was no longer able to see him. But the rope kept swaying and jiggling. When it went quiet, that would be MacNally’s silent cue that Rucker had made it over and was ready for his partner to begin his climb.
It felt like several minutes before the rope stilled. As MacNally was about to tighten his grasp for the ascent, he heard noise behind him. He dropped to the ground, burying his face in the dirt, and waited. Seconds became a long minute. But all appeared to be quiet.
Finally, he rose and grabbed hold of the rope. He pulled down toward him and started to bring his foot onto the rough face of the wall-but instead of the line tightening, it went limp-and he fell backwards, onto his side. “What the f-”
MacNally got to his feet and pulled some more, trying to generate tension. If the rope did not go rigid, there would be no purchase, and he would not be able to climb. He continued to yank, the line falling impotently at his feet as yards of the knotted cotton accumulated on the ground.
He wanted to yell-scream-at Rucker, demand to know what had happened. The milliseconds passed and the homemade cord continued tumbling down against his ankles. He realized this could mean only one thing.
Rucker had screwed him.
He must have cut the line at the end, and removed the cleat. The question of why he would do that flittered through his thoughts-but he dismissed it as quickly as it came, because all that mattered now was getting over that wall-before he was caught.
MacNally gave his last yank-and the remaining rope flew down at his face. He ducked-then scrambled to find the end. It had been severed-just as he had feared-and the cleat was gone.
MacNally looked around in the near darkness, trying to locate something else he could tie to the end, a jagged device that had enough mass that it would grab the other side of the wall and hold his weight as he climbed. But there was nothing.
He peered further into the dim, humid surroundings-and saw a freestanding structure. There had to be something in there. He left the line where it was, then ran the two dozen feet to the building’s entrance. It was locked-not surprising. He examined the door, but it was solidly built. There was a window-but he did not want to risk the noise it would make. Even if this was the darkest area of the grounds, a stray and unexpected crash of glass would invite trouble.
But each minute MacNally was in the open, outside the institution building, he was in danger of being discovered. He had been willing to accept the consequences when he launched the escape-because he was in charge of his own destiny and he felt confident he would be able to make it. But he had not planned on being double crossed by his co-conspirator. Now, with the chance of failure increasing with each passing second, the risk seemed far greater than it had when he sat down to plan it.
He circled the building, but found no other means of ingress. The window had to be it; he pulled the tail of his thick cotton shirt from his pants, then balled it around his left hand and punched it through the glass. It shattered as expected-and made as much noise as he had feared. Nothing he could do about it but get inside and find something that would help him climb that wall.
He hoisted himself up and through, and landed hard on the ground, amongst the broken shards of glass. He felt warm blood oozing from his cheek, but he didn’t care. He stumbled over haphazardly placed equipment of some sort, then groped in the darkness for something that he could fasten to the rope. A moment later, he found a rough, rusted rake. He stamped hard across the wood handle and the brittle wood snapped after three blows.
Drips of perspiration rolled off his brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped a sleeve across his face, and then examined the tool. It showed promise, but needed to be more rounded, like a hand. Anything he could use to bend it-a sledgehammer or other weighted device-would make substantial noise. Although his night vision had adjusted to the unlit interior, he could not find anything to reshape the hardened metal.
He tossed it out the window, then climbed up and out of the building. He picked up his new cleat, and cradling it like a football against his forearm, made like a running back and took off for the wall.
49
It was creeping past the end of the workday by the time Vail had started looking through the crime scene photos with Friedberg and Dixon. They had not gotten past the Anderson crime scene when Burden came running into the room.
“He left something for us.” Burden had a sheet of paper cradled between the thumb and forefinger of both hands. “Stuck it under the windshield wiper of my car.”
“He knew which car was yours?” Dixon asked.
“Apparently. After I spoke with Hayes-our lieutenant-and he gave me the go-ahead to use those interns, I had to get their names from a file in my car. And I found this.” He held up the document.
“Does SFPD have cameras in the lot?” Vail asked.
Friedberg stifled a laugh. “There are some out front, and some strategically placed around the building’s exterior. But the parking lot’s low priority. And we’ve had very few problems so there’s no incentive to spend money on that. You know how government works-we fix a security hole after we have a breach.”
“What’s it say?” Vail asked.
“It rambles a bit, kind of sounds like a manifesto.”
They gathered around Burden’s desk and huddled to read the letter.
You think I made a mistake? Right. That’s why I’m locked away in a jail cell. Oh, wait. I’m not. You people are a horrible waste of our tax dollars. Are you all so stupid I have to spell it out? Society functins by rooles and laws but they don’t apply to me. I don’t respect author-ity. Never did when I was growing up. My parents taught me to question author-ity. So why should I respecdt it in prisin son of a bitch bastards all they want to do is stick you force you to become someone your not if thts not a crime what is. I ask you agent vail what does all this mean. What does life mean if a man does all he can but cant make it work in society. It makes you think doesn’t it? If you still dont get it Agent Vail your not worth shit. I mean if all the philososphors and experts give us references for the trends of society what does it all mean if goverment doesn’t respect an individuals right to live in peace. I am a weakish speller but don’t take it for a fault. Underestimate me, you will be badly disappointed.