If Tomorrow Comes. Сидни Шелдон

‘There – there are some people who did things to my family and me. I’ve got to get out to pay them back.’

      ‘Yeah? What’d they do?’

      Tracy’s words came out slowly, each one a drop of pain. ‘They killed my mother.’

      ‘Who’s they?’

      ‘I don’t think the names would mean anything to you. Joe Romano, Perry Pope, a judge named Henry Lawrence, Anthony Orsatti –’

      Ernestine was staring at her with her mouth open. ‘Jesus H. Christ! You puttin’ me on, girl?’

      Tracy was surprised. ‘You’ve heard of them?’

      ‘Heard of ’em! Who hasn’t heard of ’em? Nothin’ goes down in New Or-fuckin’-leans unless Orsatti or Romano says so. You can’t mess with them. They’ll blow you away like smoke.’

      Tracy said tonelessly, ‘They’ve already blown me away.’

      Ernestine looked around to make sure they could not be overheard. ‘You’re either crazy or you’re the dumbest broad I’ve ever met. Talk about the untouchables!’ She shook her head. ‘Forget about ’em. Fast!’

      ‘No. I can’t. I have to break out of here. Can it be done?’

      Ernestine was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, she said, ‘We’ll talk in the yard.’

      They were in the yard, off in a corner by themselves.

      ‘There’ve been twelve bust-outs from this joint,’ Ernestine said. ‘Two of the prisoners were shot and killed. The other ten were caught and brought back.’ Tracy made no comment. ‘The tower’s manned twenty-four hours by guards with machine guns, and they’re mean sons of bitches. If anyone escapes, it costs the guards their jobs, so they’d just as soon kill you as look at you. There’s barbed wire all around the prison, and if you get through that and past the machine guns, they got hound dogs that can track a mosquito’s fart. There’s a National Guard station a few miles away, and when a prisoner escapes from here they send up helicopters with guns and searchlights. Nobody gives a shit if they bring you back dead or alive, girl. They figure dead is better. It discourages anyone else with plans.’

      ‘But people still try,’ Tracy said stubbornly.

      ‘The ones who broke out had help from the outside – friends who smuggled in guns and money and clothes. They had getaway cars waitin’ for ’em.’ She paused for effect. ‘And they still got caught.’

      ‘They won’t catch me,’ Tracy swore.

      A matron was approaching. She called out to Tracy, ‘Warden Brannigan wants you. On the double.’

      ‘We need someone to take care of our young daughter,’ Warden Brannigan said. ‘It’s a voluntary job. You don’t have to take it if you don’t wish to.’

      Someone to take care of our young daughter. Tracy’s mind was racing. This might make her escape easier. Working in the warden’s house, she could probably learn a great deal more about the prison setup.

      ‘Yes,’ Tracy said. ‘I’d like to take the job.’

      George Brannigan was pleased. He had an odd, unreasonable feeling that he owed this woman something. ‘Good. It pays sixty cents an hour. The money will be put in your account at the end of each month.’

      Prisoners were not allowed to handle cash, and all monies accumulated were handed over upon the prisoner’s release.

      I won’t be here at the end of the month, Tracy thought, but aloud she said, ‘That will be fine.’

      ‘You can start in the morning. The head matron will give you the details.’

      ‘Thank you, Warden.’

      He looked at Tracy and was tempted to say something more. He was not quite sure what. Instead, he said, ‘That’s all.’

      When Tracy broke the news to Ernestine, the black woman said thoughtfully, ‘That means they gonna make you a trusty. You’ll get the run of the prison. That might make bustin’ out a little easier.’

      ‘How do I do it?’ Tracy asked.

      ‘You got three choices, but they’re all risky. The first way is a sneak-out. You use chewin’ gum one night to jam the locks on your cell door and the corridor doors. You sneak outside to the yard, throw a blanket over the barbed wire, and you’re off and runnin’.’

      With dogs and helicopters after her. Tracy could feel the bullets from the guns of the guards tearing into her. She shuddered. ‘What are the other ways?’

      ‘The second way’s a breakout. That’s where you use a gun and take a hostage with you. If they catch you, they’ll give you a deuce with a nickel tail.’ She saw Tracy’s puzzled expression. ‘That’s another two to five years on your sentence.’

      ‘And the third way?’

      ‘A walkaway. That’s for trusties who are out on a work detail. Once you’re out in the open, girl, you jest keep movin’.’

      Tracy thought about that. Without money and a car and a place to hide out, she would have no chance. ‘They’d find out I was gone at the next head count and come looking for me.’

      Ernestine sighed. ‘There ain’t no perfect escape plan, girl. That’s why no one’s ever made it outta this place.’

      I will, Tracy vowed. I will.

      The morning Tracy was taken to Warden Brannigan’s home marked her fifth month as a prisoner. She was nervous about meeting the warden’s wife and child, for she wanted this job desperately. It was going to be her key to freedom.

      Tracy walked into the large, pleasant kitchen and sat down. She could feel the perspiration bead and roll down from her underarms. A woman clad in a muted rose-coloured housecoat appeared in the doorway.

      She said, ‘Good morning.’

      ‘Good morning.’

      The woman started to sit, changed her mind, and stood. Sue Ellen Brannigan was a pleasant-faced blonde in her middle thirties, with a vague, distracted manner. She was thin and hyper, never quite sure how to treat the convict servants. Should she thank them for doing their jobs, or just give them orders? Should she be friendly, or treat them like prisoners? Sue Ellen still had not got used to the idea of living in the midst of drug addicts and thieves and killers.

      ‘I’m Mrs Brannigan,’ she rattled on. ‘Amy is almost five years old, and you know how active they are at that age. I’m afraid she has to be watched all the time.’ She glanced at Tracy’s left hand. There was no wedding ring there, but these days, of course, that meant nothing. Particularly with the lower classes, Sue Ellen thought. She paused and asked delicately, ‘Do you have children?’

      Tracy thought of her unborn baby. ‘No.’

      ‘I see.’ Sue Ellen was confused by this young woman. She was not at all what she had expected. There was something almost elegant about her. ‘I’ll bring Amy in.’ She hurried out of the room.

      Tracy looked around. It was a fairly large cottage, neat and attractively furnished. It seemed to Tracy that it had been years since she had been in anyone’s home. That was all part of the other world, the world outside.

      Sue Ellen came back into the room holding the hand of a young girl. ‘Amy, this is –’ Did one call a prisoner by her first or last name? She compromised. ‘This is Tracy Whitney.’

      ‘Hi,’ Amy said. She had her mother’s thinness and deep-set, intelligent hazel eyes. She was not a pretty child, but there was an open friendliness about her that was touching.

       I won’t let her touch me.

      ‘Are you going to be my new nanny?’