Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [11]
“There. We go down,” Valenzuela said. “I have seen storage cellars. From there we can get out of this building.”
Slocum doubted it would be that easy, but to his surprise it was. They passed through the storage room, found a window leading up to ground level, and wiggled through it, coming out only a dozen yards from the inmates’ vegetable garden. The scent of growing things caused Slocum’s nostrils to flare. It had been too long since he’d had such earthy aroma in his nose. The musty, solitary cell had been suffocating in its closeness, and the larger cell with Doc had been hardly better.
The wind fitfully caused waist-high plants to sway gently. Slocum considered how he might take cover in the vegetation if a guard came by. The rows were far enough apart that he might be seen, but the dark of the moon gave added benefit to anyone trying not to be seen.
“There, up on the wall,” Valenzuela said, pointing.
Slocum saw a guard walking slowly by. His silhouette was indistinct, but he seemed to be carrying a rifle in the crook of his left arm. There was no way to tell what he was looking at, but he continued along the catwalk, turned a distant corner, and vanished from sight. Slocum let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding.
“Where’s the pick?”
“At the end of this row,” Valenzuela said. “Where is Murrieta?”
“Here,” came the soft voice.
Slocum jumped. He had not heard Procipio Murrieta come up behind them, and that worried him. He had thought he was alert. Murrieta might have moved like an Apache, but that was no excuse for Slocum to be such a greenhorn.
“See the dark spot on the wall? That is where they patched.”
Slocum made out the faint outline of a doorway. The stone wall had been breached here, probably with a gate intended for supplies to be taken to the prison kitchen nearby.
“They closed it a year ago to better watch what comes into the prison,” Murrieta said.
“And to keep prisoners from going out,” Slocum said. He moved like a shadow crossing another shadow and went to the wall. He pressed his fingers into the cold stone and felt the plaster seam marking the doorway outline. Valenzuela joined him, Murrieta right behind.
“Where is the fourth?” Murrieta asked.
Slocum shrugged off an explanation. He was more interested in getting the hell out of San Quentin. Once free, he became John Slocum again, and Jasper Jarvis was a thing of the past. For his part, it couldn’t happen soon enough.
His fingers found a bit of loose plaster. He tugged and a section came free. Beneath the plaster lay a thick stratum of concrete.
“Let me,” Valenzuela said, shouldering Slocum aside. He swung the pick he had retrieved and sent a hunk flying from the plug. Slocum grabbed it and carried it to the garden, putting it in one row. Murrieta followed with a second piece, but the sound of Valenzuela working echoed like cannonade.
“Keep it down,” Slocum cautioned. He looked up at the walls but didn’t see the patrolling guard.
“Got to get through. We only have minutes before the ground patrol comes.”
Valenzuela worked furiously, prying loose even larger hunks of concrete for Murrieta and Slocum to lug off and hide. The sound of the pick point hitting wood caused Slocum to look around.
“Getting close,” Valenzuela said, panting from his exertion.
“I’ll take over,” Slocum offered. He took the pick from the man’s hands and applied his own expert strokes to the door, tearing out hunks of half-rotted wood. The other two men kept the area behind him free of betraying debris. The feel changed suddenly when the point of the pick penetrated to the far side of the door. Slocum put his foot against the wall and heaved. A section of door came free, letting a gust of air from the other side of the wall blast through.
Slocum inhaled deeply. The air was no different from that inside San Quentin’s walls, but it smelled sweeter than any perfume. It carried the