The Cat, The Devil, And Lee Fontana. The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

Gently Becky touched the picture. All along, was this what Sammie?s dreams had been about?

?Here?s another of the boy,? Anne said, turning the page. ?And that?s your great-aunt Mae.?

The woman in the picture was maybe thirty, but Becky could see the resemblance to Sammie.?Mae .†.†. Mae was Lee?s sister,? she said.

Anne turned back several pages.?Here .†.†. here?s Mae as a child.? She looked from the picture to Sammie, looked at Becky, but said nothing more. The child was about ten. Becky studied her for a long while, as did Sammie. They were looking at Sammie?s twin, except for Mae?s long, old-fashioned skirt and laced boots. Sammie reached out a hesitant hand, gently touching the faded likeness just as Becky had touched the picture of Lee. Mae?s mirror image of Sammie made Becky shiver. How could any child be so like her own little girl?

She left Anne and Sammie at last, numb with putting the pieces together, with accepting the reality of a family she had never known. Sammie was doing a better job of it, seemed to have accepted it all: her great-uncle Lee, stepping out of a formless past; her great-aunt Mae, who had dreamed just as Sammie dreamed.

Returning to the kitchen, Becky ate her lunch quickly, then hurried downstairs to call Caroline, to tell her they?d arrived home safely, that they had seen no more of Falon. Upstairs again she pulled on her coat and was out the door into the rain ducking into her car. But, heading for work, she felt tired and worn out. She told herself she?d be better once she got into the books, began writing checks and adding up bills and charges. The neatness and logic of bookkeeping always eased her. She wished life could be as ordered, its problems as readily untangled and made right.

By five that afternoon she?d finished the payroll and billing for the five stores. Only in the car heading home did the tiredness hit her again, leave her longing for sleep. She found Sammie and Mariol in the kitchen, Mariol ironing, Sammie standing at the table folding and stacking towels. Mariol took one look at Becky and set down her iron. ?Go take a nap. Take a couple of aspirin and cover up, you?re white as these sheets. You don?t want to be sick.?

?I can?t afford to be sick.? She did as Mariol told her, headed obediently downstairs, took the aspirins, and collapsed on the bed, pulling the heavy quilt over her.

She didn?t mean to sleep long. She was deep under when the ringing phone woke her, cutting harshly through the pounding of the rain. Reaching for the phone, she hesitated, frightened suddenly. This was a private line, no one had this number but Caroline and Quaker Lowe. And the prison.

The bedside clock said six-thirty. She could smell supper cooking, the aroma of frying onions and browned beef. She picked up the phone. Lowe?s voice brought her wide awake. ?What?s wrong?? she said, sitting up, her heart pounding.

?Nothing?s wrong. I??

?The appeal .†.†.? Becky said. She didn?t want to hear this, she didn?t want to hear what was coming.

There was a long pause. Lowe said,?I have never found it so hard to give anyone bad news, as I find it now.?

?Denied,? she said woodenly. ?It was denied.?

?Insufficient new evidence. Of course I?ll keep trying. Now, with the federal warrant, and the complaints you filed, we?ll have a better chance. Neither is direct evidence of the robbery and murder, but they are evidence of Falon?s destructive intent toward your family. I?m going up to Rome inthe morning to dig some more, do some more interviewing.?

?You?ve talked to everyone. What good??

?It?s possible, now that Falon is wanted by the feds, that Natalie Hooper will be less inclined to lie for him.?

Becky didn?t think Natalie would ever testify against Falon. The appeal had been denied, they were beaten, everything was over.

?We?re not giving up,? Lowe said.

Mutely she shook her head. Quaker was grasping at straws, they would never get an appeal, his continued effort would only lead Morgan on uselessly. And the added cost would be more than she could ever pay.

?I mean to charge only half the hourly rates,? Lowe said, ?for whatever time it takes to file again. Now, if Falon is picked up, I think Natalie will talk rather than getting crosswise with the bureau. I wish we could find the money or the gun,? he said dryly. ?I?ll pick up copies of the complaints when I get to Rome. I don?t mean to quit on this, Becky.?

Becky ended up crying into the phone. The disappointment of the denial and then Lowe?s kindness undid her. She wept so hard she couldn?t talk and had to hang up. Shutting herself in the bathroom she gave over to painful sobs, she cried until she was limp, all the weeks of worry and stress shaking her. Her whole body felt drained, her eyes red and swollen. Her helplessness enraged her. She wanted to call Lowe back and apologize but what could she say? She didn?t let herself think about visiting day, about telling Morgan tomorrow that they?d have to start over, that the appeal had been shot down.

DRIVING DOWNPEACHTREE headed for the prison, Sammie sitting quietly in the seat beside her, Becky dreaded this visit. She?d wanted to leave Sammie home again, had wanted to tell Morgan alone about the appeal, not force him to deal with his rage in front of Sammie. But Sammie had been so insistent, wanting to see Lee, to show him the album. Becky wished Lee wouldn?t come to visiting day either; she wanted only to bealone with Morgan. But, in the end, it was the album that saved her.

In the sally port, she cautioned the guard that the thin black folder was very old and fragile. She watched him page through it, making only a small show of being careful. When she and Sammie entered the visiting room, Becky handed Lee the album and glanced across to an unoccupied corner.

Lee accepted the disintegrating book, watching her face. Cradling the album, he took Sammie?s hand and moved to the far lounge chair. With Sammie on his lap he sat turning the pages, looking at the pictures as Sammie pointed to various relatives and recited the names and what she could remember of the family relationships as Anne had told her. Becky, sitting quietly with Morgan, watchedLee?s expression change as he pored over the old photos: at first he was startled, then his look turned vulnerable and uncertain. From across the room, Becky gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Lee looked back at her and grinned, shy and embarrassed. She smiled, then turned away, took Morgan?s hand, snuggling against him.

She told him she loved him, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his shoulder. He sat quietly, waiting. When she didn?t speak, he said, ?The appeal was denied.?

?Quaker called last night,? she said softly. When she looked up at Morgan, his eyes were hard and rage sculpted his face. He turned away, didn?t want her to comfort him. She felt that the denial was her fault, felt that again she had chosen the wrong lawyer.

?Lowe is still trying,? she said. ?He?s not a quitter, he?s up in Rome now, seeing what more he can find. He?s dropped his fees to half, he?s been very kind, Morgan. Hewants this appeal, he believes in you. Please give him a chance, don?t lose faith. Somewhere there has to be more evidence.?

He said nothing.

?But here?s the good news,? she said. ?Morgan, please look at me.?

He turned toward her, his face hard and closed.

?There?s a warrant out for Falon. A federal warrant.?

?A warrant for what? Not the robbery??

?The FBI wants him. For some land scams out on the West Coast, and for fraud by wire. The other four men in it have already been indicted. If they?re convicted, if Falon?s convicted, Sergeant Trevis said he could get ten to twenty years.?

?If they find him,? Morgan said. ?If they can get him to trial. If theycan convict him.?

?The FBI will find him. If he?s arrested in Georgia, he?ll be shipped out to the coast. Trevis says he?d be tried out there, that if he?s convicted he?ll most likely be in prison out there?far away from us.?

Morgan took her in his arms, holding her close?but not believing Falon would ever be imprisoned.

?We have to go with this, Morgan. We have to put our faith in this. If Falon?s wanted for another federal crime, the U.S. attorney will look at him differently. He?ll look differently at our new try for an appeal.?

?Maybe,? he said noncommittally.

?Believe it will happen. We have to believe, have to hang on to something.? Holding his hand, she looked across the room again at Lee and Sammie, so engrossed in the frail album. ?Our family pictures,? she said gently. ?Lee as a child. His sister Mae, aunts and uncles, they all belong to us and to Lee.?

Watching Morgan as he considered her words, as he considered the tough old man and Sammie, so comfortable together, she saw his face soften, saw the hint of a smile.

25

BRADFALON, AFTER attempting to run Becky?s car off the bridge, had slipped on into town behind her. He didn?t think she?d go to the police, and the cops wouldn?t listen anyway. They?d been down on Morgan ever since the robbery and they had no more use for Becky. He?d seen to that, had done enough one-on-one talking with selected officers to sour the validity of what either Morgan or Becky said. The rumors he?d spread about Becky and him, through a couple of friends, had further tarnished her credibility. Damn woman. Her gunshot wound in his leg hurt bad, and now, so did the crease in his shoulder where she?d winged him backthere on the bridge. The pain made it hard to drive. Leaving the bridge he?d popped a couple of the Dover?s Powder pills, the same pain pills with which he?d drugged Morgan before the bank robbery?only then, he?d used enough to leave Blake sleeping like a dead flounder.

Washing the pills down with the last of an open Coke, he threw the bottle out the window and, staying well behind Becky out of sight, headed for Natalie?s place. He needed his shoulder bandaged, needed the bandage on his leg changed, needed someone to take care of him, cook for him, needed a place to hole up until he healed. He wouldn?t go to his mother?s, she was too judgmental, he didn?t see her often. The cops would already have been there looking for him; they didn?t waste time when there?d been a shooting no matter who the victim was. They would have searched Natalie?s apartment, too, late last night or maybe this morning. Natalie wouldn?t rat on him, she wouldn?t like the consequences.

He?d moved in, sent her out for a steak and a bottle of bootleg, was settled in just fine. He?d been there three days when the Rome cops found him. It was two A.M., he was asleep in Natalie?s bed tossing with fever from the wound in his leg. Earlier that evening just after supper, the first time the cops showed up, they didn?t have a warrant. Natalie had helped him hide in the attic crawl space. It hurt like hell getting up the folding stairs, his leg burning like fire. Natalie had refused to let the law in without the proper paperwork. When they?d gone, he?d been too sick to leave.He?d gone back to bed, had thought, if the cops came back with a warrant, he could make it out onto the balcony, could handle the five-foot drop to the concrete. The damn cops wouldn?t be looking for him if Becky hadn?t reported the bridge incident. She?d sure as hell sworn out a warrant, why else would they be there?

Natalie had been careful to keep his presence secret, had made no increased purchases of food, had pulled the drapes at dusk as was her habit. She had some antiseptic and an old sheet to tear up, so she needn?t buy anything incriminating; she had nursed him as best she knew how. When, at night, he grew too fevered and restless to lie still she?d brought him cold compresses for his leg; and she?d moved out of the double bed into the living room, and slept on the couch. She was asleep there when, two hours past midnight, the cops pounded on her door again.

When they kept pounding, she shouted at them to shut up and go away. When Falon himself, groggy from the Dover?s Powder, heard the sharp bite of a cop?s voice, he rolled out of bed, shocked to wakefulness, pain jarring through him. He?d pulled on his pants and was sliding the balcony door open when he heard the front door crash open and two cops stormed in. One of them lunged and grabbed him, jerked hisarms behind him, striking pain through him. The other cuffed him, and it was all over. They searched his pockets and found a set of car keys. They looked at his bandaged wounds. Once they were done questioning him and jerking him around, he pulled on his shirt, Natalie tied his shoes for him, crying, and handed him his jacket. She had a talent for crying on cue, she had done that to perfection in the courtroom when she took the stand at Blake?s trial.

Two of the cops escorted him out of the apartment, forced him down the stairs and out the back door to a squad car, hustling him along, making no effort to allow for the pain he was experiencing. A third officer went to try Falon?s keys in the cars that were parked behind the building. Falon?s Ford coupe wasn?t among them; he and Natalie had ditched it outside town behind an empty barn, returning in her car.

Falon was housed in the Rome city jail in a private cell to increase security while Rome police waited for the U.S. marshals to pick him up. His shoulder began bleeding again, soaking through the bandage and through his shirt. He was treated by the doctor who tended the prisoners, his wound was rebandaged, and he was given a shot for the infection. His rage at being arrested was directed equally at Becky Blake, at every bastard cop on the Rome force, and at Natalie for not alerting him soon enough to get him out of the apartment?but most of all at Becky. Somewhere down the line she?d pay for this and for all the snubs and injustices she?d forced on him over the years.

IT WAS FIVE A.M. the next morning that the ringing phone jerked Becky from a heavy sleep. She rolled over, fighting the covers, grabbing for the receiver?afraid it was the prison, that Morgan was hurt.

?It?s Quaker. I?m sorry to wake you.?

She sat up in bed, glancing over at Sammie, who had come wide awake and lay watching her.?Quaker? What is it? What?s happened?? His last call hadn?t been good news. What had happened now?

But there was a smile in Quaker?s voice. ?Becky? The Rome police have picked up Falon. He?s locked down tight. They hauled him out of Natalie?s at two-thirty this morning. He was hurting real bad from your gunshot wounds,? he said cheerfully.

?Can they keep him locked up, now that they have the warrants??

?They can. Do you want me to tell Morgan? I have an early appointment down that way.?

?Oh yes, please. That?s the best news he could have. It?s a pain to try to call. I tried twice in the last weeks; they said I could talk to him on visiting day. But, Quaker, you won?t tell him that Falon attacked us? I?ve told him none of that, I couldn?t bear to worry him, he has enough to deal with.?

?Not a word,? Lowe said. ?Becky, the bureau will be all over Falon. With the crimes out on the coast, and after the bridge incident and the breakin there at your aunt?s, I think we?ll see some action.?

When Lowe had hung up, Becky climbed into bed with Sammie, hugging her and laughing.?He?s in jail, Falon?s in jail, he can?t touch us.? And as Sammie chimed in, ?He?s in jail, he?s in jail,? Misto was suddenly there snuggling close and warm against them, big and golden and ragged-eared, his whole body rumbling with purrs.

26

MORGAN PARTED FROM Quaker Lowe outside the prison office that was used by attorneys and their clients. Shaking hands with Lowe, he wanted to hug the man; they were both smiling as Lowe turned away toward the sally port. Morgan, double-timing to the mess hall, shouldered in among the stragglers looking for Lee. The kitchen staff was cleaning up the last of breakfast, the clanging of metal and crockery, the smell of overcooked food and soapy water. Lee sat at a table across the room where he?d pushed aside his empty plate. Morgan grabbed a plate, served himself from what was left in a few big pans, the eggs and pancakes limp and cold. Heading across among the empty tables, setting down his tray, he gave Lee a thumbs-up, ?Falon?s in jail. Locked up tight.?

Lee let out a whoop that made the men in the kitchen turn and stare.?Hot damn!That?s what Lowe came out here for. To give you the news in person. Becky knows??

?He called her at five this morning, said she laughed like a kid. Rome cops picked him up on the federal warrant. Lowe agrees with them, if Falon?s convicted in L.A., they?ll keep him out there, maybe at Terminal Island.?

Lee smiled. Morgan grinned back at Lee?s pleasure, which seemed to wipe away the years. But Lee?s eyes were bright with challenge, too. And that turned Morgan uneasy.

?He went over parts of the trial transcript again,? Morgan said, watching Lee. ?Wanted to know if there was anything I?d forgotten, that might have seemed unimportant at the time. I couldn?t think of one detail.? Morgan made a face at the cold eggs but shoveled them in. ?This has set him up,Lee. The guy really wants to burn Falon. I like him, he doesn?t act superior like the lawyers I?ve known. They come in the shop to get their car fixed, they want it yesterday and they know exactly what?s wrong with it, they want it done exactly the way they tell me, even when they?redead wrong.?

?You couldn?t think of any new leads.? Lee said. ?Anything he can move on.?

?Nothing.? Morgan stirred sugar into his coffee; at least the coffee was hot. ?It?s the money that would fry him. If we knew where he hid the money.?

Lee was quiet, watching Morgan.

?He was good at hiding things,? Morgan said. ?When we were kids, he knew places to stash car radios and batteries that I never thought of. He?d dig stuff out of the big flour bin in his mother?s kitchen or an old water heater lying in the lot next door, dig out all the stash we?d liftedso we could take it to the fence.?

Still, Lee said nothing. Morgan finished his breakfast; they returned their trays to the counter and moved out into the exercise yard. The morning?s rain had stopped. As they moved down the concrete walk, puddles splashed their shoes. ?The bank money,? Morgan said, ?he wouldn?t trust that to some water heater?or to Natalie, either. She lied for him, but that doesn?t mean he?d trust her with money. Falon?s opinion of women is on a level with hogs in a mud hole.?

?I wonder,? Lee said, ?if he?s already retrieved the stash. He?s had plenty of time to split it up, hide it in half a dozen places or maybe in banks. Maybe the bureau didn?t find all the accounts. Maybe some small deposits, say, over in Kentucky and Alabama, accounts he might have already setup.?

?Lowe?s checking the banks in several states. That takes a while, when they?d be under false names. Harder still if he opened them some time ago, so they wouldn?t show up under new accounts.? Two joggers passed them moving swiftly, glancing at them without interest.

?If the feds haul him out to California,? Morgan said, ?he won?t get his hands on the cash for some long time.? He looked up at the sky, the clouds dark and low above them. ?Or maybe he buried it, maybe thought that was safer than banks. He knows the land around Rome real well.?

?And so do you,? Lee said.

?So? You think I can look for it, locked in this damn prison??

?There might be a way,? Lee said. Over the last days, working in the steamy kitchen, he?d laid out a plan. Even now, with this new turn in Falon?s fate, Lowe?s try for an appeal could fail. If that happened, what Lee had in mind might be Morgan?s only shot at a new trial, his only chance at freedom.

Lee didn?t tell Morgan what he had in mind, he wanted Blake to think of it himself. He?d been working on Blake, planting the notion of escape, describing prison breaks he?d heard about, but then moving on to a colorful crime or a well-known inmate. Whether or not Blake knew what he was doing, the idea of escape was planted. Now, watching Morgan, Lee said, ?What if we could find the money??

?That?s all the proof Lowe would need, he could get him back in court.? Morgan looked hard at Lee. ?If somehow I could get my hands on Falon before they ship him off .†.†. Get him alone and make him spill where he hid it .†.†.?

?How would you do that? Even if you broke out, he?s locked up.? Lee kicked at a pebble. ?And by tomorrow or the next day, he?ll be gone. On his way to the West Coast.? He visualized Falon belly-chained in a DC-3 between a couple of deputy marshals. He hoped they were hard-nosed bastards; he wished Falon a miserable flight.

?If he?s acquitted of the land scam,? Morgan said, ?he?ll come back for the money. If Icould get out of here, I could watch him and follow him.?

?Slim chance he?ll walk, if the feds are this hot to convict him.?

?I want to get the bastard, Lee.Make him talk,make him tell where the money is. If I could get out, get my hands on him .†.†.?

Lee looked hard at Morgan.?You thinkyou could take down Falon??

Morgan looked uncertain. Lee said,?Together we could. We could hurt him bad enough so he?d tell whatever we want.? And, watching Morgan, he knew Blake had grabbed the bait.

But what lay ahead would take all the planning, all the wiliness and strength the two of them had. Lee tried not to think how dangerous it was. His agenda wasn?t only crazy, it was pushing suicide.

?You sure they?d put him in Terminal Island?? Morgan said.

?That?s the closest to L.A. Why go to the expense of bringing him back here??

?If there was a way to get transferred out there, if I could get into T.I. with him, I swear I?d beat the truth out of him.?

?Well, sure, if you could get out there,? Lee said. ?The prison system does that all the time. You just tell your counselor you?re unhappy here, that you?d like the California climate better, he?ll put in for a transfer and you?ll be on your way.?

They moved over as four more joggers surged by, stinking of sweat. Morgan had taken the bait real well.?If he?s sent to T.I.,? he said stubbornly, ?and Icould get out there, I?d have a chance at him. I had no chance after the bank robbery. When I came to, groggy from the drugs, I was already on my way to jail. But now, if I could break out somehow, get out to California .†.†.?

?Then what? You camp on the doorstep of T.I. waiting for Falon to be released? Wait there how many years for him to walk out the prison door, then you nail him??

?I have to do something. Becky and Sammie and I have our whole lives ahead of us. I don?t want to watch from behind this damned wall as Sammie grows up. I want my life back.?

Lee waited.

?If heis convicted, if hedoes do his time out there, there has to be some way I can get into the joint.? Morgan looked helplessly at Lee. ?I know it?s impossible, but .†.†. Maybe I could get out through the train gate, where that guy got crushed. Maybe I could do a better job of it than he did.?

?And what if you screw up? End up crushed, like him??

Morgan slowed, looked at Lee a long time.?In here, I might aswell be dead. In here, I?m nothing to Becky and Sammie. I can?t work to support them, can?t hold them and love them except in public at the exact place and time of day the prison says I can.?

They had circled the exercise yard, had started around again when Morgan said,?If I did find a way to break out, if I got all the way out there, they wouldn?t ship me back right away? Iam a federal prisoner, wouldn?t they hold me, maybe right there in T.I. for a few days, while they did the paperwork??

Lee looked hard at Morgan.?They might not ship you back at all. It would be cheaper to keep you there.? He shrugged. ?Maybe T.I. Why not??

?Then how do I do it? How do I get out, avoid the feds long enough to hop a freight or hitchhike, get on out to L.A.??

Lee glanced up at the wall.

?I sure can?t go over that baby,? Morgan said, laughing sourly. ?Thirty, forty feet. And the guards. Even if there was a way over, I wouldn?t last two seconds, with those rifles trained on me.?

?Maybe,? Lee said. ?Maybe there?s a way. Come on,? he said, heading across the big yard.

Sitting with their backs to the concrete barrier, Lee laid out the plan. He showed Morgan the dimples in the concrete. He watched Morgan glance up, as Lee himself had done, looking toward the towers that couldn?t be seen from that position. He watched Morgan?s expression change to disbelief and then to excitement, and Lee?s own blood surged. They could do this. They could get out of there, in a way that no one had ever done, before.

Maybe something was pushing him, maybe not. This was what he meant to do and to hell with his short sentence. Beside him, Morgan began to smile.?Sammie was right,? he said.

?Right about what??

?That you?d come here to Atlanta and save me,? Morgan said. ?That you?d get me out of this cage.?

27

LEE SAT ACROSS the visiting room as far away from Morgan and Becky as he could get, holding Sammie on his lap hoping she couldn?t hear Morgan?s pitch as he laid out their escape plan to Becky. Though the child would know soon enough, he thought wryly. If she hadn?t already dreamed of what they meant to do. Dreamed it, but had kept it from her mother?

Or had she dreamed of the outcome of their venture? But if she?d done that, now she?d be either tearful and grieving for Morgan or wildly excited that they would soon be free. She wouldn?t be the quiet little girl sitting snuggled and uncertain in his lap, leaning against him, her small hand in his.

There were only a few other visitors in the room. Lee watched a lean young prisoner and his pillow-shaped wife, their smear-faced toddler fussing and crying as they passed him back and forth between them. Neither they nor the other three couples seemed to be listening to Morgan?s soft, urgent voice.

Lee knew Becky would try to stop them, try to tear their plan apart. He watched her scowl grow deeper until suddenly she lit into Morgan, her whisper, even from across the room, as virulent as a snake?s hiss.

He didn?t like to see the two of them at odds but, more to the point, they needed Becky?s help, needed help on the outside to make this work. As the two battled it out, their angry whispers drowned by the fussy baby, Lee hoped no one could hear. If any rumor of a planned escape was passed on to a guard,he and Morgan would be separated, confined to their cells, maybe one of them sent to another prison, and that would end their plan.

Now, though Sammie still sat quietly turning the pages of her book, her whole being was focused on her parents? whispered battle. Soon she laid down her book, pressed closer against Lee, her body rigid and still. Across the room, Becky grabbed Morgan by the shoulders, her fingers digging in. Lee rose, setting Sammie back in the chair. ?Stay there, stay quiet.? But before he could cross the room Beckywasup, moving toward him, backing him away from the others into a corner. Her whisper was like a wasp sting.

?What have you been telling him? What crazy ideas have you been feeding Morgan? No one can do what you?re planning.? Her dark eyes flashed, her anger a force that made Lee step back. ?This will get him killed. Morgan was a patsy once. I won?t let him do this, this isn?t going to happen.?

Lee was shocked by the degree of her rage.?You won?tlet him do this?? he whispered. ?What right have you tolet him do anything! Morgan is the one who?s in prison, not you.He?s the one who was framed, not you. He wants a new trial. There?s no chance without new, solid evidence.? He wanted to shake her, he had drawn close, the otherswere looking now; without the bawling baby they?d hear every word. ?This is the only wayI know to get new evidence,? he breathed.

He leaned over, racked by a fit of coughing, then faced her again.?Maybe Natalie Hooper will talk to your lawyer the way he thinks. And maybe she won?t.? He glanced across at Sammie, sitting rigid in the chair, her fists clenched.

?The best way to get real evidence,? Lee said softly, ?is from Falon himself. Find out where he hid the money. Tell the bureau so they can retrieve it.? He swallowed back another cough. ?The best way is to make him talk. And you won?tlet Morgan do this??

?He?ll get himself killed trying to escape. What good is that? You might not care if the guards shoot him, but I do. And even if you did get out,? she breathed, ?even if you made it all the way to California without being picked up, which isn?t likely?even if you did turn yourselves in at Terminal Island and they kept you a few days, the minute you try to hustle Falon, he?ll kill Morgan. Don?t you understand how vicious Falon is?? Her jaw was clenched, her lips a thin line, her dark eyes huge with anger and pain. ?What kind of scam is this, Fontana? What do you care if Morgan gets anew trial? Just because we?re related doesn?t mean I can trust you or that Morgan can. Leave him alone. Keep your nose out of our business.?

?I can do that,? Lee said quietly. ?I can tell him the plan?s no good, that we?ll have to scratch it, and he?ll back off. He knows he can?t get out of here alone without help, without a partner. We trash the plan, and you?ll go right on visiting him here until he?s an old man. Youtwo can sit on the couch holding hands, you can watch him grow bitter, watch him turn into an empty shell with nothing inside but rage. And watch yourself do the same. And Sammie will grow up seeing her father for an hour at a time, a few days a week at best, right here in this visiting room with iron bars at the windows. If you stop him from trying,? Lee said, ?you?ll never sleep well again. You?ll never sleep with Morgan again, never hold him close at night.?

Beneath the anger, Becky?s look had gone naked and still.

?This is a pretty visiting room, isn?t it, Becky? The nice furniture and clean walls, the expensive carpeting, the plants along the window. And the rest of the prison is just as pretty and clean, it smells just as nice, and is just as comfortable and safe. We?re all just loving brothers in here,behind these bars and walls.?

She wiped at her eyes.?I know it?s hard, that it?s ugly, but??

?You don?t know anything, you don?t have a clue. You wouldn?t last five minutes behind those doors.? Lee looked at her coldly. ?That world in there peels away all the layers, lady. Right down to the worst ugliness you can think of, and worse than you can think of.? He choked and swallowed. ?You don?t know anything about what it?s like in there, about what Morgan?s life is like. But that doesn?t matter,? he whispered. ?You want Morgan to stay locked in here, maybe until he dies. He?s only a young man, but you want him to stay here until he rots to nothing for a crime he didn?t commit.?

She turned away, her head bowed. He put a hand on her shoulder. She was still for a long time. When she turned back, she faced him squarely, pale and quiet, her look so vulnerable that he wanted to hold her just as he had held Sammie. She stood silent looking at him until he started to turn away. Quietly she pulled him down on the nearest couch, sat facing him.

?What about the second appeal?? she said softly. ?Why would you do this before we know if it?s granted??

?There won?t be a second appeal without new evidence, no matter how hard Lowe works at it. The complaints you filed are supporting evidence, but not enough, not the kind of evidence you need for a sure win. Lowe knows that, that?s why he?s still digging.

?So far he has nothing. Morgan doesn?t think he?ll get it from Natalie and neither do you. Not the solid, irrefutable evidence he needs. Maybe he?ll find flaws in her story, inconsistencies, but that?s far from solid.?

She was silent again, looking down at her lap. As he rose to leave she looked up.?Tell me what to do,? she said. ?Tell me how I can help.?

He hugged her and then settled back, his shoulder against hers, his voice so low she had to lean close.?We?ll need clothes, old jeans. Old shirts, nothing fancy or new. Old, warm jackets. Good heavy boots, waterproof if you can find them.? He found a scrap of paper in his pocket and wrote down his shoe size. ?And money,? he said, ?all the money you can lay your hands on.? He read her alarm atthat. ?At some point,? Lee said, ?once we?re out on the coast, we?ll need to hire a lawyer.?

He watched Morgan rise to join them, sitting down close on Becky?s other side. ?Get the clothes at some charity shop,? Morgan said. ?Wash them in lye soap, we don?t want lice.?

?The other thing,? Lee said, ?we need to know what?s on the other side of the wall. The train track has to be close, the whistles damn near take your head off, but we need to know the layout, what?s on beyond.?

?There?s a General Motors plant,? Morgan said, ?a car distribution center. On behind that, unless things have changed, there?s an open field. But check it all out, see if it?s still the same, see how the field lies in relation to the wall and the track.?

Lee told her where to leave the clothes and money.?We?ll let you know later when to drop it. Once we?re out of here, there?ll be no contact. Morgan won?t be making any calls from some pay phone, the bureau boys would pick it up in a minute.

?Once we?re gone,? Lee said, ?you won?t be finished with it, Becky. Make no mistake, the feds will be all over you, they?ll question you and question Sammie. Doesn?t matter that she?s just a child, they?ll try to drag information out of her, try for anything they think they can use.?

?Why do you want to go with Morgan?? Becky said. ?If you stay here, you?ll be getting out soon.?

?I don?t know why,? Lee snapped. ?Because I?m crazy. Because he can?t do it alone, he doesn?t know anything about hopping the trains, about avoiding the law. He doesn?t know anything much that will help him.? He took her hand. ?Don?t tell Sammie any more than she?s overheardor guessed. Whatever she knows will put her on the spot. If she dreams this you?ll have to make her understand, make her swear to keep silent.

?You?d better start teaching her now,? Lee said. ?Not to talk to anyone about this, not to your aunt, not to the maid, not to your mother. Sure as hell not to a bureau agent. Anything she says, even if it?s only a dream, an agent might run with it.? Lee glanced up past Becky toward the half-open door, at the shadow of the guard standing in the hall. ?Morgan will let you know the rest, let you know the timing. We?ve been talking too long, I need to get out of here.? He rose and left them, and didn?t look back.

Telling Becky about the plan scared him, that she wouldn?t keep their secret, but they needed her. The idea of Sammie?s dreams disturbed him all the more, the thought that she might innocently let a hint drop, meaning no harm. But Sammie was a wise child. He told himself that with Becky?s help she?d learn to be still, would learn to lie for her daddy.

28

THAT?S NOT A wall, it?s a mountain,? Morgan said. ?There?s no way we can get over that baby.? They stood on the steps leaning against the rail where Lee had first seen the flaw in the concrete. It was two days after they?d told Becky their plan. Below them the big yard gleamed with puddles, bouts of rain had swept through all day.

?People climb mountains,? Lee said dryly. ?You?ve already made the rods. What?s the matter with you, what did Becky say?? Morgan had just come from visiting hour. Lee had skipped this one; it was the last time the two would be together. ?She?s not angry again?? Lee said warily. ?Did she get the clothes, the money? Or did she .†.†. ??

?She got everything we asked for,? Morgan said, pulling his coat tighter against the chill. ?She?s not mad. She?s .†.†. quiet. Trying to hold it in. This is hard on her, Lee. What if .†.†. ?? Morgan shook his head. ?I?m not sure I can do this to her.?

?It?ll be harder on her if you don?t. If you never get out of here, never get an appeal.?

Morgan stared up at the guard tower, his hands clutched white on the rail.?She drove the roads behind the wall, she?s done everything you asked. She?s just .†.†. She said there were still open fields back there, the weeds waist-high from the rain. She thought the distance from the wall to the train track was about five hundred yards. Said there?s a signal pole beside the track, she?ll leave the bundle of clothes in the weeds near its base. Said she?d stuff them in a greasy gunnysack the way you said, smear it with mud and lay some dead weeds over it.?

Lee had to smile at Becky crouched in the weeds, messing around in the mud like a kid herself.

?She went to the city library, found a map of the railway lines, drew a rough copy. She took half a day off from work to get everything together, buy the used clothes, draw out the money. That?s all the money we have, Lee. She has nothing to pay Quaker Lowe, she .†.†.? Morgan shook his head.?She said that from Atlanta the freight will go either to Birmingham or Chattanooga depending on the timing, she couldn?t find a schedule for that. Then on to Memphis, Little Rock, across Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to Albuquerque.?

?Then Arizona,? Lee said, ?and into California.? He wanted to stop in Blythe, draw out the prison-earned money he?d deposited. Money he?d carried with him when he was paroled from McNeil, plus what he?d earned in Blythe; he thought they?d need every penny.

Right. Stop in Blythe, and what if he were spotted approaching the bank or inside, when he tried to close his account? Who could say how much more the feds knew by now about the post office robbery? What other details might they have picked up? If they had anything more pointing to him, they?d have put an alert on his account. If they had and he showed up to draw his cash, the clerk would call the local cops. He and Morgan would end their journey right there, in the Blythe slammer.

Don?t borrow trouble, Lee told himself.Quit worrying.Wait until we reach Blythe, then play it the way it falls.

?Becky followed the track as best she could in the car,? Morgan said. ?There?s a switching yard to the left about three miles. She couldn?t tell how much security they have, she saw only one guard moving among the workmen. But the cars were crowded close, so maybe we can keep out of sight. We?ll have to watch it, not ride out of town in the wrong direction.?

?Doesn?t matter,? Lee said. ?Either way, Chattanooga or Birmingham, we?ll be all right, we?ll take whichever we draw.? They had already timed the sweep of the spotlight beams, where they crossed each other. There was some two hundred feet of open yard to cross to reach the flaw and the blindspot. They had ten seconds between sweeps, to cover the distance, and Lee was no track star. He didn?t know if he was fast enough or if he?d blow it right there.

?I?ll work my regular supper shift,? he said. ?Then we haul out. Hope to hell the storm passes.? He didn?t like to think about climbing those metal rods if they were slick with rain. But maybe it would clear by tomorrow. He was having trouble breathing. He told himself it was from the pain ofthe healing wound, but he knew it was from worry?worry over the moves to come, worry over Morgan?s sudden reluctance. He?d like to know what more Becky had said to make him pull back. When the rain came hard again, driving down at them, they hurried under the nearest overhang.

Misto followed them floating close to Lee and reaching out a paw to softly touch Lee?s ear. Lee glanced his way, scowling, but then with a crooked smile. The ghost cat?his coat perfectly dry in the downpour?having listened to their plans and to Morgan?s hesitance, now shadowed them as they headed away to supper.

But at the door to the crowded mess hall with its smell of overcooked vegetables and limp sauerkraut, he left them again, returning to his dance in the rain. Leaping through the pelting onslaught dry and untouched, he rolled and tumbled thirty feet above the exercise yard, landed atop the prison wall and crouched a few feet from the guard tower, looking in.

The room atop the tower extended out over the wall on both sides, a round dome with windows circling it, the windows open, the glass angled up like awnings keeping out the rain and affording the guards a better view through the storm. Within, the two uniformed guards paced or paused to look out, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Both looked sour, as if they?d rather be anywhere else. Bored men, Misto thought, who might easily be distracted. Leaping in through the nearest window, he narrowly missed the taller man, brushing past his shoulder and rifle. The man shivered, looked around, and buttoned his jacket higher.

Dropping onto the small table that stood in the center of the crowded space, the ghost cat patted idly at a plate of ham sandwiches and enjoyed a few bites from one. Invisible, he prowled between a thermos bottle, two empty cups reeking of stale coffee, a tall black telephone, a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle, six clips for the rifles, and five boxes of ammunition marked Winchester .30-06. He listened to the short, barrel-chested guard grouse that his wife wanted to have another child and that three kids were all he wanted. When the man?s tall, half-bald partner started telling dirty jokes, Misto lost interest and left them.

Drifting out a window and back along the wall listening to the thunder roll, the tomcat looked down at the fault in the wall and, for only an instant, he hoped Lee and Morgan would make it over. For that one instant the tomcat knew uncertainty.

But his dismay, he thought, was most likely born of Morgan Blake?s own doubt, just as was Lee?s hesitation. The escape tomorrow night was destined for success, Misto told himself. It would come off just fine. Among Misto?s earlier lives, and often between lives, he?d witnessed the escapes of other imprisoned men. Some escapees were good men, others wereblood-hungry rebels bent on destruction. Once, in Africa, Misto was carried in the arms of a small slave boy, both of them hoping that somewhere there was a safe haven for them and knowing there was not. He had watched the terror of peasants fleeing from medieval slave makers, and once he had died in the confusion of battle as free men were snatched away on the bloody streets of Rome. This world of humans was not a kind place. Joy was a rare treasure; compassion and joy and a clear assessment of life were gifts too often lost beneath the hand of the dark spirit.

Now, diving from the wall and spinning through the rain, Misto thought to join Lee and Morgan at supper despite the unappealing scents in the mess hall. Drifting into the crowded room, dropping down to the steam table, he padded along between the big pans sniffing, then delicately picking out morsels to his liking: a bit of hot dog, half a biscuit. He skipped whatever was disgusting, but lingered over the spaghetti.

Quickly the pan?s contents disappeared, vanished behind men?s backs or while heads were turned. When the tomcat was replete he drifted away to join his friends, dropping unseen onto the table between Lee?s and Morgan?s trays. His tail twitching, he watched them wolf down sauerkraut, hot dogs, and biscuitsas, in low voices, they went over again their moves of the next night. Misto thought they had honed the plan as well as they could, except for Morgan?s nerves; he only hoped the rain would move on away. But even a talented ghost can?t do much about weather; that was an act of power beyond the most stubborn spirit.

Watching the two men, Misto knew Lee was worn out, was cold, that his healing wound hurt him, that he wanted his bunk and warm blankets. He watched Lee rise stiffly, leaving Morgan to finish his pie; he followed Lee, hovering close, moving through driving rain for the cellblock.

TOMORROW NIGHT, LEE thought as he crossed the wet grounds, rain soaking into his coat and pants.Tomorrow night we?ll be out of here, headed for California, we?re as ready as we can be. He slowly climbed the three flights of metal stairs and moved down the catwalk to his cell. He tried to sense the ghost cat near. He had no hint of Misto, though the company would be welcome. Pulling off his wet clothes, he crawled in his bunk and pulled the covers around him. He smiled when he felt the ghost cat land on the bed. The tomcat stretched out against Lee?s side as warm as an oversized heating pad. With the added warmth and the hypnotic rumble of Misto?s purrs, Lee soon drifted into sleep, deep and dreamless. No whispers tonight from the dark spirit, no nightmare that he was falling from the wall or from a moving freight car, just peaceful sleep.

He woke to continued rain, the cellblock dark and silent. The ghost cat was gone, the blankets awry, the space the cat had occupied was cold to the touch. Rain sluiced across the clerestory windows like buckets of water dumped from the sky. Lightning whitened the high glass, too, nearly blinding him. He hadn?tdreamed of climbing the wall, but now his mind was filled with the effort. He lay wondering if they?d make it over or be shot down, crippled like a pair of clumsy pigeons.

Twenty years ago he would have found the challenge a lark. Two weeks ago when he?d first thought of the plan, he?d been hot to get on with it. Now he felt only tired, daunted by the moves ahead, discouraged by Morgan?s loss of nerve and by the failure of his own strength, the debilitation of his aging body.

Well, they weren?t backing off. He might feel like hell some days, but other times he was pretty good. No one said it would be easy. No one had ever gone over that wall. He and Morgan would be the first, and he meant to do it right.

Half asleep, he didn?t let himself think that his powerful urge to conquer the wall was encouraged by the dark spirit. He wasn?t being led. This wasn?t Satan?s pushing. He and Morgan were beholden to no one. He was nearly asleep again when he felt the ghost cat return. Misto was fully visible now, bold and ragged,clearly seen in the glow of the cellblock lights, sharply outlined when lightning flashed. The yellow tomcat didn?t want petting now. He stood stiff-legged, staring at the back of the cell. His snarl keened so loud that Lee stared across to the other cells. No one seemed to be looking, maybe no one else heard the cat?s yowl, no one but the shadow that stood against the cell wall, the wraith?s voice pounding heavy against the beating rain.

?You fret over Morgan?s loss of courage, Lee. Don?t let his fear dishearten you.You can bring this off,you have the courage to do this, even if Blake falters.You won?t fail, I?ll see to that. This will be an easy escape. Tomorrow night you?ll be over the wall and on your way riding the freights, free and unimpeded?if you do as I require.?

The cat snarled again. The shadow shifted and thinned, but then it darkened and drew close to Lee, its cold embracing him.?If you follow where I lead, you can thumb your nose at the feds. And,? Satan said, ?you will reap substantial profits from your venture.?

?What do you want? What do you think I?d be willing to do foryou??

Beside Lee the ghost cat paced, his eyes blazing, his claws flexing above the blanket.

?This is what I want, only this one small favor. In return I will guarantee the success of your long journey. When you reach Terminal Island,? Satan said, ?or perhaps before you reach the coast, you will turn Morgan Blake in to the authorities.?

Lee wanted to smash the shadow. He knew he couldn?t touch it, that nothing alive could invade that dark and shifting power.

?You will both be arrested for the escape,? Lucifer said. ?You, Lee, will swear that Blake forced you to help him. I will see that the arresting officers believe you, I am adept at that.You will go free, Fontana, while Morgan Blake remains behind bars.? The devil smiled, a shadow within shadowstwisting up eerie and tall. ?You will receive a reward for Blake?s capture, for the apprehension of a cold-blooded murderer. The amount will be considerable.You alone, Lee, will leave California, loaded with cash and enjoying great notoriety for the capture.?

?What do I want with notorietyor with the curse of your money? Get the hell out of here.?

?Didn?t you want to be the first one to scale the wall? Isn?t that notoriety? And,? Lucifer said, ?you turn Blake in, you?ll not only be rewarded and admired, you?ll most likely be pardoned for your heroism. You can head for Blythe a free man. Richer than you dreamed, no law enforcement tailing you, and with a long and satisfying retirement before you, just as you planned.?

?No one?s going to pat me on the head and turn me loose. If I double-crossed Blake, the reward I?d get would be an extended sentence for escaping, more time in the pen. The feds would laugh at some effort to play hero; they?d lock me up until they buried me.?

The cat stalked down the bed snarling, tail lashing. The tall shadow shifted and grew thinner. Thunder shook the cellblock, the clerestory windows flashed white; and the shade was gone, vanished.

29

LEE FOUND THE rope behind a row of trash cans outside the mess hall where Gimpy had left it, a coil of half-inch hemp secured with a cotton cord. Gimpy hadn?t asked questions when Lee made his request. His eyes had widened, then he?d clapped Lee on the shoulder and nodded. Because they were alone, no one watching, he?d given Lee a hug that brought tears to Lee?s eyes.

Before heading for the kitchen Lee slipped the rope inside his shirt. Moving through the kitchen into the pantry, he pulled on a white cotton jacket with a stain on one sleeve. Opening a seldom-used cupboard, he hid the rope inside an iron pot he?d never seen Bronski remove from its dusty shelf. He worked steadily all evening. Adding hot water to the dishwater, plunging his hands in, he thought this might be the last time he?d feel warm for a good while. He thought about the cold, windy boxcars, about walking cold along the tracks in thenight; and he hungered to get on with the job.

At the end of shift, after two short-termers finished mopping the floor, he wiped down the steam table, then set the chairs in place for breakfast. Bronski, busy around the stoves, nodded good night to the other five workers.?About ready, Fontana??

?I?ll be along as soon as I get the last load of trays out on the line.? Lee shuffled the trays, watching Bronski?s broad back as the big man moved through the dining area and shoved out through the double doors, heading for the cellblocks. There?d be a guard along in a minute to lock up.Beyond the mess hall windows, the outdoor lights were bright, the sweeping prison spotlights swinging back and forth, back and forth. A guard was clearing the building, moving through the dining area toward the kitchen. He gave Lee a long look, studied the stack of trays in Lee?s arms, and glanced up atthe wall clock. ?Ready to wrap it up??

Lee nodded, stacked the trays at the end of the counter, then turned back to the kitchen. He knew the guard would linger, waiting for him. Moving into the pantry he took off the white jacket, retrieved the rope from the iron pot, and slipped it inside his shirt. He pushed out the back door past the waiting guard into the darkness between the shop buildings, heard the door lock behind him, and from the shadows Morgan fell into step. They didn?t speak.

They emerged from between the buildings at the top of the stairs, a story above the yard. Stood looking across at the prison wall, stroked by the tower?s sweeping lights. Blinding light, and then dark. Punishing light, then dark. Lee told himself the thirty-foot rampart wasn?t a barrier, it was a vertical concrete road, a road to freedom. It was all timing now, timing and speed.

Descending the stairs, they waited in the shadows underneath, Lee?s heart pounding, Morgan silent and tense. The sweeping lights crossed, then swung apart. Crossed and swung away. Crossed .†.†. ?Go!? Lee croaked. They broke from the shadows running.

Morgan quickly outdistanced him. Lee gave it all he had, sucking in ragged breath. The space seemed miles, not yards. Gulping air, he kept his feet flying. Dizziness gripped him.Run. Run. But an uneven patch tripped him, he fell sprawling, sharp pain stabbed his hand as he tried to catch himself, and the sweeping light headed straight at him.

RUN!? SAMMIE SHOUTED, wide awake.?Run, the light?s coming!

Becky heard her screams and came to kneel by the bathtub, trying to hold her, the child thrashing, her slick, soapy body flailing. She thrust forward so violently the bathwater surged and she lunged past Becky as if to grab someone.?Get up! Run! The lights .†.†.?

Becky gripped Sammie hard to keep her from hurting herself. The child stared past her, fixed on something Becky couldn?t see; she was unaware of Becky. She cradled her left hand, tears of pain glistening. Then suddenly she went limp, turned blindly to Becky, wanting only to be held.

Becky lifted her from the tub, wrapped her in a towel, and kissed the hurt hand, though there was no abrasion, no redness. The child clung to Becky, but she was still far away, watching the violence unfold, so far removed from the safe, warm room where her mother held her.

AT THE MOMENT Lee fell, the cat appeared in the guard tower, solid and real. His sudden yowl startled the two guards; they swung around, rifles pointed. Misto, on the table, glared at them. Both men backed away, but then the short, stocky guard paused, grinning.?How did you get in here??

The tall guard still fingered his rifle.?How could a cat get up here? Get it out of here, Willy. I don?t like cats. Where the hell did it come from??

?It sure didn?t climb the wall,? Willy said. ?Maybe followed us up the stairs when we came on shift. But there ain?t no cat in the prison,? he said, frowning. ?I?ve never seen a cat around here.?

?Wild ones, outside the wall,? his tall companion said. ?Why would one come in here? They run from people. What?s it want in here??

Willy reached to stroke the golden cat.?It?s tame enough, Sam. Maybe it?s hungry. Hand me a sandwich.?

?No. That?s our supper, damn it.?

Willy laughed and stroked the cat?s ragged ears. ?Tomcat. Been fighting.? His partner looked at Misto with distaste, their combined attention distracting both from the windows.

Misto held their attention, rolling over, hamming for Willy. He knew that Lee still lay sprawled on the blacktop, he knew when Morgan turned back to Lee. The tomcat, buying the few seconds the escapees needed, flirted with Willy, purring for him with all the charm he could muster. Sam watched them, disgusted.

GO ON,? LEE hissed at Morgan.?Get the hell on, do it alone.? As the light swept back at him, probing like a giant beast, he buried his face in his jacket and tucked his hands under. In that short moment before the light hit him, he felt Morgan?s hand grab his. He stumbled up, Morgan pulling him into the dark.

They crouched against the wall, Lee hacking up phlegm, trying to stifle the sound. Damned lungs, everything he did, they screwed him up. Pressed tight into the wall?s curve, he could only pray the sweeping blaze would miss them. ?You okay?? Morgan whispered.

?I need a minute. Find the holes.? He crouched trying to get his breath. The light was coming back. Quickly he wrapped his handkerchief around his hand to stop the bleeding. He couldn?t climb the rods with a blood-slick hand. By the time he got his hand bound, Morgan had set the first two pins. Lee patted the coil of rope tied to his belt, grabbed the top pin, and stepped up on the lower one. He took a third pin from Morgan and set it into the third hole. Clinging to the face of the wall, he climbed. He was soon eight feet up, then ten, Morgan, with his own three pins, pressing up behind him. The light swept by never touching them. They moved up and up, the lights racing behind not inches from their backs. They were more than halfway up when Lee reached down for a pin and felt it slip from his hand. He made a grab. It bounced in his hand and fell. He saw Morgan lean out and catch it.Morgan handed it up to him.

?Christ,? Lee breathed. ?Lucky.?

?I didn?t make any spares,? Morgan whispered, and Lee hoped he was lying. Soon the top of the wall was some six feet above him. His leg muscles had begun to quiver, and as he positioned the next pin to push it in the hole, it resisted. He could feel the paint break away but the rod wouldn?tgo in. He tried again, thrusting so hard he nearly unbalanced himself. Tried again, but the damn thing wouldn?t go. He slipped it back under his belt and felt the hole with his finger. It felt too small, as if maybe the cement had sagged when the original pin was pulled away with the form. His holding hand was numb, his hold precarious. Switching hands, the wrapped hand slick again with blood, he looked down at Morgan. ?I can?t get the damn thing in.?

?Try again. Maybe there?s something in the mouth of the hole. Break it away.?

Again he switched hands, lined up the pin, drew it back and hit the opening. It bounced off. He lined up again, spit on the wall, hit the hole with all the force in him.

The pin drove in and wedged tight.

No way he could get it out, but they were nearly over, they wouldn?t need it now. With the last step set in place, Lee eased up onto the two-foot-wide concrete. Lying on his belly staring down at the prison yard and the sweeping lights, he unfastened the rope from his belt, slipped the looped end over the top peg, and dropped the free end down the outside. His wrapped hand wet with blood, he grabbed the rope with both hands and slid off, his feet against the wall, dropped hand over hand down the outside. He thought he?d never reach the bottom but at last his feet touched the ground. Above him Morgan was halfway down.

Morgan landed beside him, they lay hidden in the weeds among rusted cans, catching their breath, listening.

The night was still, no alarm blared. The diffused spill of light above the wall continued back and forth but softer now, unthreatening. To their right the automobile plant was bright, big spotlights mounted on poles inside its tall wire fence, gleaming off rows of new cars that awaited shipment. As their eyes adjusted to the dark they could see woods beyond and, nearer, just across the weedy field, what looked like the signal pole beside the shine of railroad tracks. Beyond ran an empty street, no cars, no headlights moving in either direction. Crouching, slipping through the weeds, stumbling among unidentifiable trash, they headed for the lone pole.

Lee kept watch as Morgan searched, watched him pull a muddy gunnysack out of the weeds, haul out a canvas bag with a drawstring top. Morgan had started to open it when Lee heard the faint sound of the train, quickly growing louder, approaching fast.

?We won?t have time to change clothes.? Lee grabbed the bundle from Morgan, tied it to his waist as the rocking sound of iron wheels came at them. ?Drop,? Lee snapped, and the engine broke out of the woods.

They lay belly down, the single headlight sweeping the weeds above them. The whistle screamed, screamed again, and as the engine passed the signal pole, the train reduced speed, boxcars bucking against each other.?Come on,? Lee said, ?follow me. Do what I do. Be quick, don?t hesitate. We?re headed up on top.? He broke into a fast trot as the train continued to slow. He picked a car, grabbed a rung on the steel ladder and jumped, landed safe on the bottom rung.

He climbed fast, glancing down to see that Morgan had made it, then sprawled on his belly atop the boxcar. Morgan slid up beside him. They lay flat, faces hidden as the train crept past the automobile plant, past the high prison wall and guard towers and then through a dark industrial area that smelled of gas fumes. Lee shoved the bundle at Morgan, then wriggled to the edge of the boxcar to look down.

Below him the door was ajar some two inches.?Hang tight until I get down, then hand me the bundle.?

He reached down, grabbed the rail that ran along the top of the sliding door, and swung over the side. Raising his legs, he pushed the door open with his feet, swallowing back the cough in his lungs. Before he swung inside, Morgan handed the bundle down and then followed him.

They changed clothes inside the boxcar, checking first behind half a dozen big crates, but there was no one else aboard. They rolled their prison blues into a ball and threw them into the weeds along the track. The soft, worn jeans and dark wool shirts felt good. Becky had put in heavy, lined jackets, thick gloves, and wool socks. The worn boots she had found fit just fine. They kept their prison shoes for spares, shoving them in the bag. The money was in their left-hand jeans pockets, she had split it half and half, three hundred dollars each and change. A little over six hundred dollars to get them across the country and pay the lawyer?if some slime didn?t catch them off guard and take them down. The train rolled around the edge of the city past office buildings with softly lit windows, past a church spire whose bell tolled nine o?clock, striking counterpoint to the slow clacking of the train. ?Evening count?s been taken,?Lee said. ?They know we?re gone.?

Morgan stepped to the door, stood in the shadows looking back. The train bucked and slowed again, its couplings groaning; they were moving into the switching yard. Lee pulled the door nearly shut, stood looking out the crack as the long line of cars ground to a halt and yardmen began walking its length, lanterns swinging.?They?re going to drop some cars. If they slide the door open,? Lee said, ?dive for the crates, stay in the shadows.?

But the workmen passed without incident. They waited in silence. Only when the train jerked hard did Lee lean out for a quick look toward the tail.?They?ve dropped a dozen cars.? The train lurched again, traveled forward a distance, stopped, and backed onto another siding. There was a jolt as the end car was coupled with another car. Leaning out again Lee could see they?d taken on a stand of flatcars. ?We?re good,? he said, ?we?re onour way.? They picked up speed again, heading out from the switching yard moving south, passing another set of tracks that likely ran north. ?We?re headed for Birmingham,? Lee said, grinning, and he settled down on the moldy straw that covered the bed of the boxcar.

?I can?t believe we did it,? Morgan said. ?Can?t believe we?re out of there. It feels? Hey, Fontana, it feels pretty good.?

Lee smiled.?I told you we?d make it,? and he forgot his earlier uncertainty.

Now that they were clear of the yard he rolled the door open and sat with his back against its edge looking out at the city slipping by, at the little stores, their windows softly lit, many with Christmas decorations, at the little box houses with Christmas trees in their windows. But then soon they were in open country, gathering speed, the mournful cries of the whistle echoing across the night, a siren call that eased and comforted Lee. They were moving on, fast and free, heading toward a different kind of job than he?d ever pulled. Not a robbery but an adventure that would, if all went well, set straight the lives of those he cared about. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the boxcar, thinking about Sammie, when he felt the ghost cat walk across his legs. Unseen, the big tom settled down in thestraw, his head on Lee?s outstretched knee. Had the tomcat been with them all along? Was Lee more aware of him when he paused to rest, when he was not distracted, his senses more alert to the ghost cat?

And, he wondered, did Misto like the trains, too? Did the ghost cat like their galloping rattle and screaming whistle as they ate up the miles? Sure as hell the spirit cat seemed mighty pleased with himself.

Maybe he, too, was happy they were out of there, that they were on their way?

Their bold and chancy plan might be infinitesimal, Lee thought, in the vast scheme of the universe.

Or, in that eternally unwinding tangle, did even the smallest blow for good matter? Was the very effort to right a wrong, in fact, theheart of mortal life? Was this the secret that made life real?

30

THE TRAIN?S SPEED altered, jerking Lee awake as they passed through a switch. He?d slept cold, and the ghost cat had left him. When he eased the door open, the icy night chilled his bones. As the train slowed to a creep he cracked the door wider and looked ahead.

They were approaching a freight yard, he could see the edge of the dark platform, a lighted tower marked Birmingham. He shook Morgan awake. There?d been a couple of stops during the night when Morgan had risen to keep watch, but then they?d moved on again. Now as Lee reached for the canvas bag, out of the blackness half a dozen men swarmed off the platform running in both directions, fanning out along the train.

?They?re searching,? Lee hissed, grabbing the canvas bag. ?Move it.?

They dropped to the track bed running, ducked under a line of standing cars, ran dodging across the freight yard behind and under boxcars, Morgan still half asleep. Beyond a row of freight cars the beams of powerful flashlights swung toward them. Four lights, five, leaping up the sides of the boxcars, searching along their tops, then down among the train?s wheels. They followed behind the lights? wake, but were stopped by a six-foot wall.

They scaled the brick barrier fast, helping each other over. Were the cops checking every train heading out of Atlanta? If they searched this yard, would they hitevery yard, every station, one town to the next? That meant they?d have to drop off each train before they reached the station, keep away from the freight yards, stay to the outlying fields until they were past each town, catch another train on beyond, and that would sure slow them.

On the other side of the wall they lay flat, listening, until the reflection of lights stopped roaming above and the sound of running feet faded. Rising, double-timing away from the walled yard, they moved on past a metal plant, a junked-car lot, a pipe yard. In the dark, the rough, weed-tangled ground slowed them. They made their way through the industrial section of Birmingham, avoiding occasional security lights mounted on rooftops or cyclone fences, but trying to stay near the tracks.

But soon the sky lightened toward dawn and the rough industries gave way to run-down houses. In another half hour of shabby streets they were beyond the city in another industrial area. They could see a railroad signal ahead, then an overhead crane lifting sheets of metal, maybe a steel fabrication plant. They were both hungry, and Lee?s back ached from the hard jolting floor of the boxcar. ?Men working down there,? he said, ?there should be a food wagon.?

Moving on fast, they soon stood on a low hill above the steel plant, the top of the crane just at eye level. The yard below was surrounded by a six-foot wire fence, its gate open. A snack truck stood just inside, surrounded by men swilling coffee, eating doughnuts.

Leaving Morgan, Lee angled down the embankment and in through the open gate to mingle with the crowd of workmen. At the truck?s coffee urn he drew two paper cups of brew, then gathered up a dozen doughnuts and a couple of sandwiches, dropping them in a paper bag from a little rack. The vendor, watching him, took his five-dollar bill, punched out some coins from his belt and added three ones. ?Haven?t seen you before. Just start on the job??

Lee nodded, and dropped the change in his pocket.?Just this morning.?

The vendor raised an eyebrow.?Big appetite.?

?My buddy missed breakfast.? Turning away, he eased back through the crowd toward the nearest metal building, and glanced around. When he thought no one was watching he doubled back between two sheds, behind some parked cars, and up the hill again to where Morgan waited. They ate as they walked, devouring half the doughnuts, sucking in air to cool the coffee. They tucked the rest of the doughnuts and the sandwiches in their jacket pockets, ground the empty cups down into the weeds and kicked dirt over them.

?We need blanket rolls,? Lee said, glancing at the meager canvas bundle Morgan carried. ?Some food staples, couple of cook pans. Too risky to eat in restaurants. The less we?re seen the better.?

Morgan had stopped and was listening. Then Lee heard it too, the wailing whistle of an approaching train, and across a winter-brown field they could see the raised track bed. They left the road, crossed the field running, crouched low beside the track. They had no way to know if the train would slow, but here on the industrial outskirts it was likely. They could hear the rumble in the tracks now, they watched the black speck grow nearer.?It?ll be different this time,? Lee said. ?If it only slows some, we?ll have to run like hell.?

Approaching the steel plant the train dropped its speed, its whistle screaming short, hard blasts. They could see it didn?t mean to stop. As the engine sped by, Lee picked a car and ran, gave it all he had. He grabbed the iron rung and jumped. The forward momentum slammed his body against the ladder knocking the wind out. He held tight, gasping for breath. When he looked back, Morgan was still running, losing groundtrying to make the next car, a flatcar with a row of heavy crates down the center covered by a canvas tarp. Lee was about to drop off again, keep from getting separated, when a man appeared from under the canvas, knelt, grabbed Morgan?s hand, and lofted him up onto the flatcar.

The hobo and Morgan stood beside the canvas tarp looking up along the cars at Lee. Carefully he worked his way along the side of the car to the back, clinging to the metal handholds, sucking air, trying to get his breath. He was sweating hard when he?d crossed the swaying coupling to the flatcar. As he scrambled onto it, Morgan and the hobo grabbed his hands to steady him. The hobo was maybe twenty-some, his stubble of beard grizzled brown and gray over thin, caved-in cheeks. He wore loose jeans with threadbare knees, a rusty leather coat, and, on his head, a war surplus helmet liner. ?Name?s Beanie.? He looked Lee over, took another good look at Morgan, seemed comfortable with what he saw. ?Come on in, it?s nice and warm inside.?

They followed him in under the tarp to a small, cozy space between the crates, as snug as a little house. Blanket folded lengthwise to form a sitting pad, a Sterno burner snuffling away under a blackened coffeepot, a second Sterno rig burning under a stewpot that bubbled with meat and vegetables. Lee and Morgan held their hands near the little flames as Beanie dug tin cups, tin plates, and half a loaf of French bread from a canvas duffel.

?Mighty fine camp,? Lee said, accepting a plate of hot stew, sitting cross-legged at one end of the pad.

Beanie grinned.?Latched onto this out of Waycross. A fellow learns to make do. Had to roll up camp twice before that, once going through Atlanta?railroad dicks all over the place. Don?t know what they were after.? He gave Lee a long look. ?I dropped off, waited until they checked the cars, slipped back on asshe was pulling out.? His accent was as Southern as Morgan?s, but his diction was not that of most hobos.

Lee was quiet, mopping up gravy with the good French bread. When they were finished he passed Beanie the bag of doughnuts and settled back against the vibrating crate.?Feels mighty good to have something warm in the belly and a warm, fine shelter.?

?It?s all woods along here,? Beanie said. ?The trees in those woods? They?re full of Civil War shot. I found an old musket along here once, buried in a trench, nearly all rusted away. I used to make camp along in these woods. There are several old Confederate trenches in there.? He looked at Lee. ?Guess they fought that war different out in the West where you come from.?

Lee nodded.?Most Westerners were for the Union, but a lot of the Western Indian nations, they sent men to fight for the South.?

?A terrible war, the Civil War?those old single-shot powder rifles and the cold,? Beanie said. ?Men froze to death, starved to death, died of infection and every kind of sickness.?

?You were in the military,? Lee said.

?Career army, starting in World War I. But that?s all behind me.? He dumped some water from his canteen onto his plate and put it to heat, to wash their dishes. ?I?m heading for Memphis, the riverbank south of the bridge, real nice camp there. You?re welcome to join me.?

Lee smiled.?Not many good camps left anymore. But I guess we?ll keep moving.?

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they hit the outskirts of Memphis. They said their good-byes to Beanie, knowing they?d likely never meet again. One of those chance encounters you?d carry with you for the rest of your life, a nostalgic and lasting memory that saddened Lee. Dropping off as the train slowed, they hit the ground running.

Cutting away from the track they were soon in a quiet neighborhood of neatly kept houses. Lighted Christmas trees shone in the windows, and beyond the cozy houses were several blocks of small businesses decorated up with candles, holly, red and green lights. Morgan said,?It?s nearly Christmas, and they?ll be alone .†.†. except for Becky?s family. But not the three of us together.? He turned to look at Lee, trying to shake off the loneliness. Up ahead stood a small brick church, its brass cross cutting the low skyline, and on the lawn, racks of used clothing and a small hand-painted sign: THRIFT SHOP.

?Tacky,? Morgan said, ?old used stuff cluttering up a church yard.? But the door of the church basement was framed with Christmas lights, and when they?d moved down the steps and inside, Lee began to grin. The shop had everything they wanted. From the crowded tables they selected four thick blankets, a coffeepot, a saucepan, two tin plates, tin cups, and some soft cotton rope. Lee found a good canteen and a couple of switchblade knives, which surprised him. He picked up a can of heavy grease to coat their aging waterproof boots, and a couple of burlap feed bags. The two old women who ranthe shop sat side by side behind the counter, knitting colored squares for an afghan. Lee remembered his mother making afghan squares, as well as quilt squares to be stuffed with goose and duck down, to keep them warm in the harsh Dakota winters.

He paid for the gear, shoved the small stuff in the two gunnysacks except for the knives, which they pocketed. He laid the folded blankets on top, cut the rope in half, and tied the bags closed. Two blocks down the street at a dark little grocery they bought coffee, bacon, bread, a slab of cheese, and four cans of beans. It was dark by the time they?d crossed Memphis and set up camp in a little woods. They cleared a space of brush, made a small campfire, heated up the beans, and made coffee. Morgan said, ?Think I?ll get to a phone tomorrow, some little store maybe, and call Becky. Let her know we?re all right.?

?The hell you will.?

?The hell I won?t. She?s got to be worried.?

?I told you, no phone calls. The bureau boys have questioned her by now. They sure have her place staked out and her telephone tapped. You phone her, not only will the feds trace the call and find us, pick us up, Becky will be charged with aiding our escape.?

?I didn?t think,? Morgan said, picking up a stick and poking at the coals. ?I just?I know she?s worried.?

?Better worried than getting us caught.? Lee doused the fire with the last of the coffee and rolled up in his blankets. ?We?ve got a long pull ahead, important things to do. Let?s concentrate on that.? He shivered even in the thick blankets. And before they reached warm country again, the weather would get colder. The newspaper Morgan had picked from the trash, in the last town, said the Midwest was having the coldest winter in twenty years. Lee thought about Christmas when he was a kid, snow piled high against the house and barn, great chunks of snow sliding off the steep roofs. A spindly little Christmas tree with homemade paper ornaments. A wild turkey for their Christmas dinner, or one of the pheasants his mother canned, the prairie was overrun with pheasants. That always amused him. Back then, on the prairie, pheasants might be all a starving family had to live on. The exact same delicacy which, not many miles away in some fancy city restaurant, would cost them a small fortune.

From that night on, moving west, they were always cold, slogging through snow in boots that took up water in spite of the aging waterproofing and the grease they applied. They continued to avoid the cities, dropping off the train to circle through farms and open country or through slums. Most of the farms had Christmas lights, as did some of the slum houses. It was in such an area that they faced a surly, mean-tempered drunk and Lee saw in the man?s eyes not drunken bleariness but the dark?s cold presence, eyes hard with promise as the man crouched, his knife flashing. They dodged, circling him. Lee received a slice across his arm before Morgan had the guy down; and now the man?s eyes went dull again, reflecting only the bleary look of acommon drunk.

?Why would a bum be interested in us?? Morgan said when they?d turned away. ?Do we look like we have money??

Lee laughed, but he was sickened by what he?d seen in that brief moment. They moved on fast, leaving the drunk sitting against a building, his head in his hands, trying to recover from Morgan?s blows. This time the devil?s invasion had netted only a cut on Lee?s arm. But what about the next time? Good luck they hadn?t had to kill the man, Lee thought as he swabbed the wound with the iodine Becky had put in their pack. Sure, drunks got killed in brawls. But he?d rather not leave a dead body marking their trail. That kind of sloppiness annoyed him.

31

CIRCLING THE SMALL towns with their Christmas lights, avoiding the switching yards and then racing to grab a train as it pulled out, they missed more than one ride. Often on the ramshackle edge of a town they dodged away from a patrolling cop car, or one slowed, pacing them, watching them.?Plenty of hobos around,? Lee said, ?they?re just checking us out.? But the law?s scrutiny made him some nervous. In Oklahoma a hard blizzard caught them. The temperature dropped steadily, the chill cut through them like knives. Lee was sick of cold weather, and even Texas was icy. Why did they have to pick the coldest winter of the century? Out of Fort Worth when they missed a westbound, a semi driver picked them up, a slack-faced man with wide-set eyes. He didn?t talk much, he just drove, and that was fine with Lee.

But then, after maybe thirty miles he began to ask questions. Lee answered him in one-syllable lies, then started with questions of his own. Were did he hail from? What was he hauling? That shut the man up. Lee pulled his hat over his face and went to sleep. It was some hours later that Morgan nudged him. The trucker had slowed, they were in a little cow town, two blocks of dusty wooden buildings and a small old caf? marked with a wooden sign: TRAIN STATION. The train track ran behind it, parallel to the highway. The trucker dropped them at the caf?, drove another eighth of a mile, and turned west on a dirt road that looked like it led to nowhere; maybe he was headed home.

Stepping into the wooden building, sitting on stools at the counter, they treated themselves to fried eggs, fried potatoes, and hot apple pie. The waitress, a pillow-fat blonde in her sixties with an understanding smile, looked them over as she poured their coffee.?The eastbound?s due in half an hour,? she said. ?The westbound, an hour after that.? And Lee guessed they weren?t the only hobos traveling this route. Finishing their pie and coffee, Lee thanked her for the information, made sure he tipped her, and they hiked out along the train track to a stand of pale trees. Sitting down with their backs against the thick trunk of a giant cottonwood, they made themselves comfortable, listening for the far-off rumble, for a lone and distant whistle.

?It?s nearly Christmas Eve,? Morgan said. ?A few more days. Will they go home to Caroline?s or stay at Anne?s? Maybe Caroline will drive down from Rome. I hope Sammie will be happy Christmas morning, excited to open a few presents?? he said doubtfully. ?What?s she seeing in her dreams? Maybe only the good times? Maybe she dreamed of Beanie?s warm little house on the flatcar and the good hot stew??

Lee only looked at him. They both knew Sammie would dream of the bad times, the brutal cold, the man with the knife and evil eyes.

?I can?t hold her and comfort her,? Morgan said. ?I can?t help her.? He was in a dour mood when they left the cottonwoods running, swinging aboard a boxcar as the approaching train slowed for the small rural station.

Settling back to watch the land roll by, they managed to stay with this freight several days, slipping behind shipping crates when they made a stop. The nights grew warmer, the wind didn?t cut like ice, Lee?s cough subsided. New Mexico was cool but not freezing. Lee liked seeing sheep grazing, and the herds of antelope that hardly stirred as the train sped past them. Approaching Phoenix, they dropped off the car onto bare red land among the red bluffs and raw canyons. The Arizona sky was blue and clear, buzzards cruising the wind searching for the stink of anything dead. Walking through Phoenix, they replenished their supplies at a small, side-street grocery. Moving on past the freight yards, they saw no sign of cops. On the far side when they slipped aboard, the boxcar was crowded with men settled in small groups. They nodded at Lee and Morgan and didn?t seem threatening. Most of them werebraceros, keeping to themselves. West of Phoenix, Lee began to get nervous.

Maybe he was a fool, wanting to drop off in Blythe, take the chance of being seen. Would the feds figure, once they broke out, he?d head straight there, wanting the money from his savings account? Seemed likely, the way a federal agent?s mind worked. He knew he shouldn?t risk it, but once they found a lawyer they?d need every penny they could lay hands on, might need that eight hundred real bad to add to the six hundred Becky had scraped together.

He worried about the feds until they reached the desert north of Blythe. As they rolled up their blankets and tied up their packs, the smell of Blythe hit him, the salty tamarisk trees and the damp breath of the irrigation canals. When the train topped a rise, the Colorado River ran below them dark and turgid. They dropped off just outside town when the cars bucked and the train slowed, Lee hit the ground rolling. It was late afternoon.?Christmas Eve,? Morgan said. ?At least they?re together, and with family.?

They moved through a willow thicket to an irrigation ditch flowing with dark, fast water. Ragged cotton fields stretched away on both sides. They were past Delgado Ranch, three fourths of the way to town. It had been nearly a year since Lee pulled into Blythe straight out of the federal pen at McNeil, ready to go to work for Jake Ellson, thinking even that first day how he could cheat Ellson. In the end, he hadn?t had the stomach for that.

On the bank of the irrigation ditch Lee dug the bar of soap from the burlap bag, the razor and the little mirror Becky had packed. Stripping off their clothes they bathed and shaved in the swift cold water. With the last of the soap they scrubbed their shirts, socks, and shorts, hung them on willow branches, and sat on a blanket letting the sun dry their wet bodies. Not a soul out there, only the lizards to see their white nakedness. Twice, jackrabbits leaped out in the fields and went racing away, stirring a cloud of dust. Both times, a second dust cloud followed, dodging and doubling close on the rabbit?s tail?but they could see no second beast chasing. Nothing, just the detached swirl of dust pursuing the rabbit. Morgan turned to Lee, puzzled. Lee frowned and shrugged. ?The wind, I guess.? Did the ghost cat have to be such a show-off?

When their clothes were nearly dry they smoothed out the wrinkles and dressed again. The winter sun was setting as they made camp beneath the scruffy willows. The small clearing reminded Lee of the meadow where he?d kept the gray for a few days, the gelding that had helped him pull off the bank robbery. The good horse he?d used to get the stolen money away, to where he could bury it. He thought about riding the gray along the riverbank in the evenings, peaceful and serene, and that had been a good time.

They cooked a meal of Spam and potatoes, and made coffee, Morgan missing Becky and Sammie, Lee edgy with the prospect of entering the bank.?We?ll have to lay over tomorrow,? he said nervously. He?d prefer to get it over with. ?Everything closed, Christmas Day.?

?A day to give thanks,? Morgan said. ?To go to church with your family.?

Lee looked at him and said nothing. When he was small they seldom went to church; it was half a day?s ride away. His mother had read the Bible. His father didn?t want to listen. Lee wasn?t sure just what his pa thought about such matters. But Lee knew?he?d better know, after his own encounters?that there was more in the universe than a person saw. That amazements waited beyond this life, which a mortal might not want to consider.

?Early the morning after Christmas,? Lee said, ?we head into Blythe. We?ll leave our gear here. If luck?s with us, we won?t need it anymore.? Rolling into his blanket, he tried not to think about lying idle for a whole day. Tried not to think about entering Blythe, about what might happen, tried not to borrow trouble.

32

THECHRISTMAS TREE shone bright in the Chesserson living room with its many-colored lights, its red and golden balls, silver ropes and bright tinsel. Sammie seemed hardly to notice the tree, nor did she gently rattle the colorful packages. This wasn?t Christmas Eve. Christmas would be when Daddy came home. For days her stubborn spirit had remained with Morgan and Lee aboard a speeding train or walking cold beside the highway, two lone men crossing the vast, empty land.

When Anne put a Christmas record on to play softly, Sammie didn?t want to hear the music. Rolling over on the couch she pulled the afghan over her face, pretending to sleep. In the dark beneath the cover she lay thinking of Christmas when she was little, when Daddy was there. When they were together in their own house decorating their own tree or having supper at Caroline?s among the scents of Christmas baking. The music, then, had been wonderful, the boys? choir Sammie loved, the church music, but now music only brought tears. This Christmas week, her mother had gone to church several times, but Sammie didn?t want to go, she didn?t want to seethe life-sized cr?che or hear the story of the Christ child, they only made her sad.

Caroline drove down on Christmas Eve after making her last deliveries. They had arranged the dining table so they could see not only the living room fire but the Christmas tree. Though they sat down to a supper of Mariol?s good shrimp gumbo, a fresh salad, and Caroline?s pecan pie, Sammie was quiet and unresponsive. Only later, when she was given no choice but to share her bed with Grandma, had she snuggled down against Caroline.

Sammie was equally quiet Christmas morning, was slow getting up and dressing. Upstairs, even Mariol?s baked eggs and cheese grits failed to cheer her. She was far away with her daddy and Lee, the night still dark on the desert, the low moon brightening the pale sand.

Mariol had laid a fire on the hearth, its flames reflecting rainbows among the bright decorations. Sammie tried to be cheerful. She looked up into the tree, touched a few boxes, and smiled at the adults, but she was only pretending. The joy they had hoped would blossom this morning was a thin parody. They could only be there for her, love her, could only try to ease her worry.

When she opened her presents, the Little House books Becky had bought for her, and the new winter coat in a soft, cozy red that was Sammie?s favorite color, she pretended excitement. She tried the coat on and twirled around, smiling. She read the first pages of the first book, but her preoccupation and distress filled the room. Caroline had brought her a new bike, as Sammie had outgrown her small one. Anne and Mariol had chosen a small, carved chest from Anne?s attic that had been in the family since Anne was a child, and had filled it with new drawing pads, crayons, colored pencils, and a watercolor set. Sammie tore off the wrappings, pretending excitement. She straddled the bike with its red ribbon tied to the handlebars.But her spirit walked the lonely roads, slept cold on the rumbling trains. It was not until later that morning when all the gifts had been unwrapped that suddenly Sammie brightened.

Mariol was putting another log on the fire. The living room was a comfortable shambles of torn Christmas paper, scattered boxes and ribbon. As Mariol rose from the hearth, turning toward the tree, she went hushed and still.

At the base of the tree among tangles of paper the lower branches were moving, branches shifted and sprang back, though there was nothing there to disturb them. A shiny red bell began to swing but nothing had touched it. A golden ball twirled, the tinsel shivered, another branch bowed down as if with a heavy weight.

Mariol didn?t move, no one moved or spoke. Becky and Caroline remained intently watching as Sammie slipped toward the tree, reaching.

Anne, not moving from her chair, reached out involuntarily, just as Sammie was reaching; something within her was sharply stirred.

They watched Sammie kneel, holding out her arms, cuddling some invisible presence. The sleeve and collar of Sammie?s robe were pulled and stretched as if something unseen scrambled up, to push against her face.

?Christmas ghost,? Anne said softly.

They could see only joy in Sammie, bright pleasure as she stroked her invisible visitor. They watched for a long time, the four women silent and unmoving, Sammie hardly aware of them.

When she did look up, her face colored, she didn?t know how to explain what was happening, she didn?t want to explain.

Mariol said,?There were stories in my family, Cajun stories that ghosts will return on Christmas to be with their family, to share in the joy of the day. Ghosts of children usually, though often of family pets.? Mariol looked over at Anne, and they shared a comfortable smile. When Mariol turned away, Anne rose too; soon they all four left the room, left Sammie and her friend to themselves. Only then did the ghost cat make himself seen.

Dropping heavily into Sammie?s lap he reached a paw to her cheek. She held him tight and they sat for a long time beneath the bright tree, Sammie stroking, Misto snuggling and purring. And Sammie knew, wherever Daddy and Lee were, that this Christmas morning, for this moment, they were safe, they were all right.

TAKING THE THREE hundred dollars from his pocket, Lee handed it to Morgan. They were walking the dusty road, headed into Blythe.?If the feds spot me,? Lee said, ?you beat it out of there fast. Hop a ride to L.A. and go on with the plan. Find a lawyer you think you can trust, get settled with him, then turn yourself in to T.I. the way we laid it out.? He knew it would be easier for Morgan if they stayed together. LeeknewL.A. a bit, he could find his way around the city. If they made it out of Blythe together, maybe their luck would hold.

It was a long walk into Blythe, they?d left well before the sun was up, eating cold Spam and stale crackers as they strode along. By the time they entered town the sun was up, there was traffic on the street, the stores were opening. Lee pulled his hat brim low and scanned the street for anyone he knew, for Jake Ellson?s red truck or for Jake himself. When they neared the new bank, Morgan waited in a shop across the street, keeping watch for the law, for a cop or anyone in a suit who looked like a federal agent. The new bank, built after Lee had left Blythe, stood on the cleared site of the old, burned bank, next to the post office he had robbed. Entering the high-ceilinged lobby, Lee tailed onto the shortest line.

They had, before approaching the bank, turned down a side street where they could see several trucks parked behind the shops loaded with crated vegetables, and two refrigerator trucks.?Drivers are stoking up on breakfast,? Lee had said, ?before they head out.? Within ten minutes they had lined up a ride to L.A. Now, in line, he stood tense, ready to move out fast if Morgan slipped in to alert him. Sure as hell, the feds had talked with Lee?s PO and knew about his savings account.

Jake Ellson, his friend and boss, would have told them nothing. But his PO would be more than cooperative. Lee could see no back or side door leading out of the lobby, only the front, glass entry. As the man ahead of him finished and turned away counting a handful of bills, the heavy-jowled clerk watched Lee impatiently.?Next??

Lee pushed his bankbook across the counter.?Like to draw out my savings, close my account.?

The clerk looked Lee over, then thumbed open the savings book.?It?s been almost a year since the last entry.?

?Something wrong with that??

?No. Just that most folks have more activity in their accounts.?

?I?ve been traveling. Alaska. I?m in kind of a hurry, the wife?s waiting.?

The clerk started to say something more but changed his mind.?Excuse me for a moment.? When he left his window, disappearing into the back, Lee was ready to bolt, to get the hell out of there.

But his quick departure could blow it, if there was nothing wrong. He didn?t need a suspicious bank clerk nosing around. Waiting for the man to return, Lee began to fidget, glancing out the front window. When the clerk didn?t return, the patrons behind Lee pressed closer, annoyed at the delay. Beyond the big windows, a slowing movement caught Lee?s eye, and a police car slid into view, stopping at the curb. Lee forced himself to stay steady, but he was ready to move as one of the two officers got out.

When the officer headed away, down the street, Lee relaxed. The clerk was gone a long time. Some of the men behind Lee moved to another line. He watched the absent cop return carrying a paper bag and two paper cups sealed with paper lids. The cops were pulling away when the clerk did return.

?Sorry for the delay, Mr. Fontana. We?ve had a bookkeeping change, and what with the move and all .†.†. It took me a while to find your account and figure up the interest. The total is eight hundred and forty-two dollars. How would you like it??

?Seven hundreds, the rest in small bills.? Lee waited, still strung tight, while the clerk counted out the money. Stuffing it in his pocket he headed for the street. From the far curb, Morgan crossed over to join him.

They moved along the side street to the refrigerator truck parked behind the bank beside the half-dozen other rigs. There were storage sheds and a small warehouse back there, and the rear doors to the post office and small businesses. The driver stood wiping his mouth from breakfast: a young, ruddy-faced fellow with a short beard neatly trimmed, and clear blue eyes. He nodded to Lee, looked Morgan over, nodded again, and they stepped up into the cab.

THE RIDE INTO L.A. was quiet, the driver uncommunicative. He drove the long rig like he was on a close schedule and didn?t need any small talk. Morgan, sitting in the middle, looked white and tense, whether from their companion?s aggressive driving or from thinking about turning themselves in, Lee didn?t know. They hadn?t talked much about that part of the plan, about being back inside prison walls. Morgan hadn?t talked too much about facing Falon, but Lee knew he was scared.

Well, hell, they were both nervous. If you weren?t nervous, you weren?t on your toes. Traveling north, Morgan seemed diverted only by the desert. The flat, pale, treeless land fascinated the Georgia boy, who was used to miles of dense pine woods. The endless flat sand stretching away was foreign and strange. The sudden patches of crops laid onthe sand as bright as green carpets were even more unnatural. The groves of tall palms flicking by, their precise rows fanning past at dizzying speed like cards shuffled too fast, all was new and exotic.

Lee dozed over Banning Pass and down into San Bernardino. The big diesel ate up the miles until, in east L.A., they parted from the driver at a wholesale warehouse. They found a bus stop and, jolted in their seats and breathing gas fumes, they arrived at last in downtown L.A. Fog softened the low commercial buildings, and it, too, smelled of gas or of some industrial residue. At the first phone booth they came to, Lee flipped through the yellow pages to the attorneys.

It was all instinct now. Jabbing his finger at a name he liked, he dropped a nickel in the slot. It might take a dozen calls or more before he found a lawyer who sounded right, but he had nothing else to go on.

The first five calls, he couldn?t get past cold, officious secretaries. He gave the same story each time: they needed a lawyer to save a man?s life, they could pay up front, and the details of the problem were confidential. On the sixth call the secretary, maybe taking pity on the older man?s stumbling voice, put him through to Reginald Storm.

Storm sounded calm and direct. Lee remained devious, as circumspect as he could be. He laid out only enough of Morgan?s story to stir Storm?s interest. Storm asked a number of questions, as if he might be filling in more blanks than Lee liked. He had to convince Storm to see them, had to hint at their escape without telling him much; he couldn?t let Storm blow the whistle on them. If the feds grabbed them before they turned themselves in at T.I., there was a chance they?d ship them straight back to Georgia. They talked for maybe twenty minutes, and Storm seemed to really listen. But when he said he?d make time right then, that they could come on up, his willingness put Lee off, left Lee nervous again.

Hanging up, he looked at Morgan.?I think he knows more than I told him, he makes me edgy.? He shook his head. ?But even so, I like the sound of him. He seems direct and no-nonsense. What do you think, you want to take a chance or forget him, try someone else??

Morgan thought for only a minute.?We?re taking a chance, no matter who we choose. Let?s go for it.?

Storm had given Lee directions. They walked the seven blocks at double time, Lee praying they weren?t walking into trouble, that they?d made the right decision.

Reginald Storm?s office was one flight up, in a plain redbrick building that looked clean and well kept. A narrow strip of lawn separated it from the street, bisected by a short walk of pale stone. The four name plaques mounted beside the glassed entry were those of Storm himself, a doctor, an accountant, and an estate attorney?all one might need when contemplating the end of life, except for spiritual attention.

?Come on,? Morgan said, heading for the stairs, ?before I lose my nerve.?

33

CLIMBING THE INNER stairs, Lee and Morgan pushed through a second glass door into an office paneled in whitewashed oak. A blond secretary looked up from her desk, frowning at the hobo look of them. At the same moment, Storm appeared through an inner door waving them on past her to his office.

Storm was shorter than Lee, a solid man who looked to be more muscle than fat. Square face, creases at the corners of his gray eyes, the top of his head as bald as a mirror above a thick fringe of brown hair. His gray suit coat was off, hung neatly over the back of his desk chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his sinewy arms tanned, his pale blue tie loosened crookedly.

This room, too, was paneled in white-stained oak, with shelves of law books along one wall behind the plain oak desk. Two walls were hung with black-and-white photographs of rugged mountains, snow-covered peaks, and close-ups of rocky escarpments. A U.S. flag and a California State flag stood together in one corner. The windows of the fourth wall were open to the yellow-tinged fog. Storm nodded toward four easy chairs grouped around a conference table, and took a chair himself rather than retreat behind his desk. He sat quietly waiting, looking them over, taking stock of them.

Lee had not given his name on the phone; he?d said that Storm would understand why when they met. Now as he introduced themselves, the lawyer?s eyes hardened with recognition.

?Our names were in the L.A. papers?? Lee asked.

?They were. You haven?t seen the papers??

?We?ve been traveling,? Lee said.

Storm waited, quietly watching Lee.

?I don?t know how we can convince you of this,? Lee said. ?In Atlanta, Morgan was doing life plus twenty-five for a robbery and murder he didn?t commit. We went over the wall in order to correct that injustice. It would be pretty stupid for us to break out, come clear across the country, and then make ourselves known to a lawyer without a good reason?an honest reason. We?d be crazy to pull a stunt like that unless we?re straight.?

?And unless you have a plan laid out,? Storm said. His hands were relaxed on the chair arms, but Lee could feel his tension. ?As I recall,? he said, looking at Morgan, ?you were convicted for the bank robbery, killing a guard, and badly wounding one of the tellers.?

?Wrongly convicted,? Morgan said. ?I know who robbed the bank and killed the guard. He?s now in Terminal Island on an older, land-scam charge committed in San Diego. The other four men had already been indicted when they picked Falon up.?

?I know the case,? Storm said. He rose and stepped to his desk. When he touched the intercom, they both jerked to attention. They eased back when he said, ?Nancy, try to reschedule my next appointment, and hold my calls.? He picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen and returned to the table. He watched them carefully as Morgan told his story. Only when Morgan finished did Storm speak again.

?So Falon, who committed the murder, is now a short-termer at T.I. on another charge. You plan to turn yourselves in, where you can get at him before he goes into court on the land scam charge. You think you can make him talk, make him provide new evidence.?

Lee nodded.?We mean to try.?

?You understand how risky that is. And that, ethically, I should not be a party to your plan,? Storm said. ?Also, Falon may not be kept at T.I. for long. He could be shipped off somewhere else. T.I. is still mainly a naval discipline barracks, has been for about three years. The Bureau of Prisons has a small section they use for civilian prisoners, men with federal convictions waiting to be transferred to a permanent facility. And they do keep a few short-termers. They might possibly keep Falon, depending on how crowded that part of the facility is. But you two .†.†. It isn?t likelyyou?ll be there long.?

He looked at Lee.?They might keep you, Fontana, to finish out your sentence, or they might send you back to McNeil. But you, Blake .†.†. That?s a medium-security institution, they won?t want a man with a brutal murder conviction. I?d say they?ll ship you right on out, maybe back to Atlanta or maybe Leavenworth.?

?We?ve got to do this,? Morgan said. ?Even if we?re in T.I. only a few days. It?s my only chance, the only chance I?ve had to get close to Falon. I was locked up before I knew there was a robbery and murder, I?ve been behind bars ever since.?

Storm shook his head.?You know that?s coercion. You understand I shouldn?t be a party to this. You think in that short time you can corner him, make him tell you where he hid the money? Those are pretty long odds. Slim chance you can even get near him.?

?Slim, maybe,? Lee said. ?But it?s what we mean to do. This is our only chance to get to him, where he can?t get away.?

?Why are you in this, Fontana??

?It?s something that needs doing,? Lee said. ?The only real evidence will be the money and maybe the gun. The money has to be stashed somewhere, and the most likely place is Georgia. We?re guessing he hid it right after the robbery. If he knew, then, that the feds were getting close on the SanDiego case, he?d want to ditch it fast before they came nosing around.?

?And,? Storm said, ?there were no witnesses who could identify Falon at the bank? They saw only a man in a stocking mask?? The way Storm was looking at them, Lee thought the lawyer was going to refuse them. ?You know the matter of coercion itself could tilt things the wrong way.?

?If he bangsus up,? Lee said, ?how can he claim coercion? He could have attacked us, who?s to say? If we can find where the money is?hopefully with his prints on it?that?s hard evidence. That?s what we?re after.?

Storm sat back, watching them. Lee, despite his own wariness, saw a keen challenge in Storm?s gray eyes. ?You know,? Storm said, ?you?re putting me in a compromising position. What if you kill him? That makes me an accessory.?

?We won?t kill him,? Lee said. ?A dead man can?t tell us anything, and he can?t confess later. We just plan to scare him real bad.?

?You?re very confident,? Storm said. ?You turn yourselves in, Warden Iverson calls Atlanta, tells them he has their escapees, what do you think will happen? They?ll make the connection to Falon, even if it takes a couple of days. As soon as Iverson puts it together he?ll lock you down and ship you out of there, before he has a mess on his hands.?

Storm moved to his desk again and dropped the pad on the blotter.?There?s also the matter of your escape. You?ll be charged and tried separately for that. I?m sure the brass in Atlanta didn?t like you climbing their wall.?

Lee grinned and shrugged.?If we can make Falon talk, maybe we won?t be charged with escape. Anyway, with the time Morgan?s looking at, what are a few years tacked on? He won?t be any worse off than he is now. As for me, I?ll take my chances.?

Storm stood looking at them, his square face solemn.?You walk into T.I., what are you going to tell them? Iverson asks you why you turned yourselves in, what are you going to say?? Lee and Morgan just looked at him. Storm sighed. ?You better have a story ready that doesn?t involve Falon. And you?re not to mention me. Iverson and I are on good terms. Let?s keep that relationship, we?re going to need it.?

?Then you?ll take us on,? Lee said.

Storm shifted his weight, put his hands in his pockets.?I?ve never committed to anything quite like this.? He watched them rise. ?How are you going to pay me??

Morgan pulled the six hundred dollars from his pocket. Lee said,?Is that enough to get started, get the trial transcript, make some inquiries, talk to Morgan?s Atlanta attorney??

Storm nodded. He laid the money neatly on the yellow pad.

?Here?s Quaker Lowe?s phone number and address,? Morgan said, handing Storm a battered slip of paper. ?When you call him, he?ll let Becky know we?re safe. She?s had a long wait, not hearing from us, a long time to worry. I?d like to know,? he said softly, ?if my wife and our little girl are all right. Can you get a message to me??

Storm smiled.?I?ll be in touch.? They shook hands. ?Once you?re inside,? he said, ?you?ll each be allowed two calls a week if you?re in good standing. They?ll keep a record of the numbers.?

Lee smiled.?We?ll let you know as soon as Falon talks.?

Storm walked them out, through the outer office past the blond secretary. She watched them with curiosity, turning away only when Storm glanced at her.

Out on the hot L.A. street again, at the covered bus stop, they read the schedule tacked inside. They had half an hour before the bus arrived that would circle out past T.I. They settled down on the wooden bench to wait, not talking, not looking forward to the next step. They were both edgy, afraid they?d be shipped out again before they had a chance at Falon, a chance to get him alone.

The bus ride toward the ocean was hot, the humidity worse inside than on the street, the sky hazy and yellowish. Hot, sulfurous air blew in through the open bus windows. Smog, a passenger said. The result, the thin-looking woman told them, frowning, of too many cars and too many factories. They rolled through Florence sweating, passing row after row of little box houses, then some shops and billiard rooms along Gardena?s main street, then more box houses crowded together. They listened to the other passengers complain about the heat, telling each other this wasn?t a typical California winter and that they wished they?d get some rain. Not until they crossed a bridge leading to the main gate of Terminal Island did they feel the cool breath of the Pacific. They drank in the smell of the sea, but then came the ripe stink of the commercial fishing boats that nosed farther along the shore. The bus jolted to a stop in front of the federal penitentiary, jerking them hard.

Lee stumbled up and led the way down the steps. They alighted directly in front of the broad gray prison, on the walk that led to the main entrance. Here on the ocean the sky was clear and blue, the smog blown inland behind them. Overhead, wheeling gulls screamed, flaunting their winged freedom. Behind them the bus departed with a motorized fart. This was the first time Lee, in all his long life, had ever asked to be locked behind bars. First time he?d ever entered a federal prison out of choice. ?Come on,? he said. ?We either hike on in or run like hell.?

34

MISTO DRIFTED OUT of the bus beside Lee and Morgan just as he had floated into the vehicle and, during their ride through L.A., had snooped among the passengers? belongings and looked out the dirty windows at the city rolling by, at the green hills rising to the east with a glimpse of tile-roofed mansions. Lee?s and Morgan?s destination of another federal prison didn?t thrill the ghost cat. Even though, of the three of them, only he could come andgo as he pleased from the regimented environ. He alone could float out from the prison rooftops over the adjacent harbor where sailboats and fishing boats were moored, bristling with masts and sails, and great ships lay at anchor. As Lee and Morgan descended the bus, three young trusties looked up from where they mowed the green lawn; the smell of freshly cut grass was sharp, mixed with the tang of the sea. Only one guard tower was visible, placed to view the front entry.

At the foot of the concrete steps Lee stood with Morgan before an open metal booth. Inside hung a microphone, with a speaker attached. As Lee reached for the mike, a voice from the speaker barked,?Identify yourselves. State your business.?

?Lee Fontana,? Lee said, looking up at the tower where the guard held a second mike. ?And Morgan Blake. Escapees from the federal pen in Atlanta, come to turn ourselves in.?

There was a long silence while the guard looked them over. Lee knew he had sounded an alarm inside the building. No surprise when suddenly the front doors were flung open and four guards burst out crouching, covering them with riot guns.

Their response was so dramatic they made the ghost cat laugh. Lee and Morgan had their hands up and, at the guards? orders, moved on into the prison. Misto floated beside them, protective and amused. He watched as they were searched. Still surrounded by armed guards, they were directed to sit in wooden chairs in front of the warden?s office. Misto drifted on in through the warden?s closed door, to have alook.

He floated beneath the ceiling of a typical prison office. Dark oak floors, government-green walls, prison-made oak desk and swivel chair, oak bookcases stacked with untidy pamphlets and file folders. Venetian blinds crossed at right angles to the vertical bars that secured the windows. Warden Iverson sat at his desk holding the earpiece of a black telephone as if waiting for his call to be answered. He was a tall, bony man, maybe sixty, pale skin wrinkled over prominent, bony cheeks, a military-short haircut emphasizing his large ears and prominent nose. He wore a brown, lightweight suit, crisp white shirt, and plain brown tie. As soon as he was connected he picked up the tall phone itself, leaned back in his chair, holding the mouthpiece close. Misto lay down atop a stack of reports, careful to disturb nothing, to make no sound. Iverson frowned a little, but had no idea anyone watched him and listened.

?Paulson? John Iverson. We?ve got your two escapees out here at T.I., they just turned themselves in.?

Misto knew Paulson; the Atlanta warden was a slight, quick-tempered man about Iverson?s age, a man he?d found was generally respected among Atlanta?s prison population.

?What kind of a plant you running,? Iverson said dryly, ?to let those two go over your wall? I thought you were maximum security back there. You expect me to keep them corralled here? We don?t evenhave a wall.?

Misto padded up the desk beside Iverson where he could hear Paulson, as well. The Atlanta warden?s voice at the other end sounded tinny. ?What did they tell you?? he asked. ?What crazy reason did they think up for turning themselves in? That old man, Fontana??

Iverson said,?They told the guard they got tired of your place, said they wanted an ocean view.?

Misto was suppressing a cat laugh when he carelessly brushed a pencil from the desk, sent it rolling to the floor. At Iverson?s puzzled frown he retreated to the door, sat on the floor as decorous as a trained poodle. Iverson was saying, ?You bet I will. When this business of escape has been handled, we?ll give Blake an ocean view. Maybe from Alcatraz, they?re not real crowded up there.? He listened, then, ?You?llsend me copies of Fontana?s record? And Blake?s trial transcripts?? He nodded at the phone. ?We?ll keep Blake locked down until this is sorted out. They?ll be confined to the civilian compound.?

Again he listened, then,?No, we have plenty of room. The navy?s winding down on its detention numbers, we?re losing population every day.?

He made no mention of Brad Falon. Neither had Paulson. Maybe, Misto thought, they wouldn?t discover the relationship right away. Even if, in Atlanta, Paulson had read Morgan?s transcript and come across Falon?s name as a witness, why would that mean anything to him? He?d had no contact with Falon, Brad Falon had never been in the Atlanta pen.

But somehow, Misto knew, the two wardens would make the connection, it was only a matter of time.

Misto thought, when Iverson hung up, that he?d signal the guards to bring Lee and Morgan in so he could interrogate them, that maybe he?d pick up on the connection right then. He?d have Falon?s file, and Falon was from Rome. When he questioned Morgan, he?d learn that Morgan was from Rome, and that was all he?d need. Two Georgia convicts showing up in California, in the same prison, one of them by choice?

Hanging up the receiver, Iverson set the phone down on the desk and looked at his watch. Switching on the intercom, he told the guard to go ahead and process the two escapees.?Let them eat lunch, whatever?s left. Get their medical checks, then lock them in their cells.? He rose, picked up his briefcase from the desk and added a few papers. Once Iverson had left the building, Misto returned to Lee and Morgan.

WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES Lee and Morgan were body searched, had showered, and had dressed in prison blues. Their personal effects were locked in storage. They were marched away for the noon meal before the medical staff checked them over. The civilian unit of the naval disciplinary facility was small, isolated by a locked gate. It had its own small dining room, several rows of single cells and one dormitory. Misto followed them to the cafeteria, where only a few wrapped sandwiches and some desserts were visible, this long after the noon meal. Leaving his charges to partake of the lean pickings, Misto drifted away.

He hovered above groups of inmates, into rows of dull prison offices, through the larger, navy mess hall and the steamy kitchen. Out over the exercise yard, through the auto shop, machine shop, furniture and clothing workrooms, none much different from the other prisons Misto had prowled invisible and often amused. When he returned to the small civilian dining room he found Lee and Morgan alone at a table eating roast beef sandwiches. A guard stood against the wall watching them?and across the room sat Brad Falon at a table with two other inmates, his small eyes narrowed as he, too, watched Lee and Morgan. It had been easier to find Falon than they?d thought. Under the eyes of the guard, they couldn?t approach Falon, but Misto had no such restraint.

Drifting close to Falon?s face he let his fur brush the convict?s cheek. The vibration sent Falon up from the table swatting at empty air. Misto, drifting away, smiled and lashed his tail.

From across the room, Lee watched Falon?s gyrations with satisfaction. Morgan watched, perplexed. The guard rounded on Falon, his hand touching his weapon. Falon slapped at the air again, looked sheepishly at the guard, and sat down. But the guard jerked him up, spun him around, and quickly patted him down. Finding no weapon and no drugs, he looked at Falon a long time, then shoved him back in his chair.

Falon?s face was flushed. Still the guard watched him. Falon hunched over his plate finishing his coffee and pie. He left the room quickly. Misto abandoned Falon, brushed Lee?s arm, and received an amused smile.

IT WAS AFTER lunch when Morgan was locked in his cell, that Lee was ushered by two guards to Warden Iverson?s office. He found the warden at his desk, his suit jacket dangling from a prison-made coat tree, his pale tie loosened, his thin, bony face flushed from the heat. ?Sit down, Fontana.?

Lee sat, in a hard wooden chair facing the desk.

?You want to tell me, Fontana, why you and Blake turned yourselves in? Why you took the trouble to climb the wall?no mean task?why you hitched all the way across the country only to give yourselves up? Headed right back to prison, as docile as starving dogs??

?I guess that?s the way we were feeling,? Lee said. ?Seemed like, every move we made, every train or truck we hitched, the cops were on our tail. Almost like they were pacing us. They never made a move, but they made us nervous, we couldn?t seem to shake them.? He looked levelly at the warden. ?When we got to California we?d run out of steam. We were hungry and scared, and my emphysema was real bad from that blizzard weather. Right then, prison looked pretty good. Free bed, hot meals, a place to rest and quit running.? His lie sounded plausible to him.

?This was the only place we knew,? he said, ?where the law would back off, stop tailing us, where we could rest easy for a while.?

But, watching Iverson, he could see the warden wasn?t buying it.

?Why did you scale the wall in the first place? What were you looking for, why make that hard trip all the way out here?? Iverson leaned back, watching him. ?What?s this really about, Fontana??

?We thought by the time we got out to the coast we?d lose the tail on us, we?d be home free and could head either down into Mexico or up to Canada, somewhere we might shake the law. But then,? Lee said, ?by then, I was feeling too sick.?

?You were practicallyin Mexico. We know you got off at Blythe, your PO called us. The bank called him. But it took them a while. Before they caught up with you, you could have made it across the border. You knew you had a good chance, right then. But you turned north instead. Why? And what about Blake?s wife and child? Did he plan to send for them, down in Mexico? Or never to see them again??

?He thought he could get them up to Canada,? Lee said. ?They have relatives up there that he thought would hide them.?

Iverson wasn?t warming to this.

?By the time we hit L.A.,? Lee said, ?I didn?t think I could make it much farther. That?s when Morgan said, ?Let?s give it up.? Maybe he did it for me, maybe he thought I might die on him. He knew I?d get medical care in here. He swears not, swears he just didn?t want to run anymore.? Lee knew he was talking too much. He tried to look sicker than he felt, to look more despondent.

Iverson pressed a buzzer calling a guard, signaling the end of the interview. Did he believe any of what Lee had told him??You?ll both be confined to the civilian unit. We used to enforce a month?s complete isolation to prevent spread of disease, but with the war over and not many men coming in from overseas, we?ve lightened the rules. You?ll see the doctor three times a week. When you?re better, you can think about industries, something not too demanding. We like to keep the men busy.? He nodded. Lee rose and turned away, meeting the guard at the door.

He was escorted to his cell and locked in, a cell like all the others except this one was cleaner and had the luxury of a small, barred window through which he could see a bit of the ocean. He looked out through the barred glass at a glimpse of the island, of boats and ships, and the mainland beyond. Long Beach, he thought, or maybe San Pedro, and beyond these, the far, green hills.

35

IT WAS THE next morning at breakfast that they saw Falon again, sitting alone at a small table as Morgan joined Lee in the chow line. Again Morgan was accompanied by a guard, but the uniformed man didn?t linger. He watched them settle at a table, then turned away. Once he?d left the cafeteria, they picked up their trays again and joined Falon.

?Lots of empty tables. Go sit somewhere else.?

?Does it bother you,? Morgan asked, ?to sit with the man you framed??

?What?re you doing here, Blake? What kind of stupid stunt was that, to break out, make it across the country, and then turn yourselves in? You get scared out in the big world, Morgy boy? Lose your nerve? What, were the feds on your tail? You crawl to them like a beaten dog that can?t get away??

Lee laid a hand on Morgan?s arm until he eased back. Under the overhead lights the sleeves of Falon?s prison shirt sparkled with tiny bits of steel, as if he?d been working the lathe or jigsaw in the metal shop. ?Maybe,? Lee said, ?maybe after we?ve been here a while, Falon, our escape won?t seem so stupid.?

?What does that mean, you crazy old creep?? Falon rose, picking up his tray. ?You?ll stay out of my way, if you plan to leave here in one piece.?

Lee smiled.?Doesn?t take much to get you fluffed, does it, Falon??

A wash of red moved up Fallon?s face. ?I don?t know what you want, old man, but you?ll be sorry you took up with this punk.? They watched him cross the room, shove in where two men had just sat down. In a moment the other two turned, staring at Morgan and Lee.

?I thought it would be simple,? Morgan said softly. ?I thought when we showed up he?d get scared.?

?You knew better than that. You never thought that, you know he?s dangerous. Take your time,? Lee said, ?play it close.? Lee was nervous, too, but they needed to move on with this, they didn?t have much time. Once Iverson received the paperwork from Atlanta, he?d start putting it together, Morgan?s connection to Rome and to Falon, Falon?s testimony at Morgan?s trial.

It was late that afternoon, after seeing both his doctor and his counselor again, that Lee got permission to work in the metal shop for a half shift. He was in luck, there was an opening, maybe things were turning their way. It was the ghost cat who didn?t feel good about the plan.

?This isn?t smart,? Misto murmured softly, materializing on Lee?s bunk. ?That shop?s dangerous. Falon knows the moves, and you don?t.?

Lee pulled off his shoes, eased back against the folded pillow.?I?m a quick learner.? He stroked the cat?s shaggy, invisible fur.

Misto sneezed with disgust.?You blow it in there, you get hurt and it?s all over for Morgan, too.?

?I don?t have a choice. That?s where Falon works.? He watched the line of pawprints pace neatly down the bed, little indentations appearing one by one. ?If I can get Falon alone in there,? Lee said, ?maybe in one of the storerooms, I can work on him.?

?Is thatyour idea? Or is that another dark plan to trap you?? The cat, not waiting for an answer, vanished, hissing. Nothing remained but his anger. Lee stretched out on his bunk listening to the bellow of the foghorns, watching through his barred window the lights of the naval station blurred bymist. The foghorn?s eerie cry rang through him like a train whistle, the lonely call he?d followed in his youth, the siren cry that had led him ever deeper into the life he had made for himself.

Every time he was locked up he grew nostalgic for the old times, for the open prairie. No locks, no bars, no one telling him what to do. Every time he was incarcerated he had to get used, all over again, to confinement and too many people and nowhere to get away.

Well, he could have stayed in Atlanta. Could have been out and free in a few months. Now, unless Storm came through not only for Morgan but for Lee himself, a whole new sentence could be tacked on. At his age, no matter how he dreamed of a new life in Mexico, he might never live to see the buried money.

Yet he wouldn?t do it any differently, he?d climb that wall again in a damn minute. Coming after Falon was the right thing to do; he felt it in his gut that they were going to free Morgan. That this was what they were meant to do. He lay sleepless a long time listening to the foghorns, assessing just how muchpressure it might take to unwind Brad Falon, to force from him the information they needed

36

LEE DIDN?T EXPECT, when he reported for work at the metal plant, to be paired with Falon. He?d only thought to position himself nearby, where he could get at Falon?not where Falon had the split-second upper hand.

The factory was a big, well-lit room with plenty of space between the equipment, but still, it was a dangerous workplace. There was a layout table, and near it a metal shear, a metal break, spot welders, pipe benders, and saws. Falon was working the metal break, pulling a lever that dropped the blade, lethal as a guillotine, onto a sheet of steel. At the far end of the room were paint vats and spraying equipment, and a bake room for drying painted items. The men were making machine parts for the military. As Lee cut across the room toward the glassed-in office at the back, the plant foreman, a broad-hipped man dressed in khaki, came out chewing on an unlit pipe. When he stopped to light up, Lee introduced himself and handed him the note from his counselor. Mr. Randolph glanced at the note, his square cheeks sucking in to get the pipe going. He stuck the paper in his pocket and motioned Lee to follow him, skirting past the layout table to the metal break, where Falon stood watching them.

?Falon will give you instructions,? Randolph said, handing Lee a pair of leather gloves. ?You?ll operate this unit, Falon will work the machine next to you, see that you?re doing the job right.? He nodded to Lee, turned to leave, then glanced back. ?Pay attention, Fontana. That machine?s not a toy.? He left them, moving on down the room.

As Lee stepped up to the machine Falon smiled, coiled tight as a rattlesnake.?Any retard could run it, old man. Stand in front of the machine. Take a square sheet of metal off that stack. Place the chalk line that runs down the metal directly under the blade, lined up with the line on the table.? Falon stared at Lee. ?You understand so far? You just step back, old man, reach over your head, and give the lever a hard pull. Don?t ever forget to step back,? Falon said. ?You think you can reach up over your head and pull the lever??

Lee pulled on the gloves, picked up a square of sheet metal and slid it onto the break table. He lined it up, stepped back, pulled the lever hard, watched the blade strike down powerfully, bending the metal to a neat, ninety-degree angle.

?Try it again.?

Lee looked at Falon and reached for another sheet. But when he swung it onto the table it slipped, sliding beyond the raised break. Alarm touched him as he reached to retrieve it, darting his hand beyond the break line. He swung away fast when Falon grabbed the lever. The blade fell, catching the tip of Lee?s glove as he jerked his hand out.

Swinging around, he grabbed Falon?s collar, threw him against the break, and rammed Falon?s arm under the blade, grabbing for the lever. Falon fought him, his face drained white, staring at Lee?s hand on the lever. Beyond Falon at the other side of the room, Randolph had his back to them. Lee let Falon lie frozen against theblade until Randolph started to turn, only then did he release Falon. ?I see how this thing works, Falon. And I see how you work. I don?t think,? he said softly, ?that I?ll have trouble with either one.?

The next two days, working with Falon, Lee was mighty careful. He learned some of the other machines under Falon?s supervision, learned them all with a wary respect for the man. He didn?t like having Falon in a superior position, he hadn?t planned on that. As short a time as Falon had been there, he must have sold the foreman a bill of goods?though he did know the equipment. It was the second eveningafter work that Lee got Falon alone between the buildings and goaded him, told him the feds were still working the case, that they?d picked up new information in Rome, had lined up new witnesses. Told Falon he could soon be arraigned for murder. Falon laughed at him, but Lee could see doubt in his eyes. The third evening, Lee went into the dormitory to locate Falon?s cubicle.

The room was a typical military layout, freestanding partitions around the individual bunks, low enough so a guard could look over, high enough to give a man some sense of privacy. Falon was in his cubicle, Lee could see his narrow head and shoulders where he sat on his bunk, his back to Lee, talking with two other inmates. Two sleazy types slouched in the small space, half sitting against the low wall. Lee didn?t pause long, but moved on past, smiling now that he knew where he might corner Falon.

But then before Lee could make a move, Morgan got Falon alone. He told Falon that Natalie Hooper was dating several men, said she?d talked pretty freely about the robbery. Told Falon that, with the feds still working the case, if he opened up to the law now, revealed where the money was hidden, they?d go easier on him, maybe he could go for a plea bargain and minimum time.

Of course Falon laughed at him; and with every passing hour the arrival of the court documents drew nearer, the time when Iverson would see their connection to Falon and move them where they couldn?t get to him at all. Lee was growing edgy when, the fourth day on the job, Morgan joined him in the lunch line tense with excitement.

?He admitted it,? Morgan said softly.

?Keep your voice down,? Lee snapped. ?Wait until we find a table.? He thought Morgan would explode before they got settled. Morgan set down his tray next to Lee?s and scooted his chair close, as bright faced as a kid. ?I got him alone in the shower room, told him a lot of lies, got him so angry he lost it.? Morgan smiled.

?I?ve seen him do that before, his temper flares, he didn?t even hit at me, didn?t try to fight, he just went kind of?glazed. Hissed right in my face, ?Damn right I robbed that bank, damn right I shot that guard. What was I supposed to do, old geezer couldn?t even get his gun out of the holster.? He admitted it, Lee. Admitted the murder, stealing the money, admitted everything.?

?But then,? Morgan said, ?then he laughed at me. He said, ?What are you going to do about it? You?re the one got convicted.??

?He didn?t tell you where the money?s hidden,? Lee said quietly.

?No, he said he?d never admit anything in court. But it?s .†.†.?

?It?s what?? Lee said tiredly.

?It has to be proof. Hetold me. He??

?But youhave no proof. It doesn?t matter what he tells either of us if we can?t come up with the money or the gun. That?s the proof. Nothing?s any good until we have solid evidence.?

?I did the best I could,? Morgan said glumly. ?I told him if the law could retrieve the money, if he told them where it is, he?d get a lighter sentence.?

?You know that?s a lot of bull and so does he. The charge for murder, they?re not going to plea-bargain that. What did he say then??

?He said, ?You?re the one doing time. I?ll be out in a few days.?? Morgan laid down his fork. ?I won?t let that happen, Lee. I have to make him talk. I tried naming places around Rome where he might have hidden the money, thought maybe he?d give himself away but he didn?t. He?s too good a liar,? Morgan said glumly.

LEE?S HALF-DAYS IN the metal shop grew agonizingly long; he was always tense and on guard. Trying to do his job while protecting himself from Falon, he was more bushed after each succeeding shift. He remembered wryly Dr. Floyd?s advice to pace himself, to pick jobs that didn?t stress him. And then suddenly Falon was taken off the job, he wasn?t there when Lee checked in for work.

The foreman said he was being transferred, that Falon would be out of there in a couple of days, and Lee knew the court transcripts had come through. They were moving Falon out fast, before there was trouble. He wondered if they would move Morgan, too.

He finished his shift and then quit his job, forcing his cough, telling the foreman his emphysema was worse, that his chest hurt and he needed to see the doc. When he went on into the medical office he did have a ragged cough and did feel pale and cold, it wasn?t hard to feign exhaustion. The examining doctor told him to quit his shift. Lee said he already had. The doc gave him a form with a note on it and sent him to his counselor.

He?d seen John Taylor only once since he and Morgan were checked in. Taylor was a short, tight-knit man, well tanned, who?d seemed fair enough with Lee. He nodded, signed and filed the form, and didn?t suggest that Lee look for another job. It was that afternoon that Lee returned to the metal plant one last time.

The shift changed at four, men were leaving the industry shops. He hoped the metal shop wasn?t locked. Earlier, while at work, he had hidden a piece of thin cable under a stack of metal. When he left, there had been too many men around, he couldn?t retrieve it. Now he found a guard standing inside the door and gave him a sheepish smile. ?I think I left the safety latch off on my machine?I?d like to go back and check it.?

The guard looked wary.?Make it quick. The paint crew?s cleaning up, I?m about to lock the door.?

Lee hurried the length of the plant, past the break. Glancing in the guard?s direction, he reached under the stack of metal sheets, scooped up the coiled cable, and slid it under his shirt. He pretended to check his machine, reaching as if to flip a safety latch, then moved on out of the building, nodding to the guard. He was strung tight, hot to get at Falon before hewas gone. He told himself to slow down, to work out the moves, don?t go off half-cocked. He?d already failed once, earlier in the day when he found Falon alone in the yard and came onto him. Falon had lunged viciously at Lee; he thought Falon had him until three inmates appeared from among the buildings, talking and laughing, and Falon had to back off.

They had little time to make Falon talk before the paperwork arrived from Atlanta. Lee didn?t sleep well that night, and the next day he overheard from a guard that Falon?s transfer to L.A. county jail was being processed in connection with the land-scam trial. Blake was so wild to get at Falon that Lee knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew this could blow up in their faces?and the next afternoon, it did blow. Blew sky high, shutting down the entire prison, leaving Lee shocked, panicked, unable to do anything to help Morgan.

He was cutting across the yard when a small scuffing behind him made him pause, the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two guards came racing between the buildings, and behind them two white-coated medics moving fast carrying a stretcher with a body strapped to it. Lee saw blood, got a glimpse of Morgan?s face, a gash across his forehead spurting blood. Lee ran, caught up with them just outside the medical ward. Morgan?s head was drenched with blood, his face gray and still. Lee bent over him searching for a spark of life. The guards shoved him away hard, double-timed in through the ward door, and slammed it in his face. Lee heard the lock slide home.

37

LEE WAITED A long time by the infirmary door before the two guards came out again. When he tried to question them they would say nothing, they turned away, ignoring him. When a medic came out hurrying past, he wouldn?t talk to Lee, either. No one would tell him anything, he didn?t know whether Morgan was dead or alive. He was scared as hell and boiling with rage when he headed for Falon?s dorm; he had a hunch the little scum would go to ground right there lounging on his bunk as if he?d been idling about for hours. Even as Lee entered the building he could hear Falon?s laugh.

Telling himself to take it easy, cool down and not blow this, he moved silently along the hall past a short turn to the showers, past the doors to a janitor?s room and a supply closet. He tried both doors, silently turning the knobs knowing they?d be locked. Janitor?s room was locked, all right, but Lee paused, startled, when the door to the supply closet swung in. Shelves of sheets, blankets, towels pale in the dim light from the hall. He located the light switch but left it off, left the door barely cracked open. Moving on, he stood against the wall outside the open door to the dormitory, glancing in.

Above the low barriers he could just see just the top of Falon?s head, and again his two friends stood leaning against the wall. Was that Falon?s mode when he was in prison, to collect two or three sleazy sidekicks to play lackey for him? The pudgy kid was crossing his eyes and staggering around with his tongue out, grinning evilly.

?Knock it off,? Falon snapped. He rose and pulled off his prison shirt, dark with bloodstains. ?Now,? he said softly, ?I can?t wait to bust theold son of a bitch. Hand me that towel and the soap?no, the big bar.? Carrying the soiled shirt under his towel, he headed for the door. Lee drew back, stepped into the supply closet, and eased the door closed.

When Falon had passed, Lee followed, his bridled anger making his heart pound. Followed Falon down the short corridor to the showers. Just before Falon entered the tiled room, Lee grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Falon lunged for Lee?s throat. Stepping back fast, Lee judged his distance, brought his foot crashing into Falon?s crotch. Falon doubled over holding himself, groaning, rocking back and forth.

It took all Lee?s strength to drag him to the supply room and shove him inside; Falon sprawled on the floor, still holding himself. Lee pulled the door closed, switched on the light, and straddled Falon, whipping the cable around his neck. The man was hurting too bad to fight much, his blows were weak and off center. Lee locked his knees, pinning Falon?s arms, tightening the cable around his throat. Writhing, Falon began to choke.

?I?ve killed men like this before, Falon. It isn?t hard to do.?

When he saw Falon was strangling he loosened the cable a little, let him gulp a breath, then tightened it again.?Tell me where you hid the money.?

Falon slammed his body against Lee?s imprisoning legs. Lee tightened the cable until Falon?s face grew red, sucking for breath.

?What?s the matter, Falon? You can?t talk? Well, that?s all right, just tap with your hand when you?re ready to tell me and I?ll loosen your tie.?

Falon didn?t respond. Lee increased the pressure, sinking the cable deeper. ?Talk to me. Tell me where you hid the money.? He pulled again, carefully. If he killed Falon, it would be all over. Nervous sweat ran down Lee?s face. ?Tell me or you?re finished. Where?s the bank money?? As he tightened thecable again a hot desire surged through Lee, to see Falon die, a viciousness that was not part of his plan. He fought to hold himself in check, tightening the cable only slowly. ?Where?? he hissed. ?Where did you hide it?? He felt himself losing control, filled with a hunger that was not his own, suddenly wild to kill, drawing the cable too tight. Falon?s eyes began to bulge; fear made Lee loosen the cable, he watched Falon suck in air. Would Falon die before he talked? Tighter, gently tighter .†.†.

Falon gave a weak tap on his arm, staring up blearily at him. Lee released the pressure and leaned close, straining to hear.

?Georgia,? Falon rasped. ?North of Rome.?

?Where north of Rome? Tell me where, or you?re dead.?

Falon?s look became pleading. ?You?ll be getting out soon. I can?t get at the money, but I know someone who can. I?ll split it with you, I?ll have them put it in a bank, send you the deposit book. Half of all the money, Fontana.?

?That?s hogwash.? But even so, a hot greed hit Lee, his blood quickened at easy money. Shaking off the dark hunger, he pulled the cable and twisted and felt Falon?s body jerk. ?Tell me where. I don?t want your deal.?

Watching Lee, Falon grabbed at the cable.?North .†.†. North of Rome. Tur .†.†. Turkey Mountain Ridge,? he whispered, gasping.

?Where is that? Where on the ridge??

?Morgan will know,? Falon said, choking. ?East side?old homeplace.?

?Where on the homeplace??

Silence. Lee shoved his knee in Falon?s belly, pulling .†.†.

?The bot .†.†. bottom of the well .†.†. abandoned well.?

?Does anyone else know?

?No.?

?Natalie Hooper?? Lee said, easing off a little.

?Not her, she?d have gone for it.? Falon?s eyes were begging. ?Half the money if you let me live. We?ll go together when I get out, I?ll show you where.?

?I don?t need you to show me anything. If you?re telling the truth,? Lee said, shifting his weight but still holding Falon pinned. ?You nearly killed Morgan. Now you?re going to talk to the law, tell them where to find the money. You?re going to do it now, tonight. You?re going to swear to me, Falon, that you?ll tell the law the whole story.? He tightened the cable again. ?If it?s there, it should take only a few hours to find it. If you?re lying, if they don?t find anything, I?ll kill you before you?re out of here.?

?I?I?ll tell them,? Falon wheezed.

There was little more Lee could do. He removed the cable, revealing angry red lines circling Falon?s throat. ?You go back on me, Falon, you refuse to talk, you?re dead.?

He knew Falon would sing a different tune as soon as he felt secure.?Once I talk to the warden, they won?t release you until you tell what you know. And it better be straight talk.? Lee stood up, coiled the cable, and dropped it in his pocket. Falon didn?t rise, he rolled over, avoiding pressure on his tender crotch and one hand caressing his throat. Lee flipped off the light, casting the storeroom in blackness, peered out to check the hall, then left, shutting the door behind him. It must be nearly an hour since Morgan was taken to the infirmary. He wanted to go back there, wanted to see Morgan, but instead he headed for the administration building, before his counselor left for the day.

There had been no lockdown, no Klaxon, though he saw guards everywhere. He found John Taylor still at his desk, putting away files. Lee approached the desk, his adrenaline pumping hard.?I know it?s late in the day, but it?s important.?

Taylor gestured for him to sit down.

Reaching in his pocket, Lee dropped Reginald Storm?s business card on the desk. ?Storm is my attorney and Morgan?s. We need him bad, tonight. Could you call him, ask if he could come on out??

Taylor studied Lee.?Why the hurry? I know Blake was taken to the infirmary. Tell me what?s going on. Why suddenly an attorney??

?Because Blake?s hurt,? Lee said. ?I need to talk with Storm. In person, not on the phone. Afterward, Storm will fill you in.?

Taylor sat watching him. Lee could read nothing in his expression.?How bad is he?? Lee said warily. ?He?s not .†.†. They wouldn?t tell me a damn thing.?

?He has a concussion. He?s conscious only some of the time. They?re doing their best to keep him awake, there?s an orderly with him.? He looked again at the attorney?s card. ?Tell me what?s going on, and I?ll see about calling Storm.?

?I?ll tell you after you call him. I promise you that. This could mean Morgan?s life, if he makes it, there in the infirmary. This could mean the rest of his life.?

Taylor was silent again. Lee wondered how straight the young man would be, how much he could trust him.?I can tell you this,? Lee said, ?it was Brad Falon who attacked Blake.? He was taking a chance on this. If they locked Falon down, and they sure as hell would, and if Falon had lied to him, Lee couldn?t get at him again.

On the other hand, Falon couldn?t get at Morgan, either.

Still Taylor said nothing.

?New information has come to light,? Lee said.?Evidence that could clear Morgan of all charges, that could free him .†.†. If he lives,? he said softly.

Taylor looked tired suddenly, looked knowing and weary. Lee thought he was going to refuse. But prisonerswere allowed two phone calls a week, and so far he hadn?t made any calls. He looked steadily at Taylor until, sighing, Taylor ran a hand through his crew cut hair, set Storm?s card before him and picked up the phone.

LEE ANDSTORM sat in the prison interviewing room. Two folding metal chairs and a scarred oak table, on which Storm had dropped his briefcase. A guard was stationed outside the door. Storm looked like he?d already put in a hard day. His rumpled suit coat hung crookedly over the back of his chair, his tie hung loose, his shirtsleeves were rolled up. When Lee told him Falon had spilled, had revealed where the bank money was hidden, a grin transformed Storm?s tired, rugged face.

It had taken the attorney only twenty minutes to get out to the prison from downtown. In that time, Lee had returned to the infirmary hoping to see Morgan, but he wasn?t allowed in. He did get one of the medics to talk to him. The freckled, towheaded medic told him, ?Blake?s alive. In and out of consciousness. We?re doing our best to keep him awake, he sure has a concussion.?

But no one would let Lee see him. Did they think Lee himself might have bashed Morgan? All Lee could think was, Morganhad to recover. They?d come this far, they were so close. Morgan wouldn?t give up, Lee couldn?t let him give up.

Now, across the table, Storm said,?If the money?s there, if the feds and Georgia Bureau of Investigation can find it, can identify it as the bank money, we?ll have enough for a new trial. With an honest jury, we?ll have enough to hang Falon.?

?They?ll fly Morgan back to Rome, for a new trial??

?Let?s find the money. If it?s there, if we can put together a solid case, I?d rather transfer jurisdiction out here to L.A. I think Lowe would, too.? Storm leaned back in the hard, folding chair. ?I?ve talked with Lowe. The picture I get, Rome is a small town with a mind-set dead against Morgan. That can happen, you get that kind of thinking started, it?s hard to reverse. Lowe doubted that with the lies and trumped-up evidence, they couldfind an impartial jury. And the federal court in Atlanta is booked six months ahead.

?Another thing,? Storm said, ?as violent as Falon seems to be, it would be safer to keep him locked down here than to transport him back to Georgia.? Storm glanced at his watch. ?Nearly midnight in Atlanta, but I?ll call Quaker. Once he?s contacted the FBI and GBI, I?m hoping they?ll head right on up to Turkey Mountain Ridge. Meantime,? he said, ?I?ll call the bureau here, I know a couple of the agents. See if I can get them out here tonight to meet me, to talk with Falon.

?And,? he said, ?I?d like to know the details of what Falon did to Morgan, I?d like to file a charge.?

?As soon as Morgan?s conscious long enough to talk,? Lee said. ?As soon as hecan tell us. I knew nothing until I saw him on the stretcher, headed for the infirmary. They wouldn?t let me near him.?

?As for whatyou did toFalon,? Storm said, his gray eyes amused, ?I don?t know anything about that.?

?While they search for the money,? Lee said, ?will Falon?s transfer be postponed??

?I?d guess it would. In the morning I?ll talk with Warden Iverson.? Rising, Storm picked up his briefcase.

?And you?ll call Becky?? Lee said, pushing back his chair. ?Tell her Morgan?s hurt? You can break it to her more gently than when the prison calls. Tell her I?m .†.†.? He winced at the inadequacy of saying he was sorry. There were no words to undo what had happened. Lee had talked Morganinto this trip, into harassing Falon. He might have talked Morgan into his last trip. Sure as hell, Becky would see it that way.

Leaving the interviewing room, Lee shook Storm?s hand, mighty thankful for the day he?d flipped through the L.A. phone book and, with luck and the grace of God, had gotten through to Reginald Storm.

But, stepping out into the hall where the guard stood waiting, Lee wondered if he?d had other help as well. Wondered, as crazy as it seemed, if the yellow tomcat had guided his hand as he ran his finger down the page of that battered phone book and stopped at the name Storm.

Then he wondered if Sammie already knew about her daddy. Had she waked seeing Morgan on the stretcher, awakened from her dream crying out for him?

Returning to his cell, lying back listening to the foghorns, all he could do now was wait?wait until the bureau interrogated Falon, wait until the feds had found the money?hope to hell they?d find it. Wait until he could see Morgan. Wait, and try not to think how this would all end.

38

ASINGLE LIGHT BURNED behind the hospital bed, illuminating the white bandage that circled Morgan?s scalp. Light caught across his stubble of beard and picked out the IV tube that ran down his arm, draining through a needle into the vein of his wrist. Lee couldn?t see Morgan breathing, couldn?t see the blanket move, but each time he laid his fingers along Morgan?s free wrist he found afaint pulse. Morgan had been unconscious all night and it was now nearly noon, the high sun slanting down through the half-closed Venetian blinds of the small hospital room. Lee sat in a wooden chair beside the bed, his knees pressed against the metal rail, talking; he?d been talking most of the night.Except for a short break to eat the breakfast an orderly had brought him, and for a brief nap on the other bed. A few minutes? sleep, then he?d risen to groggily feel Morgan?s pulse and to start talking again.

He had no idea if Morgan could hear him. The constant effort wearied him, but Dr. McClure had said to keep talking; he said the sound of Lee?s voice could be a lifeline for Morgan. Said the contact between Lee?s voice and whatever within Morgan was alert enough to listen might keep him from sinking deeper into an oblivion from which he could not return.

Lee had no idea if that was so. He had no idea how much the medical profession really knew, and how much they could only guess. Dr. McClure was a strange man. You?d think a prison doc would be hardened, that after the twenty years he said he?d spent at T.I., he wouldn?t give a damn who lived and who died. But McClure?s sad, dark eyes under those bushy brows had shown Lee a whole world of caring inside that middle-aged, pudgy man. ?Talk to him, Fontana.If you?re his friend and you want to help him live, talk to him and keep talking.?

?But he can?t??

?You don?t know what he can hear. There?s a lot in this world we don?t know, maybe a lot we?ll never know. I say he can hear you and that talking to him might keep him alive. Sit here and talk, as long as you can, no matter how foolish that seems.?

So Lee talked. McClure had gotten permission for him to stay with Morgan. The orderlies and male nurses moved around Lee doing their work, silently accepting his presence. Lee told Morgan over and over that Falon had spilled, had confessed where the money was hidden. He just hoped Falon wasn?t lying. He told Morgan that FBI and GBI agents were already on their way up Turkey Mountain Ridge to look for the evidence, for the proof that could clear Morgan?that could put Falon on trial for the robbery and murder. In between telling him about Falon, Lee talked about anything he could think of just to keep going; he dredged up memories that, after several hours, turned his voice rough and straining.

He told Morgan about life in South Dakota when he was a kid, how he broke his first colt when he was eight. How he?d hobbled the youngster, dragged an old jacket over his neck and back and legs until the colt no longer snorted and bolted, how the colt finally settled down to lead. He told Morgan about spring roundup, how the steers and cows would hide among the mesquite or down in a draw and you had to rout them out. How the ranchers all helped each other rounding up the cattle, separating out their own stock during branding. The scenes of roundup came back so clearly, he recalled scanning the far hills where you could barely pick out a few head of steers, watching them slip away among the brush as a rider or two eased after them. He could still hear the calves bawling during the sorting and branding, could still smell the burning hair and skin under the smoking iron, though it didn?t hurt them but for a minute or two.

Sometimes, as Lee talked, he was aware of another presence, a warmth between the comatose man and himself, the touch of rough fur against his hand, and he could hear soft purring as the ghost cat pressed against Morgan. It seemed to Lee then that he could see the faintest of color in Morgan?s white, cold cheeks. Lee knew as well when the ghost cat had gone and wondered if he was with Sammie. He remembered Morgan?s description of Sammie?s sickness when Morgan, after the bank robbery, had been left drugged and unconscious in the backseat of his car, and Sammie herself was unable to stay awake. Now, with Morgan in a coma, was the child again lost in darkness? As Lee kept talking, hoping to reach Morgan, was he reaching out to Sammie, too?

He told Morgan about his first train jobs, when he was barely seventeen, described how his chestnut mare would race alongside the engine keeping close to it as he dove off her back onto a moving car, how he?d taught her to follow the train, waiting for him. He tried to explain the fascination of the old steam trains, to describe his excitement when he, just a kid, was able to stop a whole train and haul away its riches. He told Morgan that was the life he?d always wanted, that he?d had no choice?but he knew that wasn?t true. No matter what you longed for, you always had a choice.

Late on the second afternoon as dusk crept into the hospital room, Morgan stirred. His free hand moved on the covers, but then went still again. His eyes slit open for an instant unfocused, but then closed. At the same moment the shadows grew heavy around them. Suddenly Lee?s rambling voice sounded hollow, sucked into emptiness. The walls had vanished into shadows, the floor had dissolved except for the one ragged section that held Morgan?s bed and Lee?s chair. They drifted in dark and shifting space.

And Morgan woke, staring at something behind Lee.

Lee turned to face the dark presence looming over them, its cold seeping into Lee?s bones. Morgan?s hand, then his whole body, grew so cold that Lee scrambled to reach for the call button.

?They won?t hear it,? said the dark spirit.

?What do you want? Get out of here. What do you want with Morgan, what does he have to do with your vendetta against me? He?s not of Dobbs?s blood.? Lee wanted to lunge at the figure but knew he would grapple empty air.

?Morgan?s little girl is of Dobbs?s blood. She is descended from Dobbs just as you are. There is no finer prize,? Satan said, ?than a child. Now, through her father, I will destroy the girl. Through her father and soon through you as well.

?Oh, she dreams of you, Fontana. Youare her kin. She saw you kill Luke Zigler, she saw his smashed face. She saw you and Morgan scale the wall; she was with you on your journey, suffering every misery you endured; she felt cold fear at the sight of the tramp?s switchblade, fear not as an adult would experience but as a child knows terror. Her pain, as she watched, is most satisfying.

?She saw you pull the cable around Falon?s throat, she felt your urge to kill him, she watched you smile and pull the cable tighter.?

Lee?s helplessness, his inability to drive back the dark spirit, enraged him. Nothing could be so evil as to fill a child with such visions, to torment a little girl with an adult?s lust.

But at Lee?s thought, the invader shifted. ?I do not give the child her nightmares,? Satan snapped. ?I have no control over her dreams.?

?How could she see such things if the dreams don?t come from you??

The shadow faded, then darkened again.?I do not shape her dreams,? he repeated testily.?I do not control her fantasies.?

But then he laughed.?Soon I will control them, soon Iwill break the force that gives her such visions, and then,? he said, ?then Iwill shape the images she sees, Iwill shape her fears until, at long last, I use that terror to break her. To own her,? Lucifer said with satisfaction.

?In the end,? he said, ?the child will belong to me. My retribution will be complete. You might resist my challenges, Fontana. You might have won a bargain, as you put it. But Sammie Blake won?t win anything. She will soon be my property. As I destroy her father, so I will destroy her. She is my retribution, the final answer to my betrayal by Russell Dobbs.?

39

IT WAS EARLY morning in Georgia, the sun just fingering up through dense growths of maples and sourwoods. A Floyd County truck stood parked in the woods at the foot of Turkey Mountain Ridge, its tires leaving a fresh trail along the narrow dirt road. Agents Hillerman and Clark of the FBI and GBI respectively, and Deputy Riker of the Floyd County Sheriff?s Department, had already climbed halfway up the steep slope. Sweating in heavy khaki clothing and high, laced boots, they shouldered through thorny tangles and dense, second-growth saplings. Hillerman was perhaps the most uncomfortable in the hot protective clothing, with his thirty pounds of extra weight. Clark, the youngest, was fit and tanned, blond crew cut covered by a sturdy cap, his ruddy face clear and sunny. Each man wore a backpack fitted out with water, snacks, and the tools they would need if they found the hidden well.

Though the three men wielded machetes, cutting away the briars that tripped and clawed at them, still the thorny tangles ripped through their clothing, tearing into their skin leaving their pants and shirts dotted with blood, their hands and legs throbbing. They had driven up the old rutted logging road as far as the truck would go. When the incline grew too steep they had left the vehicle to climb the eastern slope on foot. Riker was in the lead, a rail-thin, leathery man as dry and wrinkled as if the cigarettes he smoked, two packs a day, were surely embalming him. Breathing hard, he led the two men back and forth, tacking across the steep hill searching carefully, stopping often to study the ground, the surrounding growth, and the mountain that rose above them. He was looking for signs of old, rotted fences, abandoned farm tools. He did not smoke while in the woods, he chewed.

Years ago Riker had hunted deer on this mountain. He didn?t remember any old homeplace up here, but often all that was left would be a few bramble-covered artifacts or, higher up the hill, fragments of an old rock foundation and the old well, both long ago covered by heavy growth. As they neared the crest he glanced back at the bureau men, cautioned them again to take care. ?You step in a hidden well, you fall a hundred feet straight down.? They?d climbed in silence for another five minutes when Riker stopped suddenly, stood looking above them where a dozen huge oak trees came into view, towering above small, scrubby saplings.

?There. That?ll be it.? He moved on quickly, straight up the ridge until it leveled off to flat ground. There was no sign of a house or of fences or foundation, but Riker nodded with satisfaction, stood wiping his forehead with his bandana. ?I?d forgotten this place. Watch your step, the well?s somewhere close.?

Hillerman, the FBI agent, stared around him searching for signs of a homeplace.

?These big old trees,? Riker said, ?crowding all together in a half circle? That?s where the house stood, in their shade. And the brushy land that drops on down? That would have been cleared, that?s the garden spot.? The other two looked at him, questioning, but Riker knew these woods. And for the past hundred yards they?d been walking over old, worn terraces.

?There would have been crops here, too,? Riker said, ?corn, beans, more tomatoes, collards. Off to your right,? he said, pointing, ?those old pear trees gone wild? Someone planted those.? He paused beside a low-branched sourwood, took a small folding saw from his pack, and cut three long straight branches so they could feel ahead through the scrub and grass.

?The well won?t likely be near the bigger trees,? Riker said, ?where the roots would grow in.? They moved on slowly, poking ahead, doubling back and forth watching the ground. Near the old homeplace, Hillerman shouted.

Riker and Clark joined him. Kneeling, Riker pulled aside a tangle of honeysuckle, revealing the remains of a crumbled stone curb. Carefully they pulled out long, tangled vines, clearing the stone circle beneath. It was some five feet across, the hole in the center yawning black and deep.

The sides of the well were lined with stone, too, the carefully laid rocks gray with moss where Riker shone the beam of his torch down inside. Tying a rope around his waist, handing the ends to Clark and Hillerman, he leaned down in until his light picked out the far, muddy bottom. He moved the beam slowly, looking.

?It?s there,? Riker said. ?The ammo box.?

Hillerman fished a coiled rope from his backpack, a treble hook tied at one end, and handed it to Clark. Kneeling beside Riker, the younger man let the coil play out easy, down and down, the swinging steel claw catching torchlight as it bounced against the well?s stone and earth sides. When it reached bottom he let it settle, then eased it toward the dark metal box lying deep in the mud against the earthen wall.

It took seven passes, Clark gently finessing the hook, before he snagged one of the two handles. Slowly he pulled the box up, afraid at every move that he?d lose it or it would pop open and spill its contents. Keeping it clear of the edges, he at last lifted the dirt-encrusted ammo box above the well and out over solid ground.

Hillerman had to use the beer opener on his pocketknife to pry up the two heavy, rusty latches. When he had pulled the lid open the three men, kneeling around the box, looked at each other grinning.

Within lay the bundles of greenbacks, moldy smelling, each secured with a brown paper collar. They touched nothing. Tucked in beside the money was a tightly rolled canvas bag and a dark blue stocking cap. Hillerman picked this up carefully with the point of his knife, held it high, revealing its length, which would easily cover a man?s face. Two ragged eyeholes had been cut in one side. Underneath, where he?d removed the cap and bag, lay a .38-caliber revolver.

Pulling on clean cotton gloves, Hillerman dropped the cap, bank bag, and revolver into clean paper bags. Carefully he checked the serial numbers on several of the bills, lifting their edges with the point of his knife.?Now,? the overweight agent said, grinning, ?let?s see what the lab makes of this.?

?The lab and the U.S. attorney,? said Riker.

Latching the lid, they placed the box in a larger evidence bag. The agents fitted the bags into their backpacks and, all three smiling, they headed back down the mountain. Ever since Quaker Lowe had filled them in fully on Falon?s long record, on Blake?s murder trial, and on comments made by prison authorities, and knowing Lowe?s honest reputation as a straight shooter, they wanted to see Falon fry. Descending the ridge on the trail they?d partially cleared, Riker said, ?That old parolee, the old train robber? Whatever his reasons, if it was Fontana who made Falon talk, I?d say he?s earned the court?s blessing.?

?And maybe the Lord?s blessing,? said Hillerman, smiling.

40

THE GHOST CAT, lingering unseen on Morgan?s bed, was well aware of the search in Georgia and of the morning?s find in the old well. He was as pleased as the three lawmen as they moved down the wooded hill packing out the bank money. The cat, lying close to Morgan listening to Lee?s verbal marathon, reached out a soft paw whenever Lee started to drift off. He alerted Lee more sharply to any slightest movement as their patient began slowly to return to the living, his spirit reaching up again from the darkness beyond all dark. The yellow cat, lying close to Morgan, knew that Lee?s and Morgan?s lives had begun to brighten into theshape of hope.

The two men might not yet sense it, but from the time they scaled the wall, all across country and then into T.I., even to Morgan?s present battle, the cat knew that hope touched them. He started suddenly, hissing, when an orderly bolted into the room.

The man reached for Lee, his meaty hand on Lee?s shoulder. ?Phone call, Fontana. It?s your lawyer, he said it was urgent.?

Rising, Lee headed for the door not knowing whether the man meant Quaker Lowe in Georgia or Reginald Storm, and not wanting to stop and ask. He followed the orderly to an empty office, the young man staying behind Lee, where he was in control. Stepping into the small space, Lee picked up the receiver that lay on the blotter next to the tall black phone.

?Sorry to wake you,? Storm said, ?I know it?s early. Quaker just called. They?ve got the bank money. A sheriff?s deputy went up Turkey Mountain Ridge this morning with two agents. They found the old homeplace, the old dry well, the ammo box there at the bottom. The money, the canvas bags. They found the gun, Lee.?

Lee stood grinning, clutching the receiver tight, as if it and Storm?s words might vanish.

?The bank has records of some of the packs of bills,? Storm said. ?The bureau has lifted a number of Falon?s prints, that match those from the L.A. files. And ballistics is working on the gun. They even found the mask he wore, that wool cap with the eyeholes.?

?I can?t believe it, I can?t believe our good luck.?

Storm laughed.?We?re on our way, Lee. We have something to work on, you?re on your way to court.?

?If anything can rouse Morgan,? Lee said, sitting down at the desk to steady himself, ?this will wake him.?

?This,? Storm said, ?and the sight of Becky and Sammie, in the morning. They?re flying out today, the first flight they could get. Lowe said Becky?s been really down, worrying about Morgan. Said with this news, she?s not so furious anymore, at the two of you.?

That made Lee smile wryly, almost tenderly.

?They have a number of layovers, they?ll be in around midnight. I?ll pick them up, get them settled in a motel over there near the prison. Becky?s aunt paid for the flight,? Storm said. ?I guess Becky argued, but she didn?t have much choice.? There was a smile in Storm?s voice. ?Lowe saysher aunt Anne?s a pretty stubborn woman.?

That made Lee smile. Storm said,?I?ll be over later this morning to talk with Iverson, make sure Falon?s .†.†. satisfactorily detained,? he said with amusement. ?How?s Morgan doing??

?Some better,? Lee said. ?He wakes a little sometimes, and his sleep seems more normal. Maybe this news will bring him around. The wound?s beginning to heal, the swelling?s going down, they can?t detect any inner bleeding. I want to thank you,? Lee said, ?for getting Iverson to let me stay with him.?

?That was Dr. McClure?s doing. Maybe by the time we get this on the docket Morgan will be raring to get into the courtroom. I just hope we can transfer jurisdiction. Lowe?s working with the U.S. attorneys on that. If Falon?s arraigned and tried out here, and if he doesn?t ask for a jury, that?s our best bet. Our L.A. judges are a pretty good bunch.?

Returning to Morgan?s room Lee stood looking down at him; laying his hand on Morgan?s arm, he told Morgan the news, that the law in Georgia had found the money and gun, told him everything Storm had said. He thought a little color came into Morgan?s face, a brief spark of awareness. As Lee talked, the yellow cat suddenly appeared beside Morgan, looking up at Lee, flicking his tail, twitching his whiskers, gazing deep into Lee?s eyes. They looked at each other for a long time, the cat filled with triumph and goodness; but when Lee reached to touch him he vanished again. Disappeared flashing Lee a cattishsmile, was gone as suddenly as he?d appeared.

SAMMIE?S EXCITED CRY jerked Becky upright from napping among the plane?s pillows. On the hard seat, Sammie no longer huddled dozing against her. ?Wake up!? Sammie demanded again, shaking Becky so hard she knocked their pillows to the floor. ?Daddy?s awake, he?s waking up.?

?Shhh,? Becky said, hugging the child against her, glancing around at awakened and annoyed passengers. Curious faces rose up from the seats ahead, looking back staring at them. Becky turned away, cuddling Sammie to quiet her. They had left Atlanta in midmorning, had already changed planes in Dallas, with two more stops ahead before they reached L.A., and every moment of the journey excruciating as they worried over Morgan

?He?s awake,? Sammie repeated, then, ?He knows. Daddy knows they found the money. He?s waking up and he knows. Oh, Mama .†.†.? The child?s face was alight, she hugged Becky hard.

?Shhh,? Becky said again, ?tell me quietly.?

?This is what it?s about,? Sammie whispered, sounding very grown-up, ?this is why they climbed the wall.?

Every night since Morgan and Lee escaped, Sammie had cried out in her dreams, afraid and often defiant; she had traveled with them all that long journey, not sleeping much, not eating well. But now, tonight, she seemed stronger. Now it was Becky herself who was shaken and clinging, who needed Sammie to hold her.

Around them passengers continued to stare and some to grumble. Mother and daughter were silent, their tears mingling against each other?s faces. When Misto pressed suddenly between them warm and comforting, Sammie put her arms around the ghost cat, too, and smiled contentedly at Becky. Everything was all right now, everything wouldbe all right. She hugged Misto. Whatshould be would be. Their life, despite the bumps and hurts yet to come, was moving on in the right direction, just as her good cat knew it should.

LEE WOKE AT dawn from a short nap on the empty bed, his wrinkled clothes binding him. He swung to the floor?and there was Becky sitting beside Morgan?s bed on the straight wooden chair.

The room was barely light. Morgan had turned on his side, Lee could see the rise and fall of his chest, see the IV tube swing when Morgan shifted his arm. He watched Morgan reach up and tenderly touch Becky?s face. Lee wanted to shout and do a little dance. Morgan was awake. He sat silently on the bed, looking.

Becky?s navy suit was rumpled from traveling, her eyes red from either crying or fatigue, her dark hair limp around her face. He saw no suitcase, then remembered that Storm had put them in a motel last night. Sammie lay curled up at the foot of Morgan?s bed, her head on a pillow so she could see Morgan, her blond hair tumbled across the prison blanket. He remembered how warm she had been the times he had held her, infinitely warm and alive. Sammie?s gaze didn?t leave Morgan. But slowly Becky looked up at Lee.

It was all there in her face, her pain from the long weeks when she didn?t know where they were or what was happening to Morgan, didn?t know whether he was alive or dead. Her relief when at last Storm called to say they had turned themselves in, relief that Morgan was alive?and then the phone call that he was injured, that the doctors couldn?t wake him. She looked at Lee for a long time in silence, then, ?Lee? How did you make him talk??

Lee smiled.?I had a piece of steel cable. After he hurt Morgan, I showed him how to tie a necktie.?

Becky thought about that. She didn?t ask any more questions. Lee knew the guards would have found cable marks on Falon?s throat. So far no one had hauled him into Iverson about it; he wasn?t looking forward to that confrontation.

Maybe Storm?s friendship with Warden Iverson had stifled such inquiries. He could only hope so. When he looked again at Becky, there was amusement in her eyes. He grinned back at her, rose, grabbed the clean clothes the orderly had laid out for him, and went down the hall to the shower.

When he returned, Sammie lay snuggled in her daddy?s arms, Morgan?s face buried against her shoulder. Becky still sat in the chair, her hand lying against Morgan?s face, below the bandage. Lee looked at Morgan. ?What did Falon hit you with, a brick??

?A sock full of something hard as hell,? Morgan said. ?Before I woke, you were talking to me. I kept reaching for your voice, trying to come awake, trying to make sense of what you were saying. Something about horses, about cattle. I kept trying to reach up to you, like swimming up through heavymolasses.?

?I figured you?d come awake when you got tired of hearing me.?

?You made Falon talk,? Morgan said. ?The money .†.†. they have the money? His prints .†.†. ?? He eased up against the pillows, lifting Sammie with him, holding her close. ?When do we go to court??

?Storm?s hoping for a transfer of jurisdiction,? Lee said. ?An arraignment out here, get it on the L.A. docket. You?ll have to be strong enough,? he said, ?so you don?t go to sleep in the courtroom.?

41

THREE HOURS BEFORE Brad Falon?s scheduled move from Terminal Island to L.A. county jail on the land scam charges, the federal grand jury in Los Angeles charged him with bank robbery, murder, assault, and attempted murder. He was taken into L.A. for a preliminary hearing, bail was set at twenty-five thousand dollars, and he was incarcerated, as planned, in the L.A. jail but on the new and more serious offenses. The land matter case was set over until the murder trial was resolved. While the L.A. docket wasn?t crowded, it took most of one week to select a jury. Falon felt he had a better chance conning a jury than a federal judge; he?d heard nothing good about this group of judges. Some called them hanging judges, hard-nosed and righteous men who would not understand the finer points of his character.

On the day of the trial Morgan and Lee were seated at the attorney?s long mahogany table below the judge?s bench. Morgan was a prime witness. He approached the table with the thick, heavy bandage covering the side of his head, walking unsteadily with his hand on the arm of an orderly, and with a deputy marshal following. Even riding in the official car from Terminal Island to L.A. had left him shaky, he was glad Lee was there beside him. Storm wanted Lee at the witness table to back up small incidents in the prison and to corroborate what Morgan might have told him. ?You both escaped from Atlanta to bring about this trial,? Storm said. ?Before this is over you?ll both be charged for that escape. You?ve put a lot on the line, Fontana, you have a right to be here.?

Two armed deputy marshals were stationed near the bench, three more behind the jury box. Lee watched Falon ushered in, his ankles and hands shackled. His hair was carefully combed, bushy at the sides, which accentuated his narrow face and close-set eyes. He was seated at the next table with his own attorney, facing the jury box. He had buttoned his prison shirt high at the throat so the angry red wounds didn?t show. Turning in his chair he looked smugly at Lee until his attorney, James Ballard, nudged him. Then Falon turned away. Ballard was a portly man with a shaggy fringe of brown hair edging a shiny bald head. He continued to whisper to Falon until Falon looked up at the jury, a bland and gentleexpression in his muddy eyes. He had pleaded not guilty on all charges: murder, bank robbery, assault, and the intent of murder.

The mahogany walls of the courtroom were hung with portraits of federal judges, some of whom, by their fancy attire, had lived in the last century. Some looked so tough they made Lee smile. Above the paintings, through the high windows, Lee could see snatches of overcast sky. He half expected to see a feline silhouette padding along the sill. But if Misto was present, Lee guessed he?d be comforting Sammie. In the visitors? gallery, she and Becky sat near the front. Becky sat very straight, one hand fisted tightly in her lap, her other arm around Sammie; Sammie pressed close, watching Lee and her daddy, her face white and still. Her dress was pale blue, smocked down the front as Lee?s mother would smock his sisters? dresses. The section was half empty. Looked like a few reporters, with their notepads, and a handful of old folks who might have gathered for the free entertainment.

Lee studied the jury: three women and seven men, one of whom would be an alternate. All looked like good steady citizens, neatly dressed, their expressions heavy with civic responsibility. The bailiff ordered everyone to stand. Judge Crane entered the courtroom from a private door behind the raised bench, a big man with a square, sunburned face, looked like he?d be happier on a sailing ship than confined in the courtroom. But there was something haughty about him, too, something withdrawn that made Lee watch him uneasily.

The judge would not decide Falon?s innocence or guilt, the jury would do that. But Judge Crane would decide and pronounce sentence. And even if Falon were found guilty, thus overturning Morgan?s conviction, both Lee and Morgan still had to face the judge on charges of escaping from Atlanta. When Lee looked again at Sammie, she sat straighter in her seat; she was not so white, and her arms were akimbo as if she held an imaginary doll. Lee could almost feel the warmth himself as her unseen companion eased the child?s fears?fear of what lay ahead, fear of this roomful of strangers who held Morgan?s life in their hands.

The trial took three days. The U.S. attorneys in Georgia and in L.A. had agreed that the depositions from the bank employees were sufficient evidence, on top of the bank money, the bank bag, and the gun with Falon?s prints. They had not required that the witnesses be flown out from Atlanta. None of the witnesses could have clearly identified Falon, whose face had been hidden beneath the navy blue stocking cap with its two eyeholes. Betty Holmes?s deposition stated clearly that she had seen the robber shoot and kill the bank guard. The written statements were long and detailed. There was a deposition, as well, from the shopkeeper across the street from the bank who had seen the getaway car and recorded the license number. It was this, the identification of Morgan?s car, that had first led police to increase their hunt for Morgan on the night he disappeared, and that had helped convict him.

Lee didn?t take to the U.S. attorney, didn?t like his offhand manner. James Heller was a slim man with delicately small hands, pale skin, a high forehead beneath soot-black hair. A fragile-looking fellow who seemed too self-centered when he presented the new evidence, though he was thorough enough. He showed photographs of the gun, the ammo box, the stocking cap, the wrapped packets of money. He passed a set of the photos among the jury, along with copies of the fingerprints found on those items, pointing out that copies of all pertinent material had been furnished, earlier, to both the jury and judge. Only one item lay on the evidence table, near where a deputy marshal was stationed: a small, closed shipping box, securely sealed.

Heller read the report from ballistics that matched riflings from the .38 revolver with the bullet removed from the body of the bank guard. He read into the record statements from the Georgia FBI and GBI agents and deputy sheriff who had recovered the evidence from the old well. He presented Becky?s formal complaints and police reports on Falon?s harassment, the breakin at her aunt?s, and the incident on the bridge outside Rome; all to bring into question Falon?s original testimony as a key witness against Morgan. When Heller had finished, the bailiff called FBI agent Karl Hamrick of San Bernardino, and that brought Lee alert, staring. What was this? What was Hamrick doing there?

Hamrick was the agent who had interrogated Lee after he was arrested in Vegas for drunk and disorderly, he had no connection to this case. Lee grew chilled thinking about the grilling Hamrick had laid on him. As the agent entered the courtroom from behind the jury stand Lee wanted to run, to get the hell out of there.

But in a moment Lee relaxed, limp with relief. Hamrick had been stationed in Georgia on a temporary assignment at the time of the bank robbery; he was one of the agents who had originally investigated the case. He could have had no notion, then, that Lee would become involved. In Georgia, he had interviewed Falon after the robbery, as the last person who saw Morgan before the bank went down. And he had run the background check on Falon. Now he presented that to the jury: Falon?s past arrests and convictions, his incarcerations back to his Juvenile Hall days, the present indictment against him. When Falon?s attorney, Ballard, tried to confuse Hamrick?s testimony, Hamrick was calm, collected, and certain in his statements. As Hamrick finished up and left the courtroom he glanced at Lee with only mild interest.

When all evidence had been presented, Falon?s portly attorney, wiping a handkerchief over his bald head, impressed on the jury that Morgan?s prints, too, were on the revolver. He suggested that Morgan had been an accomplice, that the two had planned the robbery together, that Morgan had waited outside in his car so they could make a quickgetaway.

Storm pointed out that Falon could easily have put Morgan?s prints on the gun while Morgan was drugged. And that, in the deposition from the store owner across the street from the bank, only one man had entered the car, plunging into the driver?s seat and taking off fast. The store owner had not been able to identify the man, it all happened in an instant. It was then that Storm asked the Court if he could perform a demonstration. When the judge gave permission, Storm asked Brad Falon to stand.

Moving to the evidence table, Storm opened the small shipping box, removed the navy blue stocking cap, and nodded to a deputy. When the deputy walked Falon forward to face the jury, Storm stepped up beside him.

?Would you put on the cap, Mr. Falon??

Falon just looked at Storm. He had to be instructed three times before he sullenly pulled the cap on, adjusting it just low enough to cover his bushy hair.

?Pull it down over your face, please.?

Falon didn?t want to do that. The deputy stepped forward and adjusted the cap himself. The holes fit exactly over Falon?s close-set eyes.

?If the court please,? Storm said, ?I would like Morgan Blake, who was originally convicted on this charge, to try on the cap.?

The judge nodded. His expression didn?t change but, Lee thought, was there a smile in his eyes? Storm motioned Morgan forward to face the jury and gently unwound the bandage from Morgan?s head. A large, flat rectangle of tape underneath ran from low on Morgan?s forehead up over his shaved crown. Storm reached up, Morgan being taller, and pulled the wool cap gently over Morgan?s head. Even with his head shaved, with only a flat layer of tape over his healing wound, it was a difficult fit. Storm had to twist and stretch the cap. When at last he managed to pull the mask down, a ripple of laughter swept the jury.

Morgan could peer out one eyehole, but the other eye was covered. When Storm shifted the cap, only the other eye was visible.

Falon?s attorney asked permission to approach. He tried to stretch the cap to fit Morgan; he pulled and tugged but was unable to stretch it sufficiently. Morgan could not see out both eyeholes at once, not without ripping the cap. The jurors continued to smile. When Lee glanced around at Becky, she wassmiling, too. Sammie?s fist was pressed to her mouth, her eyes dancing, her other arm hugging the unseen cat in a frenzy of triumph.

Falon?s attorney, in his closing statement, tried again to implicate Morgan, but now the jury gazed through him. Lee watched with interest as the game played out.

The jury?s deliberations took less than an hour. Lee and Morgan waited under guard in a small chamber from which they were returned to the courtroom when the jurors had filed in. Becky and Sammie had gotten a drink of water and returned to their seats. Lee thought, from the way Sammie leaned close againstBecky, that the ghost cat had left them. Why would Misto abandon the child at this crucial moment?

UNSEEN ON THE judge?s bench, Misto sat licking his paw. There beside Judge Crane he had a clear view of the jury, of their faces as they filed in to their seats. A clear view of Brad Falon and his attorney as they rose at the judge?s direction, Falon flanked by two deputy marshals. Misto shivered with nerves as theforeman approached the bench, as the short, round man began to read aloud from the paper on which the jury?s verdict was written:

?In the case of thePeople versus Bradford C. Falon, on the first count, murder in the first degree, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the second and third counts, attempted murder, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the fourth count, felony armed robbery, the jury finds the defendant guilty.?

In the gallery a wave of murmurs ran through the spectators; they smiled and whispered to each other. Becky hugged Sammie, crying, their arms tight around each other. At the attorney?s table, Morgan wiped away tears. The judge?s gavel pounded until he had order; silence filled the chamber. Above the judge?s bench where Misto drifted unseen, the tomcat found it hard not to yowl his pleasure in the judge?s ear.

But suddenly Falon spun around, dodging the deputies, lunging at Morgan. Morgan swung away, overturning his chair. The deputies moved fast but Lee was closer, he caught Falon around the neck, jerked him backward over the table, held him struggling as the deputies pinned him. Judge Crane had risen, tensed to move, as if the big man burned to deck Falon. Misto, drifting higher, watched the drama with pleasure. The devil had lost this one. He?d lost the court battle. He?d lost whatever use he might make of Brad Falon. Misto watched Falon marched from the courtroom, a deputy on either side gripping his shoulder and arm.

The judge waited until everyone had calmed. He thanked the jurors and dismissed them. He set the next day for sentencing and for the nonjury trial of Lee Fontana and Morgan Blake on the charges of escape. As he rose, those in the courtroom rose. The judge turned away behind the bench heading for his chambers. Only then, with his back turned, did Judge Crane let himself smile. He entered his chambers with a sense of well-being, as entertained as the small and ghostly cat was.

42

AS LEE AND Morgan entered the U.S. marshal?s limo for the drive back to Terminal Island, Becky and Sammie headed for the little motel near the prison, to the room Reginald Storm had reserved for them. Storm had loaned them a car, in a concern for them that extended far beyond that of most lawyers. He had picked them up at the airport in the little green coupe, said he?d just bought a new car and hadn?t yet sold the Chevy. His new Buick had been waiting for him, parked at the motel, and he?d handed her the keys to the Chevy. The car was comfortable and clean and was mighty welcome, to get around the streets of L.A., where she?d never been. Now it purred right along to the little restaurant beside their motel, where they?d have an early supper. Becky couldn?t stop worrying over what sentence Falon would get, and how much time Lee and Morgan would have to serve for breaking out of Atlanta. As they pushed into the steamy caf?, into the smell of fried meat and coffee, Sammie said, ?I can?t eat, Mama. I?m not hungry.?

The restaurant was plain, the pine paneling shiny with varnish, the gray linoleum dark where traffic was heaviest. The wooden booths were nearly all empty, only a few early diners: a family with three small noisy children smearing catsup on each other, an old man in a canvas jacket with a torn sleeve, leafing through a stack of newspapers.

?Maybe some warm milk,? Becky said, sliding into a booth. Sammie sat across from her huddled into herself, pushing away the menu the thin waitress brought.

Becky looked at Sammie a long time.?Your daddy?s free. This should be a celebration.?

?But tomorrow .†.†.?

?They won?t get a long sentence on the escape charge.?

?But that Falon .†.†. Now, tonight, they?re all back in prison together. He already tried to kill Daddy, there in the courtroom. What will happen tonight??

Becky reached to take her hand.?He?ll be in jail tonight, not in T.I. He?ll be away from Daddy and Lee. And maybe, when he?s sentenced .†.†. Maybe Falon will be in prison for the rest of his life,? she said hopefully. She hated that Sammie had to suffer the long day of testimony, the fear, the waiting not knowing what would happen. She started, then laughed when Misto appeared on the back of the booth behind Sammie. He was visible for only a moment, lying along the wooden backrest nuzzling Sammie?s neck. When the tomcat vanished again, Becky knew he was still there, the way Sammie was grinning, the way Misto?s unseen paw rumpled the collar of her blue dress.

?He wants me to eat, but I?m not hungry.? Misto appeared again, hardly a smear of color along the top of the booth, his tail lashing as he pestered at Sammie, his invisible paw teasing a long strand of her hair and tangling it. He didn?t leave her alone until she picked up the menu. ?I?ll have the fries,? she told Becky. ?And orange juice.?

Becky shrugged. Watching Sammie stroke what appeared to be thin air, she was so thankful for Misto; the little spirit loved Sammie, he cheered Sammie in a way neither she nor Morgan could offer: a playful little haunt, concerned and possessive, driving back the darkness that pursued and terrified Sammie.

When their orders came, Becky wasn?t sureshe could eat, her stomach twisting with nerves. She felt such dread that Falon would be released in only a few years, would be free again to come after Morgan. That didn?t make sense. Why would Falon get a shorter sentence than Morgan had received? But still, she worried. Adding sugar to her tea, watching Sammie pick at her fries, she wanted to get Sammie into a warm bath and then bed, to have a hot shower herself and crawl in beside her. She?d like to sleep forever and knew she wouldn?t sleep, wouldn?t stop thinking about tomorrow, couldn?t stop her restless mind from demandinganswers that wouldn?t come any sooner by lying wakeful.

Strangely, she did sleep, and so did Sammie, a deep sleep huddled together, Misto pressed warm against Sammie?s shoulder. Morning came too soon, Becky didn?t want to get up, didn?t want to return to the courtroom, yet she was anxious to be there, to get it over with.

In the plain little restaurant they managed to get down some cereal and milk, then headed for L.A. When they entered the courtroom everyone was standing. Becky, watching Judge Crane emerge from his chambers, tried to put her confidence in the big, sunburned man. But when Brad Falon was led in, handcuffed between two deputy marshals, fear again turned her cold. The fact that Falon had lost, the fact that he?d been convicted of the murder and all charges, didn?t ease her fear of him.

Falon?s attorney, James Ballard, approached the bench neatly dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie, his bald head reflecting the courtroom lights. Presenting his closing statement he nodded seriously to Judge Crane. ?Your Honor, my client begs your compassion. He has already enduredthreats and severe emotional stress in prison, at the hands of other inmates,? he said, glancing around at Morgan. ?Surely the court will agree that with the trauma he has endured at this time in his life, he should receive only a minimum sentence, that he would not be helped by a longer term. That when he did become eligible for parole, the few years remaining would be meaningless to him, he would be a broken man without purpose.?

Judge Crane waited patently for Ballard to finish, then let silence fill the courtroom. At last his look cold as stone, he leaned forward to better observe Ballard.

?How much trauma, Mr. Ballard, did Morgan Blake experience when he was imprisoned for a robbery and murder that he did not commit? How much hope for justice did Morgan Blake have??

Judge Crane leaned back, watching Ballard.?How much hope did the bank guard have when he was murdered in cold blood?? The judge looked so intently at Ballard that Ballard backed away. The judge said no more. He looked around the courtroom, then dismissed Ballard, and summoned Falon to the stand.

Shackled, Falon faced the bench, trying to look mild and submissive. Twice he moved in a strange sidestep and, with his cuffed hands, scratched at his puffy hair. Each time the deputy marshals crowded nearer. The judge watched Falon, puzzled, as Falon fidgeted and tried to be still; it was some time before Judge Crane spoke.

?It is the judgment of this court that defendant Brad Falon be sentenced to twenty-five years on the charge of armed bank robbery. To life imprisonment without parole on the count of first-degree murder, and twenty-five years for assault and attempted murder. These sentences shall run consecutively, not concurrently.?

A ripple of voices; a catch of breath from Becky as she looked across at Morgan and half rose, wanting to go to him. Above them Misto drifted unseen over the heads of the deputies and the judge to crouch high on the windowsill watching the drama play out, watching this one perfect moment, in the endless human tangle, play out the way it should.

In the gallery Becky held herself back from running through the gate and throwing her arms around Morgan; Sammie?s small hand squeezed her fingers so hard Becky flinched.Life plus fifty years. Falon would never be out again to harm them. Barring some change in the law, he would die in prison just as he had meant Morgan to die, behind prison bars.

As Falon was led from the courtroom he looked back belligerently, straight at Becky, arrogant and threatening. Becky watched him coldly. But when Judge Crane looked over at Lee and Morgan, her heart started to pound again.

Morgan took the stand first, and then Lee. The questioning didn?t take long. Both men admitted they had escaped from Atlanta. When, at the judge?s question, Lee explained in detail how they had gone over the wall, again there was amusement or perhaps challenge in Judge Crane?s eyes. When Reginald Storm made his final statement, his voice was soft and in control.

?Your Honor, Mr. Blake and Mr. Fontana did escape. For the express purpose of coming across the country to turn themselves in at Terminal Island, where they knew Brad Falon was incarcerated, where they knew he wouldn?t be able to evade them.