The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

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 blind spot. 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 of the 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 were blood-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 biscuits as, 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’t dreamed 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 for you?”

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 shadows twisting 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 notoriety or 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.