The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

2

DRIFTING ON THE wind peering in through the hospital window at Lee and the doctor, the yellow tom soon grew bored with waiting. Lee had pulled on his shirt but the two men were deep in conversation. Lee laughed, the old man’s eyes sparkling at some joke the doc had told him. Misto rose to the roof again thinking about the long, circuitous journey that had brought them there to Springfield, wondering which way fate would push Lee now. The cat hissed softly, knowing that Lee’s crime in California might yet be discovered.

When, in Blythe, Lee committed the payroll robbery, he had, within an hour, surfaced two hundred miles away, drunk and disorderly in a Las Vegas casino. What better witnesses to his presence there than the cops who arrested him, booked and jailed him? No way he could have been in two places at once. By car, it was a four-hour drive, and little chance he could have flown. This was 1947; the few commercial airlines that had started up after the war flew only between the larger cities.

And a small plane? Few records were kept of the private planes in the area. That night, there was no record of a two-seat duster plane leaving the desert town of Blythe, winging above the Colorado River between the low mountains. The ghost cat had ridden with Lee, warmed by the old man’s success, by the stolen money that was Lee’s nest egg for the rest of his life, for whatever time he had left as he was dragged down by the emphysema.

In Vegas, Lee expected to do a few months’ jail time, to be released with more federal time tacked on his parole and to be returned to his farm job in Blythe. He didn’t mean to stay on the job. He meant to dig up the money at once and head for Mexico, lose himself across the border. Why would the feds look for him when they already had the man who appeared to have committed the robbery, the escapee Lee had set up for the job? When they’d already found the dead convict in the wrecked truck with some of the stolen money?

Lee never thought that in the Vegas jail his lungs would turn so bad he’d be sent back to California, housed in the San Bernardino County jail and, a few days later, shipped off to the new federal medical facility in Missouri, a plan set up by his parole officer and the San Bernardino County medical officer, Dr. Lou Thomas. Misto had stretched out unseen on the bookcase in Thomas’s office, amused at the interview but concerned for Lee.

Dr. Thomas was a soft man with thinning hair, a high forehead above rimless glasses. Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, looking quietly at Lee. “The emphysema is pretty severe, Fontana.” Thomas looked from Lee to the young parole officer, waiting for him to take the lead.

George Raygor was maybe thirty, healthier looking than the portly physician. Crisp brown hair cut short, a rangy body and a deep tan, dressed in his usual suit, white shirt, and tie. “That field work,” Raygor said, “driving for the pickers, the dust didn’t help your condition. I feel partly responsible for that. I wish you’d said something, Lee, we could have found some other work. Didn’t you think to tie on a bandana to breathe through?” He looked at Lou Thomas. “Can they do anything for him at Springfield?”

“They can’t cure you,” Thomas told Lee, “but they can treat the symptoms, the shortness of breath, the coughing. Teach you how to breathe differently, how to take in more oxygen. Springfield takes good care of the men, we’re sending federal patients there from all over the country.”

He glanced at Raygor. “I’ll make the recommendation, I’ll call the parole board this morning.” But then the two looked at Lee, their expressions changing in a way Lee didn’t much like.

“I stopped by the FBI office earlier,” Raygor said. “You want to talk about the Blythe post office robbery?”

Lee had looked at Raygor, puzzled. “I heard about that in Vegas. I heard they found the guy, that he’d wrecked his car in a ditch or something.”

Raygor said, “The bureau found a body in a wrecked truck, at the bottom of a canyon. Guy’s name was Luke Zigler. Did you know him?”

Lee shook his head. “His picture was in the paper. No, I didn’t know him. The paper said he’d been in prison.”

“While you were being transported back to California,” Raygor said, “I made a run down to Blythe and talked with your boss. Jake Ellson said you’d taken some time off, starting the day of the robbery. Said you hadn’t quit your job, said you just wanted a break, a few days’ rest. He said he didn’t know where you went, said he didn’t babysit his employees.”

Among the bookshelves Misto had risen nervously and begun to pace. Lee didn’t need this, he didn’t need questioning. As he moved behind Dr. Thomas, he let the faintest breeze touch the man. Thomas flinched, distracted, and glanced around. When he saw nothing, he settled down again.

Across from him, Raygor leaned back in the metal chair, looking hard at Lee. “Jake covered for you, Fontana. He knew you weren’t allowed to leave the state. And you knew it.” He studied Lee, frowning. “If you did pull that post office job, you’re better off telling us now. It will go easier for you.”

Lee looked at him blankly. “How could I rob the Blythe post office? I was in Vegas when that happened. I read the papers, the robbery was the same night I was arrested. And why, even if I’d been in Blythe, would I pull a federal job and blow my parole?”

“Before I left Delgado Ranch,” Raygor said, “I had a look in your cabin. No clothes in the drawers or in the closet. I talked with some of the pickers but I didn’t learn much.” Raygor’s gaze was stubborn; Lee didn’t think he’d turn loose of this.

“I stopped by the army airfield,” Raygor said, and that gave Lee a jolt. “There aren’t many private planes in Blythe, to get you to Vegas. Not much action since the war ended and the army shut the field down. The postal authorities checked for small planes leaving that night but didn’t find anything. Maybe some duster pilot headed for an early job,” Raygor said, watching Lee. “No one keeps records of those flights.” Raygor said no more, he didn’t push it any further.

Lee had thought maybe Raygor felt sorry for him, an insulting idea, but useful. There was something in Raygor that Lee liked; that made him hope the PO would back off, would let matters lie the way they looked. Hoped the feds would do the same. They had their case, and Zigler was a no-good, he had deserved to die. Lee had killed Zigler in self-defense to save his own life, and he didn’t feel bad about that. He’d known enough of Zigler’s kind, twisted killers more dangerous than a nest of rattlesnakes. If, in death, Zigler had helped Lee out, it might be the only favor he’d done in his coldhearted life.

But still, the bureau didn’t have the rest of the stolen money and Lee knew those guys would keep looking. Searching the desert for shovel marks, tire marks, for the place where he had buried the cash, and that made him some nervous.

Misto, seeing Lee’s restricted breathing, knew how shaky the old man felt. It was then the ghost cat became visible, prancing along the shelf behind the men’s backs, lashing his tail and clowning. He vanished again at once, but Lee knew he was there and found it hard to keep a straight face; the ghost cat made him feel stronger, filled him with an amused courage.

But the next day when Lee found himself in a big black car headed for the L.A. airport accompanied by two deputy U.S. marshals, he had no sense of the ghost cat. At the airport, getting out of the car handcuffed and leg chained to board their flight for Missouri, Lee still didn’t sense the cat’s presence and felt painfully alone.

Lee drew stares as they boarded, chained to the heavyset deputy. When they were settled, the other deputy, who’d been driving, left them. Lee’s companion took up most of their two seats, crushing Lee against the window. Weak and uncertain again after yesterday’s interview, Lee wished mightily for some awareness of the ghost cat. He wanted to hear the invisible cat’s purr; he wondered for a moment if Misto had left him for good, wondered if, with this trip, the yellow tom had ended their journey together.

But why would Misto do that, at this juncture in Lee’s life? Sick as he was, he didn’t relish all the prison hassle soon to come, the prodding and power plays of the established inmates; he longed for the cat’s steady support. He wanted to feel the ghost cat draped warm and unseen across his shoulder, lending him courage; he wanted that small and steady spirit near, to share this new turn in his journey. The one soul in all the world that he could trust, could talk with in the privacy of his cot at night, the cat’s whisper hardly a sound at all beneath the prison blanket. Misto must know Lee needed him. Where was he, that was more urgent than easing the distress of his cellmate?

Seated beside the hard-faced deputy, wrenched with fits of coughing, avoiding the deputy’s scowl, Lee felt so miserable he wondered if he’d make it to the prison hospital before he gave out. The day seemed endless until they deplaned at Kansas City, Lee stumbling down the metal stairs in his leg chains, crossing the wide strip of tarmac to the small terminal. He was allowed to use the men’s room, still chained to the deputy, then was ushered into the backseat of another black touring car driven by another deputy marshal who had joined them there. Heading south for Missouri beneath heavy gray clouds, the car had sped through miles of wheat fields stretching away flat as the sea. Trying to ignore the belly chain that dug into his backbone, he’d still had no sense of the ghost cat. He’d felt used up, empty, cold, and aching tired.

His companions hadn’t talked much. Both were silent, sour-faced men filled with the power of their own authority, and that had been fine with Lee. He didn’t like small talk and he didn’t have a damned thing to say to a deputy marshal. As night gathered, the clouds thickened; soon they raced through blackness. The deputies kept the interior of the car dimly lit by the overhead so they could watch him. But soon, far away across the wheat fields, a brighter light had appeared. Tiny at first, but slowly drawing nearer until it turned into an island of lights thrusting bright above the black wheat fields. As Lee took in his first sight of Springfield, suddenly the ghost cat returned. Lee sensed the yellow tom and felt his warmth stretched out across his shoulder, felt the tremble of Misto’s silent purr, and Lee’s interest in life revived.

“Times will be better at Springfield,” the tomcat whispered so softly the two men couldn’t hear. The cat didn’t say there would be bad times, too, but Lee knew that. That’s what life was about. As long as Misto was near, he knew they would prevail. In the dim car, Lee’s desolation dwindled away and he had to smile. The ghost cat had never meant to leave him.

“What are you grinning about?” the deputy snapped, scowling at Lee.

“Hoping they’ll give me some supper,” Lee said. “I could sure use it, that sandwich at lunch didn’t go far.”

The deputy just looked at him. What did he care that Lee had barely gotten down a ham sandwich while the deputies wolfed two hamburgers each. No one had asked if he wanted anything more.

The sky was full dark when they drew up to the massive federal prison, its security lights pushing back the night to reveal well-lit buildings and a manicured lawn. Lee could see a guard tower rising up, probably with rifles trained on the approaching car. All he could think about was a hot meal and a warm bed. Even with Misto near, it had been a long day, a long trip crowded by the damned deputy.

Within minutes of pulling up before the brightly lit prison Lee, still cuffed to his surly companion, was ushered up the steps into the vast, five-story main building. He was searched, all his personal possessions taken from him except the small framed photograph of his little sister. Pictures were the only item the men were allowed to keep. Stripped of his clothes, he luxuriated in the hot shower, getting warm for the first time all day, feeling his muscles ease.

He dressed in the clean prison clothes he was issued, shorts and socks, a blue shirt and a blue jumper with white pinstripes. He was allowed to wear his own boots. A trustee had led him to the dining room, where he’d joined the last dinner shift. The big bowl of hot beef stew tasted mighty good, and there was fresh, homemade bread, and coffee and apple pie. He’d left the table feeling good, was escorted to his quarters, which were not a cell, as he’d expected, but a small hospital room. It was larger than any single cell he’d ever occupied, and far cleaner, freshly painted pale green, and the battleship-gray linoleum looked newly scrubbed. A decent-looking single bed stood in one corner, made up with real sheets and three rough, heavy blankets. There was even a small dresser for his clothes, and a real window, with glass outside the bars. This wasn’t a prison, it was a hotel. He’d looked at the young, wide-shouldered guard. “How long will I stay here before I’m moved to a cell?”

“No cells for hospital inmates, Fontana. The prison-camp men, they’re in a dorm, and some in a cellblock, in another building. They’re on loan, mostly. Trusties from other facilities. They do the heavy work of the plant, maintenance, heavy kitchen work.”

The young, freckle-faced guard had grinned at Lee’s look. “Your job, at Springfield, is to get well. You’ll like the stay,” the guard said, smiling. “Your door isn’t locked at night, but there’s a guard outside, always on duty. And where would you go if you walked out? In your condition, you want to wade through a hundred miles of wheat fields?”

Lee laughed. This was a whole new game, a new kind of incarceration, and it was pretty nice. When at last he was alone he stripped, folded his clothes and laid them on the dresser. He crawled under the heavy blankets and lay floating in the warm comfort of the simple prison bed. He felt a little edgy at sleeping with an unlocked door, wondering what kind of guys might be roaming the halls, but he was too tired to think much about it. He might as well enjoy the freedom, he’d be out of here in a month or so, as soon as he was well enough. Would be back in California digging up the money and heading for Mexico, where the hot sun could bake away the last of the sickness, could ease comfort into his tired bones.

He’d find a small adobe cottage in one of the fishing villages along the Baja coast, he’d learn to speak enough Spanish to get by, he’d get to know the folks around him. If a Mexican liked you, he’d hide you. If he didn’t, you were done for. In just a few months from now he’d have his own home, have all the good food, all the chilies and tortillas he’d ever wanted, all the clams he could dig from the shore. It wouldn’t be hard to find a woman to cook for him, Lee thought, to keep his house and maybe warm his bed.

Smiling, Lee was nearly asleep when a fit of coughing jarred him awake again. He sat up, painfully sucking air, angered at the betrayal of his weakening body. He was so deep down tired that for one panicked moment he wondered if he would live long enough to retrieve the stolen money and luxuriate, for even a short time, in the hot, bright embrace of that Mexican village.

But then as he’d eased down into sleep once more he’d felt the ghost cat leap on the bed, heavy and purring. With the small spirit curled warm beside him, Lee had known he’d make it to Mexico. Had known for sure that no matter what lay ahead until he got back to the desert, the ghost cat would be with him. That his partner would stay close, traveling beside him.