The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (25 page)

“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.

L
EE 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 the night; 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 at the 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.

R
UN
!” S
AMMIE 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.

A
T 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.

G
O ON
,” L
EE
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't go 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.