The Edge of Lost (2 page)

First and foremost, I’m enormously grateful to two people who were essential in paving the path of this story while keeping me from panicking en route: my husband, Danny, and my mother, Linda Yoshida. Our countless brainstorming sessions, research excursions, and daily status updates were invaluable, but more than that their belief in me always.

Likewise, I’m thankful for my beloved friend Tracy Callan, who somehow never fails to make me feel worthy of the Most Amazing Author in the Universe Award. Also for my father, Junki Yoshida, an immigrant whose deep love of America, family, and sense of home largely inspired this book.

I’m grateful to Brianna Gelow and Madison Elmer for the million ways they helped my family survive another deadline intact; Sue McMorris, Kathy Huston, and Sharon Shuman for their eagle-eye proofreading and ongoing support; Aimee Long for contributing input on everything from plotting and cover copy to the finished draft; and all of the incredible bloggers, reviewers, and readers who have not only allowed my stories into their lives, but also spread the word to others.

For keeping me sane and always assuring me I’m not alone, I’m indebted to my dear and talented friends Erika Robuck (one brain!) and Alyson “Twinsie” Richman. The same goes for the brilliant Therese Walsh, whose support and story insight have proven priceless yet again.

Tackling such a research-heavy novel would have been infinitely more daunting without the generous help of many people. I’m thankful to Sharon Haller, an “Alcatraz kid” and daughter of former associate warden Robert Weir, for painting a vivid picture of civilian life on the Rock; Alcatraz Gardens program manager Shelagh Fritz for providing a trove of essential details and photographs; Alcatraz park ranger Jim Nelson for enduring my endless list of questions; and author Michael Esslinger, whose feedback and thorough documentation of Alcatraz served as my gateway across the bay.

I send my sincere appreciation to author and U.S.P. Leavenworth historian Kenneth LaMaster for sharing hours of fascinating stories about prison life and jailbreaks; Claire Organ for ensuring the authenticity of my Irish characters and settings; and Florence Fois for doing the same with my Italian cast and language. I’m also thankful to Joan Swan for again guiding me through medical specifics; Steven Burke for details of courtroom proceedings and legalities; Derick Callan for help with plumbing logistics; and Jay Farrell for historical information about Navy recruiting stations. Of course, any errors are mine alone.

I’m convinced librarians are the saints of the literary world. Of them, I’m especially thankful to the Multnomah County research librarians for answering question after question on topics ranging from New York racetracks to 1930s military equipment; and to the research librarians at Leavenworth Public Library and Kansas State Library, who were also generous with their time and assistance.

As always, I thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his support and faith in my work from the beginning; superstar publicist Vida Engstrand for her unyielding enthusiasm; and the rest of the wonderful team at Kensington who work tirelessly behind the scenes.

Last, though far from least, my love and gratitude overflow for my sons, Tristan and Kiernan, who continue to be my most fearsome cheerleaders and the source of my deepest pride. Our family, above all, truly gives meaning to every page, milestone, and moment in my life.

Prologue

 

F
og encircled the island, a strangling grip, as search efforts mounted. In the moonless sky, dark clouds forged a dome over the icy currents of San Francisco Bay.

“You two check the docks,” shouted Warden Johnston, his voice muffled by rain and howling wind. “We’ll take the lighthouse. The rest of you spread out.”

More people traded directives, divvying up territory. They were off-duty guards and teenage sons who called Alcatraz their home, an odd place where a maze of fencing and concrete kept families of the prison staff safe from the country’s most notorious criminals.

At least in theory.

From inside the warden’s greenhouse, inmate 257 strained to listen—that was his number. Even his coveralls bore a stamp of his designation, branded like cattle. The beam of a searchlight brushed past the glass-lined walls.

Over and over in the dankness of his cell he had envisioned this very scene. Had seen it as clear as the picture shows he grew up watching in Brooklyn.
The Mark of Zorro,
he recalled. It was the first swashbuckler he’d ever viewed on the silver screen. The film was silent, long before talkies became all the rage, but the action and suspense had quickened his pulse, gripped his lungs. Same as now.

He drew a breath, let it out. Raindrops grew insistent. They tapped the ceiling like fifty anxious fingers. Seventy. A hundred.

“Eh! Capello!”

His heart jolted. Normally he stayed keenly aware of sounds behind him, a survival tool in the pen, but somehow he’d missed the creak of the door.

He tightened his hold on the garden trowel before turning around. It was Finley, a guard with the look and nose twitch of an oversize ferret.

“Yeah, boss?”

“You seen a little girl pass by? Ten years old, light brown hair. About so high?”

The answer needed to sound natural, eased out like fishing line. “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Atop the single entry step, Finley surveyed the room with an air of discomfort. He wasn’t a proponent of the rare freedoms afforded to passmen, the few trusted inmates assigned to work at the warden’s house.

“Aren’t you about done here?” Finley asked.

“Sure am. Then I’ll be heading to the lower greenhouse to finish up.”

Finley hesitated, an endless moment—of gauging? Of suspicion? At last he gave a partial nod and turned to exit.

The door swung closed.

Adrenaline rushed with the force of the pounding rain. The risks and consequences gained new clarity. Doubt invaded his thoughts.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. He could serve out his time by sticking to the grind, sleeping and eating and pissing when told, and one day walk out a free man …

But, no. No, it wasn’t that simple. Not anymore. He recalled just how much lay at stake, and any chance of reneging crumbled.

Through the fog, lightning cracked the sky. The air brightened with an eerie blue glow, and from it came a boost of certainty.

He could do this.

The plan could work.

So long as they didn’t find the girl.

1919

1

 

T
he foul haze of whiskey and cigarettes was lighter tonight than usual—a shame the same couldn’t be said of the mood. Not that this surprised Shanley Keagan. At nearly twelve, he’d performed in enough pubs to understand the patterns in a calendar.

Fridays were a sure bet for nice crowds, men eager to spend their fresh wages. They would sing and laugh with old pals, toasting God’s grace shining down upon them. If in an especially generous mood, they’d even buy a round for strangers. And when they were hushed down enough to welcome Shan to the “stage”—sometimes a solid platform, more often a crate from the kitchen—they might mumble over the disruption, trading dirty looks, but by the delivery of his second joke, third at most, they were roaring with laughter, as attentive as parishioners at Easter Mass.

Mondays were the worst of the lot. Even Uncle Will, who was far from choosy when scheduling Shan’s shows, knew Mondays were to be avoided. If there was a crowd at all, it was mostly customers addicted to the drink, or veterans just back from the Great War hoping to drown their memories. The few others were brooders in search of refuge from their wives, having no more interest in being nagged about finding a job than in actually doing just that.

Wednesdays, on the other hand—now, those were tough to predict. They could resemble Fridays as easily as Mondays, or fall somewhere in between. And on this particular Wednesday, as Shan stepped onto a splintered crate, he sensed precisely which it was.

Of the dozen patrons seated about, two were passed out at their tables. Up in front a pair of scabby fellows looked deep in conversation with no mind for anything more. The rest stared at Shan, their eyes right quick to judge.

“Hoi, now! Get on with it,” ordered a grizzled man from his seat. “Or be Jaysus, bring on the dancing girls!”

Another shot back: “’Tis the closest you’d ever get to seeing a lady in her knickers. Aside from that ugly sister of yours.”

Several customers chuckled, egging on a retort.

Shan needed to regain the spotlight before sneers could turn to punches and squelch any chance of a show. Of this he was well aware, even before catching a glimpse of his uncle.

Across the room William O’Mara stood at the bar, scowling between sips of his pint. The freckled skin of his bony face, normally pale next to Shan’s dark features, was reddening to the shade of his patchy beard.
Perform well,
his firm eyes said,
or I’ll be wise to drop you at an orphanage, where you’ll be sleepin’ with rats on a dingy floor and eatin’ rotten cabbage soup.

The man had spoken these words often enough that Shan could hear them in his mind. And he knew better than to ignore the warning.

With a loud clearing of his throat, Shan straightened to feel grander than his average build, ignoring the hollow ache in his stomach. “Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m Shan Keagan.”

He had learned early on not to use his proper christened name unless he wanted to be heckled—“Shanley” being traditionally reserved for a surname. He’d change it altogether if it weren’t among the few things left from his mam.

“I’ll be entertaining you tonight while you enjoy your pints.” Now that he’d gained their attention, he started with a reliable joke. “There’s such a chill out, it brings to mind a tale of a terrible snowstorm. The drifts were so high one night, a priest and a nun found themselves stuck in a church alone. When the sister complained of being cold, the kindly father searched about and fetched her a blanket. Again and again this happened, but the heap of blankets failed to help. At last, desperately freezing, the sister insisted the Lord would surely forgive them for acting as a married couple to keep warm for a single night. Full of joy, the father agreed. ‘Aye,’ he cried, ‘from now on, you’ll fetch the blankets on your own!’ ”

Shan paused to read the audience. Only tepid smiles, but not to fret. Experience had taught him to skip to his impressions, normally the second part of his act.

From endless practice, he proceeded to reshape his voice into a colorful range of characters. Fists on his hips, he transformed into a harping Irish mother. A lick of the lips and he was a whistling Yankee, his new favorite for many a reason. With shoulders hunched, he became a dumber-than-ox Englishman.

Still, for all of this, he earned only a sprinkling of snickers.

His palms slickened with sweat. Insulting the Brits usually endeared even the hardest Irish crowd. Since late January, when the War of Independence began, sentiments against the Crown had ratcheted to a higher level—if that were even possible. Perhaps this explained why Shan sensed a swelling desire in the room to take aim at a target. And that was just what he’d become if he didn’t switch course. A silly song would hopefully do.

In the warbling style of folk singer Eugene Fitzpatrick, he belted out “’Twas Sure I Fell in Love When I Fell into Me Ale.” Nerves magnified cracks in Shan’s voice, a growing curse of his age, and he found relief at finishing the tune—though none from the room’s intensity.

The few sounds from the audience came from an old man being repeatedly woken by his own nasally snores, and from a lady giggling at a far table, where a scruffy man in a flannel shirt tickled her sides. She wore a dress as bold as her red lips, the sort of woman who, according to Uncle Will, charged for the pleasure of her company. When she leaned forward, her bosoms rose in large white mounds, resembling loaves from the baker.

Shan fought the urge to stare. He mined his memory for material and remembered Murphy, a made-up fool of a drunk. If nothing else, the tales could fill enough time to secure a free supper, his personal reward from the pubs.

His stomach growled as he launched into a story. He was halfway through when a burly man pushed back from his table and shot to his feet.

“What’s that you’re sayin’ about me, boy?”

“Ah, Murphy,” hollered an older man. “The lad wasn’t talking about
you
. Sit down on your arse.”

Murphy swayed, as if riding the internal waves of his liquor.

Shan forced a swallow. “Did I say ‘Murphy,’ sir? What I meant, of course, was ‘Mickey.’ My apologies for the error.”

The man held a stern face but slowly reclaimed his seat. Shan sighed to himself before praying to the good Lord that no one in the room was a Mickey.

“Now, then,” he tried again. “I believe I was describing the day
Mickey
awoke covered in mud and feathers, head to toe.”

No one spoke out, a fortunate thing. Shan was about to continue when, once more, his belly grumbled. This time it brought a hunger so strong it jellied his knees. He tightened his legs to keep his balance, but the shift of weight caused a loud crack beneath his boots. Before he could adjust, the crate gave way and he landed hard on his rear. Laughter broke out in the room. He hurried to rise from the wooden floor, brushing grime and spilled ale from his clothes.

“What’s that you were singing about?” a man called to him. “Something about fallin’, was it?” The laughter spread, but Shan didn’t rejoice. Embarrassment and anger formed a bitter reply on his tongue. The words churned and expanded, preparing to spew free. Just in time, he gulped them down, remembering Uncle Will.

Shan dared to look over. Beside the bar, his uncle and the pub owner were engaged in a chat. A welcome discovery, until Shan noted the sharpness of their eyes. Uncle Will shook something—a coin—in his right fist. The owner stood a good foot shorter, but in the manner of one not intimidated by height. As if to prove as much, he crossed his arms and jutted his chin. The challenge wasn’t missed by Uncle Will, whose clenched jaw signaled a rage in the making.

Shan bristled, a reflex. His body was well aware of where those rages led. The scars on his neck and hip throbbed as a reminder, urging him to take cover. Alas, he had no choice. The last thing an orphan needed was for his only relative to be carted off and locked in a cell.

“You heard me, all right,” Uncle Will said as Shan approached to intervene. “I called you a cheatin’ bastard, because that’s what ye are. The deal was for a shilling, not a goddamn sixpence.”

The owner’s nostrils flared as if swiped with smelling salts. “You’re lucky to get
that
much. The boy would bring in a crowd, ye said. Would make me more money, ye said.”

“And he bloody would have, if this place weren’t such a hellhole. I’ve taken a shite in privies better than this.”

“Uncle Will,
please,
” Shan implored. But his uncle ignored him and spat at the owner, who burst into a fit.

“That’s it! Get out. Right this minute, or I’ll thump ye in the—”

The threat stopped short. Uncle Will’s knuckles made sure of it by plowing into the man’s face.

Shan reached for his uncle to coax him away but a bartender and another man moved in, pushing Shan aside. A whirl of punches flew. Barstools toppled and a pint glass shattered.

Two hands grasped Shan’s shoulders. He started to wrench free, but a woman’s voice entered his ear. “Shh, ’twill be all right,” she said, drawing him away from the scuffle and shards. She was the lady with red lips and loaves for a chest.

The owner swung hard at Uncle Will’s gut before ordering his helpers to put the rubbish where it belonged. Dutifully the men dragged Uncle Will, short of breath and doubled over, out to the street.

Shan just stood there, already dreading the long walk home. He wasn’t dim enough to think a free bowl of corned beef remained an option. Around him, people returned to their lives as if nothing had happened.

Except for the woman. She swept passed Shan, picked up the dropped coin, and tenderly curled it into his hand. “You’ve got real talent, sweet lad. Don’t let it go to waste.” She gave him a smile that seemed heavy to wear before returning to the man in flannel, a fresh giggle in her voice.

That was when it dawned on Shan that he wasn’t the only actor in the room.