The Edge of Lost (26 page)

44

I
n the warden’s greenhouse, Shan yanked more dead leaves from the pot of geraniums and pitched them at the floor. The plant was dying despite all his efforts. But that wasn’t what bothered him most.

All night long he had dwelled on that priest and his scrawled note. Shan doubted he’d slept an hour. Four days remained until the party. Almost two weeks until the next service. At one or the other he would confirm if his notions of a plot were unfounded. Truth was, oddly enough, he’d been doing just fine before that damn message put ideas into his head.

“Mr. Capello.” Sadie’s voice stalled him. He had almost forgotten she was there, tucked away in her usual spot. She was absently fingering a design of dirt and bruises on her knees, looking at him with expectant eyes.

“What?”

“Well … do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Remember your mom?”

“Of course I do.” If she was referring to his real one, his mam, that wasn’t entirely true, which agitated him even more. He focused on removing more leaves.

“Like what?”

“What do you mean, ‘like what’?”

“What do you remember?”

He knew it wasn’t intended as a challenge, but he couldn’t help feeling that way. “Lots of things, all right?”

A cold drop splashed his cheek, then his ear. He looked up and took one in the eye. Cursing under his breath, he rubbed his eyelid with the back of his hand. Dirt from his skin added to the assault, and he had to blink away the grime.

The overhead drip hose was leaking. A brilliant invention he had rigged himself.

He tramped over to the spigot and tightened the valve, but the light drips refused to stop. “Shitty goddamn thing,” he hissed, as if that would help.

After several fuming breaths, he again recalled his visitor. The girl had fallen silent and retreated partially behind the pots. Worry filled her eyes, making him feel even worse.

This was one of her sadder days, when she missed her mother. Shan used to have those too. Normally he would cheer Sadie up with a magic trick or a juggling act or a witty joke, but he wasn’t up for it. Another reason she ought to have a real friend.

He walked steadily toward her. Aware of her tentative demeanor, he stood back a ways. “Look, Sadie. It’s just not a good day for me. Understand?”

She took this in and gave a nod, but the tension remained.

He glanced at the ceiling of dusty glass. Gray clouds were darkening the sky, assembling for rainfall. “You’d better get going if you want to stay dry. Mrs. Leonard will be expecting you soon, won’t she?”

Sadie nodded again, this time with a grimace.

On weekdays, when her father’s regular shift ended well into the evening, another guard’s family in the neighboring apartment included Sadie for supper. Most meals were rubbery and overcooked, according to Sadie, though Shan suspected they simply couldn’t compete with memories of her own mother’s cooking.

“Okay, then,” Shan said. “I need a tool to fix the thing, so … I’ll see you later.”

Not expecting a reply, he marched straight outside and toward the house. Even the fresh salty air failed to lighten his mood. By the time he’d gone to the kitchen supply closet to retrieve a wrench from the toolbox—its contents accounted for daily—he realized the root of his frustration.

Years ago, he had made the mistake of relying on others to survive and swore he’d never let it happen again. A prison break of this magnitude would require inexplicable dependence on strangers and nameless people behind the scenes. The room for error enormous, the odds of failing high. And in the end, Shan would be the one to pay.

He did his best not to think of this, however, returning to the warden’s greenhouse. There would be plenty of time to wrangle with his thoughts during the long night in his cell.

He was almost at the door when a voice hailed him from behind. “Hold up, Capello.” It was Ralph Roe. How grand.

“What do you need?”

Ralph came within a few feet. He threw a glance over both shoulders before answering in a hushed voice. “My pal Ted and I, we got a proposition for ya.”

The precautionary manner made Shan as uneasy as the mention of Ted Cole.

“What would that be?”

“See, we’ve been thinking it’s about time we blow out of this joint. Figured the three of us, we could work together.”

Although they had all been transferred on the same chain from Leavenworth, Shan seldom exchanged words with either of them. From what he’d heard of their history, he preferred it that way. They weren’t just criminals who had knocked off banks and stores, even a Coca-Cola bottling plant; they would shoot it out with cops and take hostages. Plus, violence for Ted wasn’t limited to the outside; he’d killed a cellmate at another pen, though allegedly in self-defense.

By stabbing the poor bastard twenty-seven times.

“I appreciate the offer,” Shan said. “But honest, I just want to do my own time.”

“Is that so?” Ralph rubbed his jaw with his gloved hand. “’Cause that ain’t how it seems to us.”

“Oh? How you figure?”

“Gotta admit, for a while I had you pegged wrong. Staying out of the work strikes, getting all the privileges you do. Now I see how you’ve been biding your time. Finding ways to communicate and get what you need.”

Shan went quiet, wondering where this was going.

“Like at church, for example. Ted says you were carrying some special note yesterday. Made you pretty jumpy.”

This was exactly what Shan didn’t want. He waited to hear how much Ted had seen, but Ralph just smiled. It seemed he was testing him for a reaction, feeling out a hunch, and took Shan’s silence for an admission.

Shan hurried to deny it. “That was nothing.” He worked to level his voice. “There were some verses I liked. In the program. From the service.”

“Relax, Capello. I’m a solid con, just like Ted. We ain’t looking to stool on ya. We just want in on the plan. And you know from our history, we could be a real help.”

The guy wasn’t lying. Cons who had served with them at McAlester commended their past breakout schemes, Ted’s in particular. A regular Houdini, he’d supposedly been smuggled out in a laundry bag, tried the same in a garbage can, and even sawed through bars with a razor.

Nevertheless, Shan wasn’t interested.

“Look, I’m sure you’ve got fine ideas. But I’m not trying to beat the joint.”

“Yeah? Then how come I’m not buying it?”

Shan deliberately held his gaze, as averting it could feed the guy’s doubts. “Have you looked around? The place is escape proof.”

“And Titanic was ‘sink proof.’ But look how well that worked out for those folks.”

“Eh, Coe!” Finley appeared by the warden’s house, a welcome interruption. “Stop loafing. Get back and finish up. Almost time to head in.”

“Right away, Mr. Finley,” Ralph hollered. “Just asking about treating the weeds.” When Finley started back, Ralph whispered to Shan, “Like I was saying, everything’s got a weak point. Hell, sometimes it can be the smallest thing.” With that, he slid a look toward the greenhouse, at the lower sliding entry panel, smugness creeping over his face, before he turned and followed Finley’s trail.

 

Ralph knew.

He knew about Sadie. That was what he meant about communicating, about using people for what he needed. Yet it wasn’t his assumptions or knowledge that truly disturbed Shan; it was the view of Sadie as a negotiating chip. It was the chance Ralph could back up his threat, assigned to a detail that kept him outdoors. Not for much longer, but long enough.

Shan watched him walk away and his fists tightened. Until then he had forgotten the wrench in his hand. A good thing, or he might have had trouble fighting the impulse to lash out.

He stormed into the greenhouse and slammed the door.

The sound of a gasp startled him. For once, Sadie was outside of her cove, standing in plain sight. He’d thought she had gone home by now.

“You’re leaving?” she said. Apprehension gripped her voice, her face. She wasn’t referring to the workday.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I heard you. You and that man Ralph. Talking about your note and making plans to escape.”

Holy God. He never should have talked to the girl. Not ever. For his own sake, yes—but for hers too.

“We’re not doing anything like that. You just heard it wrong.”

“But … that man, he said—”

“He didn’t say any such thing.” The words came out gruffer than intended. Shan realized this when she cowered. But her feet didn’t budge.

“Sadie, you need to go.”

Questions swirled in her eyes, darkened by doubt.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Charged by emotion, he stomped forward. “I said beat it!”

Her face blanched. Like a spooked cat, she shot back to her refuge and scurried out the way she’d come.

Hands trembling, Shan closed his eyes. He cursed himself for creating this mess, or at least for not seeing it coming. Somehow, no matter his intentions, he wound up putting everyone around him in danger.

45

T
he line slithered like a snake through the grass, seeking out its next meal. In that way, Shan and the inmates surrounding him were no different. Just past noon, they each stepped through the snitch box, their concealed weapons skirting the alarm, and entered the mess hall.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Warden Johnston nodded to the line, repeating the greeting at intervals.

Shan mumbled a courteous response and avoided eye contact, an effort to blend when he could.

Digs nudged him from behind. “How ’bout that. Gumbo and banana cake. Boy oh boy, I love that stuff.”

Shan hadn’t paid notice to the menu board, his priorities elsewhere. All morning, while cataloging books and censored magazines, he’d mulled over yesterday’s events at the greenhouse and the conversation not meant for Sadie’s ears, one he prayed she wouldn’t share. Especially with her father.

Though she could rat on Shan based on spite or morality, he feared these less than her desire to keep him from leaving. That was why, right after mealtime, he would return to the warden’s greenhouse, where he hoped she’d appear. He needed her to believe that she had simply misheard and to agree to steer clear of other cons. Then he would kindly send her off, as he should have months ago.

At the steam table, the aroma of food helped divert his attention. Lack of sleep over the past two nights had increased his appetite, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

Among the few benefits of living on the flats was being the first tier to turn out for chow. He appreciated this now as he dished shrimp gumbo and rice onto his metal tray. At any meal, you could take as much as you wanted, but waste a bite and you’d pay the price. Shan kept this in mind as he added buttered green beans and a piece of spiced banana pudding cake.

Tray filled, he walked to his assigned table. Afternoon light slanted through the windows and bounced off floors polished to a shine. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ted and Ralph waiting in line, staring directly at him.

He ignored them as he settled on his bench seat. Upon the guard’s whistle, he dug into his food. Across from him, Digs was less interested in the gumbo than in the rookie guard on his first chow duty. “Take a look at him, fellas. Nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.”

Other cons at the table snickered. Shan glanced over to view the new officer, whose Adam’s apple bobbed with a tight swallow. With a square face and medium build, he was far from scrawny. Yet who could blame him for being leery?

Guards, after all, weren’t armed unless out of inmates’ reach: behind the bars of catwalks and towers and gun galleries. So here the man was, overseeing a congregation of 250 criminals, with only his fists for defense. Though a wall of steel bars separated them from the kitchen area stocked with knives, cons still had utensils and hot coffee to boot. Some days even a nice, sharp T-bone from their steaks.

“Holy shit,” Digs said suddenly, looking past Shan, all amusement gone.

Shan twisted around just in time to see an inmate from the line tackle Warden Johnston to the ground. Voices of shock, some of encouragement, surged through the room. Many craned their necks as the con kicked the warden in the stomach, the chest, the head.

It was “Whitey” Phillips. Another gem from Leavenworth who’d been on Shan’s chain.

A window shattered two tables away. Not by a prisoner, as Shan first thought, but by an officer on the catwalk. It was Chandler, the guard who had killed Dutch Bowers. He shoved the muzzle of his rifle through the opening.

“Everyone down!” someone shouted. Half the room, including Shan, dropped to the floor, taking cover under the tables. The rest followed at the blast of a guard’s whistle, so trained they’d become, like dogs on a stage.

Shan glimpsed two guards swooping into the fray, Yappy in the lead. He swung a leather sap at Whitey’s back, causing the con to groan. A second swing, this time to the gut, doubled Whitey over. A third took him to the ground. The blows continued—
thud, thud, thud
—faster and harder. The guard’s hat fell to the floor.

“The screws are gonna gas us for sure,” Digs said through the din.

Shan looked up at the tear gas canisters lining the walls. The room was called the “gas chamber” for that reason, but he’d never truly feared they would be used until now.

More guards rushed to aid the warden, who had ceased to move.

“Hold your fire! Don’t shoot!” one of them yelled. There were too many chances for a mistake.

All the while, Yappy pummeled away, his face flushed and teeth bared. His show of strength fulfilled the promise of his six-foot build. Whitey was curled up with his hands wrapping his head. Shan swore he heard a couple of bones crack.

“Fred, we got him.” Ranger Roy tried to slow him down. “That’s enough now.”

But Yappy continued with no signs of relenting.

“Fred, stop!”

By then, Deputy Warden “Meathead” had arrived. He grabbed hold of Yappy’s arm. After brief resistance, Yappy yielded and looked around as if suddenly aware of the other officers. Meathead patted him on the back, calming him or commending him. Likely both.

Then all of their attention shifted to carefully lifting Warden Johnston.

“Take him straight to the hospital,” Meathead said.

“How ’bout this one?” Ranger Roy asked, indicating Whitey Phillips.

“Make sure the scum’s alive; then we’ll take care of him.” Meathead turned to the room. “Show’s over! Get back in your seats. Now!”

As the inmates obeyed, Shan watched Yappy wipe sweat from his brow and reset his hat. The place hadn’t been this quiet in months.

Guards on mess-hall duty returned to their posts, the rookie clearly shaken up. Two others dragged Whitey, still unconscious, out of the room.

Shan looked at Digs. “What do you think they’ll do to him?”

Digs shook his head. “Stupid bastard’s going to the dungeon for good.” He hurried to shovel down his banana cake before their twenty minutes of mealtime expired.

In the basement below A block, the dungeons were apparently as barbaric as they sounded. According to the few who’d done time in them, there was no light or bedding, no meals but bread and water. Just a bucket for a john. The area was damp and cold, magnified when the con was stripped bare. To top it off, since the cells had never been tool-proofed, the inmate had to be handcuffed to the bars. Some claimed standing up.

Only the worst offenses, however, would land a guy in the dungeon.

Like trying to escape.

Shan looked at his tray, having lost his appetite. He did his best to force the bites down until interrupted by an announcement. Inmates were to return to their cells as scheduled, where they would remain until supper.

All work details were suspended.