Shirley Murphy - The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

Drifting close to Falon’s face he let his fur brush the convict’s cheek. The vibration sent Falon up from the table swatting at empty air. Misto, drifting away, smiled and lashed his tail.

From across the room, Lee watched Falon’s gyrations with satisfaction. Morgan watched, perplexed. The guard rounded on Falon, his hand touching his weapon. Falon slapped at the air again, looked sheepishly at the guard, and sat down. But the guard jerked him up, spun him around, and quickly patted him down. Finding no weapon and no drugs, he looked at Falon a long time, then shoved him back in his chair.

Falon’s face was flushed. Still the guard watched him. Falon hunched over his plate finishing his coffee and pie. He left the room quickly. Misto abandoned Falon, brushed Lee’s arm, and received an amused smile.

I T WAS AFTERlunch when Morgan was locked in his cell, that Lee was ushered by two guards to Warden Iverson’s office. He found the warden at his desk, his suit jacket dangling from a prison-made coat tree, his pale tie loosened, his thin, bony face flushed from the heat. “Sit down, Fontana.”

Lee sat, in a hard wooden chair facing the desk.

“You want to tell me, Fontana, why you and Blake turned yourselves in? Why you took the trouble to climb the wall—no mean task—why you hitched all the way across the country only to give yourselves up? Headed right back to prison, as docile as starving dogs?”

“I guess that’s the way we were feeling,” Lee said. “Seemed like, every move we made, every train or truck we hitched, the cops were on our tail. Almost like they were pacing us. They never made a move, but they made us nervous, we couldn’t seem to shake them.” He looked levelly at the warden. “When we got to California we’d run out of steam. We were hungry and scared, and my emphysema was real bad from that blizzard weather. Right then, prison looked pretty good. Free bed, hot meals, a place to rest and quit running.” His lie sounded plausible to him.

“This was the only place we knew,” he said, “where the law would back off, stop tailing us, where we could rest easy for a while.”

But, watching Iverson, he could see the warden wasn’t buying it.

“Why did you scale the wall in the first place? What were you looking for, why make that hard trip all the way out here?” Iverson leaned back, watching him. “What’s this really about, Fontana?”

“We thought by the time we got out to the coast we’d lose the tail on us, we’d be home free and could head either down into Mexico or up to Canada, somewhere we might shake the law. But then,” Lee said, “by then, I was feeling too sick.”

“You were practically in Mexico. We know you got off at Blythe, your PO called us. The bank called him. But it took them a while. Before they caught up with you, you could have made it across the border. You knew you had a good chance, right then. But you turned north instead. Why? And what about Blake’s wife and child? Did he plan to send for them, down in Mexico? Or never to see them again?”

“He thought he could get them up to Canada,” Lee said. “They have relatives up there that he thought would hide them.”

Iverson wasn’t warming to this.

“By the time we hit L.A.,” Lee said, “I didn’t think I could make it much farther. That’s when Morgan said, ‘Let’s give it up.’ Maybe he did it for me, maybe he thought I might die on him. He knew I’d get medical care in here. He swears not, swears he just didn’t want to run anymore.” Lee knew he was talking too much. He tried to look sicker than he felt, to look more despondent.

Iverson pressed a buzzer calling a guard, signaling the end of the interview. Did he believe any of what Lee had told him? “You’ll both be confined to the civilian unit. We used to enforce a month’s complete isolation to prevent spread of disease, but with the war over and not many men coming in from overseas, we’ve lightened the rules. You’ll see the doctor three times a week. When you’re better, you can think about industries, something not too demanding. We like to keep the men busy.” He nodded. Lee rose and turned away, meeting the guard at the door.

He was escorted to his cell and locked in, a cell like all the others except this one was cleaner and had the luxury of a small, barred window through which he could see a bit of the ocean. He looked out through the barred glass at a glimpse of the island, of boats and ships, and the mainland beyond. Long Beach, he thought, or maybe San Pedro, and beyond these, the far, green hills.

35

I T WAS THEnext morning at breakfast that they saw Falon again, sitting alone at a small table as Morgan joined Lee in the chow line. Again Morgan was accompanied by a guard, but the uniformed man didn’t linger. He watched them settle at a table, then turned away. Once he’d left the cafeteria, they picked up their trays again and joined Falon.

“Lots of empty tables. Go sit somewhere else.”

“Does it bother you,” Morgan asked, “to sit with the man you framed?”

“What’re you doing here, Blake? What kind of stupid stunt was that, to break out, make it across the country, and then turn yourselves in? You get scared out in the big world, Morgy boy? Lose your nerve? What, were the feds on your tail? You crawl to them like a beaten dog that can’t get away?”

Lee laid a hand on Morgan’s arm until he eased back. Under the overhead lights the sleeves of Falon’s prison shirt sparkled with tiny bits of steel, as if he’d been working the lathe or jigsaw in the metal shop. “Maybe,” Lee said, “maybe after we’ve been here a while, Falon, our escape won’t seem so stupid.”

“What does that mean, you crazy old creep?” Falon rose, picking up his tray. “You’ll stay out of my way, if you plan to leave here in one piece.”

Lee smiled. “Doesn’t take much to get you fluffed, does it, Falon?”

A wash of red moved up Fallon’s face. “I don’t know what you want, old man, but you’ll be sorry you took up with this punk.” They watched him cross the room, shove in where two men had just sat down. In a moment the other two turned, staring at Morgan and Lee.

“I thought it would be simple,” Morgan said softly. “I thought when we showed up he’d get scared.”

“You knew better than that. You never thought that, you know he’s dangerous. Take your time,” Lee said, “play it close.” Lee was nervous, too, but they needed to move on with this, they didn’t have much time. Once Iverson received the paperwork from Atlanta, he’d start putting it together, Morgan’s connection to Rome and to Falon, Falon’s testimony at Morgan’s trial.

It was late that afternoon, after seeing both his doctor and his counselor again, that Lee got permission to work in the metal shop for a half shift. He was in luck, there was an opening, maybe things were turning their way. It was the ghost cat who didn’t feel good about the plan.

“This isn’t smart,” Misto murmured softly, materializing on Lee’s bunk. “That shop’s dangerous. Falon knows the moves, and you don’t.”

Lee pulled off his shoes, eased back against the folded pillow. “I’m a quick learner.” He stroked the cat’s shaggy, invisible fur.

Misto sneezed with disgust. “You blow it in there, you get hurt and it’s all over for Morgan, too.”

“I don’t have a choice. That’s where Falon works.” He watched the line of pawprints pace neatly down the bed, little indentations appearing one by one. “If I can get Falon alone in there,” Lee said, “maybe in one of the storerooms, I can work on him.”

“Is that your idea? Or is that another dark plan to trap you?” The cat, not waiting for an answer, vanished, hissing. Nothing remained but his anger. Lee stretched out on his bunk listening to the bellow of the foghorns, watching through his barred window the lights of the naval station blurred by mist. The foghorn’s eerie cry rang through him like a train whistle, the lonely call he’d followed in his youth, the siren cry that had led him ever deeper into the life he had made for himself.