1. THE CAT, THE DEVIL, AND LEE FONTANA

1

McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary, Washington State

The devil arrived at McNeil Island Federal Prison March 8, 1947, bleating like a goat and looking like a goat. He had taken the form of a big buck goat with coarse brown fur, a rank smell, spectacular accessories, and a drool-stained beard. He was looking for Lee Fontana. Fontana, who was considered not immediately dangerous to the other felons, had been made a trusty and put to work on the prison farm growing potatoes and mutton for the inmates. Satan looked for him there. When he didn’t find Fontana among the pens and dairy barns and gardens, he turned his attention to a flock of nubile young sheep and for an hour had his way with them, perplexing and then delighting the young ewes. Afterward the goat stood in the muddy pasture where it met the shore of Puget Sound, pawing atthe salty water that lapped around his hooves and staring back toward the prison, watching through the thick concrete walls as Fontana left the mess hall wiping the last trace of supper from his grizzled chin. How old he’d grown since Satan had last looked in on him, his tall, thin body ropy and leathered, the lines etched deep into his lean face printing out a sour disappointment with life that greatly pleased the devil.

Galloping along to the prison and melting in through the high concrete walls, the goat materialized suddenly in the exercise yard, big, rough-coated, smelly, and causing considerable interest. He allowed a crowd of amused inmates to touch his thick heavy horns but when they started to touch other, more private parts, perhaps with envy, he butted and struck at them with his sharp hooves. They scattered. The goat disappeared, poof, into nothing, abandoning the form he had taken as he’d moved up through time and space from the flames of earth’s fiery and turbulent core.

He was invisible when he entered the cell block, an errant swirl of sour wind pacing unseen beside the debilitated old train robber as Lee hurried along toward his cell, toward the ease of his iron bunk. Though Fontana couldn’t see him, an icy aura made the hard-bitten old man clutch his arms around himself in a sudden and puzzling shiver, made him hope he wasn’t getting the flu that was going around the cell blocks. That, with his sick lungs, wouldn’t be good news. Whatever was the matter, he was aching with cold by the time he reached his barred door; he stood impatiently watching the uniformed guard leave his desk farther up the corridor, watched his rolling walk that accommodated his big belly as he came to lock Lee in for the night. “You look beat, Fontana. You okay?”

“Cold, is all. Be warm in a minute,” Lee said, looking hopefully down at his thin blanket.

The guard shrugged, but he shivered, too.“Does seem colder back here.” He looked up above the three tiers of cells to the clerestory windows high beneath the ceiling as if to see one of them open or broken but all were shut tight, the wire-impregnated glass smoky with dirt where it caught light from the hanging bulbs. He looked at Leepuzzled, shivered again, locked the cell door and headed back to his desk, his gait rolling like a pregnant woman heavy with her burden. Beside Lee, the devil, too, felt the cold despite the fact that he had generated that unearthly chill, so very different from the normal cold of the cell block—he didn’t like the damp cold of the cells any more than Lee did, he despised the chill of the upper world just as he hated its too-bright days and the vast eternity of space that swept endlessly beyond the spinning planet. All that emptiness left him uneasy, though hell knew he’d spent enough time up here on the naked surface enjoying his centuries of tangled and debilitating games. Watching Fontana now, he thought about the many times he’d returned to observe and torment the old cowboy—for all the good it did. Tempt and prod the old man as he might, and though he was always able to manipulate a few uncertain places in Fontana’s nature, the end result was the same. Fontana would give in for a while to his prodding, would be drawn to the cruel and sadistic aspects of whatever robbery he was planning—but for only a short time. Then he would go his own way again, ignoring a moreinteresting treatment of his victims, as hardheaded and stubborn as the billy goat Satan had so recently sent butting through the prison wall.

But the devil wasn’t through with the old man. He had infinite time. He meant to change Fontana, he meant to own Lee’s soul for his own. Time was nothing to Satan, he moved through the centuriesas he chose andwherever he chose, tending to the vast ranks of souls that teetered uncertainly on the cusp between eviland a bland life of virtue—but so many of them begging to be lost, beseeching him to take them with him on that last and fiery descent.

Lee Fontana was a harder quarry, but one he didn’t mean to lose.

The guard sitting down at the desk crammed into his chair would have been an easier mark, but there’d be no fun in that game, with such a simple target. Satan had watched the round-bellied officer with distaste as he locked Lee into his cell, and when he’d touched the man with an icy hand the fat boy had shivered, hastily bolted the door and hurried away. Now, smiling, Satan slipped in through the bars of Lee’s cell as invisible as a breath and stood waiting for Fontana to pull off his clothes, stretch out on his bunk in his skivvies and pull the blanket up, waiting for Fontana to ease toward sleep where his mind would be most malleable.

But as Lucifer watched Lee, he in turn was watched. The prison cat sat observing that dark and hungry shadow, peering out from beneath the guard’s desk just as, earlier in the evening, he had watched the rutting goat play hell with the sheep out at the prison farm. The cat had known Satan even in goat form and knew why he was there. His silent hiss was fierce, his claws kneading, every angle of his lean body tense and protective. He didn’t like the devil sniffing around Lee again, poking and prodding as he’d done ever since Fontana was a boy, showing up always with the same vendetta, willfully tormenting Lee, wanting what he thought was his due, wanting to get back at Lee for an effrontery that Lee had had nothing to do with. Leehad been only a child when his grandpappy faced off and bested the devil, but Lucifer wouldn’t let up, he wouldn’t back off, not until Lee gave in to his dark desires or, in death, went free at last, still unbound to the slave maker.

The yellow tomcat had lived at the prison most of his life, he’d arrived there as a tiny kitten in the pocket of a prison guard, had been bottle-fed by the guard and two inmates and, when he was old enough to be let outside, had learned to hunt from the resident prison cat. He had taken over from that aging beast when she passed on to enjoy another life. Indeed, Misto himself had died there at the prison, at a ripe and venerable age. That body, only one relic from his rich and varied incarnations, was buried just outside the prison wall with a fine view of Puget Sound, of its roiling storms, and its quiet days cloaked in coastal fog. The very night that a guard buried Misto, as fog lay heavy over the still water, the cat had risen again appearing as only a tangle of vapor mixed with the mist, and he wandered back into the cell blocks.

He wasn’t ready to leave McNeil. The prison was home, the ugly cells, the exercise yard, the mess hall with its ample suppertime handouts, the kitchen with more scraps than a dozen cats could devour, the overflowing garbage cans, the dense woods and grassy fields, with its band of wild and amorous female cats and, out at the prison farm among the dairy barns and chicken houses, a fine supply of rats and fat mice to hunt and tease, and what more could any cat want?

During Misto’s lifetime most of the prisoners had been friendly to him. Those who were not had been kept in line by the others. Now, returning as ghost, he had gotten his own back with those men in a hurry, driving a fear into them that would prevent them from ever again tormenting a cat or any other small creature. When, after his death, he’d materialized in the prison yard and let the inmates see him, some claimed another cat had moved in, likely one of Misto’s kittens that was a ringer for him. But some prisoners said Misto himself had come back from the grave into another of his nine lives;theyknew he wasn’t yet done with the pleasures of McNeil, and he soon became a cellblock myth, appearing and disappearing in a way that offered an exciting and chilling new interest for the bored inmates: a ghost cat to tickle their thoughts, to marvel over and to argue about. Lee Fontana observed the ghost, and smiled, and kept his opinions to himself. As for Misto, it wasn’t the comfort and pleasure of the island alone that detained his spirit there. He remained because of Lee Fontana.

The cat had lived an earlier life in Lee’s company, when Lee was only a boy. A willful kid and hotheaded, but there was about him a presence that had interested the cat, a deep steadiness, even when the boy was quite young, a solid core within that had clashed with the boy’s fiery nature. Drawn to Lee, Misto had, in the ghostly spaces between his nine lives, often returned to Fontana as he grew up and grew older. He had ridden unseen with Lee during a number of train robberies, greatly entertained by the bloody shootings, the excitement and the terror of the victims—though he never saw Lee torment, or seen him kill with malice. Lee had killed his share of armed men, but those shootings were in self-defense, meant to save his own life.

It might be argued that if Lee hadn’t robbed the trains he wouldn’t have been in a position to defend himself, would have had no reason to kill any man. Maybe so. But however one judged Fontana, the cat saw in him a strain of decency that the devil hadn’t so far been able to touch, something in the hard-bitten cowboy that had kept the dark one defeated. If Misto had his way, that wouldn’t change. He had watched as Fontana grew older and more stubborn in his ways and as he grew more sour on life, too. He had watched Lee’s fear of old age and death settle down upon him, the fear that haunted most aging humans, and he didn’t mean to leave the old man now, he would not abandon Lee so close to the end and to his last parole; he meant to stay with the old man to the final breath of his earthly journey, meant to follow Lee in his decline as the dark spirit made a last attempt at Lee’s final and eternal destiny.

As a ghost, the tomcat had chosen perversely to retain the exact color and form in which he’d lived all his earthly lives: rough yellow coat, battle-ragged ears, big bony body moving with an ungainly clumsiness that belied his speed and power. When he made himself visible he seemed no more than a rangy prison cat lying on the warm concrete of the exercise yard soaking up the last of the day’s meager heat or slipping into the mess hall under the tables bumming the inmates’ scraps that were passed down to him by one rough hand and then another; the prison cat that lay now unseen on the cold iron shelf in Lee’s cell, watching Lee’s dark and shadowed visitor that stood at thefoot of Lee’s bed—waiting for Lee to be discharged in the morning, waiting to make one more try at bringing Fontana into his fold, waiting to play some final and unexpected card in his hungry game.

Out beyond the cell block the prison yard lay deserted, and a thin breeze scudded in off Puget Sound across the green and quiet island, touching the lighted windows of the guards’ and staff houses and the small, darkened schoolhouse, touching the peaceful and forested hills—while there within the cell block the devil waited. And Misto waited, ready for whatever would occur tomorrow as Lee left the certainty of his prison home, as he moved out into a free and precariousworld followed and hazed by that hungry spirit who meant, so intently, to steal the will and the soul of the lonely old man.

2

Easing onto his bunk, Lee pulled the rough prison blanket close around him, though it did little to drive the cold from his bones. Maybe hewas coming down with whatever was sending men off to the infirmary, their faces white as paste, doubled over hacking up yellow phlegm. In the old days when he was young, death from the flu was common enough, it would take a whole family, half a town, in one violent outbreak and there was nothing much a doctor could do about it. At least now the docs had what they called wonder drugs, for whatever they were worth.

Well, hell, so what if he did come down with the flu on his last day in prison, so he died from the flu rather than be strangled to death from the emphysema. Dead and buried at McNeil in a convict’s grave. As good as anywhere else, he guessed, because who would know or care? Reaching for his prison shirt and pants, that he’d left folded at the end of the small iron shelf, he spread them out over the blanket for extra warmth. They didn’t help much. Damn screws didn’t have the decencyto run the furnaces, let a man sleep in comfort, the cheap bastards. The cell felt like a South Dakota winter, and he’d seen more than enough of those in his lifetime.

He guessed he should consider himself lucky to have a cell to himself, not shoved in with a bunch of young studs to hassle him, that he’d have to fight and then have to keep watching all the time because the bastards never would back off. Lucky to be on the ground floor, too, thanks to the prison doc. That climb to the upper tiers would take his breath, would make it impossible, on one of his bad days, toget a breath.

His cell was like any other, and he’d seen enough of those, too, stained toilet, stained sink, the narrow iron shelf to hold all his worldly belongings. His black prison shoes lined up side by side, just beneath. Smeared concrete walls where graffiti had been repeatedly scrubbed away. But it was better than some of the places he’d ended up, on the outside. Narrow sagging bed in some cheap boardinghouse, or the rotting floor of an empty miner’s shack, his blanket spread out among the mouse and rat droppings. He thought with longing of a bedroll on the prairie when he was running cattle, the smell of the cook fire and boiled coffee, a steer lowing now and then, the faint song of a herder to soothe them and to keep himself awake, the occasional rattle of a bit or a horse snorting to clear dust from his nose.

Strange, tonight the whole cell block seemed not only colder but unnaturally dark, too. Though there was never any real night under the hanging bulbs, never the night’s soothing blackness to rest your eyes and ease a person into sleep. New inmates, first-timers, found it hard to get used to, hard to sleep at all beneath the invasive lights running the length of the cell block ceiling like a row of bright, severed heads—though tonight even the overhead conesseemed blurred and dim, as if viewed through a layer of greasy smoke; and when he looked out through his bars, along the corridor, the four tiers of sleeping men were so shadowed and indistinct he wondered if his eyesight was failing. Shivering, he pulled the blanket tighter. So damn cold. A deep cold that had cut through his bones at intervals all day. He’d be warm for a while as he worked moving bales of hay, and then suddenly would be freezing again for no reason. He was so cold now that, staring up past the lights through the high, barred windows, he expected to see snow salting the night sky.

None of the other men seemed bothered. Nearby, where hecould make out guys sleeping, their covers were thrown back, a bare leg or bare arm trailing over the side of a bunk, the sleeper snoring away happily, warm and content—as content as a man could be, caged in here like a captive beast.

Well, hell, he’d be out of here tomorrow. Leave the cold behind. Would be heading south to the hot desert, where he could bake in the hundred-twenty-degree sun, soak up all the heat he wanted.

His idea was to work a while down in Blythe, in the Southern California desert, the way his parole plan said, but to stay just a little while and then jump parole, pull one more job, and head for Mexico with a good stash tucked away. He wanted money for his last, declining years, he didn’t mean to end up a pauper, with no money for his needs, that dread was always with him; hard as it might be, he meant to do something about that. A few hundred thousand was what he had in mind, enough to live comfortably for the remainder of his life, for however long that was.

Who knew, once he got out of this damp cold, got down into the hot desert and got himself some cash, once he was settled in a place of his own, maybe the emphysema would get better as it sometimes did when he was comfortable and not stressed. Hell, maybe he’d forget about dying, maybe he’d live forever.

His written parole instructions were to get off the train at San Bernardino before heading on down to Blythe, check in there with his parole officer. Maybe he’d do that, and maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe just stay on the rattler until he hit Blythe, go right on down to the job, such as it was, tell the parole officer, when he showed up in a few weeks, that he’d forgotten about stopping off, or maybe that he’d lost the paper giving him any such orders.

The job in Blythe was supposed to be permanent, but even if his old running partner had arranged it for him, they both knew Lee wasn’t about to work the vegetable fields for the rest of his parole time. That was migrant work, they had to like the hot, heavy labor just fine or they wouldn’t keep slipping across the border, hiding in the trunks of rickety old cars half smothered to death, heading up to the States, men wantingbetter pay and better treatment than they got at home.

He meant to work at the ranch a few weeks so he looked good to the parole board, get his bearings, lay out a plan to put his hands on some cash. Pull that off, and he’d be out of there, rich again and not a care to worry him. One big job, one nice haul, then on down across the border where he’d pick up a little adobe house and some land for a few bucks, enough to pasture a couple of horses. Find a little se?orita to cook for him and take care of his needs,live on tortillas, good hot Mexican dishes. Maybe a last crack at good, hot Mexican love. If he could still handle that much excitement. He didn’t like thinking how the years lay on him. Even his spirit felt flat, worn out, not fiery, as when he was young. He was giving out, his body giving out, aches and stiffness, and the emphysema made it so hard to breathe that when he thought of pulling another job, he wondered if he could handle it, if he could still bring off a job with the decisiveness and fast moves it would take and still get away clean.

But he had no choice. One more big job, or just wither away to nothing like an old horse turned out on barren, grassless land and left to starve to death.

He wondered, too, if he’d be up to the modern ways. He was coming out of prison into a world he didn’t know anymore, a world of sleeker, faster cars than he was used to. Fast diesel trains that no man on horseback could take down the way you could halt a steam train, the way he used to do, and his grandpappy before him, neither of them ever expecting the steam trains to die out and a new kind of train to take over the rails. In the old days, in L.A., the vaqueros used to race their horses against the steam trains, their ponies faster in the sprint, but the locomotive taking over for the distance, leaving the riders behind. With these new trains, a horseman didn’t have a chance. This was the 1940s, everything fast and slick as he’d never imagined, the world turned into a place he didn’t know, and, in truth, didn’t want to know. The slick Chicago gangs all duded up in their fancy suits and greased hair, their high-powered machine guns and big fancy cars, their steel-fisted control of a whole city. Big crime, taking down millions of dollars, not the simple one-on-one robberies that Lee was used to.

The whole world had grown too big; it was overwhelming. The Great War, World War I, a war fought from the sky, from planes that, some said, would soon replace the trains, take you anywhere in the U.S. you wanted to go, in just a few hours. This was not his world. There was even talk of some new kind of camera invented, which one day soon would watch you enter a bank, watch your every move in there. A world of spying, more sophisticated fingerprinting, all kinds of technology the cops could use to trap you. It was hard to get his mind around the changes that had happened while he worked the prison farm, herded and cared for a bunch of sheep and milk cows. His own kind of life was fast vanishing, running cattle on thousands of miles of open range that were now mostly fenced, broken into puny little spreads, cut up and ruined. His kind of life had been sucked away into history like water sucked down a drain.

Tomorrow he’d step out into that world, a used-up old man. No new skills to cope with the changes, a dried-up old gunman with maybe nothing hecould do but the field work where he was headed, hard labor that would leave him falling into bed at night aching in every bone and trying to get his breath. With allthese fancy new ways, what kind of robbery was out there that he could even handle, anymore? When he hit Blythe, maybe hecouldn’t do anything else but fall into the same life as the Mexican pickers, work among them, eat, and sleep, and work the fields until one day they found him dead among the cabbages, and no one to give a damn.

The cat, as Lee deliberated on his fate, dropped invisibly down from the shelf to the concrete and rolled over on the hard cell floor, watching Lee, knowing Lee’s thoughts and not liking them much.

A mortal cat would know distress at the nervous unease of the humans he cared about. But the spirit cat saw more, he understood more and, too often, he felt drawn to do celestial battle on Lee’s behalf. Now, flipping to his feet, restlessly pacing, he at last drifted up onto the iron shelf once more, above Lee’s empty shoes, lay down across the iron grid, invisible ears back, invisible tail twitching as he waited for what was about to occur, as he waited for the dark visitor to makehimself known to Lee, as was the devil’s way.

Lee’s battered watch said twelve-thirty, but he couldn’t sleep. Still shivering, he dug the paperback western out from under his pillow and tried to read. He got through barely two pages before the print on the page began to blur, his eyes watering not from want of sleep but from the unnatural cold that shivered him, and from the harsh overhead lights that, even through the murky air, glared straight down into his face. He was idly turning the pages, trying to stay interested in the cheap pulp western and wishing he had another Hershey’s bar—he’d eaten the last three—when a whisper from the corridor brought him up startled, a voice as faint as a shifting breeze.

“Fontana. Lee Fontana.”

Easing up on one elbow, he looked out through the bars. He scanned the cells across the way, tier upon tier, but saw no one looking out at him, no one awake. Not a soul stirred, the prone bodies seemed as still as the products of a waxworks, or as if they floated in a chill suspension of time.

“Lee … Lee Fontana.” A whisper closer than those far cells, and as insidious as a rattler’s buzz. He couldn’t tell the direction, it seemed to come from all around him, from the ceiling, from inside the cell itself, and through the concrete walls on either side of him. Whatever thoughts slid into Lee’s mind at that instant, he pushed away, whatever images arose he didn’t want to consider. But then suddenly the prisoners’ snores began again, the coughs, the twang of flat metal bedsprings as some sleeper relieved his tensions or rolled over. Maybe he’d imagined the whisper he’dthought he heard, had imagined that seeming pause in time, as well. Reaching for his book again, he stretched out flat, pulled the blanket up, shivering, trying to get warm and to read and not look around him, to pay attention to nothing beyond the cheap novel. He was turning the page when the shadows in his cell shifted so violently that he jerked upright, staring around him.

“Fontana. Lee Fontana.”

No one was there beyond the bars. But a shadow lay across his blanket, the stark shadow of a tall man cutting across the dark stripes that were cast by the iron bars. He squinted, but still the corridor was empty, unbroken by any figure. No one stood peering in at him, no one to account for the dark shape cast boldly across his blanketed legs. But a heavy malaise pressed at him, weakening him so he had to ease back, to lie supine, watching the dark imprint, watching the empty space beyond the bars, the empty corridor. He remained as still as if he faced a coiled rattler, as if the faintest shift of his body would trigger a flash of attack.

Frozen, slowly he made himself look up through the bars at the harsh lights, hoping that when he looked back, the man-shadow would be gone. The acid glow of the overheads blinded him, he stared until his eyes watered and then looked down again, mopping tears with a corner of his blanket, hoping the specter would have vanished. His vision swam with red afterimages, and only after some moments could he make out the shadow still cast solidly across his bed.

But now, as well, he could see a faint darkness suspended beyond the bars, a gray smear as ephemeral as smoke drifting and moving in the corridor, hovering with a life of its own, some terrifying form of life that was watching him—but how could that thin and shifting smear cast the harsh black man-shadow that cut so starkly across his bed?

Silently he slid his hand under the pillow reaching for the sharpened metal rod he kept there. Whatever threw the shadow, whether he could see it clearly or not, maybe it could feel the thrust of a blade. His fingers touched the cold steel, but when he tried to grip the homemade knife his hand wouldn’t move, it was frozen in place. He tried to swing off the bunk but he couldn’t shift his legs, his body was immobilized, he could no more move than could a slab of stone dropped onto the sagging bunk. When he tried to shout for the guard, his voice was locked to silence within his constricted lungs.

And what would he have told the guard? That he saw a phantom, that he heard a voice out of nowhere? That he couldn’t move, that he was as silenced and locked in place as a sparrow he’d seen once, in dead winter, frozen upright to a telegraph wire. Phlegm began to build in his throat, phlegm from the emphysema, triggered by fear, mucus that would soon cause a spasm of choking that must bring him up off the bunk spitting, or would drown him. He began to sweat. He’d soon have to move or he would strangle. What the hell was this, what was going on? He wasn’t going to die here frozen like that sparrow, die on a prison bunk drowning in his own spit, unable even to turn his head and clear his mouth. Fear filled him and rage until, angry and straining, he was at last able to turn enough to cough onto his sheet. But still he couldn’t rise.

Hell, this wasn’t happening, he was Lee Fontana, he could still hit a pigeon at fifty yards with a forty-five, could still see a train scuttling across the horizon small as a black ant, see it way to hell before the rails started to hum at its approach, could still jump a steam train and stop it cold—if there’d been any more steam trains. He had, in his prime, stricken men with his own brand of terror, there’d been a time when he had only to stare at a train engineer and because he was Lee Fontana the man would lay down his rifle and pull the engine to a halt. He had sent strong men cowering from him,left them rigid with fear. He didn’t like it when that kind of terror hit him instead.

Sweating and straining, he was at last able to slip off the bunk, down to the cold concrete floor. Clutching the prison-made knife, he rose up, stood in the center of the empty cell facing the shadow—a naked, ludicrous figure wielding the knife as he glowered at the empty bars. A tall, flat-bellied old man, his tender white flesh tanned to leather only from his neck up and from his elbows down, where he rolled his shirtsleeves. Leathery brown hands marked by sixty years of rope burns and wire cuts, his face hard, wind-beaten, most of the rest of him pale and vulnerable.

When he approached the shadow, it thinned the way smoke thins when one walks into it but the chill deepened, and the instant he touched the cold metal bars, he faced not the corridor and the tiers of caged men, he faced a vast and empty space reeling away and soft laughter echoed inside his head, a sound that seemed to fill the world.“You think you’re something, old man. You’re no more than a speck of dust, you’re already a moldering corpse or nearly so. Dead soon enough, and no one to give a damn. You’re a worn-out has-been without the cojones anymore to pull another job.” And the creature’s laugh echoed coldly, deep into Lee’s bones.

“Get out!” Lee spat at the emptiness. “Whatever you are, get out! Get the hell out of my space.” Turning his back on whatever this was—and he knew too well what it was—he went back to bed, pulled the blanket up. He didn’t look again at the shadow but he felt it watching him, felt the ongoing intensity of its interest.

This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the shadow and felt its chill. The first time was long ago when he was only a boy. He was thinking back to that time when suddenly the prison cat appeared, lying on the shelf inside his cell, its yellow eyes on him, its yellow tail twitching as it looked him over. Leaning up, he reached to stroke it but the yellow tom leaped past his hand to the bunk, heavy and solid. It rubbed against him, its fur felt rough under his stroking, its purring loud as the tomcat settled down beside him, warm and yawning—and when Lee looked back at the bars, the figure had vanished. Across his blanket the spaces between the straight black lines were empty.

He heard the guard coming, making his regular round, his black shoes tapping on the concrete. The man glanced in at him, his fat face not changing expression as he took in every detail, looked at the sleeping cat, and shrugged. The cat roamed everywhere. How he got into the locked cell block was anyone’s guess but he seemed to have no problem. When the guard had passed, Lee lay stroking the cat and looking around at his cell, the stained toilet, the dented steel sink with his toothbrush balanced on the edge, the graffiti-smeared walls, the familiar stain on the concrete floor where a previous inmate had lost blood in some self-inflicted injury. His book lay facedown across the stain beside the three empty Hershey’s wrappers. Nothing was different, yet everything was different. The cell seemed without substance now, as if at any instant it might fade, and he with it. The intrusion of the specter had rammed his mortality home to him like a knife stuck in his belly. He lay the rest of the night thinking of that haunting, seeing his life vanish before its unearthly power like fragments of burned paper tattered on the wind. He lay there desolate and frightened, and with only the yellow cat to warm him, to somehow reassure and to comfort him.

The devil, in human form, left the cell block pleased with his night’s work. Moving unseen through the concrete walls, slipping through iron bunks and through the bodies of sleeping men so their dreams clutched suddenly at them and left them sweating, he drifted through the infirmary, the mess hall, the administrative offices, and down across the lawn that was kept neatly mowed by prison trusties, down to the edge of Puget Sound. There he stood, a wraith come out of eternity, staring out at the roiling waters that covered this small scrap of earth at this moment and at the distant smokestacks of Tacoma rising beyond—at the great bulk of Mount Rainier towering white and majestic over all that lay below, daunting even the devil in its rocky, snow-crowned dominance. Beside his left foot a rabbit crouched, so frozen with fear of him it was unable to run, riven with such terror that when he reached down and took it in his hands the little beast didn’t twitch. It died slowly and in great pain, emitting one high, terrified scream before Lucifer at last broke its neck and tossed it into the bushes.

He had subtler plans for Lee Fontana. Unlike the rabbit, he meant that Fontana would provide his own pain.

3

Lee left his cell for the last time dressed in a prison-made pinstripe suit a size too big for him, the sleeves hanging down to his knuckles, a red-and-yellow tie so gaudy that a dog wouldn’t pee on it, and prison-made wingtip shoes that raised blisters before he ever reached the first door of the sally port, their squeaking soles providing his only fanfare as he headed out for the free world. Moving down the corridor of McNeil for the last time, toward the double-doored cubicle where he would receive his belongings and sign out, his nerves were strung tight. He’d be on his own in less than an hour. His previous five releases from the federal pens didn’t make getting out, this time, any easier. No one to tell him when to eat, tell him when and where to sleep, tell him where exactly to work each day and how to do his work. A man got out of practice making his own decisions.

At Admissions, a soft-faced officer with jowls like a bulldog produced the usual brown paper bag with Lee’s name scrawled on it, shoved it across the desk with a patronizing smirk. “Here’s your worldly goods, Fontana.” He looked Lee over, amused at the baggy pinstripe suit and fresh prison haircut, and at the one pitiful item he saw Lee take from his pocket and drop in the bag, the little framed picture of his sister, Mae, when she was ten. “Here’s your train ticket,” he said, handing Lee a plain brown envelope, “and your prison earnings. Don’t lose them, old man. And be careful, it’s a great big world out there.”

Lee moved away from the counter wanting to smash the guy. As to his prison earnings, there wasn’t much; they didn’t get paid for working the farm, only for splitting cedar shingles that the prison shop made from the trees that grew along the shore—most of that pittance, he’d spent on razor blades and soap, on cheap dime novels the guards would pick up on the mainland, and on candy bars. He wondered if the money was still stuffed into the toe of his boot, from all those years ago when he was brought into McNeil and stripped of his civilian clothes, when all his belongings but Mae’s picture were locked away as he changed into prison uniform. He hoped to hell the guards hadn’tfound it. He needed cash for a gun, for any number of essentials to start life anew.

Now, as Lee headed for the sally port, the ghost cat followed him unseen, his attention on the child’s photograph that Lee had taken from his pocket, that he always kept close to him, the picture of Lee’s little sister, Mae, from those long-ago days in South Dakota. The child who looked exactly like Misto’s own Sammie, who lived now, in this time, in this moment, across the continent in Georgia. Sammie, with whom Misto had lived a short but recent life, and with whom, as ghost, he still spent many nights, unseen, purring close to her as she slept.

The exact likeness of the two little girls continued to puzzle the ghost cat, for even now in his free and far-roving state between his earthly lives, the tomcat did not have all the answers. He knew only that there was a powerful connection between Mae and Sammie, an urgent and meaningful adjunct to their lives of which Lee was the center, a connection that, the cat thought, might ultimately help to save Lee in his conflict with the dark power.

Lee, clutching his brown paper sack and brown envelope, stepped into the sally port glancing at the officer behind the glass barrier. Receiving a nod, he moved on out through the second door. He knew he should be happy at the sound of the metal gate locking behind him. But he felt only unsteady at his sudden freedom, at being turned loose with no barriers, no limits or rules, adrift and on his own after years of confinement, lost and rudderless in a vast and unfamiliar world.

The sky was gray, the morning’s heavy mist chilling him clear through. The small prison bus was waiting. He shoved the brown envelope with his ticket into his coat pocket, tucked the paper bag under his arm, climbed the three steps up into the stuffy vehicle, took a seat halfway back, nodding at the trusty who was driving and at the guard who sat angled where he could see the seats behind him. Lee was the only passenger. Earlier in the morning, and again in the afternoon, the bus would be full of schoolkids, children of the guards and prison personnel who lived on the island.

The bus rattled down the winding gravel road, past green pastures on both sides, past the reservoir and on down to the ferry landing where the SSBennett, McNeil’s forty-foot mahogany powerboat, was tied. The churning waters of Puget Sound looked as cold and gray as death, the hills of the distant shore vague beneath the overcast, grim and depressing, the smear of crowded mainland houses, with taller buildings rising among them, all generated the prisoner’s fear of the vast and sprawling outside world. He knew the feeling would pass, it always did, but every time he was released he felt as off balance as if the cinch on his saddle had broken and he was scrambling to swing away from a bad tumble.

At the dock he left the bus, moved on down to the rocking launch where a uniformed guard and a trusty were coiling lines on the aft deck. The gray waters shifted and heaved as if forces deep down were restless. There was one other passenger, a prisoner chained to a bench on the foredeck sitting between two guards, a two-time felon who had made his third kill at McNeil and was being shipped off to Alcatraz. Lee crossed the wooden catwalk and stepped aboard, staying to the aft deck avoiding his prison mate. The hollowness in his belly was sharp with excitement but sharper with dread, leaving for the first time in ten years his secure cell, the farm where he’d felt comfortable, the animals he’d liked better than his fellow inmates—leaving the old prison tomcat, he thought, surprised he’d think of that. Leaving the old cat he’d come to care about more than he’d imagined. The yellow tomcat that had spent last night on Lee’s bed, easing Lee’s night-fears, somehow coming between him and the phantom that he hadn’t wanted to see or to hear. Now he was leaving the old tomcat that was, it seemed to Lee, the only real friend he’d had at McNeil, the only presence he could really trust. The old cat that had, some said, died and returned again. Sometimes Lee thought he’d been there all along, that what the guard and prisoners had buried had been one of his offspring. Other times, he wondered. Whatever the truth, Lee had a pang of regret and knew he’d miss the old fellow.

He stood at the rail as the tall, lean guard cast off and began to coil line. One of the guards would have a shopping list in his pocket, they’d pick up needed supplies in Steilacoom before they headed back to the island, maybe food stores that had been trucked down from Tacoma, though most of their staples came by boat from there or from Seattle. Easing free of the dock, they were under way, the twin diesels churning the water in a long white tail boiling out behind them. Moving up to the bow, Lee stood chilled by the heavy mist and salt spray, riding the choppy waves liking the speed, and soon he began to feel easier.

Off to his left the overcast had lifted a little above the hills of Tacoma, the sun trying to burn through the murky cover. But it wouldn’t burn away much, sun wouldn’t blaze down on the land like the pure, hot desert where he was headed. As they approached land, the smokestacks from the iron smelters rose black and ugly, smelters that dumped their hot slag into the sound, souring the waters so nothing would grow along that shore. He could picture the streets and sidewalks of the city slick and wet from the mist and busier than he’d known: too many people, too many cars, not the quiet he’d grown used to on the island—the prison had been quiet most of the time, until a rumble erupted to stir things up, a dose of trouble breaking the monotony until armed guards stepped in and broke up the fight. Looking away toward the vast horizon of the mainland, he felt uneasy at so much freedom ahead, so much emptiness, so many choices, no one telling him what to do, no direction to his life except that he made for himself.

The prison counselor said that was what a parole officer was for, to guide him, help him over the rough spots until he’d settled in again. Well, to hell with that. He didn’t need some wet-behind-the-ears social worker hardly out of diapers telling him how to live his life.

What the hell, the whole world lay open to him. What was he afraid of? He’d have free run at whatever he wanted. All kinds of robberies and scams were open to him, a chance at whatever he chose to take down, so what was he bellyaching about? Hell, yes, he’d get used to freedom again and to the new ways, even if life was more sophisticated, and people maybe harder tomanipulate. The old habits hadn’t all died. The old-fashioned, trusting ways would still prevail among the smaller towns and farms, among the honest people with their straightforward talk, their unlocked doors and innocent views, so many folks just waiting and ripe for the taking.

He tolerated the loud suit and noisy shoes for the half-hour boat ride to Steilacoom, was eager to get rid of them as they pulled up to the scrappy little community, coming in close to the tall pier that jutted high above them, the small prison boat rocking against the tall pilings. Couple of buildings up there along the pier, and he could smell coffee over the smell of dead fish. The boat nosed into the short catwalk that led to the shore. The train station was just on the other side of the tracks, dumpy wooden building, the town rising up the hill behind it, shabby little houses half hidden by the Douglas fir trees, the homes of lumber workers and maybe smelter workers from up around Tacoma. Ten years back, he hadn’t seen much of Steilacoom, he’d been dumped off here from a marshal’s car, handcuffed and in leg chains, after a silent ride down from the Tacoma jail through dense fir forests and past a couple of lakes. The marshal had handed him over to a McNeil guard. The guard had hustled him across thetracks, out along this same ramp he was descending now, and into the prison boat, had locked his leg chain to a wooden bench, and they’d been on their way over the rough, choppy water, McNeil Island looming ahead, dark green forests, pale green clearings, hard-faced concrete buildings—heading for his new and extended island vacation, courtesy of the U.S. Bureau of Prisons.

Now, stepping down off the ramp clutching his paper bag, he stood a moment watching the guards unload their prisoner—chained like a walking ghost of himself from ten years back. As they moved away into the train station he double-timed up a set of wooden steps and onto the wooden pier, separating himself as far as he could from the group. Heading out along the pier past a storage shed, he followed the smell offresh coffee toward the lighted windows of a little caf?.

The room was dim inside, the shellacked walls made of beveled pine boards. Four wooden booths, two tables with Formica tops and stainless steel chairs, and a wooden bar. The woman behind it nodded to him, trying not to smile as she took in his pinstripe, pimp getup. Two men at the bar, plaid flannel shirts, heavy pants and boots, maybe lumberjacks. They turned to look and nodded briefly. Lee took a stool halfway down the bar, between the men and an old woman. He watched one of the men pour half his freshly opened beer into a frosted mug, and then tip in a glass of tomato juice and a big squirt of Tabasco; red beer was popular in this area. Lee didn’t want to think how it would taste. The pudgy old woman down at the end, on the last bar stool, leaning against the wall, was dressed in several layers of clothes, none of them too clean. In his day you hadn’t seen many woman hobos, but that was what she had to be. She smelled of sour urine, sour clothes, and a body that hadn’t seen soap for a while. He ordered coffee and a slice of lemon pie from the glass case, then, hauling his paper bag, he headed for the men’s room, holding his breath as he passed her.

Beside the door to the bathroom hung four wanted posters. Lee knew two of the men, they had left McNeil in the dark of night in one of the local residents’ small boats. The boat had later been found adrift against the shore; the escapees were still at large. Lee took a good look at the other two pictures, at the men he didn’t know. He was always interested in who was on the outside, maybe desperate and volatile, that might pose a threat if he ran up against them. And maybe part of his interest in the posters stemmed from when he was a boy, on those rare trips to town when he could enjoy the handsome photograph of his famous grandpappy.

Stepping on inside the little cubicle, he changed into his soft old Levi’s and one of three shirts from the paper bag, removed Mae’s picture and put it safely in his Levi’s pocket. Feeling down into his right boot, he found the bit of paper with the folded bills inside, just as he’d left them. Seven hundred dollars, and he was mighty glad to find it all there. He left it taped in his boot, didn’t shove it in his pocket along with the train ticket, his seventy-five dollars of prison earnings, and the prison-made knife. A bit of dried manure still clung to the sole of the run-over boot. He removed his rolled-up old jacket, shook the wrinkles out as best he could, then stuffed the prison clothes down in the paper bag. When he left, he’d drop them in the refuse bin out near the door of the train station—they wouldn’t be there long, that old woman would fish them out again, sell the clothes for food or wine.

Coming out, he drew amused looks from the barkeep and the three customers, all of whom had likely seen, over the years, dozens of prisoners shed their cheap prison garb in just the same way. The barkeep set his pie and coffee before him and gave him a friendly smile, as if she knew exactly how good it felt to be back in the comfort of his own clothes. She was nearly his age, white hair smoothed back showing glimpses of pink scalp, lively brown eyes. How many departing inmates before him had she served, along with the locals, with the lumber and smelter men, and with the civilian residents of McNeil come ashore on one errand or another. He watched the lumberjacks down their red beer, still fascinated with how that would taste. He was just finishing his pie and coffee when he heard the train whistle.

Pushing some change across the bar, he rose, headed back along the pier for the station. He was just stepping across the tracks when the slow-moving engine gave a big blast and came into view ambling along close to the water, barely clearing the fir branches where they had been trimmed away, train huffing and clanging up to the station, squeal of brakes, shouts of the conductor. Lee dropped the clothes in the trash can, but kept the paper bag. He boarded quickly, with his ticket in hand, moved on in looking for a quiet space to himself.

He chose a half-empty car, took a seat away from the other passengers, laid his Levi’s jacket and his paper bag on the seat next to him, to discourage anyone from sitting there. The car smelled of stale sandwiches and ancient dust. As he settled into the dirty mohair, a fit of coughing took him. He coughed up phlegm, spat it into his prison handkerchief. He could see through thedirty window half a dozen people hurrying down from the scattered houses above. The train waited in the station maybe fifteen minutes. Only four more passengers had entered his car when the train began to back and jerk, moving with a lot of hustle, and they were on their way. If this train made every little stop, it would be a slow, halting trip down across Washington and Oregon and into California—but then soon the train stretched out, moving fast, its iron wheels hitting a steady gallop that calmed and steadied Lee, the way speed had always calmed him.

When the vendor came by he bought dry sandwiches and coffee, the same sandwiches he’d live on for the next two days. He tried to clean the grimy window with his dirty handkerchief so he could see out, but he only smeared it worse. Irritated, he went out to stand in the windy vestibule between the cars, looking out at the waters of Puget Sound enjoying the sea while he could, the cool damp air, the green marsh along the inlets, before he got on down to the dry desert. He’d been up in this country a long time, away from that hot, parched land. He craved the dry heat, but he knew the muddy, sluggish Colorado River wouldn’t be the same as the living sea, not like this surging water eating away at the lush and ragged edge of the continent. The overcast had followed them, but had thinned near the ground, enough to let him see an eagle soaring low overhead looking for dead fish. He stood clinging to the iron bar watching the dark waters and green marsh, and then looking out the other side, taking pleasure in the little farms, their cattle and fat horses knee deep in grass. When he was a boy on the dry prairie they’d never had grass like that, a man could only dream of feed like that for his stock.

Settling in for the long pull down to L.A., he gravitated between the dusty car, the narrow windy vestibule, and the men’s room where he shaved and washed himself as best he could using their dinky little bars of soap, and paper towels. He slept in his seat, ate the dry sandwiches, read other people’s discarded newspapers, and he thought too much.

The hitch at McNeil was the longest he’d ever served, he shouldn’t have had a ten-year sentence. The only reason he got caught was sloppy work, and that had worried him. For the first time he knew he was getting old, afraid he’d lost his touch, maybe lost all talent for making a living in the only way he knew, the only way he liked. He’d give all he’d ever stolen or earned to be young and vigorous again, to be back in the early part of the century, back when the prairie was free and open, a good horse under him, nothing to think about but when the next steam train was due and what it carried, how much gold and cash—but then came the diesel trains, during the war, and you couldn’t stop those babies by riding across the track waving a gun at the engineer. And those trains carried dozens of guards, soon there wasn’t just one detective named Pinkerton to investigate a train job but a whole organization called Pinkerton, nosy, high-powered bastards, and his own times, his own ways were gone into the dust of the past.

After the steam trains were finished he’d worked cattle for a while, doing his first paid work in years. Then, long before America got into the war—but when many folks knew that day would come—he had taken a job in Montana, in Billings, breaking horses for the remount. Later, during the war, he’d heard that even the coast guard was using horses, patrolling the coastal beaches at night watching for German submarines.

For two years he had worked for the government breaking horses, he’d been straight then, no robberies, and he had, strangely, felt almost good about that. But then the itch for a thrill got him. When he left Billings he took on the Midnight Limited out of Denver, a diesel carrying military payroll. He’d planned every detail carefully, had even worn gloves to avoid fingerprints, accepting the annoying traps of modern technology. He had brought off the job alone without a hitch, had left the conductor and four guards tied up in the express car, had stashed the strongbox in the truck he’d hidden in an arroyo south of Grand Junction. But then, one second of bad judgment and he blew it. Blew it all, real bad. One second, standing beside that old Ford truck thinking how the money in the strongbox was meant for the new recruits at Camp Pendleton, thinking how those marines wouldn’t get any pay, and he had turned away from the strongbox. Had left it in the truck and just walked away, knowing the sheriff or the feds would be on it within an hour. One weak minute, thinking how the leathernecks deserved their money more than he did, and he’d lost it all. Walked away, half of him feeling good, the other half shocked at the stupid waste.

And then, soon afterward, still pissed off at his own stupidity and with a lot of hustle and not the faintest plan, he’d stormed into that Vegas bank, leaned into the teller’s cage and jammed the six-inch barrel of his forty-five into the girl’s face, and before he could get a word out that feisty little bitch had slammed the brass window gate so hard it broke two fingers on his right hand. From that point on it was all downhill, the bank guard had him cold. The feds picked up a few prints on the train job, and on the Ford truck and the strongbox, where he’d been careless. They had him for both jobs though he never got a penny from the damned bank teller, and he knew he’d be doing time. He’d toldhimself bank robbery wasn’t his line of work, but the truth was, he’d blown it bad. Suddenly, he knew he was old. An old man who’d lost his skill, and he’d envisioned the slow, confused end to his life, imprisoned by his own weakness, imprisoned by a fear far greater than he had ever known or ever wanted to know. Trapped by a mortality that seemed, every day, to draw in closer around him—and trapped by a heavier darkness, by a convergence of shadows pressing at him in a way far more lethal than simple fear of death, by a dark and terrifying aura that seemed to reach down from cold infinity, reaching to embrace and to own him, to painfully and endlessly devour him.

4

On the short run down to Olympia beneath the snowy shoulder of Mount Rainier, they were soon skirting the vast and marshy shore of Nisqually Reach, where dairy cows grazed fat and content in their lush pastures. Among the tall green marsh grass at the water’s edge, two bald eagles fought over a flopping fish, beating with angry wings at each other, tearing the silver body apart between them. But as Lee watched their hungry and brutal battle, the air inside the train, even through the closed windows, soon stank of the area’s paper mills, a sour odor harsher than rotted wood, its thick effluence soon turning the land, the sea, and sky a dull, heavy gray, featureless and depressing.

But maybe, Lee thought, he’d better enjoy, while he could, even these pollution-bound inlets where the mills had soured the land, before he reached the dry desert, the pale dunes where the only water he’d see would be dark and sluggish, where he’d miss looking out every morning at the lapping waters of the sound washing against the ragged and wooded shore.

Now, suddenly, the world turned black as they pounded through a tunnel. When they emerged, the passengers around him strained to see the Cascade Mountains towering in the east, snowcapped, bright even against the graying sky. Only when, farther on, the manmade fog thinned near the ground, could he see the dense city buildings of Olympia, and the Olympic Range rising to the west. In the green surrounding fields, half a dozen eagles soared low over a pasture, homing in on something dead, then one lifted and left the group; he watched it rise on powerful wings to disappear into the overcast above, the great bird soaring free wherever he chose to go, his unfettered flight making Lee want to do the same.

Made him wonder, when he got to L.A. to change trains, if he should fly free, too. End the journey there, take off wherever he chose, never complete his parole plan. Buy a bedroll, put together a kit, hop a freight out of the city, never show up in Blythe, forget the job waiting for him, stop knuckling under to the feds.

Right. And end up back in the joint. Christ, that would be dumb. Besides, he wouldn’t do that to a friend. Jake Ellson had gone to a lot of trouble to get him this job. Without it he might not have made parole, would have finished out his sentence right there at McNeil.

It didn’t seem like twenty-five years since he and Jake had pulled their last train robbery, and now Ellson was married, to the woman they’d both wanted, was settled in a responsible job and had two grown girls—married to Lucita because Lee had turned away from her, because he was too wild to want to settle down. Yet even now when he thought about her dark Latin beauty the heat would start to build and he’d wonder if heshould have stayed.

Well, hell, that had been decided when they were young, Jake was the one who’d got himself tamed, and that was what Jake wanted. Lee hadn’t cared to settle down, had no desire to be saddled with a family. Now he wondered what that would have been like, that life, children to love and to love him, Lucita in his bed, a warm, vibrant part of his life.

Leaving Olympia, the train was crowded. He tried to occupy both seats by spreading out newspapers but it wasn’t five minutes, passengers pushing into the car, that a round little man entered carrying a briefcase, headed straight for the seat next to Lee, a nattily dressed little fellow in a baby-blue three-piece suit. Lee glared at him, willing him to move on, but brazenly he pushed the papers aside andsat down, his round blue eyes smiling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Guess it’s the only seat left.” Still smiling, he made a short attempt at small talk, leaning forward to look myopically at Lee, his blue eyes too earnest, and the first thing Lee knew he had launched into a land-selling scam,intently pushing his worthless, five-acre desert plots. Lee tuned out the man’s sales pitch, staring out through the smeared window at a red-tailed hawk lifting on the rising wind. The little man went right on, garrulous, so annoying Lee wanted to punch him. “You married, sir? You have children? Mister … I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” Lee said shortly.

“Well, sir, if you have children, this land would give you a nice estate to pass on to them. Grandchildren? Think what you could leave to your grandchildren, why, this one piece of land …” But then as his blue eyes took in Lee’s increasing irritation, his tapping foot and restless hands, hechanged his tack. “What line of work are you in, sir? You look like maybe a retired banker.”

Lee’s temper flared. He rose, shoved past the man, and left the car, went to stand in the open vestibule trying to shake his anger. When he heard the door open behind him he turned, meaning to chase the little scum away.

Light glanced off the man’s glasses revealing, now, eyes very different from the smarmy smile: cold, predatory eyes, a look that forced Lee to step back. Even his voice was different, grainy and hushed.

“You’re getting old, Lee Fontana. You’re old, and you’re all alone. You have nothing,” he said with satisfaction, “you have no one. No money to speak of, no possessions, no one who cares about you. Only the little cash you earned in prison, and the seven hundred dollars wrapped in brownpaper in your left boot. How far do you think that will get you?”

Lee waited, chilled. As far as he knew, no one was aware of the seven hundred dollars. If the prison authorities had checked his belongings that long time ago when he first arrived at McNeil, they’d left the money alone—or maybe they’d missed it, tucked deep in the toe of his boot. But this little man had no way to know such a thing, and no way to know his name, either. The wind tugged at the salesman’s seersucker suit and at his thin, pale hair. He watched Lee intently, his eyes ashard and penetrating as the steely stare of a hunting hawk, and an icy dread filled Lee. This was the shadow he had seen last night in his cell, the specter that had appeared to him now and again over the years, whispering, urging him, bringing out the rage and cruelty that seemed to dwell somewhereinside him, that usually he managed to put aside, to ignore. This was the shadow he had seen as a child, so long ago on the prairie, the chill presence that had frightened even his strong and powerful grandpappy.

“What do you want?” Lee managed, swallowing back a cough.

The little man smiled, his face and eyes cold as stone.“I want to see you prosper, Lee Fontana. I want to see you make it big, this time. I want to see you make a nice haul, enough money to take care of your retirement, just as you plan. I want to help you.”

Rage filled Lee, the man was in his space, pushing him hard. He turned away, fists clenched, his anger nearly out of control, looked out at the calm green fields sweeping past, trying to calm himself, but still his temper boiled. He spun around to face the man, tensed to swing.

The vestibule was empty.

Neither door had opened, but Lee was alone. He stood for a long time, numb, not wanting to think about what he’d faced, wishing he had something steady to cling to.

When at last he returned down the aisle to his seat, he walked slowly, studying the faces of the other passengers. No one remotely resembled the stranger, no one looked up at him. On his empty seat the newspapers were strewn as he had left them, his sandwich wrappers crumpled on the floor where he’d dropped them. Still, he stood watching the rows of passengers, then at last slid into his seat. He sat with his eyes closed, but there was no way he could forget that icy stare; the man had driven a shaft of cold through him that left him sick with rage. He fidgeted, engulfed in a heavy silence, in a vast and growing solitude that was soon the silence of the empty prairie.

He was twelve years old, standing at the corral fence beside his grandpappy, the two of them staring out at the flat rangeland where there should be nothing to scare anyone, staring out at a moving shadow where there could be no shadow, at a shifting presence that turned his grandpappy pale. Lee had never seen Russell Dobbs scared, had never imagined his grandpappy could be afraid, but now Dobbs was afraid, something was out there, something beyond even Russell Dobbs’s ken, something that the famous train robber couldn’t have destroyed, even with a well-placed bullet.

Lee’s grandpappy was his hero. When Lee was a boy, he hadn’t spent much time with Dobbs, a few days once or twice a year when Dobbs would show up for an unexpected visit, yet the old man had dominated Lee’s childhood. Lee’s dreams of his grandpappy’s adventures had shaped his hunger for fasttrains and fast guns, for gold bullion, for the feel of gold coins running through his fingers. Russell Dobbs was known throughout the West for having taken down more train money than any man alive, and in far more reckless confrontations than any man. Young Lee had dreamed of even more dramatic robberies, had dreamed of far more wealth even than his grandpappy had stolen and had so recklessly spent.

From the time Lee could handle a horse well enough to be of help, he had worked the ranch beside his daddy. His older brother was no good around cattle, and his two older sisters, Nora and Jenny, helped in the kitchen and in the vegetable garden—their parents didn’t believe in girls working with the cattle. Lee worked the ranch, but every waking moment he dreamed of a more exciting life. Even that day leaning on the fence beside Dobbs, staring out at the prairie at what looked like a twist of smoke moving and approaching, the boy was even more alarmed by the old man’s fear than by that half-seen specter, by the shadow of a man where there was no living figure. Dobbs had watched the figure so intently it seemed almost like it was speaking to him. Dobbs’s cheeks were pale beneath the leathered tan and when, after a long while,the haunt vanished, his grandpappy had started as if waking from a dream. And had looked down at Lee, trying to know for sure if Lee had seen it, too.

Well, the five pastured horses and that old steer had sure seen it, they were spooked as hell; but for some reason, none of them had spun and taken off away from it, none of them ran, they just stood staring, twitching and dumb in their fear. That summer, more than sixty years ago, something had visited his grandpappy there at the home ranch. Lee never doubted that Russell Dobbs knew what it was, and that he had seen it before.

Lee had heard talk, back then, that Dobbs drew the devil to him like fire drawn to tinder, some said that Dobbs had made a bargain with Satan, but others claimed that Dobbs, having beat the devil in a wager, would never be shut of him. Whatever the truth, in the pasture that morning, Lee’s grandpappy had been not only afraid, but angry.

After the steer and the horses had settled down, had stopped fidgeting and staring and gone to grazing again, and after his grandpappy had turned away, that was when Lee, still shaken, had turned and seen the yellow cat standing in the door of the barn watching him—and watching the empty prairie beyond, the cat’s back humped, its yellow fur standing up stiff, its golden eyes blazing.

That yellow cat had been afraid of nothing. Lee had liked that tomcat that would kill a rat as big as itself and, fast as lightning, could kill a rattlesnake—the yellow tomcat that was a dead ringer for the McNeil prison cat, for the cat that had slept on Lee’s bunk last night keeping him company after his visitor had vanished, the ragged and battered creature he wished was here now, beside him, to ease his fear of that little blue-eyed man, to calm the chill that, like a finger of ice, seemed lodged in Lee’s very soul.

5

But the big yellow catwas near. He lay curled up on the dusty mohair seat, as invisible as the air around him, unseen but impressing the faintest telltale indentation in the rough gray cloth of the seat cushion. Knowing Lee’s fear and rage, the tomcat purred for Lee, a subliminal song too faint for Fontana to consciously hear, but a sound the cat knew Lee would hear deep inside himself, a purr that matched the rhythm of the rocking train, a rough-throated mutter of comfort meant to ease Lee’s soul, a rumble generated not only by love but by the joy of life itself that, even in his ethereal form, the ghost cat carried with him.

But now Misto purred out of discomfort, too, out of concern for the old convict. A cat will purr not only when he’s happy, he purrs when he’s frightened or distressed. A mortal cat will deliberately purr to himself when he’s hurt or sick, a muttering song to hold on to, perhaps to calm himself, to make himself feel less alone. Now Misto purred for Lee, wanting to hold him steady, wanting to drive away the old cowboy’s sense of that little man’s glinting, blue-eyed presence, to rid Lee of the evil that kept returning seeking to terrify or to win him, grasping hungrily for Lee’s soul.

The blue-eyed man was gone now, the incubus was gone, his black leather briefcase gone, too, the satchel he’d left behind on the seat when he followed Lee out to the vestibule. The moment he’d vanished from the train, the briefcase had dissolved, poof, as completely as a mouse might disappear into the tomcat’s sharp-toothed gulp. But though the man and his briefcase were no more, an aura of evil still drifted within the passenger car, a miasma as caustic as smoke, touching the other passengers, too. A sleeping man woke and stared up the aisle and twisted to look behind him, studying his companions, scowling at the tightly closed doors at either end of the car. Up at the front, a woman laid down her book and half rose up, looking around nervously. Two women stood up from their seats staring all around, seeking the source of whatever had made them shiver. Two seats behind Lee, a toddler climbed into his mother’s lap howling out his own sense of fear. And beside Misto, Lee Fontana sat unmoving, still pale from the encounter in the vestibule, still edgy with the sense of the dark spirit that he knew wouldn’t leave him alone, with the devil’s curse that would continue to follow Dobbs’s descendants.

Lee knew only rough details of the plan Satan had laid out for Dobbs’s heirs those many years ago. He knew only what he’d heard rumored among his neighbors, back on the ranch. Gossip that, when Lee entered the room, would make folks go silent. Stories that the devil had set Dobbs up to destroy a certain gang of brothers, but that during the train robbery as thedevil planned it, Dobbs had turned the tables on Satan. That Dobbs’s deception had so enraged the devil, he had sworn to destroy every Dobbs heir, to force or entice each Dobbs descendant to drive their own souls into the flames, into the pit of hell itself. To destroy the soul of each, but particularly that of Lee Fontana who had so idolized the old train robber. As far as Lee knew, he might be Dobbs’s last heir, all Satan’s vindication against Dobbs’s supposed double cross could be focused, now, on Lee.

As the train slowed for the station ahead, Misto increased his purr, singing to Lee to soothe him; and as they pulled out again with barely time to take on one lone passenger, the cat purred until Lee settled back and dozed again; and beside him the ghost cat closed his eyes, lulled by the train’s rocking rumble.

The ghost cat did not need to sleep, sleep was a healing gift left over from life, a skill comforting and warm but not needed in the spirit world—a talent the newly released ghost must reconstruct from memory, must willfully summon back until he established the habit once more, if he chose to do so, if he wanted that earthly comfort. The yellow ghost cat had so chosen and, drifting now toward sleep, he purred to comfort himself as well asto comfort Lee.

The tomcat didn’t know what woke him. He rose suddenly, startled, half asleep. He shook himself and quickly left Lee’s side, drifting out through the wall of the passenger car, leaving a warm dent in the seat behind him. For a moment he rode the wind giddily, lashing his tail as he peered back in through the dirty window watching Lee, the cat gliding with pleasure alongside the speeding train, and then he somersaulted up to the roof, banking on the wind as agile as a soaring gull.

Landing lightly atop the speeding train, he settled down, still invisible, looking about at the world speeding by him, at the green fields beneath the snowcapped mountains and, off to his right, miles of green pasture and the dull and gentle cows; and they had left the dark, cold waters of Puget Sound behind them. But now, in the cat’s thoughts, he saw not the land that swept past the train, he saw back into a time long past, before ever that vast inland sea had formed, when all the land was dry, he saw into eons past, as it had been, saw a higher and mountainous shore, densely wooded, skirting the Pacific, a raised land with no hint of the deep bowl that would later be carved there to hold the deep waters of Puget Sound. He saw the great glacier to the north, easing slowly down over vast reaches of time, slowly scooping the land away, a gigantic beast of ice slithering and creeping down from the great northern ranges.

He saw a million years of time slip by as the glacier slowly toppled the ancient conifers and crushed them and dug away the land, as it dug the vast trench that would slowly fill with the waters of the sea and of the coastal rivers. He saw millions of years pass by, dwarfing all life into a speck smaller than the tiniest sneeze.

He shivered at the vastness of time, at the vastness of the earth itself, and at the short and tenuous span of life upon it. He perceived, as well as anyone could, that richly varied panorama of life forming and changing, that short span of the arrival of human life, of human evil and human good. He sensed as much of the grand design as his eager cat soul could embrace; but even so, he saw only a small portion of the grandeur which swept away to infinity, the vastness which no creature could truly comprehend.

Atop the train, the cat sensed when Lee woke. He knew when Lee sat up and looked around him, as the train pulled into the next small station. He knew Lee had been dreaming and that he was shaken, that he had experienced again an incident at McNeil that had greatly angered the old man. At once the cat returned to the passenger car, a whirl of air sweeping in through the dirty glass and onto the dusty seat: he was at once caught in Lee’s rage, in the aftermath of the prison rape in which Lee had faced off young Brad Falon.

Falon, a surly man less than half Lee’s age, had been Lee’s enemy ever since that encounter.

He had been Misto’s enemy far longer, yet for very different reasons. The tomcat had yet to make sense of the pattern between the two conflicts, but he knew that in some way they were linked together.

When Misto left McNeil for that short time after he died and was buried in the prison yard, he had fallen into a new life almost at once, he was born in a small Southern town, a squirming and energetic kitten who was soon picked from the big, healthy litter to be given as a birthday present to little Sammie Blake. He had grown up loved by the little girl and loving her, had grown into a strong, defiant big tomcat when he found himself protecting Sammie against Brad Falon and was murdered by Falon’s hand.

Falon had been the cat’s adversary in Misto’s last life, and he was bonded in some indecipherable way to Lee himself and to what would happen to Lee. There was a pattern building, a tangle the cat could as yet barely see, a relationship between Lee, and Brad Falon, and Misto’s little girl—the tomcat had yet to make sense of the pattern, but he didn’t like it much.

Sammie was five when her daddy brought the tiny yellow kitten home to her, just before he was sent overseas in the Second World War. Sammie’s mama worked as a bookkeeper in their little town of Rome, Georgia, and their small rented house seemed very empty, once Morgan had gone. Empty, and then soon vulnerable. The minute Morgan Blake left for the navy, Becky’s and Morgan’s old schoolmate began to come around, uninvited. Brad Falon was a well-muscled, pushy young man. In high school he had run with Morgan, but Becky had never liked him. Now he began to annoy Becky, coming to the door, frightening Sammie with his cold eyes and slippery talk. Becky never let him in, but he kept coming. The late night he came there drunk, pounding on the locked door, not beseeching anymore but demanding to be let in, and then breaking in, it was Misto who drove him off.

As Brad broke a window, reached in and unlocked it, Becky ran to the phone. Falon knocked out most of the glass, and swung through. He grabbed the phone from Becky, threw it against the wall. When little Sammie flew at him, he hit her hard against the table. He shoved Becky to the floor and knelt over her, hitting her and pulling up her skirt. As Becky yelled at Sammie to run, the big yellow cat exploded from the bedroom, landing in Falon’s face raking and biting him. Brad tried to pull him off then flicked open his pocketknife.

The cat fought him, dodging the knife. Becky grabbed a shard of broken glass and flew at Falon. He hit her, had her down again, cutting her. The cat was on him again when a neighbor heard their screams and came running; the wiry old fellow saw the broken window and climbed through, but already Falon had fled, banging out through the front door.

Behind him, Misto lay dying from a long, gaping wound that bled too fast, that bled away his life before anyone could help him. But even as Falon fled, Misto’s ghost rose and followed. He followed as Falon dodged the police, gained his car and took off fast heading out of Rome, heading for Atlanta. The Rome cops didn’t like Falon, they wouldn’t be gentle if they caught him, nor would the county D.A. Some of the younger officers, having gone through school with Falon, observing the trouble he had caused all those years, might indeed have turned to law enforcement careers in an effort to right the wrongs of the world.

At the airport south of Atlanta Falon bought a plane ticket and an hour later, nervously drinking coffee from a paper cup, he boarded a flight for the West Coast, where he had connections who could be useful in whatever venture he chose to pursue. As Falon settled into the dusty seat in the DC-4, Misto drifted into the plane and settled unseen beside him, not too close, but unwilling to lose sight of him.

Falon had friends in a number of West Coast cities. Why, the cat wondered, had he headed for Seattle? Had that urge been formed simply at Falon’s random choice? Or, by Satan’s wishes? Why Seattle, not twenty miles from where Lee was doing federal time at McNeil? The ghost cat couldn’t pretend to understand the forces at work here, but Falon’s destination distressed him. Lee had no connection to Falon, and no connection to Georgia where Falon had grown up. Lee might have no family left anywhere, as far as he knew. He had lived his life on the run, had left the home ranch as a hot-tempered sixteen-year-old, and had not kept in touch with his relatives.

Misto, even in his ghostly state, couldn’t know everything. There was, however, the one puzzling link: the mirrorlike resemblance between Lee’s little sister, Mae, and little Sammie Blake. Mae Fontana, born a lifetime ago, before Sammie, whose old tintype picture, taken at their South Dakota ranch, Lee had carried with him all these years, in and out of prison, the picture he still carried among his meager belongings. Two little girls more alike than twins, the exact same wide brown eyes, same little heart-shaped faces, same dimples cleaving deep, the same crooked smiles, the same long pale hair so painful to comb free of tangles. Two little girls from two different centuries, more alike than twins could be. Misto had known of no connection between Lee and Mae, and Sammie. Until now, when in some inexplicable manner Brad Falon formed the connection.

When Falon killed Misto, when Misto rose as ghost to follow Falon out to the West Coast, Falon soon committed a bank robbery in which he shot a guard in the leg. He was tried, summarily convicted in federal court, and was sent from Seattle to the nearest federal prison, at McNeil Island. Though his sentence was shorter than the U.S. attorney would have liked, there was no question in the ghost cat’s mind that forces beyond his ken had brought Falon and Lee together.

Did the dark spirit, with his persistent hatred of Lee’s ancestor, mean to use Falon against Russell Dobbs’s grandson, against the failing old man? But how was little Sammie a part of his plan, this child so like Lee’s sister? If she were in some unknown way also a descendant of Russell Dobbs, then she, too, would be in danger.

When, at McNeil, Lee’s emphysema grew worse on cold, damp days, but then he felt good again when sunshine warmed the island, he grew increasingly desperate about his old age, grew more determined to pull off one more job when he got out; he did not mean to face his failing years with nothing to support himself.

With sympathy the cat remained near him. Misto was witness when, not a week after Falon arrived at McNeil, the prison rape occurred that so enraged Lee, the conflict between Lee and Falon playing, clearly, into the dark web Lee’s adversary was weaving. As Lee confronted younger, stronger Falon, did the dark spirit expect Falon to kill Lee? More in keeping with the devil’s plans, the cat thought, would be that Lee kill Falon in a passion of unbridled rage that would destroy Lee’s own salvation.

Or was the confrontation between Falon and Lee intended to lay some pattern for the future, for a plan that would prove even more satisfying to the dark one? Though Misto could move back and forth within short periods of time, when it came to the complicated shape of the distant and tangled future, he was as lost as if trying to swim the heaving depths of Puget Sound.

But whatever the devil’s purpose in bringing Lee and Falon together, it was surely no accident, and the yellow tom grew increasingly wary for Lee—just as he worried for Sammie herself, who was somehow entangled with Lee’s own destiny.

6

After Lee’s encounter with Brad Falon he’d found himself watching the shadows more carefully, and he didn’t like this kind of fear. He had been headed for the laundry that afternoon, had started to cut through the exercise room when he saw half a dozen jocks in there pumping iron. One of them, a new arrival, had eyes as cold as a hunting vulture. Brad Falon had already gathered a cluster of followers around him, and Lee didn’t want to mess with him. His good sense told him to turn back and go a different way, to avoid trouble, but he stubbornly pushed on in. Afterward, hours later, he wonderedwhy he’d done that. The men watched him expressionlessly from where they worked the weights, the press, their rhythm never ceasing but their eyes never leaving him, their stripped bodies sleek with sweat. Lee moved on past, knowing this wasn’t smart, feeling Falon’s stare and not liking it. When, behind him, the rhythm of the weight machine stopped, he tightened his grip on the knife in his pocket, didn’t falter or let his glance flicker.

He entered the auto shop skirting a battered touring car set up on blocks waiting for a rebirth. No one entered behind him, and he could still hear the steady rhythm of the exercise equipment. Passing the touring car—a badly dented relic, one fender twisted, paint peeling over heavy rust, cloth top in tatters—he heard a faint moan.

Beyond the car against the wall lay a power sprayer beside half a dozen cans of paint. A motor block hung suspended from chains over a greasy tarp. He heard the moan again, a wrenching cry from among a stack of cardboard cartons. He glanced back toward the exercise room, then moved fast.

Behind the boxes lay a young inmate curled into the fetal position, his face covered by his pulled-up shirt, his naked ribs sucking in quick, shallow breaths. Bloody scratches covered his back. Lee had seen him around the prison yard. Randy Sanderford, a clean-faced boy doing three for an identity scam. His pants and shorts had been pulled down around his ankles, his blue shirt jerked over his face and mouth, likely muffling his yells. Bright red blood and semen spread from his rectum down his inner thighs.

Lee lifted and half carried him to the shower between the shop and the exercise room. Now he could sense a stirring among the jocks. The machines were silent. Listening warily, he stripped Randy down and turned the warm water on him, shoved the lye soap at him, told him to scrub, and where to scrub. The youngster hadn’t spoken. He gripped the soap, shivering, began to wash, wincing at the pain. Above the shower Lee could hear the men moving around again, heard the outer door pop air as it closed. Randy whimpered once, then was quiet. Lee stood watching him, filled with rage at the useless jocks but with rage at the kid, too, for being so stupid, for letting this happen to him. The water stopped at last. Randy came out shivering. Blood still flowed, thinned by the water on his body. The boy stared at Lee, frightened and ashamed.

“What did you do, go in there to work out with that bunch? No one has to tell me this is your first time in the joint.”

The boy began to cry.

“I’m going to tell you something, Sanderford. When you come into a place like this you’d better have one of two things with you, an ice pick or a jar of Vaseline. You’re going to need one or the other.”

Randy dried himself off with his shirt, staining it with blood.“I just came down to work out, I didn’t … I was working the bench press when they grabbed me …” His face flushed.

“What the hell did you think would happen? You thought they were just a bunch of nice guys in there working out, that you’d waltz in, introduce yourself, and you’d all be friends?”

Randy looked so shamefaced that Lee wanted to smash him. Didn’t the kid have any sense? Where the hell had he been all his life? What had he learned in his twenty-some years? “Hell, Sanderford. These prison turks aren’t little kids playing dirty games in the barn.” The baby-faced kid looked like he’d never been anywhere, like he’d had his nose wiped all his life by his rich mama. Sanderford wiped his mouth and smoothed back his hair.

“These men don’t just rape, Sanderford. They’d think nothing more of killing you than of crushing a cockroach.” Lee stared down at his own clenched fists, stifling an alarming desire to work Sanderford over, to beat the hell out of the kid, beat some sense into him. Shocked by his own rage,he stared hard at Sanderford, and turned away.

He had no reason to feel this boiling rage, this wasn’t his normal response to a dumb kid, this kind of anger. He stood puzzled, watching Sanderford pull on his clothes. “You’d better do some thinking, kid, better decide how you’re going to stay out of trouble in here, how you’re going to defend yourself if you mean to survive in this joint.” Trying to get his anger under control, Lee saw again Brad Falon’s stare, felt again the cold threat, was so enraged that heavy coughing rose up in his sick lungs, choking him.

He walked Sanderford back to his cell, got him there in time for the afternoon count. He traded a pack of cigarettes to a reliable inmate for a small bottle of iodine, and paid a second pack to get the iodine smuggled in to Sanderford. Lee didn’t smoke, the coffin nails were for trading. Tired and irritable, he went on to his own cell and lay on his bunk coughing and spitting up phlegm. The day hadn’t started out good, and the next days didn’t get any better. He was sick enough, the doc pulled him off farmwork for a week. Sanderford followed Lee like a lost puppy, after he was raped. The kid was grateful, but mostly he wanted protection. And, whether Randy was following him or not, Lee would catch Falon watching him from across the yard, a calculating coldness that made him want to waste Falon. He felt a threat from the man that wasn’t just prison fear and wariness. Something more, as if the very shadows where Falon sometimes stood, watched him, too. And Falon’s derision was magnified when Sanderford was hanging around. Lee sent Randy packing twice, but the kid kept coming back. He had lost patience when Sanderford,in desperation, began laying out scams to him.

Some of the moves were new to Lee, they were good ones and he found himself listening. The kid seemed to know his way around businesses and banks, though his easy life hadn’t taught him much else. A dropout from UC Berkeley, whose pronounced heart murmur had kept him out of the service, the kid had disowned his family, hating their values, hating everything he called the establishment. He had blown the money his father gave him on women and on three expensive cars that he demolished one after the other while drunk. For kicks, he began ripping off the colleges his father forced him to enter. When he got into big trouble at Cal, his father at last threw him out and cut off his allowance. Within a week Randy had gotten a job as salesman at a small jewelry store.Within six months he had taken the owner for ninety thousand dollars and disappeared. Then, while living on the interest from the ninety thousand, he began ripping off banks. The boy had talent, Lee gave him that. He was clever and inventive, and Lee tucked away the scams for future use. If things were real changed on the outside, if he couldn’t pull the kind of job he had in mind, maybe he’d have a go at the traveler’s check operation.

“All you have,” Randy said, “is the little transaction slip you get from the first bank, with the numbers of the traveler’s checks on it, to show the second bank.

“Two things are important at the second bank, the way you give your sob story, and the bank’s willingness to please without checking out your story. You have to be subtle. Honest and quiet, and not too quick with the charm.” Lee thought Sanderford, with that innocent face and big blue eyes, would have little trouble conning some young teller.

“I always pick large, busy banks in big cities,” Randy said. “They want your business, they’ll bend over backward to please the customer. If you need a few hundred bucks, that’s the way to do it.” The boy gave Lee an innocent smile. “Good idea, though, to have false ID. The second bank always wants to see something.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been questioned. Every time, I just walked out of there cool as you please with the cash in my hand.”

But Sanderford had been arrested and imprisoned for a different kind of forgery that, Randy said himself, was amateurish and stupid. He had been so intent on the convertible he had stolen that he had let his attempt to cash a simple forged check trap him, he said he never would have stolen the car in the first place if he hadn’t been drunk. Lee thought maybe if Sanderford left the booze alone he’d make a first-rate con man. But Lee didn’t like the kid. Sanderford was intelligent, very bright. But if he hated the world so much, why didn’t he give up the booze, knuckle down, andreally milk the humanity he despised? Watching the baby-faced boy, Lee felt only disgust for him.

7

The rocking rhythm of the train and the stuffy heat of the car put Lee to sleep again in a luxury of malaise. He had no need to wake and hustle around, no prison job to go to, no lockdown time to think about, not even a set mealtime. He woke and ate his sandwich, and when the vendor came around, he bought another for later. He slept and woke as he chose, enjoying his freedom, looking out the window at the green pastures and at the long orchard rows fanning by so fast they dizzied him if he looked too long. Or looking down at the streets and into the windows of the small towns where the train crept through, or out at the boxcars crowded into the freight yards, and then as they gained speed once more he’d ease back, soothed by the green hills, or by the climb into the dark and wooded mountains, the train rocking and tilting, taking the narrow curves. He liked traveling, liked moving on, he liked the speed that made him feel suspended in time, with nothing to stop him or fret him.

Nothing except that sometimes when he woke he had dreamed dark dreams, would come awake planning crimes that were not his kind of brutality, actions against others that disgusted him, would wake to ugly suggestions and to the hoary presence that wouldn’t leave him alone, that was more real than any dream. But then sometimes he’d wake feeling easier and was aware of the prison cat beside him, lying warm and invisible on the seat next to him—nothing to see, the seat empty except for his sandwich wrapper and his spread-out newspapers. But thecat was there, curled next to him. Reaching into the empty space, Lee could feel his warmth, and when he could feel the rough, thick texture of the tomcat’s fur, and when he stroked the ghost cat, a gentle paw pulled his hand down closer, the big invisible tom enjoying the stroking just as much ashe had in real life.

Lee told himself he imagined the cat, and that he’d imagined the dark presence in his dreams and in his cell that last night, told himself he had only imagined the evil in that puny little blue-eyed salesman. But he knew he had imagined none of it. He knew what he’d seen, that both the ghost cat and that chill shadow were more than real as they followed him onto the train.

He was happy to have the cat, he was good company, a friendly and comforting spirit to steady and embolden him. But he didn’t need his darker traveling companion. Spirit, haunt, whatever you’d name him, Lee knew it was the same unworldly presence that had tormented his grandpappy when Lee was a boy. He didn’t need this chill spirit that had made a bargain with old Russell Dobbs and for which Lee himself was now being prodded—being pushed toward the devil’s due, as some might call it, that the dark spirit seemed to think he deserved.

It was May of 1882 when Russell Dobbs, in the line of his work, relieved the Indiana Flyer of ten thousand dollars’ worth of gold bullion just north of Camrose, South Dakota. Stopping the train where it slowed at a curve, Russell boarded with his partner, Samil Hook. Samil was a little man, wiry, and a crack shot. Dobbs towered over him, muscular and rough shaven. Between them they took down the conductor and the four crew members, left them tied in the express car while they loaded eight canvas bags of gold bullion into a small spring wagon.

Leaving the train, the two men separated. Samil drove the wagon, keeping to the deep woods along a narrow timber trail to a cabin hidden in a stand of pine trees ten miles north of Agar. Russell didn’t worry that Samil would double-cross him, Samil feared Russell with a passion far more powerful than greed. Samil knew Russell wouldn’t kill a train man if he could avoid it, but that he would kill a friend who deceived him as casually as shooting a rabbit for his breakfast.

Leaving Samil and the wagon, Russell rode alone to Cliffordsville where he holed up in the Miner’s Hotel. The proprietress always took a keen pleasure in sheltering him. She would swear he had been there for better than a week. It was the next morning, early, one of the bartenders came to Mattie Lou’s door to tell Russell a gentleman, a stranger, was asking for him.

As far as Russell knew, no one but Mattie Lou had seen him slip in through the back entry, and Mattie Lou had told no one. He finished dressing, strapped on his gun belt, and went down the back stairs so as to come on the visitor from behind.

Halfway down, a man stood in the shadows of the landing. City clothes, fancy dark suit, embroidered cravat, soft black pigskin gloves—and the gleam of metal as his hand slipped inside his coat. Russell drew, fired twice point-blank, close enough to blow out the side of a barn.

The man didn’t fall.

Russell saw no wound, no blood. The stranger eased up the stairs never taking his eyes from Russell, his Colt .36 revolver fixed on Russell as steadily as his smile. Russell fired three more rounds, again hitting the man square in the belly. Again, he didn’t fall, didn’t jerk, didn’t seem to feel the impact.

“Perhaps by now, Russell, you have guessed who I am?”

Russell had seen his bullets enter a man and disappear into nowhere. Hadn’t seen them strike anything behind the man. He fired again knowing the impact should put the man down, knowing it wouldn’t. He looked toward the hotel lobby expecting that people would have heard the shots.

“No one can hear us, Russell.”

“What the hell are you?”

“I think you know what I am.”

Russell wasn’t a religious man. If the way he lived sent him to hell, so be it. But he sure hadn’t expected hell to come seeking him. “What do you want?”

“I want your help. In exchange, of course, I offer you a gift.”

Russell waited.

“I can give you freedom from death and injury, I can make you impervious to any wound including those caused by a knife or bullet.”

Russell had heard that old saw around a dozen campfires. But the man smiled.“Maybe you have heard it, Russell. This time, it’s no tall story. Freedom from sickness, too. From pain. From death by any weapon. Freedom to live in health until you are an old, old man.”

“An old man? How old?”

“Past eighty.”

In those days, fifty was a respectable age. Russell waited. The man straightened his cravat, leaned comfortably against the hotel wall, and laid out his proposition.

“There are two families, brothers. The Vickerses and the Loves. Bad blood between them. With every coast-to-coast train worth taking down, it’s a standoff who gets in position first to rob it.”

“I know all that.”

“Last week, the Loves robbed the mail train out of Topeka. The law was on their tail, and they had half a dozen lookouts when they buried the gold. Meant to return for it that night. The Vickerses found it, dug it up, then turned Lem and Cleve Love in to Pinkerton.” The man smiled. “They did it to cut down the competition. You can imagine how that inflamed the feud.”

“So?” Russell watched him warily.

“Cage Vickers is the only one in his family who doesn’t steal. Some kind of throwback, maybe. Whatever his problem, he’s pure as a newborn. And,” he said, smiling, “he’s fallen for Tessa Love, he means to marry her.”

Russell turned away. This was of no interest to him.“I have a friend waiting.”

He was stopped cold, couldn’t move, he couldn’t touch his gun in the holster.

The stranger continued.“Neither family would allow him to marry Tessa. He’s decided to get rid of them all, to kill them all, including his own brothers. He tells himself they’re all without virtue, that he’d be doing the world a favor.”

Again Russell tried to move, but he was locked in a grip as tight as if he’d been turned to stone.

“When the next big gold shipment comes through out of California, heading east, Cage plans to set up both families to be caught red-handed when they try to stop the freight. Once they’re locked up and convicted—he’s hoping safe behind bars, on long sentences—he means to marry Tessa, leavethis part of the country, and vanish.”

“Fine. Then the trains will all be mine.”

“I don’t want that, I’ve taken a lot of trouble manipulating the Midwestern railroads. Through the right people in Washington I’ve been able to infuriate every settler who thought he was going to buy railroad land for a dollar an acre, I’ve worked to increase the land prices, to foment a strike against the railroad that has escalated into a small civil war. It’s already cost the railroads a nice sum, and the public, enraged by the government railway, has turned to protecting the train robbers. No,” he said, smiling, “I like things just as I have them, I want no change, I don’t want the gangs stopped, I want Cage Vickers stopped. I don’t like his plan. I want Vickers brought down.”

“So do it, you’re the one with the power.” Trying again vainly to move his feet or to reach the butt of his gun though he doubted a bullet would faze the apparition.

“I can’t stop him, the stupid boy is totally pure, he can’t see me, can’t hear me, he’s beyond my influence.”

Russell scowled.“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“I can’t change events. I can only influence the players—some of them. There has to be a respectable amount of evil in a man before I can reach him.”

“Hell, I’m not killing Cage Vickers, if that’s what you want. And I’d be a fool to try to warn his brothers or the Loves. Any one of them would fill me full of holes.”

The visitor waited.

“I gather this bargain wouldn’t take effect until after I’d done the deed. That your protection of my life wouldn’t begin until I’d already risked my neck for you.”

“That is so. However, if you don’t stop Cage Vickers, I’ll take great pleasure, when the time of your death arrives, in seeing you suffer, eternally, in ways you can’t yet imagine.”

Russell said nothing.

“With the bargain I offer, you will have a long, pain-free, and profitable life, any kind of life you choose—youth and wealth and beautiful women, enviable power and superb health.

“You have only to stop Cage Vickers, see that none of the brothers are apprehended, and not go to the law yourself.

“If you refuse my bargain, I have within my power many creative ways to annoy and harass you for the remainder of your miserable life, runaway horses, train conductors who are fast and accurate and lust for blood, women who, once you have made love to them, feel an overwhelming desire to maim youas you lie sleeping beside them. Little things, Russell, accomplished through the minds of others, but oh, so effective.”

Russell remembered stories of multiple calamities that beset some men over an entire lifetime, innocent men saddled with strings of disasters that defied all laws of probability.

“If you work with me,” the dark spirit said, “you will know no sickness, no wound or pain, no bullet will ever touch you, you will not die of any cause until you are an old, old man and still healthy and vigorous. Even then, your death will be peaceful, no pain and no fear.”

“And in exchange,” Russell said, “I stop Cage Vickers from getting the Loves and the Vickerses arrested, so they can go on robbing trains. That seems simple enough.”

“That is the bargain.”

Russell was a born gambler, that’s what robbing the trains was all about. But he’d never played for stakes like these. “Under what circumstances,” he said softly, “would you consider that I had bested you?”

“Under no circumstances. If you do as I say, that won’t happen.”

“If Cage’s plan fails, if neither family takes the train down successfully and no one of either family is arrested, I would be free of you?”

“You would.”

“And you would uphold your bargain.”

He nodded.

“Would you throw in that Cage and Tessa marry anyway, and live long and happy lives together, without the ire or retribution of either family?”

“Why would I do that? I told you that my powers are limited. I can only influence, I can’t twist fate.”

Russell looked back at him and kept his thoughts locked tight inside himself. He received so penetrating a look in return that he had to fight to keep from glancing away. He stared at the stranger until suddenly the figure vanished. The stair and alley lay empty.

Russell stood in the alley shivering. And slowly considering his options.

His question had not been answered. He had no real promise from the stranger. He thought about that a long time, then at last he turned and made his way back up the stairs, to his lady friend.

8

The train bucked and slowed, waking Lee as the conductor hurried through calling out,“Centralia. Five minutes.” Straightening up, he watched out the window as the mailbags were heaved off. Two passengers descended from the car ahead, hurrying inside the long, red-roofed brick building, then almost at once they were pulling out again, the white peak of Mount Saint Helens towering bright, to his left, against the heavy gray sky, bringing half a dozen passengers rushing to Lee’s side of the train to look. But soon Lee slept again, only vaguely aware of the frequent hollow rumbles as the train crossed the railroad bridges that spanned Washington’s swift rivers. When the sour smell of caged chickens filled the train, passing through Winlock, he looked out at the long, ugly rows of wooden chicken houses and, beyond them, a tractor and trailer spreading chicken manure on the vegetable fields. Not a job he’d want, not mired in that smell all day.

Soon, dozing, he woke again when they skirted the Columbia, the river’s giant rafts of logs moving below him, down toward Lake Vancouver headed for the sawmills. How would it be to settle down here along the shore somewhere in a little shack, get some sort of job, maybe taking care of someone’s horses, forget his grand plans for a hefty robbery and for that life-sustaining nest egg? Forget his urge to take on the feds one last time, to outsmart them once and for good? Along the green of the marsh, the train’s approach sent restless flocks of shorebirds exploding up into the sour mist, sweeping away beneath low, heavy clouds. There’d be a twenty-minute stop at Portland, where Lee thought to get off and stretch his aching legs. Sitting too long stove him up like a stall-bound cowpony that was never let out to run.

It was stormy coming into Portland, the afternoon sky darkening, the streets slick with rain. Ignoring the drizzle, he moved out into the train’s vestibule where he could get a good look. The streets were busy with fast, slick cars, so many of them, kicking up water along the gutters, streets lined with impressive new buildings sandwiched in between the comfortable old brick-and-stone structures from an earlier time. The train slowed approaching the three-story station, its peaked roof and the tall, handsome clock tower stark against the gray sky. But far ahead beyond the city, light streaked the sky where the storm looked to be clearing, to be moving on north passing over the train. The station lights glowed, the neon signs announcing, UNION STATION. GO BY TRAIN. Stepping back to his seat, he made sure his wrapped sandwiches were in plain sight on his two seats atop his neatly arranged newspapers, hoping to mark his occupancy.

Moving down the metal steps and into the station, he stood staring around the vast terminal, looking up at the high, domed ceiling towering above him, at its soaring structure of curved and interlaced crossbeams. The sound of other trains departing and arriving was only background to the loudspeaker’s harsh and metallic commands. People hurried past him talking quickly, hauling luggage, shouting to others ahead of them. When he didn’t move out of the way, they shouldered past him, scowling, busy travelers louder and more intense than a crowd of inmates, and way less disciplined. Women laughing, folks in little clusters talking frantically, kids running in and out between them not caring if they stepped on your feet. He wandered, pushing through, battered and pummeled. Maybe he should have stayed in his seat, quiet and away from people. Feeling in his pocket to be sure he had his ticket, he at last retreated into a small tobacco shop, a crowded little cubicle.

The smell of the rich tobacco was homey and welcoming though he’d never smoked or chewed, a heady scent that stirred something from the past he couldn’t place. A woman stood behind the little counter, one hand on the cash register. Young, skinny, red hair to her shoulders, freckles heavy across her nose and cheeks. A baby in a carriage behind the counter, tucked up in its blue blanket and, when he glanced down over the counter, a little girl sitting on the floor playing with a set of jacks. He felt embarrassed coming in here when he didn’t mean to buy anything.

“To get out of the crowd,” he said shyly, looking at the young woman. “Too many people out there.”

At the sound of his voice the child behind the counter looked up at him. Her gaze never wavering, she stood up clutching the edge of the counter, staring up at him with a steady, bold look that shocked him. Her look was so like his little sister Mae’s, that he took a step back. Well, she didn’t look like Mae, she had carroty red hair like her mother, a pale, freckled face that would have burned easily in that long-ago South Dakota sun. But beneath the child’s black lashes, her brown eyes proffered the same challenging gaze as Mae’s bold assessment: curious about him, unafraid but with a look deeper down that said if anyone reached to hurt her she’d kick and bite as desperately as a roped mustang. A look that put him in mind of the first time he put Mae on the back of a horse, a small old cowpony, back behind the hay barn wheretheir mother wouldn’t see. He’d started to lead her along, walking beside her, holding her firmly in the saddle—with disdain she had taken the reins from his hand, pushed him away, kneed the cowpony as if she’d done that all her life, and moved on out at a nice fast walk, legs and heels where they should be though her feet didn’t reach the stirrups, a nice easy seat that told him she’d been watching the cowmen since she was big enough to look out the window, that she had absorbed what she wanted from them and didn’t want his interference. Though later, learning to rein a cowpony,spinning him, hopping over logs, opening gates and then learning to rope, she’d listened and followed what he showed her.

This child wasn’t anything like Mae but the same strong spirit was there in her eyes and a belated grieving hit him, a terrible longing for his small sister that nearly undid him. He bought two candy bars from the young mother, where she kept a little shelf of treats and a few magazines among the cigars and cigarettes and cans of tobacco and bags of Dull Durham. He left the shop quickly. When, once, he looked back, the child was still staring. He hurried on to the train, hoping his seat wasn’t taken.

Lee dozed out of Portland, dreaming of his childhood and of those early days when he left home at sixteen, horse and saddle and a few coins in his pocket, going out on his own. Leaving his little sister behind, and that was the last he ever saw or heard of her. He didn’t know why he hadn’t kept in touch, written to her once in a while. He was young and hotheaded and too busy making his own life, trying to survive among grown men, some of them cruel as a hungry buzzard. He knew Mae was all right, there at home, and he knew she could take care of herself.

He woke to darkened windows, night drawing down. He ate another ham sandwich and the two candy bars. The few farm lights he could see far off were dim and scattered. The passengers around him snoozed, lulled by the train’s hypnotic rhythm. The crowding of strangers together into a protected metal womb that raced free across the dark land seemed strange and unreal, as if they were all caught in the same inexplicable dream. The passengers around him had pulled on sweaters, opened their traveling bags to strew jackets and personal belongings out across the few empty seats. The little toddler up front seemed the most alive, whining and squirming. When the boy made a bad smell, his mother grabbed him up, snatched up her carryall, and hurried him off to the restroom. That stink, mixed with the stale-sandwich smell and the gathering odor of stale sweat, grew so heavy that at last Lee returned to the vestibule, where he could breathe, stood looking out at the night, sucking in the good cold wind.

He remained there alone, wary that the invasive shadow would return, but more caught up in the long-ago nights of the past when he rode balanced on a galloping train, waiting for the moment when he would enter the engineer’s car, force the frightened man to stop the train, when he and his partner would tie up the engineer and the one or two guards, would relieve them of the mail and money bags, would step down again into the night and be gone before their victims could free themselves.

He remained in the vestibule until he was freezing, then headed back to his seat. Buttoning his jacket tight, he settled down, pulling the newspapers over him. When sleep took him, no dark spirit bothered him; waking sometimes, he saw only his reflection in the glass, against black emptiness—but then he woke suddenly to see the moon had risen, and he sat up startled, staring out.

A foreign land lay beyond the glass, a nightmare vision as twisted and unnatural as the face of the moon or of some distant and virulent planet: moonstruck lava ridges rising up twisted into phantasmic shapes casting unearthly shadows around them, towering, twisted specters sprung from bare earth where no tree, no bush, or blade could survive, only those monstrous twists of rising stone formed eons ago, by the ancient volcanoes that still marched across this land and north into Canada. The stark remnant of times long past held him, too fascinated to look away. How long he watched he wasn’t sure before he felt suddenly the weight of the ghost cat pressing against him, warm against his jacket, and could hear him purring. When he looked down, Misto was there looking up at him; the ghost cat twitched a whisker, making Lee smile.

Did Misto mean to travel with him clear to his destination, clear to Blythe? Lee hoped that was his intention, though he didn’t know why the big yellow tom would want to head for that parched desert, he didn’t know why Misto was so determined to stay with him. Whatever the reason, the security of the big tomcat eased him—a bold guardian against the dark thoughts that too often pushed and prodded at him. Lee was learning to depend on that steadying sense of rightness that the burly beast lent him, that sense of stubborn protection that Lee found so comforting.

Misto dozed warm and close against Lee, purring as the cat idly dipped into his own memories, into thoughts of his own past lives. He thought about Lee and Mae as children, and then remembered lives lived long before that one, recalling dark medieval times when cats were thought to be witches’ familiars, when he had barely escaped murder as one of these, and he remembered another time when he hadn’t escaped, when he had been hanged with the so-called witch beside him, a lovely, dark-haired young woman whose spirit, too, had moved on into a happier realm.

How variable the fate of cats, and of their consorts, over the centuries, from those times of bloody cruelty, to the luxuriant idolatry a pampered cat knew in ancient Egypt. How indecipherable the vicissitudes of time, how mysterious the meaning of life for all living creatures. Drifting off into sleep, Misto wondered at how unfathomable life was, and of the far more vast spirit, wondered at the mysteries in all their eternal truths that not even the far-seeing ghost cat could decipher.

When Lee woke, the cat was gone. Only the sense of him remained and a lingering warmth against his jacket. The sun was up, the Oregon smog vanished, and the smell of the sea came strong. He looked out at the rolling waves brightening the Pacific, and at the green hills and tall forests north of San Francisco; and on a whim, knowing he shouldn’t spend the money, he thought of having breakfast in the fancy dining car. Rising, he went to wash himself in the restroom. He shaved, cleaned up as best he could, and then headed up through the passenger cars and the sleeping cars with their little, closed cubicles.

In the dining car, he expected to have to stand in line but it was early, the waiters were just getting set up, laying out heavy silverware, fine glasses, and white napkins on bright white tablecloths. He was seated alone at a small table. The East Bay hills swept by on his left, a glimpse of the sea and dark redwoods across to his right. Sipping the best coffee he’d tasted in ten years, he ordered three fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, and a biscuit with gravy. He hadn’t dined like this since well before McNeil, and he didn’t expect to do so again, not in the foreseeable future.

He returned to his seat heavy with too much food, and as they made their way down the coast he tried not to sleep, he sat enjoying the bright green of the hilly pastures and the fat livestock. There were new calves everywhere, and a bull mounting a cow not a hundred feet from the train brought embarrassed giggles down the length of the car.

It was dusk as they approached the outskirts of L.A., too overcast to see the great letters marking the Hollywood Hills, but the nearer lights of the small towns swept by clear enough, picking out homelier neighborhoods, small businesses, and little wooden cottages tucked among tall Victorian homes. He tried to read the cheap dime novel he’d brought, but now he kept envisioning, at every scene he read, a crueler way to handle the action, a colder and more sadistic turn that the writer should have thought of himself.

Approaching the L.A. station, the train edged slowly through what seemed miles of lighted freight yard. As soon as they came to a halt and the conductor stepped aside, Lee swung out of his seat and down the steps, carrying his few belongings. Inside the station he ignored the crowds that pushed around him as he walked the length of the big building trying to ease his aching legs, trying to come fully awake, after sitting too long on the train.

He had a long layover here. He asked questions, found the gate where he’d board, found a wooden bench to himself, and at last he spread out his papers, and settled in. He’d be glad when he hit Blythe. Right now, he never wanted to see another train. Not as a passenger, shut in with a bunch of strangers, and not with evenone whining kid. He lay down on the bench trying to sleep, trying to ignore the noise of people hurrying around him, but he had slept too much on the train. Restless, he read for a while, in the poor light, and then rose and paced the station again, trying to make the hours go faster. And then at last, tired out, he found another bench, lay down again covered with his papers and coat, lay waiting for morning, waiting for his train to Blythe.

9

Lee jerked awake as the train’s couplings shifted, he could feel the engine straining as it began the heavy pull up Banning Pass, the passenger car rocking in the sharp wind that swept down between the mountains. He was glad to have left L.A. behind him and San Bernardino, too—he had stayed on the train during that two-hour layover there, hadn’t swung off to report to his parole officer as his printed instructions told him to do, he hadn’t felt like it. If the PO wanted to see him he could find him in Blythe, at work as his release plan told him to do. He had boarded the train to Blythe bleary-eyed and stiff after sleeping on that hard wooden bench most of the night; even a sprung prison cot would have been luxury. Breakfast had been a dry sandwich in the train station, at a little booth where the giggling shopkeeper must have had those dried-up ham-and-cheese treats stashed for a week or more.

As the train strained rising up the pass he looked out below him, down at the vast apple orchards, miles of green trees marching in straight formation across the high desert. Rising from his seat, he moved stiffly out to the vestibule, stood in the fresh wind smelling the heady scent of apple blossoms, the sweetness making him think again of Lucita, of old passions never fulfilled. One time, they’d been rodeoing, he and Jake and Lucita, not riding but just as spectators, just for the hell of it, sitting on a fenceat Salinas watching the bull riding, but ready to swing off the rail fast if the Brahma turned in their direction. When the bull did head for them Lucita swung off but she caught her heel and nearly fell. They both grabbed her, pulled her up, but it was Lee she clung to. He’d felt her excitement, clinging close, both of them rising to the same urge—until she looked up, saw Jake’s expression, and she pulled away from Lee straightening her vest and hat. She was so beautiful. Long, dark hair down over her shoulders, so slim in her leather vest, her pale silk shirtand well-fitting jeans, the silver jewelry at her throat and wrists exotic and cool against her deep tan. When Jake turned away, her dark Latin eyes were hot on Lee once more.

That look still made him wonder, sometimes. What if they had pursued what they felt, what if she had married him instead of Jake? What would life have been like? He thought for a while about that, Lucita in bed with him, his hands on her, the two of them in a little cabin just big enough to turn around in, cozy and isolated.

But how would he have made a living for her? Not farming, like Jake. Maybe breaking colts, or general ranch work—but that would have gotten them nowhere. Lucita slaving away in a primitive ranch kitchen, her long beautiful hands roughened, her dark eyes filling with disappointment when he didn’t ever make more than the meager subsistence of a ranch hand. Her disappointment and anger when he began to yearn for the open road again, when he began to hanker for real money, when his thieving ways took hold again: the discouragement in her eyes, her bitter disappointment as she saw her own dreams wither.

But was her life any better with Jake? What had Jake given her, that Lee couldn’t have if he’d settled down, if he’d abandoned his footloose drifting, as Jake had? Jake was ranch foreman, he made a good living, they had a nice house, saddle horses, he drove a new truck, and he’d written to Lee that Lucita had help in the kitchen, help with the housework when she wanted it.

Lee could have given her that, if he’d settled down and changed his ways. If he hadn’t been so hotheaded, sohardheaded in what he thought he wanted. The train strained harder hauling up toward the summit, the apple orchards behind and below him now, down on the flats, but he could still smell their sweet scent on the fitful breeze that twisted up the mountain. Just at the top, the engine paused, the train hung there a moment and then heaved itself over, gathering speed until its tail of cars thundered down again, fast. All the green was left behind now. Ahead, down the mountain, the vast desert stretched away, a flat table of pale dry sand and raw rock, parched and faded where no water could reach it.

But then far ahead a line appeared sharply dividing the land: on the near side, the flat pale desert. Far beyond, a vast green garden of lush farm crops, brilliant green, melons, vegetables, the feathery green of date groves, hundreds of acres divided by the concrete aqueducts that carried water from the Colorado, water as precious as gold to bring alive the fields that fed half the state and more, some folks said—water the farmers fought over, their battles growing ever more violent. Water rights meant money, big money, inviting every legal and political grab, every scam a man could imagine.

When gusts of hot wind began to swirl up from the desert, spewing sand in Lee’s face, he returned to his seat. Already the car was growing hot; it grew hotter still as they approached Indio. Off against the mountains he could see what must be Palm Springs, a little resort town patched onto the desert, its tall hedges and high rock walls hiding large vacation homes, he could see just their sprawling rooftops, and flashes of blue that would be swimming pools, oases for the rich. Beyond Palm Springs rose the dry mountains, their peaks incongruously capped with white, with snow that would remain all year, aloof and cold, high above the burning desert.

It was well past noon when the train pounded into Indio, the altered rhythm woke him, the train’s slowing pace, the clang of metal on metal as they bucked over the crisscross tracks, then row after row of dusty freight cars. The temperature, by the big thermometer above the station platform, was a hundred and ten. Facing an hour layover, tired of stale sandwiches and of the stale smell of old food and sweaty passengers, Lee rose. Hanging on to the overhead rail, he followed the conductor, heading for the door. When they pulled up in the center of town he swung off the train, stood waiting to cross the fast highway that served as Indio’s main street. Farm trucks loaded with baled hay and crated produce roared past him farting the smell of diesel. Across the highway an irrigation ditch seethed with fast-running water from the Colorado. Beyond this was a line of shops, a few restaurants, a couple of pawnshops. A reefer truck was pulled over to the side idling, the driver hammer-thumping its tires checking the air pressure that built up in the hot desert. In the bed of a rusted pickup, four migrant workers sat eating bread from torn wrappers. A stalled station wagon sat blowing steam from its radiator, two mattresses tied to its roof, its interior crowded with smear-faced little kids. Diesel fumes from the trucks started him coughing, and when he tried to cross the highway between them he misjudged his distance and had to leap back.

It took him three false starts before he got across, running. He followed the winking neon of taverns and hamburger joints, and soon enough could smell the garlic and hot sauces of a Mexican caf?. He followed the aroma down a side street until he saw ahead a splash of red and green neon announcing the Colima Caf?; the smell drew him like a kiss. Hurrying toward the small white house, he pushed inside.

Red checkered oilcloth covered the tables. The fly-specked walls were decorated with sombreros, faded pi?atas, and beer posters. The hot, meaty, spicy smell made him think he’d stepped into heaven. He chose a small table, sat with his back to the wall, fingering the sauce-spotted menu, though he knew what he wanted. He sat holding the menu before him, surveying the room.

A man and woman sat two tables down: tourists, all dressed up. Three Mexican men in denim overalls occupied the table in the middle of the room, drinking beer and wolfing tacos from a heaped plate. At a table near the window were two young husky Mexican men dressed in flared jeans, tight T-shirts, and expensive boots, a dozen empty beer bottles on the table between them. Each had several self-inflicted tattoos on his arms, crosses and initials, the kind the peacock punks in the joint gave themselves with the help of a sharp instrument and blue ink. Lee tucked the scene away as he watched the waiter approach wiping his hands on his dirty apron. He ordered chorizo, two eggs over easy, tortillas, refried beans, and a bottle of beer.

The waiter grinned.“You miss breakfast, se?or?”

Lee smiled back at him.“I missed this kind of breakfast.”

“?Qu? clase cerveza, se?or?”

“Carta Blanca. Pronto, yo tengo sed.”

The waiter scurried for the kitchen, he was back at once with the beer. Lee tilted the bottle and let the icy brew slide down, then ordered another. The ferment they made in prison, from prunes and apricots pilfered from the kitchen, faded into welcome oblivion. When his meal came he covered it with salsa and savored it, too, trying to eat slowly and get the most from every bite, but too soon it was gone. He wrapped the remains of his beans and chorizo in the last fresh, hot tortilla. When finally he pushed back his chair and fished in his watch pocket for money, the two twenties and the five came out together. Annoyed, he peeled off the five and pushed the twenties back, but one of the Mexican boys tapped the other on the shoulder, watching him. Lee paid the bill and left quickly, knowing too well what was coming.

He was barely out the door when he heard it close a second time, and one of the young men shouted,“Hey,hombre viejo. Wait up.”

Lee turned to face them on the empty side street. The two approached him side by side, walking with a belligerent swing through the green river of neon, the taller one casually tossing a small object hand to hand, and Lee caught the gleam of a switchblade. The young man’s voice was soft, casual, and sure of himself. And they were on him, moving in close. “We want the money in that little pocket of yours, se?or.”

Lee smiled.

“If you do not give it to us, old man, I’ll show you what this can do.” Again he tossed the knife, watching Lee.

Lee judged his timing and distance. When the knife was in midair he stepped forward on his left foot, did a snap-kick that brought the toe of his right boot crashing into the guy’s testicles. As the young man doubled over, grabbing himself, Lee dropped to a crouch and scooped up the fallen knife. He hit the button releasing the six-inch blade, swung it up in an arc at the man on his left. The blade traveled horizontally, hitting him just below the belt buckle to deliver a gut gash. Bright red blood splashed up across his white T-shirt and down the tight flared pants. The young Mexican looked down, gasped at what he saw, clutched his gut, and fled.

Lee knelt beside the fallen youth. He was curled up groaning, holding his crotch. Lee rolled the boy over, wiped the blood from the knife onto the boy’s nose. “Old man, am I? If I ever see you again, you little pussy-ball scumbag, I’ll cut your nuts off and cram them down your throat.” He closed the switchblade, stuck it in his back pocket, stood up and headed for the train station.

Back on the train, as they got moving, Indio’s industrial buildings edged past and then its small old houses, and then outside of town began the dizzying corridors of towering date palms fanning swiftly past, making him giddy if he watched for too long. Closing his eyes, he wondered if those two youngbraceros had signaled a new pattern in his life, one where he, an old worn-out gringo, stood at the mercy of the young and belligerent field hands with whom he would be working—but then suddenly the cat was with him again, easing Lee, curling up against his thigh, invisible but warm and purring, and Lee felt steadier. Ghost cat, spiritcat, perhaps from a brighter dimension, Lee was grateful to have Misto near him.

He guessed when he got to the ranch the big yellow tom would have no trouble hiding himself, moving about invisibly; or perhaps he would make himself boldly known among the barn cats and the other ranch animals. He just hoped Misto would stay with him; the tom had been with him at McNeil both as mortal cat and as ghost, the little spirit proving to Lee beyond doubt that a vast and intriguing universe awaited somewhere beyond, a realm far more intricate, and perhaps far kinder, than this present world seemed to offer. Lee thought the ghost cat might know almost everything Lee himself had experienced in his life. He wasn’t sure what that added up to, but the thought was more comforting than annoying, that the friend from his childhood cared enough to know about him and to stay with him.

As the train picked up speed, the fanning of the palm groves so dizzied Lee that he turned again from the window. Dozing, it seemed he was a boy again, back with Russell Dobbs reliving, almost as if it were his own life, the tale of Dobbs’s bargain with the dark spirit, with the haunt that visited Lee himself too often, cold and tenacious. All the long-ago gossip that Lee had heard as a child seemed to come together now, as the cat lay with his paws on Lee’s arm, looking up at him, looking wise and all-knowing. As Lee dreamed, was it Misto himself who filled in the small, sharp details of the confrontation between the devil and Russell Dobbs? When Lee woke, he seemed to know the story more clearly, small details had been fitted into place. Could he still hear Misto’s whisper—or was it Lee’s own silent thoughts whispering, over the rattle of the train?

10

Having agreed to certain terms, Russell Dobbs spread the word quickly that the Northern& Dakota out of Chicago would be carrying a heavy payroll and that he meant to take it down. He put out that information in ways that would not be traced back to him, he let it be known that he would slip aboard at Pierre and work the job from inside the train, alone and that he meant to leave the train with half a million in cash.

His plan worked out very well. The five Love boys, and the three Vickers brothers lay in wait for the Northern& Dakota, stopping and boarding the train at different points, both sets of brothers unduly heated and aggressive with the promise that Russell Dobbs would already be aboard. Dobbs waited in the woods, quieting his horse as, inside the train when the brothers discovered each other, a small war fought itself to a bloody finish. When it was all over he rode away hoping he’d seen the last of the Loves and the Vickerses and of his phantom visitor.

Not until two weeks later, when Cage Vickers and Tessa Love were married, did Russell wake at dawn in his cabin to see the finely dressed figure standing before him, fancy black suit, embroidered vest, black string tie. He could not see the man’s eyes. The elegantly groomed haunt put him at a distinct disadvantage. Lying naked in bed, Dobbs rose on one elbow, pulling the blanket around him.

“You have destroyed both gangs,” the devil said coldly. “You knew I wanted them unharmed. You have, of course, lost the wager.”

“I didn’t lose anything. I agreed only to prevent Cage from getting them caught and arrested. Nor did I harm them. They harmed each other.”

“The three who lived were arrested, you knew I did not want them arrested, you failed at your task.”

“That wasn’t part of the agreement. I said I would preventCage from getting them caught—Cage didn’t cause that, they trapped themselves. That was the bargain,” Russell said. “I didn’t allow Cage to give up either gang, I kept that part of the agreement and you are bound to it. You promised me a long, healthy life, unwounded, unharmed.” Though Dobbs had no idea whether thehaunt would keep his end of the bargain. What made him think hell’s messenger was bound by any code?

“Perhaps,” said the dark one, “perhaps I will honor what you call a bargain. And perhaps not. Whatever I do, Russell, you have only one lifetime to enjoy the fruits of such an agreement—while I have all eternity to retaliate for your deception by twisting and manipulating the lives of your heirs, and never think, Russell Dobbs, that those who come after you will not suffer. Your heirs will be bound to me through your deceit, they will know me, Russell, I’ll wield my hold over them in ways you have never dreamed.”

“You don’t have that much power. If you did, I would not have beaten you.”

“You will see what power I have when you view the lives of your descendants, when you see them from the other side, when you witness the suffering and agony of your own kin that you have deliberately destroyed.” But even as Russell rose, pulling the blanket around him, the devil vanished, was gone from the room, no faintest shadow remaining, the cabin dim and empty. Russell stared around at the log walls, the iron stove, his pants hanging over a chair. He got up, pulled on his pants and shirt, his boots, took up his rifle, and went to shoot some breakfast.

When Lee woke, the passenger car was hotter than a bake oven, the midafternoon sun burning in through the train’s smeared windows as they sped across the high desert. Far ahead, the land dropped down steeply onto the wide and ancient riverbed, dry now, forever waterless. And there lay Blythe, a jumble of faded rooftops, the end of the world, some said, the asshole of creation. He doubted the town had changed much, these twenty years. A small, ugly cluster of forlorn wooden buildings set along wandering dirt tracks.

But the dusty roads led, out beyond Blythe, to another vast spread of brilliant bright green fields just as in Indio, another welcome oasis, and that was where he was headed, out among the farm crops, the miles of melons, summer vegetables, and alfalfa, huge fields that, even as far as they stretched away, were dwarfed by the endless desert that spread on beyond, parched and ungiving. He remembered too well, when he’d run with Jake, the sour salty smell along the dry washes where the tamarisk trees thrived, remembered the beery smell of the little town when you passed a bar, the high sidewalks above the one paved street, the cross streets of powder dust so fine it would splash up over your boot tops. Remembered the dirty faces of the little Mexican kids and the patient-eyed women with that deep, lazy Mexican beauty. Mexicans, blacks, whites, and Indians all working their tails off making money for the farmers, and what little money they put in their own pockets lasted only one trip to town, where theylost it to backroom gambling and to booze and prostitutes, and what they didn’t spend someone waited to take forcibly from them.

But still the migrants kept coming, smugglers with overload springs on their Cadillacs rolling in from the border at night with trunks full of illegals who paid them two hundred dollars a head, innocents who blew their life savings trying to get a chunk of the American dollar, migrants who might end up treated like shit with the wrong farm boss, lucky if they got enough to eat for their stoop labor. And some of them weren’t that lucky. Those who suffocated in the Cadillacs’ locked trunks were stripped of what little they had and tossed out on the desert for the coyotes to finish.

Didn’t seem like twenty years since he and Jake rode into California over the dry mountains to lay up after that Tucson train job, Jake nearly dead from loss of blood. And then a week later outside Blythe, when Lee was alone, the feds had grabbed and arrested him. Jake was holed up by then, Lucita taking care of him. And with Lee arrested and in jail, Lucita was all Jake had.

Thinking about all that had happened since, about the mistakes he had made, thinking how he’d promised himself not to get trapped in any more screwups, now Lee cursed himself for not getting off the train in San Bernardino. That could mean trouble, too. What the hell was he thinking? He’d better come up with a good excuse for his parole officer, he could have blown his release right there.

As the train slowed for Blythe, Lee stepped out to the vestibule. Peering around the side of the cars, he could see the town up ahead, a dry wart on the face of the ungiving plain. Stepping back to his seat, he checked the watch pocket of his jeans, fingering the tightly folded bills. Unlike the seven hundred more in his boot, this was clean money, money he’d earned in prison industries. But all together, enough—if the parole board got snotty with him—to get him a good distance away, in a hurry. When the train bucked to a halt, a heavy black cloud rattled against the windows turning the passenger car nearly as dark as night. What the hell was that? Not Satan’s shadow, this was different. And not blowing leaves, there weren’t that many trees in Blythe; and the black cloud made a clicking noise, hitting the glass, so loud he thought for a minute it was pebbles blowing—but this was clouds of something small squirming as they hit the glass, and some of them were clinging and crawling, were crawling up the glass …

Crickets. Swarms of crickets, thousands of flying bodies beating against the glass. And at a break in the swarm, when he could see the train yard, it too was black with them, they had turned the afternoon as dark as night. The station lights had come on, crickets surged in their glow, swarming, and where they swept against Lee’s window they left trails of silver mucus. Peering down, where lights lit the track, he could see them fall and die there, glistening brighter than the slick metal.

Well, hell, he knew Blythe had these swarms now and then, over the years, like the grasshoppers in South Dakota. But did he have to arrive right in the middle of this mess? He rose when the car stilled; and as the rest of the passengers stood up, gathering their belongings, he felt a brush of fur against his hand. Sometimes, he couldn’t understand why the little cat stayed with him. A ghost cat must have the whole universe at its disposal, must have all of time to travel through and to choose from, so what was he doing here? Had they bonded so well that the yellow tom simply wanted to be with him, wanted to remain where Lee was, or was there some other reason, some mystery yet to unfold? Moving on out of the train, stepping down onto the platform, his boots crunched dead and squirming crickets, the steps and sidewalk were alive with them, masses of dark, brittle insects swarming around his boots, swarmingup his boots, creeping and flying up the walls of the station and inside whenever the door opened, swarming over the newspaper rack and shoeshine stand, dark stinking bugs crawling through the white powder that had been sprinkled along the street and sidewalk and across the thresholds of the shops to kill them.

It hadn’t seemed to kill many, they were still thick on the varnished oak benches before the station, dark bodies crawling in and out the slots of the cigarette and candy machines, the sound of their beating wings against metal and glass like some dark prediction he didn’t want to know about. The streets and gutters were dark with glistening bodies, crickets clinging to fenders and windshields, to tires, to license plates and chrome grills. Heaps of dead crickets had been swept up along the curb, the piles dusted with the killing white powder; crickets flew in his face or flew past him to beat their hard little bodies against the hot overhead lights—he wondered if the ghost cat was invisibly diving at them, swatting and gobbling up crickets. A shout made him spin around.

“Fontana! Lee Fontana!”

Lee stepped back out of the light, watching the approaching figure. Only when he saw the horseman’s stride, the Stetson and boots and then the familiar face and crippled hand did he step forward, grinning.

11

Jake was still lean, but he’d grown a bit of a paunch over his belt. Same grin, big wide mouth ringed with laugh creases. His thin face was wrinkled some from the sun, his dark hair was turning gray in streaks, and white along the temples.

“Didn’t expect you to meet me,” Lee said. “Damn glad you did. Crickets are about to crawl up my leg, swarm in places I don’t want ’em.”

“You look bushed, Lee. Suitcase?”

“Travelin’ light,” Lee said.

Ellson turned away quickly, maybe uncomfortable that Lee had done the jail time, and Jake hadn’t, because the cops hadn’t had enough to hold him when he had been suspected of robbery later. He led Lee through the crickets along the line of parked cars. On the curb a woman huddled cuddling a baby, ignoring the swarming insects as she held the child to nurse. Ellson headed for a red pickup that looked brand-new, its doors professionally lettered with the signature of Delgado Farms. Lee slid in onto the soft leather seat, shut the door quickly but even so half a dozen crickets slipped in. Lee caught them in his hand, threw them out the window and rolled it up again fast. The truck smelled new, the red leather thick and soft—a lot fancier than the old, rusted-out trucks they’d used to drive. Jake had been with Delgado Farms almost twelve years now, a big switch for him, staying in one place. Lee guessed he’d changed some after their messed-up train job. Jake and Lucita were married long before that robbery, he knew Lucita had come down hard on Jake about that. Jake looked more respectable now, calmer, more settled and sure of himself. He had to be doing well, head foreman of the whole Blythe outfit, which was only one of several farms Delgado owned. Jake did the hiring and firing. He’d said in his letter that Lee would be ramroding a crew ofbraceros and locals.

The Delgado family lived up in Hemet where they raised Steel Dust horses. They owned four big farms in the Coachella Valley, growing hay and dates and vegetables, land totaling over six thousand acres and stretching from the Chocolate Mountains to the Colorado River. Land that, before water was piped from the Colorado, had been dry rangeland, the grass so sparse it must have taken twenty square miles to feed one steer. Now, with water brought in, every acre was as valuable as gold.

Just a little speck of that wealth would set a fellow up real nice, Lee thought. Sitting in the new truck beside Jake, Lee wondered if Jake handled the Blythe payroll—then he turned away, angered at himself. What the hell kind of thought was that? Jake was his friend, just about his only friend.

As they headed through town, Lee began to see other changes in Jake, the calmer way he drove, the lowered timbre of his voice. As Ellson turned down a dusty side street, Lee could smell wet, burned rags from the town dump, and he grinned, remembering the night they had sat in there under a wrecked truck, passing the jug. Jake remembered, too. A little smile touched the corner of his mouth. Lee said,“What was that we were drinking?”

Jake laughed.“Homemade tequila, fermented cactus juice.” They passed a line of feathery tamarisk trees crowded against weathered shacks and pulled up in front of a graying house, its window frames painted turquoise, its door bright pink. A neon Budweiser sign hung from the eaves. The smell of chiles and garlic mixed with the blaring jukebox rhythm of castanets and brassy trumpet stirred a lot of old memories. They got out, crunching crickets, moved past a young Mexican boy who stood outside the door with a broom, brushing crickets away. They stepped inside fast, but a few insects leaped in past them and under a table. Lee hoped to hell they weren’t in the kitchen, but he didn’t know how they could keep all of them out. He didn’t let himself think too long about that.

The walls of the caf? were built of rough, dark wood. Down at the end, at one of three windows, a swamp cooler chugged away, keeping time to the Mexican brass, belching out cool, damp air. The tables were crowded withbraceros and with a few dark-eyed women. They slid in at the only empty table, the oilcloth still damp from the waiter’s towel. When Jake reached for the chips and salsa, Lee tried not to look at the stump of his right hand where three fingers were missing, an accident Lee felt guilty for.

They’d taken down one of the last steam trains, a short run from San Francisco up the San Joaquin Valley. They got the only money bag they could find, had swung off the train when one glancing shot by a train guard hit Jake. Lee ran, in plain sight meaning to lead the cops away, hoping Jake would vanish around the far side of the train. He knew Jake had made it when he heard a horse pounding away. Lee made a lot of noise to draw them off, then slipped away on his own mount, moving silently in the dark.

He had ridden for maybe an hour, could still hear them behind him, but then their sound faded as they took a wrong turn. When at last Lee holed up, hid his horse in dense woods, and opened the canvas bag expecting a big haul, the bag contained a measly four thousand bucks.

Days later, when Lee thought the cops had eased off their searching, he’d gotten half of the money to Lucita. She kept it, but she was mad as hell. She wouldn’t tell him where Jake was, she said his hand, what was left of it, was healing just fine. She told Lee, snapping out the words, her black eyes flashing, that this was the last jobthey’d ever pull, that Jake was done with that life, done for good, or she’d send him packing and divorce him.

Lee didn’t hear from Jake for a long time after that, long after the marine payroll job and the bank fiasco when that damned teller nearly cut off his own fingers. Then, somehow, Jake heard where he was, maybe from someone they had worked with at one time, and Lee started getting a letter now and then, up at McNeil. A thin thread to keep in touch, but it had meant a lot to him.

Now, beneath the table, something brushed his leg, but when he lifted the red checkered oilcloth and glanced down, nothing was there. Only the faintest purr reached him, and in the shadows he saw a scrap of tortilla disappear into thin air. He dropped the edge of the oilcloth wondering, not for the first time, how a ghost could eat solid food.

But at McNeil when the cat had made himself visible in the prison mess hall, he’d gobbled up every handout he could beg. Well, hell, Lee thought, what didhe know about the talents of a ghost? When the purring became louder, he scuffed his feet hoping to hide the sound; and then when the waitress approached, the cat silenced.

Not only was the beer ice-cold, the chiles rellenos when they arrived were light and fresh, the corn tortillas homemade. It was all so good Lee thought maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. If he could just make it from one small Mexican caf? to the next, without having to deal with the rest of the world, he could get along just fine. Jake, rolling beans and salsa into a tortilla, said, “Parole, rather than conditional release?”

Lee nodded.“Parole board didn’t much like my record. I’m beholden for this job at the ranch, Jake.”

Ellson shook his head.“Except for you, I’d have bought it when that guard shot at me, if you hadn’t led them off they’d have grabbed me. I worried a long time, hoping you got away. The two thousand dollars you got to me, I did a lot of thinking, after that.”

“And you took a lot of flack from Lucita.”

Jake grinned.“That was a long time ago.”

“More years than I like to count,” Lee said. “I’m sorry about Ramon, about losing your boy in the war. I’d like to have known him.” He wondered how that must feel, to raise a fine son, and then see him die so young, so brutally. When he thought about how that must have been for Lucita, pain twisted his belly and he felt a warm longing to comfort her. Though he had never made a play for Lucita, once she and Jake were engaged and then married, he’d never been near her without being tempted, without the heat rising.

“She’s up in Redlands,” Jake said. “Her sister just had gall bladder surgery, Lucita’s taking care of her. She’ll be home next week. She’s sure looking forward to seeing you, planning on cooking up a big dinner.” Jake motioned to the waiter for another bowl of salsa. “Both our girls are married. Carmella’s in San Francisco, her husband’s a fireman. Susanne’s in Reno.” He grinned. “Married to a sheep rancher.”

“Sheep?” Lee said.

Jake smiled.“He’s a good man. Basque. Good people.”

Lee watched Jake quietly. Jake’s family had lived a whole lifetime, the girls grown up into their own lives, Ramon shot down by a German sniper, buried and mourned, while Lee had gone on year after year pulling a few jobs, getting older, getting slower, and then back in the pen scrubbing prison latrines, sanding prison-made furniture, eating prison slop, and then finally out working on the McNeil farm. He’d had no ties at all on the outside except Jake and Lucita, no one else who cared, no family of his own that he’d ever kept track of. Only the thought of his little sister, as if Mae were still out there somewhere,as if she were still alive. But if Maewas still alive, and grown old, where was she? What kind of life was she living? And why had she never tried to get in touch? But how could she have done that when he was always on the move, leaving as few tracks as he could, ever traveling on, aimless as a tumbleweed? And why hadn’the tried to get in touch?

Well, hell, he’d stayed in touch for a while. He’d write or make a phone call to the rancher, Sam Gerrard, who owned the land adjoining them, because Lee’s family had no phone. Years ago he’d called Gerrard when he read in the newspaper that his grandpappy was killed. He couldn’t believe it, shot to death during a train robbery, though Russell had taken three Pinkerton men with him. His grandpappy’s death had set Lee back some, he’d been a long time getting over the demise of Russell Dobbs—as if a whole stretch of history had collapsed, as if the whole shape of the world he knew had shiftedand changed.

He’d given Gerrard a number where he might be reached now and then, a hotel in Billings where he had a lady friend. That was how he found out when his daddy died, had a stroke, they thought. Died out on the range alone. Must have been a bad one, to make him tumble off his horse. Horse came back to the ranch, and they’d gone looking. They found his daddy two days later lying among the boulders at the edge of a stony draw. After that, Gerrard said, Lee’s ma had left the ranch, sold it for what she could get, took Mae and their two older sisters back to North Carolina, to live withher sister. That was when he lost touch, didn’t try to contact them. He knew Mae would be all right if she was with family. But he thought about her a lot, he hoped she had horses as she’d always wanted, and he’d carried her picture and would look at it, at that bold little girl who wanted to learn everything herself, wanted to do everything her way.

Mae and her older sisters were allowed to ride but only decorously, at a walk or slow trot, and they were kept as far as possible from the cattle and the cowhands. When Lee and Mae could sneak off alone, when he saddled a real horse for her and not the poky pony, she wanted to do everything, she wanted to learn to rope, she wanted to work cattle, she wasn’t afraid and in a short time she handled a horse real well. Their mother didn’t know half of what went on, working in the kitchen or around back in the garden, trusting Lee to take care of his little sister, thinking he was carefully chaperoning Mae on the pony when, in fact, they were off beyond the nearby hills, Mae learning to rein and work a good cowpony, to spin and back him, to chase a calf and learning to handle a rope.

What he didn’t understand was, why did he still dream of her? Dreams so real, as if she were still alive, as if she were still a little child as he’d last seen her. In his recent dreams, she was in a house he’d never seen, or in a flower garden unlike any place where they’d grown up, and she was dressed in a way she wouldn’t have been, back on the ranch, back in their own time. He was still wondering about those dreams as they moved out into the shabby street, both men full of the good Mexican dinner, the street darkening around them as evening fell. Along the row of little shacks, faint lightsglowed behind curtained windows. They slipped into the truck fast, dodging crickets, tossing crickets out the windows. Moving on through the small town, they headed out a dirt road, its pale surface caught in the light of a rising half-moon, the long straight rows of bean plants polished by the faint glow. Now when they were moving fast and no crickets swarming in, Lee cracked open his window, letting in the musky wet smell of the river, of the tamarisk and willows silvered along the steep, silt banks.

Twelve miles out of town they turned onto a dirt lane, cutting through a cantaloupe field, the smell of the fruit sweet and cloying. Half a mile up, they turned into the ranch yard under bright security lights, their dust rising white against a row of packing sheds, long bunkhouses, and small frame bungalows. Jake drove on past the big mess hall with its long screened windows and deep porch, past rows of assorted tractors and field trucks. He parked in front of a cement-block house with a white picket fence. A statue of the Blessed Virgin stood in the sandy yard, the little, two-foot-high figure carefully outlined by a circle of miniature cactus. Near the house was a paddock and a small stable, and he could see a couple of horses. Beyond were more packing sheds, then more ranch trucks and some old cars. They got out beside the picket fence, but Jake didn’t head into the house. No lights burned there, with Lucita gone. They moved across the dusty yard toward the cabins, where Jake turned up the steps of the first one, the porch creaking under their weight.

The cabin door complained as Jake pushed it open, reached in and flipped a switch so a sudden light flared from an overhead bulb. The cabin held an iron bed, a brown metal nightstand, a small battered desk, a small wooden chest of drawers, and a straight-backed chair, painted purple. An ornate wooden crucifix hung above the bed, hand carved and gilded. There was a bathroom with a little precast shower, and spotless white tile around the sink. A new bar of soap still in its wrapper, two clean towels and a washcloth, clean white shower curtain, all touches that spoke of Lucita, as did the little pitcher of wildflowers she had placed on the old, shabby dresser.

“Not elegant,” Jake said. “You’ll find a new razor and shaving cream in the cabinet.”

Lee sat down on the bed to pull off his boots.“It’s elegant to me. Clean. Private. Even flowers,” he said, grinning. “No prison bars, and a real door I can shut. No screw coming to lock me in.” He dropped a boot. “Bathroom all to myself, private shower without some jock elbowing me or reaching to feel me up, a razor I don’t have to account for every day.” He grinned up at Jake, as he dropped the other boot.

Jake looked back at him unsmiling. Too late Lee realized he’d hurt Jake, that he had rubbed it in that he’d been in prison all the time Jake had been free and making a life for himself. Lee didn’t mean to do that. Jake turned toward the door, his white-streaked hair catching the light. “See you in the morning,” he said shortly. “Breakfast in the mess hall, five-thirty,” and he was gone, shutting the door softly behind him.

Feeling bad, Lee fished into the paper bag. He took out his few clothes, laid them on the dresser, and set the picture of Mae beside the flowers. He undressed, removed the seven hundred dollars from his boot, shoved that and his prison-made knife under his pillow. He turned out the overhead light and slid into bed, pushed down under the lightweight blanket, and stretched out to ease his tired body. It had been a long day, too many hours on the train, his muscles were all stove up—but not a moment later he felt the cat leap on the bed, landing heavily beside him, and this time he could see it clearly silhouetted against the shaft of moonlight that struck through the cabin window. How the hell did the cat do that, invisible one minute, and then there it was as solid and heavy as bricks, kneading the blanket and pushing him with its hind paws to gain more room, its rumbling purr rising as it settled in for the night. And now, for the first time, the cat spoke to Lee, its yellow eyes glowing in the thin moonlight, its yellow tail twitching.

“You’resorry you hurt Jake’s feelings? You’resorry?”

Startled, Lee sat up in bed, staring at him. The cat had never spoken to him, not during all the years at McNeil, neither as a living cat nor later when Misto returned there as a ghost cat. Yet always Lee had had the sense that Misto could have spoken if he chose, that he understood the conversations of the inmates around him. By his glances, by the set of his ears, by the attention he paid to certain discussions, Lee had always felt that even the living cat was wiser and more clever than ever he let on.

“You’resorry?” Misto repeated with a hiss. “Sorry?Why are you sorry when, all through dinner with Jake you were thinking about ripping him off, and you were lusting after Jake’s wife, you sat there laughing and joking with him while you lusted after the Delgado payroll, too, while you planned to double-cross Jake in two ways. And now, you’re sorry? Sorry you hurt his feelings? What the hell isthat about? Whatkind of friend is that?”

“I didn’t think about it for long,” Lee said crankily. The shock of hearing the cat speak was nothing to the realization that the ghost cat could read his thoughts—even if the beast did exaggerate, even if he did take an overblown view of Lee’s short-lived temptation. When Lee moved uncomfortably away from the cat, to the edge of the bed, the tomcat remained relaxed and easy, glancing at him unconcerned as he casually licked dust from his paws.

“It’s one thing,” Lee said, “to travel with a ghost following me, with a damned haunt hanging on my trail. It’s another thing when you start criticizing, telling me what to do, acting as if you know what I’m thinking, like some damned prison shrink.”

It was unsettling as hell that the cat knew things that were none of its business, thoughts Lee wasn’t proud of and that, facing the cat’s righteous stare, shamed Lee all the more. The yellow tom stopped washing and looked back at him steadily, his wide yellow eyes stern and unblinking. Then he closed his eyes, twitched a whisker as if amused, curled himself deeper into the blanket, and drifted off to sleep as if he hadn’t a care.

Misto was well aware that Fontana’s defensive retorts, his anger and surly responses, had grown harsher as the cowboy grew older. But this was only a part of Lee’s nature, a defensive shell to protect a normal human weakness. Lee’s very temper was part of why the cat loved him. Lee’s sometimes frail, sometimes volatile nature was why Misto guarded Lee so fiercely in wary defense against Satan, against the inroads the devil plied so adroitly in attempting to own Fontana.

12

Misto’s dreams that night, as he slept at the foot of Lee’s bed, were visions he knew were a part of Lee’s future. And though he felt fiercely protective of Lee, staying close to him since his parole, his thoughts tonight were on Sammie, too, so far away in Georgia.

Brad Falon had returned to Rome after his prison time, escaping a dirty piece of business out in L.A., running from the law before the land scam he’d been involved in was uncovered. Now, he was too near again to Sammie, in that small town, was too interested in Sammie and in her mother and was a threat to them both.

Except that now, in Georgia, Morgan Blake was home again, he was out of the navy and back with his little family. Becky and the child need no longer face Falon alone, and that satisfied and eased Misto.

But Lee was alone, and just now he needed Misto. The ghost cat did not mean to leave Fontana as the dark spirit sought to own him. And in Misto’s dreams, the connection between Lee and Falon and Sammie was building closer, their lives slowly drawing together, incident by twisted incident, toward a final and life-changing event that would shape the future of all three.

Only just before dawn did the cat stir from his dreams, and leave Lee, slipping out into the fading night to wander the dim ranch yard and then to stroll in through the bunkhouses observing the sleeping workers, their clothes and possessions strewn everywhere among the jumble of cots, a far less organized scene than a cell full of regimented prisoners. The breath of the sleeping men smelled strongly of chiles and garlic. He wandered and looked, amusing himself and then moved outside again where he chased half a dozen chickens, sending them flapping and squawking in panic; then he headed for the back door of the ranch house where, if he were lucky, Jake Ellson might have set out a bowlful of milk for the half dozen farm cats. The rancher had seemed pleased when he glimpsed a new mouser on the property, maybe a wanderer, maybe a drop-off, as often occurred in the open country. Misto, during his stay, meant to catch and leave a few fat mice on the porch, just to prove his prowess.

Yes, this morning there was milk. He lapped the bowl clean before the other cats got to it, and then looked up at the kitchen window, catching glimpses of Jake as he prepared his breakfast; the boss seemed to prefer quiet in the morning to that of a crowd of noisybraceros.

It was Friday, the end of Lee’s third day on the job, that Ramon Delgado came roaring into the ranch yard in his big white Cadillac, kicking up dust, and Lee got a look at the two canvas cash bags that contained the ranch’s weekly payroll, and then soon at the money itself. At enough cash to set him up real nice. And this payroll, to be doled out to more than a hundred men, was only one of four among the Delgado holdings.

The day was still hot as hell though the sun had already dropped behind the hills as they headed in from the fields. Lee had pulled into the ranch yard, the last in the long line of trucks, hot and sweaty after twelve hours of driving. He felt beat down to nothing, it took the last of his energy to get out of the truck, turn in his tally to Jake, walk across the dusty yard to his cabin and ease himself down on the top step, trying to get a full breath. The job itself wasn’t hard physical work, driving the truck back and forth. Even the heat was to his liking—until it gottoo damned hot. But it was the stress of dealing with a few quarrellingbracerosthat would tighten up his lungs. He sat sucking air, slowly calming himself, watching the five other foremen strideacross to their cabins, three gringos and two Mexican men, all brown from the sun and seeming comfortable in the heat, all of them at least a generation younger than Lee.

Well, he wasn’t letting on how beat he was, he needed the job, and he liked it here. He had plans here, he didn’t mean to move on until he was loaded with cash, and ready. But right now his shirt and pants stuck to him wringing wet, and his feet were swollen inside his boots. His eyes burned from the glare of the fields, from rows of broad melon leaves reflecting back the beating sun, and from sun bouncing off the hood of the truck. He was parched, dog tired, and his temper boiling from a run-in with the boy he’d picked for straw boss.

From the first morning, Lee had to work at establishing his authority. These men had different ways than the men he’d worked with at McNeil, and he was even rusty with the farm equipment. On that first morning, heading out of the ranch yard before daylight, driving a truck for the first time in years, following the line of trucks, he’d jerked the clutch so bad that the men, jammed into the truck bed, laughed and hooted and shouted good-natured Spanish obscenities at him. They’d eased along a dirt lane and sharply up the side of a levee to a thin track at the top, the old truck straining, then moving on fast through the darkness to keep up with the others. The thin ridge dropped steeply on both sides. The truck rocked and heaved as the field hands horsed around laughing and cuffing each other, thinking nothing of the drop, not giving a damn if they went over. Lee crouched over the wheel gripping hard with both hands, hoping to keep it on the narrow track. As the sky began to turn red, sunrise soon staining the fields, he could see an occasional turnoff angling down the bank on his left. On his right, almost directly under him, a concrete ditch surged with fast black water from the Colorado. He was mighty glad when he saw his own flag marker, ahead in the field below.

As he angled down off the levee, the rising dust from the trucks ahead filled his mouth and nose, dust crept into his lungs so thick that soon he was retching and gagging, coughing up specks of blood. Well, hell, maybe the emphysema would finish him right there in the stinking truck, and who would even care?

He slowed along the edge of the melon field and the men began piling out, lurching the truck harder, landing at a run to keep their balance beside the slow-moving vehicle, men peeling off into the melon rows. They got to work fast when they were picking on their own time, were paid by how much they could harvest. They didn’t look up from their work as the sun lifted, as the sky slowly bleached to white and the rising heat slicked sweat across their bare backs. They stopped only to drink from the six water coolers that were wired to the back of the truck, then got to work again. Lee, driving along feeling the truckjolt as they loaded the melons, couldn’t escape the sun’s reflection from the fields and from the truck’s hood and dashboard. The temperature inside the cab, even with the windows open, must be a hundred and thirty. He wished this were a horse operation instead of a farm, wished he were doingajob he cared about, something he could put his mind to.

By midmorning he’d pulled off his shirt. He felt cooked through. He grew bored with keeping tally on the pickers, marking down their loads as they dumped them into the truck bed. By noon the water coolers were empty and the truck riding low on its axles, its bed piled high with its first load of cantaloupes. Going back in for the noon meal, the men rode on the outside, clinging to the slats, their voices irritable now with heat and hunger, exploding in fast Spanish arguments, and the heavy, sweet smell of the cantaloupes sickened Lee. If he were twenty years younger, maybe he wouldn’t mind this routine. At his age, with the emphysema flaring up, working all day in this damnable heat wasn’t going to cut it for long. Where the hell had he gotten the notion that the hot desert was just what he longed for? It was early that afternoon when, observing the men at work, he picked out a straw boss to run interference for him.

Tony Valdez was a squarely built kid in his early twenties, with an easy way about him. Maybe too easy, but he looked like he could handle the men, and that was what Lee wanted. Valdez worked stripped to the waist, the silver cross hanging around his neck swinging as he bent to cut the fruit from the vines. Lee saw no prison tattoos on his sun-browned skin, and no sullenness in his face.“I’ll pay you two dollars a day extra,” he’d told Tony. “You’ll keep the arguments down, and help me with the tally.”

The boy’s shoulders had straightened. “I can do that.”

“Can you drive truck?”

“I can drive that truck.”

Lee had nodded, thinking Tony would do. But it wasn’t long before the kid was strutting like a Spanish rooster, goading the men. “Estoy el segundo jefe, you guys. Don’t give me any shit,” and the next thing Lee knew a fistfight erupted between Tony and a dark-skinned older man. Lee, jumping over a row of cantaloupes, grabbed the two of themand jerked Tony around to face him, his temper flaring hot.

“What the hell did I hire you for! To stop fights, not start them.”

Tony looked at him innocently.“I was only keeping order, se?or …”

The men snickered.

Lee shoved Tony toward the rows and whirled around, staring at the idle crew.“The bunch of you get back to work or I’ll run your sorry asses clear to hell off the place.” He’d burned with rage, almost out of control. The other men looked at him, and quieted and turned away.

Lee didn’t think he had the authority to fire anyone, but they seemed to think he did. He looked Tony over, trying to quiet the fire in his belly. “If you can’t straw boss like a man, Valdez, I’ll pick someone who will.”

Tony quieted, too, looking at him first with anger, and then sheepishly. For the next three days Tony behaved himself, he didn’t goad the men, and he stopped two serious arguments capably enough. But then on Friday evening, when Lee moved to the right seat and let Tony drive, heading up the levee, the kid double-clutched it, jammed it into second and floorboarded it, shooting up the slope so fast the front wheels left the ground and the rear end skidded toward the drop-off. Lee grabbed the dashboard, and the pickers laughed and cheered.

“What the hell are you doing, Valdez! Slow down! This ain’t no cayuse you’re breaking!”

“Just getting the truck up the hill, se?or.”

“Yeah, and have the damn thing in the canal, on top of the pickers.” He wanted to smash the kid’s face. “If you can’t do better than that, hombre, you’ll ride in the back from now on.” Lee had been mad and rightly so, but in the ranch yard as he swung out of the truck, he wondered if that much anger was called for, wondered at the explosion of blazing rage that had filled him.

Dusk was gathering as Delgado’s Cadillac pulled into the yard. Lee turned over his day’s tally to Jake and moved away to his cabin to sit down on the steps catching his breath. Maybe he’d get used to this gig, and maybe he wouldn’t. On the hot evening breeze, the smell of beans and chili from the cookhouse drew him. Rising, he moved inside the cabin to douse himself with water, to gulp water, then he headed on out and down the steps, anticipating an isolated supper at the long tables, among the Spanish-speaking men.

Jake was just crossing from the house to the big white Cadillac parked beside the mess hall. There was no mistaking Ramon Delgado, as the boss stepped out. Looked like the fancy new car had been clean and shining when he left the home ranch this morning, before it picked up the day’s collection of road dust. Lee could see the gleam of red upholstery inside. Along the back shelf beneath the rear window lay a handsome serape carefully folded, and on the hood, where other cars had radiator ornaments, Delgado had mounted a set of polished, brass-tipped longhorns that reached out just to the edge of the fenders.

Ramon Delgado was a big man, half a head taller than Jake and maybe twenty pounds heavier. He looked to be all muscle under his Levi’s jacket and pearl-buttoned shirt. His boots were three colors of fine soft leather, heavily stitched in flower patterns. His black Stetson sported a silver hatband. Lee imagined a nice home place up in Hemet, maybe an adobe house low and rambling, green lawns irrigated by the Colorado and shaded by rows of date palms. Everything about Delgado looked rich and successful; and beneath the wide black brim, his face, hard-angled and square, had the look of a man to be wary of.

Beside him, Jake looked thin and dry, the leathery look of a cowman, faded frontier shirt, faded jeans and cracked boots. Lee watched the two men head inside the mess hall, eyeing the four bulging money bags they carried, bags marked with a bank logo that Lee couldn’t read, and each sealed at the top with a green drawstring and a metal clasp. Watching Delgado with speculation, he headed on in, to collect his pay.

The pickers, the minute they saw Delgado’s car, had piled out of the trucks laughing and talking and crowding fast into the mess hall for their wages. They were lined up inside, shoving and jostling, eager to pocket the week’s take, twenty to twenty-five dollars apiece, depending on how fast a fellow worked, more money than they’d ever see in Mexico. And the bags held, as well, the wages for Lee himself and for Jake and the other five foremen.

He knew from Jake that Delgado made the rounds to all four ranches every Friday, heading out from Hemet, knew that Blythe was his last stop, that he’d stay with Jake overnight, head back home in the morning. The same drill, week after week. Leave Hemet at dawn carrying all four payrolls, carrying enough cash to set a fellow up real nice.

Maybe not as much as Lee would like to have on him before heading for Mexico, but a nice start. And how could Delgado miss a week’s wages? The thought quickened Lee’s pulse, wondering where Delgado kept the money until he headed out. In the local Hemet bank, maybe picked it up the night before? Or in a home safe?

If the safe was one of those big walk-in jobs, that would be a poser. He wished he’d paid closer attention to the half-dozen master safe crackers he’d known over the years in one prison or another. Though he had learned some, all right.

But if there was a safe, what other kind of security did Delgado have? Dogs? Guards? Some kind of electronic device?

No, it would be better to hit him just as he started out in the morning from Hemet, wait until he was on the road alone, then force him over. He’d need firearms; and he needed to know what weapons Delgado carried, and where, what weapons he had stashed in that big Cadillac, and what weapons he carried on him.

But, picturing himself forcing Delgado’s car off the road, a tremor of fear touched Lee. Was he up to this? Up to handling Delgado alone, as he had always handled his victims in the past, except for those years he ran with Jake? After parting from Jake, he’d blown a couple of jobs, and when he took a good look at what he was now, an honest look at how he’d aged, at how weak he’d grown compared to the man he had been, he didn’t much like what he saw.

But then a dark sense of power kicked in, a sudden surge of certainty. He could do this. What was the matter with him? A dark vitality stirred his blood, strength burned in him, and a hard envy of Ramon Delgado, jealousy for all Delgado had that Lee had never had. A heady resentment boiled in him making him scoff at the idea he was too old to take down Delgado, that he was biting off more than he could handle.

He’d bring this off, he thought, smiling, he could take what he wanted and maybe—maybe he could set Jake up for the fall.

He thought about that, about laying the groundwork for Jake’s arrest, setting up the clues, maybe lift one of Jake’s guns from the house, with Jake’s fingerprints on it, maybe something else of Jake’s left “forgotten” under the seat of the Cadillac. He’d stash the money where no one would find it, return to the ranch innocent as a babe. And when the cops came nosing around he’d be there to sympathize with Lucita, to comfort her, to be enraged at Jake’s betrayal of all they’d had together.

If Lee could hear the cat’s whisper that Lucita would never believe such a story, that thought didn’t last long. The dark presence told him more forcefully that he could do this, he could lay out a foolproof scenario that left Jake guilty beyond doubt, a plan that even Lucita would have to believe.

It would take time to work it out, to put every detail in place. But, thinking about the plan as he moved through the mess hall to the pay table, his certainty, his self-satisfaction, was a dark itch within him.

Taking his turn at the table, where Jake and Delgado were dealing out the week’s cash, he collected his three days’ wages, pocketed the meager change and left the mess hall. He could see the cooks working back in the kitchen, could see that supper wouldn’t be set out on the long serving counter until the payroll had all been dealt with. Winding out between the lines ofcrowding men, he returned to his cabin smiling, liking his plan. He sat on the steps feeling bold and right, watching through the screens the crowd at the long table until a sudden sneeze behind him made him swing up off the steps turning, his fists clenched.

13

But it was only the cat sitting on the rail big as life, lashing its tail, its ears back, glaring at Lee, a gleam in its eye that didn’t bode for good. The big tom’s yellow gaze burned into Lee as if seeing every detail of the plan Lee had embraced. When Lee looked deep, he imagined he saw in Misto’s eyes every image of the robbery that he had envisioned, and none of that knowledge was the cat’s business.

“Make no mistake,” Misto said, “if you follow the passions that were fed to you tonight, you’re lost for eternity, your soul will crumble to dust, there will be nothing left of you to move on and to know the joy of what yet awaits.” The cat sneezed again. “He tells you lies you’re toosmart to believe. You’re too smart, Lee, to suck up to the wraith’s passions, when you know they will destroy you.”

“Go to hell,” Lee said. The cat was too nosy, too opinionated, too bossy. Turning his back, he sat down again on the step.

“You know, of course,” Misto said softly, “that young picker’s been watching you, that young Latino man standing in the shadows between the sheds, that young Tony Valdez, watching you with great interest, asyou watched Jake and Delgado.”

Lee lifted his eyes to scan the yard, watched Tony move away deeper between the cabins and disappear among the sheds.

“Valdez has a quick mind,” the cat said, “he wonders what you found so interesting. The boy is full of questions.”

Lee thought reluctantly that in the future maybe he ought to listen to the cat, after all, ought to swallow back his defiance and pay attention. And as Valdez disappeared into the night, Lee decided he’d better pay more attention, too, to who was observing him. Had better play it closer to the chest before Valdez had that whole crew of young hotheads nosing into his business.

“Maybe,” the cat said, “you should take a better look at where those dark plans are coming from, before they take you down, Lee Fontana.” The cat’s challenge pulled Lee in one direction, while his thieving desire drew him in the other. Seated on the cabin steps, he watched Jake and Ramon Delgado leave the mess hall, striding away toward the ranch house. On the porch, they paused. Delgado moved on inside but Jake turned back, heading across the dry yard toward Lee’s cabin. Jake paused at the bottom step, his boots coated with pale sand, the band of his tan Stetson dark with sweat. “Come on, Lee, join us for dinner. Just a quick bite before Ramon and I start on the books, he’d like to meet you.”

“Why? I can’t be the first parolee he’s hired.”

Jake looked surprised.“You’re my friend, he said he’d like to meet you.”

“Sorry,” Lee said, rising. “Just tired. I’ll stop by in a few minutes, let me scrape off some of the dust.”

Jake looked him over, nodded, and turned away.

Lee didn’t want to meet Delgado. Besides a prickly conscience, he’d had a long, hard day, his legs ached, sand and dust made his eyes sting, couldn’t Jake see he was beat? Jake took a couple of steps up, reaching to stroke the yellow cat. “Don’t know where this one came from. Dozen cats around the place, new one shows up now and then, keep rats out of the seed and food stores. Most of them are half wild. This one’s friendly enough, he makes right up to a person.”

“Never been much for cats,” Lee said noncommittally, wondering what that was about. He was right, the damned ghost cat was too nosy. He moved on into the cabin, glancing back as Jake crossed the yard and disappeared inside the house. He could see through the lighted windows beyond Lucita’s lace curtains where Delgado sat at the dining table, the lamp lit and a thick ledger before him as if he had already started on the payroll and expenses. On the wall behind him where the lamplight shone, a painting of white roses made Lee think sharply of Lucita.

While he was cleaning up he thought about her, about being in her house surrounded by her little touches, her books, her flowers, her scent. He showered, put on a clean shirt, guessed he’d better wash the other one in the sink tonight. Feeling strangely nervous, he went on over.

The house was just as much Jake’s house as Lucita’s, Navajo rugs, leather chairs, agricultural and cowman’s magazines, but with Lucita’s touches everywhere, brightly jacketed books, potted violets, the lace curtains, the dining room furnished with an intricately carved Spanish table long enough to accommodate a dozen chairs, creamy walls, and above the dark, carved buffet the white roses as showy as Lucita herself. She loved roses, though he hadn’t seen any out in that pitiful, dry yard where roses were never meant to grow. The painting made Lee uncomfortably aware of her, the petals as soft as her cheek, as creamy as the pale silks she liked to wear, Lucita in tight Levi’s, a creamy satin shirt, fancy boots, her black hair sleek and shining, her dark eyes laughing.

Jake had folded back the lace table runner, out of the way, one end covered with a heavy mat, with bowls of beans, rice, and good Texas chili that a Mexican woman brought in from the kitchen. Lee took the empty place Jake indicated, accepted the cold beer Jake passed to him. As they dished their plates liberally, Delgado looked across at Lee.

“McNeil wasn’treal hard time?” he asked casually. “More freedom than, say, Leavenworth or Atlanta?” The big man leaned back in his chair, sipping his beer from the bottle.

Lee nodded, taking in Delgado’s bold, square features. Ramon Delgado might be a hard worker, but he was a man who lived well, treated himself well. What did he know about McNeil? What did he know about solitary, if you came in with a bad attitude, how you were stripped naked and locked into a pitch-black cell, five feet by five, cold as hell, no toilet, no sink, no bed to lie on, and what sleep you got was on the cold, damp concrete. They gave you one thin blanket, took that away in the morning, brought you a dinky little bowl of gruel, and you had to pick the cockroaches out of that. Lee had been in there only once. After that five-day stretch he was real careful, he stayed out of trouble, didn’t make a move or say a word to draw the attention of the guards or, as much as possible, of the other inmates. If he had a beef with someone, he took care of it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. After thatstretch in solitary, he’d been a model inmate despite the hazing that was laid on him, and pretty soon he got what he wanted. “I worked the farm,” he said shortly. “That part was easy time.”

Though he hadn’t lived in the farm complex like most of those who worked there, he’d gone back to the cell block at night. Even with Lee’s attention to good behavior, he guessed he’d still made the warden nervous. But Delgado didn’t need to know the whole story, the fancy bastard. What did he know about prison, anyway? Delgado’s interest made Lee’s temper flare but he did his best to swallow back his anger.

“What were you in for?” Delgado continued. “Jake mentioned bank robbery.”

Lee nodded, drew his thumbnail down his beer bottle, crumpling the label away from the glass.“A job I messed up on.” He had to try harder not to show his anger. He was, after all, working for the man, he guessed Delgado had a right to ask questions. “It was the first bank robbery I ever tried,” Lee said, keeping his voice mild, trying to act like they were having a normal conversation. “And it was sure as hell the last.”

“You liked the trains better,” Delgado said, smiling.

Lee nodded.“The old steam trains. Those days are gone.”

“Not many big shipments of gold, either,” Delgado said. “All bank drafts or paper money, marked money, not like it used to be. And the diesels too fast for a man on horseback.” His blue eyes burned into Lee. “You’re thinking to stay straight, now? Thinking not to cross the law anymore?”

“That’s my plan,” Lee lied. “I’m getting too old for that life. My lungs are too sick, I can’t take the abuse anymore.”But not quite the last job, he thought, looking steadily at Delgado. As he watched this man, with his riches, with his great spreads of land and hundreds of men working for him, men under his complete control, Lee’s dark urge pressed in at him, wanting part of what Delgado had, no matter who he hurt. If the other three operations, plus the date groves at Hemet, were as large as this ranch, that could total over six hundred workers. Say each man averaged aroundtwenty-five dollars a week, depending on how much he picked, that would add up to some fifteen thousand dollars. Add in the salaries of Jake and the other ranch managers, and their foremen, and that still wouldn’t be enough to retire on, even in Mexico, for whatever time he had left.

But then when he thought about betraying Lucita and Jake, he felt his face heat with shame. The cat was right, if he stole from Delgado he’d put a knife in the hearts of his friends. Shaken, not knowing what he wanted, he soon left the two men to their account books, the dirty dishes and empty beer bottles piled at one end of the table. Crossing Lucita’s comfortable living room to let himself out. Looking at the deep leather sofawith its tumble of soft pillows, he had a sudden vision of lying there with her, holding her close, a thought that brought heat again.

But which dominated? The heat born of lust? Or of shame? He’d never known himself to be so uncertain. Was this a part of getting old? Old, and too weak to know what he wanted? Too old and uncertain to resist whatever notion might, at any given moment, pass through his aging brain?

Dark of mood, he pushed out into the night, the day’s searing heat vanished but the evening air still warm. A thin moon was rising over the melon fields, silvering the tamarisk trees beyond, along the riverbank. He could hear coyotes singing off in the distance, somewhere this side of the mountains. Looking out across the desert toward the wide Colorado River that fed the vast rows of crops, he had a sudden sense of what Jake had told him about Ramon Delgado, about how Delgado had built up this land by backbreaking hard work, and a sudden sense hit Lee of what Delgado might, in fact, feel for the land; and Lee felt a hint, deep inside, thatwhat he had chosen to see in Delgado might be warped, twisted by the way he wanted to see it.

His cabin windows were black, but moonlight touched the porch. A tall shape stood waiting in the shadows beside the door, sending goose bumps up Lee’s arms, a fear flashing through him that made him grip the switchblade in his pocket. The same fear he’d known back at McNeil when the dark wraith moved in through the bars to stand at the foot of his bed. He told himself itwas only a shadow, that it had no power over him except that which he allowed it to have. He moved on up the steps and past it, stepped on in through his unlocked door, closed the door, and switched on the overhead bulb.

Nothing in the room seemed disturbed, everything looked as it should, his folded clothes and towels, Mae’s picture on the white-painted dresser, the straight-backed purple chair standing where he’d left it, the quilted coverlet rumpled on the iron bedstead where he had sat to pull on his boots, the coverlet made by Lucita’s hand. The yellow tomcat lay curled in the middle of the bed, blinking up sleepily at him. Again he was surprised at how glad he was to see Misto there, so pleased that Lee almost spoke to him, then thought better of that idea. He didn’t feel like a lecture. Stripping off his boots and socks, his pants and shirt, he turned the quilt back as best he could without disturbing the beast, turned out the light and slid under the covers leaving most of the space to the cat. If, tonight, the dark spirit slipped into the room to torment him, so be it, he was too tired to care; he was too conflicted by the devil’s hassling to deal with it tonight, he wanted only to be left alone, except for the ghost cat. He badly wanted Misto to stay. Though the big feline, who had taken solid shape tonight in all his shaggy glory, was damnably heavy as he stretched out across Lee’s feet. Amused, but eased by Misto’s boldness and warmth, reassured by the cat’s presence, Leedrifted off into sleep, into dreams that made the dark spirit seem less threatening. That made Satan seem less powerful, tonight, than the spirit of the wily yellow ghost who lay wakeful, watching over Lee, though much of Misto’s attention turned now, as well, to Georgia, to the dark spirit’s keen interest in the family of little Sammie Blake.

14

It was hot in Georgia, too, but more humid. Earlier that same day, as a little breeze stirred the oak leaves, high among the branches Sammie sat straddling a gnarled limb, her bare feet swinging, her long pale hair tangled in the twigs and leaves. Life was good, her daddy was home now, at work at his auto shop just a few blocks away. Later in the afternoon she and Becky would walk down to join him and they’d head over to Grandma’s for dinner. Below her at the picnic table her mother had laid out the monthly figures for Thrasher’s Drugstore, her papers weighted with rocks, her ledger shaded by the sprawling tree.

Looking up, Becky watched Sammie with interest, the child completely absorbed in moving a little metal car along in the air above a leafy branch—she had attached a pair of paper wings to the car, stuck on with tape so it was now an airplane, and she had filled the hollow metal plane with white flour. Becky didn’t know where Sammie’s interest in flight came from, there weren’t many planes around Rome, just a couple of small ones that enthusiastic young men were learning to fly. She watched Sammie pass the little plane over a branch, shaking it so the flour would drift down and cover the leaves. “Dusting the crops,” Sammie said. Becky could swear Sammie had never seen a crop duster. Somehow, the child’s use of the word, her knowledge of the word, made her uneasy.

She was probably reacting to nothing, maybe to some chance remark by a neighbor that Sammie had overheard, but still she wondered. With Sammie, any unusual reference, like so many of her dreams, might have far more meaning than seemed obvious. Sammie’s dreams could affect their lives in ways that were far more real than the ephemeral world of nighttime fantasies.

Though many of Sammie’s visions were small, unimportant events, a neighbor’s truck breaking down late at night; the neighborhood cat who birthed five kittens, two black, three striped, just as Sammie foretold. Becky was used to those dreams, Sammie would tell them to her, then later would smile at her knowingly when the kittens were born just as Sammie said, or the truck broke an axle just before midnight and the neighbor called Morgan for help.

But some of Sammie’s night visions were ugly. When she was barely four years old she dreamed that the courthouse was on fire and she woke crying that the tower was falling all in flame. A week later the courthouse burned, the tower fell blazing, its flying parts breaking ladders, smashing the hood of the town firetruck, severing a six-inch hose, and injuring four volunteer firefighters.

Becky and Morgan had told no one about their child’s predictions, and they swore Sammie to secrecy. The same year she dreamed that her little dog was dead, the small spotted pup Becky had gotten for her from the animal shelter and for which she’d had a fence built to keep him from running in the street, the pup who slept with Sammie and spent every waking hour with her. Sammie dreamed that he followed their car to Main Street where a truck hit him, she dreamed his death in detail far too vivid for any child to have imagined, for any child to have to witness. Three days later the pup dug under the fence and followed their car when Sammie and her mother went shopping. He was killed on Main Street under the wheels of a delivery truck. The child’s grief had already reached its peak before his death; now, her response to the fatal accident was numbness, a cold silence that deepened day by day, badly frightening Becky.

But not all Sammie’s dreams were shattering, some were happy predictions, a new teacher she would grow to love; her grandmother Caroline’s new sewing machine on which Caroline, a tall, handsome woman, would fashion bright new clothes for Sammie. She dreamed the tale in a brand-new storybook, knew it nearly word for word before it was read to her. She dreamed of a school party with papier-m?ch? elephants and giraffes and a cake with a zebra on top, her school “circus party” about which she knew nothing at the time.

But now, this past week, a stranger vision had begun: Sammie had started dreaming of an old man, someone neither Becky nor Morgan had ever met. Sammie called him the cowboy, she would wake worried becausehe was worried, because he was frightened.“Scared because he’s growing old and weak,” she told Becky. It seemed that only by sharing her dreams could the child deal with her fears; and this old man seemed as close and familiar to Sammie as if she had known him all her life. Becky tried to say something reassuring about people gettingold, how natural that was; she would hold Sammie and rock her until the child’s sadness seemed to ease, until Sammie’s pain and fear for the old cowboy drew back, the distress in the little girl’s dark gaze to soften, though she would remain pale and unnaturally quiet.

But now Sammie, flying her crop duster over the leaves saying the cowboy would be happy about the plane and that it would make everything all right, that the airplane would bring him what he wanted, the connection of Sammie’s play with those night visions indeed disturbed Becky. The powerful juxtaposition of dream and waking play left Becky warily on edge, left her waiting nervously for whatever would happen next, for whatever was destined to happen, for the inevitable conclusion to her little girl’s strange and unnatural predictions.

15

Lee’s first sight of Lucita nearly undid him, he was driving a loaded truck in from the fields, the men clinging to the sides cutting up as usual, when he saw a cloud of dust a long way off coming up the dirt road toward the ranch. As it drew near he recognized the green Chevy station wagon that Jake said he’d bought Lucita last Christmas. “Got it just in time,” Jake had said, laughing, “before her old Ford fell apart.” Lee watched her park before the house, step out, and open the tailgate. He’d expected that after so many years she’d be changed some, maybe a bit faded, maybe having gained a bit of weight. He hadn’t thought she’d be even more beautiful, still slim and long waisted, her sleek black hair wound into something complicated, her pale, silky shirt open low at the throat, her breasts high and firm, her jeans just as narrow and smooth-fitting as when she was a girl. He was so intent, watching her haul out packages and a small suitcase, that he nearly ran the truck into a toolshed; behind him the men exploded shouting and laughing. He braked fast and they leaped off, heading for the mess hall.

Killing the engine, he sat in the truck watching her carry a load of groceries into the house, balancing the bags, swinging the door open with her foot. He wanted to go over and help her, to talk to her, but instead he moved on into the mess hall behind the pickers. He loaded his plate at the long counter, found an empty seat alone at the end of a long table where he could see the ranch house, see her unloading the last packages. He ate his meal quietly, and then followed his crew out to the truck again and headed back to the fields. Seeing Lucita had put him off his game so badly that twice he let the truck swing too close to the edge and almost went off the levee. Trying to pay attention to his driving, he thought about dinner tonight with Lucita and Jake, feeling as nervous as a lovesick boy, felt so unsettled he had half a mind to beg off, to say he didn’t feel well.

But that would hurt her feelings, and would make Jake wonder. He sweated nervously through the afternoon. Evening came too soon, and not soon enough. Hurrying in from the fields, parking and crossing to his cabin, he showered, cleaned and polished his boots, put on the one clean shirt that he had washed the night before, spreading it out on his towel to ease the wrinkles before straightening it onto a hanger to dry. He should have gotten off the train in San Bernardino if only to buy himself some new clothes.

Leaving the cabin, walking across the yard, he was foolishly aware he was getting his boots dusty again. He’d started up the porch, was reaching to knock when she flung the door wide and threw her arms around him, startling and embarrassing him. She smelled like roses and she was so warm, her cheek soft against his, her kiss on his cheek sisterly and tender, and then she held him away, looking him over.

Her golden skin was without a wrinkle, except for the laugh creases that had deepened around her dark eyes and that made her seem somehow easier and more comfortable. She still wore her black hair long, pinned up with a silver clasp, but now it was touched with streaks of white, a bright touch that added a new charm. Her low white Mexican blouse and flowered skirt clung in a way that made him want to pull her close again, to keep on holding her. Seeing his look, she backed away, her dark eyes laughing. She took his hand and led him on inside, closed the door behind them. No dog greeted them, though she and Jake had always had a dog or two around the place, Lucita’s own dog close and protective of her. She saw him glance around and knew exactly what he was thinking.

“My Aussie was poisoned, last fall,” she said. “I can’t bear to get another dog, to have that happen again. Someone poisoning coyotes,” she said, her voice breaking, “and my dog found the bait.”

She led him into the living room where Jake was setting down a tray before the leather couch, she pulled Lee to the couch and sat down beside him.“Nearly twenty years, Lee,” she said easily, as Jake passed him a beer in a chilled glass. Lee would have been more comfortable drinking from the bottle, would have felt easier, too, if Lucita would move away a little, and if she hadn’t dressed up for him. But she had always loved a party, loved any excuse to get dressed up. In the old days she served her party meals on cracked pottery, not the fine china and expensive silver that now graced the Ellson table. Beside him, her sweet scent mixed sharply with the spicy smells of a Mexican dinner, a combination that brought back long-ago evenings, brought back so many times for the three of them, when he and Jake had sparred good-naturedly over her. A flowered plate sat on the table, piled with miniature tamales served before dinner with the beer. It took two days to make tamales properly, and Lee was more than flattered.

“From the freezer,” she said, laughing. “I made a big batch at Christmas. Do you remember, Lee, that Christmas in Flagstaff, ten feet of snow, and the young horses all playing and bucking, where we’d cleared the road, chasing each other like kids? And when the truck broke down and we couldn’t get into town, all we had to eat, all that week, was the oats for the horses, until you and Jake shot that big buck?”

Lee smiled, remembering how good that venison stew had tasted, after a week of oat porridge. They’d lived on oats and venison until they’d got the truck fixed, had finally jerry-rigged the broken part with bailing wire.

When she led them in to dinner, he watched Jake seat her at the table, gently pushing in her chair; and the meal she served, concoctions of chiles and cumin, of onions and garlic and lean, roasted meat, would entice the angels right down from heaven. She talked nonstop, and that was unusual for Lucita. Was she as uncomfortable as he, afraid of the silence between them? Or maybe she didn’t want to mention his prison years, bring up a painful subject. They talked about the cowponies Jake used to break, on that five barren acres she and Jake had rented, with the one-room squatter’s shack. Jake had broke some good colts that year. Lee remembered Lucita’s gentleness with a wild new colt, always patient but never backing off when the youngster needed to be worked, never stopping until the colt had finished his lesson.

He remembered how Lucita had found four baby rabbits in the hay barn, and had shut the dogs out, wouldn’t let anyone fork hay from that part of the barn until the rabbits were grown and gone. Sitting with her and Jake remembering the old times, the good times, he remembered, too, the times when their skuzzy friends had shown up, had stayed for maybe a week or two holing up from the law, rememberedhow irritable Lucita would grow, angry at Jake for letting them stay, for ever running with them—angry at them both for attracting what she considered scum, the dregs of humanity. And that thought turned him quiet. If he lifted the Delgado payroll, and destroyed Jake’s job, he was no better thanthose others.

He told himself Delgado had more money than any man had a right to, told himself he could pull this off without ever hurting Jake or Lucita, but he knew that wasn’t true. One way or another, such a theft would spill over and hurt them, bad. The truth was, when he looked at it squarely, whatever wealth Ramon Delgado had, he had earned with hard work and sweat and he had every right to it. Lee might rob a man, but he had never before fooled himself that he had a right to what he stole. What he took by force was just that, robbery. That was the game he’d played, steal and get out, vanish where the cops couldn’t find him. Now, taking an honest look at himself, he didn’t much like what he saw. And that night, leaving Jake and Lucita, leaving the nearness of her—but still thinking about crossing her and Jake—he lay on his bunk confused, badly conflicted, tossing and unable to sleep.

He’d never felt this kind of uncertainty. In the old days he’d known exactly what he wanted and had gone for it. Had made his plan, carried it out, and, more times than not, had got away clean, with a nice haul. But now he tossed all night, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking with shame of betraying the two people he valued most in the world, but then his thoughts drowning in darkness as he coveted the Delgado money, so near, so easy to lift for his own.

He came awake before dawn to the clanging bell from the mess hall. He looked out at the stars, rolled over, and wanted to sleep again, he was worn out, so tired that even his mind felt bruised. In sleep and in wakefulness he had fought himself, and fought the insistent urgings of the dark spirit. And as he twisted and turned, as the dark voice whispered to him, the ghost cat pressed close, sometimes rising to pace across the blanket, standing bold against the invasion that sought to mold Lee to its design.

Now, this morning, even as Lee woke more fully to the second clang of the breakfast bell, the yellow cat sat at the foot of the bed looking hard at him. This time, the cat didn’t have to speak, Lee knew exactly what he was thinking: Lee had wonthis battle, he had awakened knowing he would not betray Jake and Lucita, and the cat was pleased.

Rising, hastily washing and dressing, he thought about choosing a new mark for his retirement stash, about surveying the ranches and businesses in the area until he found one that kept sufficient cash on hand to be of use. The gypsum plant, maybe. Or one of the big cotton or alfalfa farms. These were places he knew nothing about, he didn’t know how they were run, he would have a lot to learn about their operations, a lot to catch up on. You didn’t just walk into an office, wave your gun, and expect to walk away with a haul. He’d have to know the layout, see where and when the workers moved about, have to know what they did in their jobs, as best he could find out. Needed to know how the staff was paid. In cash? If they were paid by check, that put them out of the running. If by cash, he had to know who transported the money and when, where it was dealt out, and on what day. He’d have to work out the timing, have to know the whole drill, and that would take time. Time, and a degree of energy and stamina that he wasn’t sure he could still muster. He had already blown one job because of poor planning. That had sent him to McNeil, he wasn’t doing that again.

The local motels and restaurants wouldn’t have the kind of cash he needed, not there on the premises. And if he hit a bank, pulled a federal crime and got caught, he’d spend the rest of his life, for sure, in the federal pen, would most likely die there, breathe his last gasp on some hard prison cot with no one to give a damn. The minute he got stressed trying to work out a plan, his breathing got worse; he knew that only part of his coughing and lack of breath was the dust. Why he had thought the blowing desert sand wouldn’t irritate his lungs, he had no idea. And the Federal Bureau of Prisons wouldn’t care, why the hell would they? He’d agreed when they said the heat would help him, and he’d thought it would be easy work, driving the truck back and forth, he hadn’t thought any further than that. But now, with a new robbery to plan, he could feel the pressure constricting his lungs again, and he knew he’d better get on with it, better figure out what he wanted to do before the emphysema took a turn for the worse and he wouldn’t have the strength to even hold a gun steady.

16

The harder Satan pressed Lee, the stronger the cat seemed to grow. No matter how Lucifer tried to manipulate Fontana, either the cat or Lee himself found a way to best him. Misto’s exuberance for life, even when he traveled between lives, the ghost cat’s love for the living human spirit was poison to Satan, Misto generated a joy so willful and strong, so stubborn, that the dark spirit at last backed away—for the moment. Repulsed and defeated, Satan melted from Lee’s cabin out into the night where he restlessly wandered the ranch yard looking for lighter entertainment, seeking some mindless diversion to cool his seething rage.

At last, smiling, he took the form of a coyote, rank and mangy and flea-ridden. Slipping in through the walls of the nearest bunkhouse, he amused himself for a while weaving terrifying dreams among the sleeping workers, bloody nightmares that stirred memories of childhood hunger and beatings in the tired men, of adolescent atrocities, the pain from knives and attacks with broken bottles. He rekindled terrors that made the dreaming men shudder and cry out and made the shaggy carnivore smile, yellow toothed, grinning with the lusty evil that was so easy to press into the simple minds of these otherwise happy-go-lucky men.

When he grew bored with these mind games, he wandered across the ranch yard leaving no tracks in the sand, and in through the locked door of the Ellsons’ house, into Jake and Lucita’s bedroom. They slept twined together, dreaming, after a long and easy lovemaking, and here again he sought to drive fear into his quarry, to shatter their happy slumber.

But in the cloying atmosphere of happiness, his attempt at nightmares failed. The two slept undisturbed and peaceful except for Lucita’s occasional soft moan, her hand brushing Jake’s cheek but then pulling away again, tucking her hand under her own cheek. Her dream was a scenario Lucifer couldn’t read or seem in any way to alter, and that, too, maddened him. The night had not gone well. If he were a human trespasser, armedand in a killing mood, if he had entered the room to shoot them in their sleep it would have gone better, though even then he thought he might have had a battle, eyeing the pistol Jake kept beside his bed.

Annoyed with the recalcitrant attitude of those in the upper world, Satan left the Ellsons’ at last and quit the Delgado Ranch, abandoning this world for the moment in a swirl of wind to vanish down through packed sand and desert rock, through miles of stone and undersea rivers and molten beds of plasma. Fast as the wind he fled down and down into the hot and fiery regions where he could nurse his frustrations in his own surroundings. There, taking his ease among the familiar fires, gathering strength from hell’s searing flames, he laid out plans for his imminent return.

The devil is not one entity. Like the hundred eyes of the fly multiplied ten trillion times, he is everywhere he chooses to be, everywhere at once, growing stronger where he is welcomed, fading and weakening when he is willfully rebuffed. Now down among the flames and comfortable once more, he thought that when he returned to the world above he would attend once again to the events in Georgia, to the Blake family where the scenario he had set in place was developing nicely, to the little family that was so interestingly connected to Lee Fontana. Though he would continue to haze Fontana, too, of course, searching for weaker elements in Lee’s nature. The pieces were coming together very well, the results of his work were gathering in myriad ways toward an explosion of satisfying destruction. With the help of Brad Falon, that lustfully eager pawn, a final retribution was building, a last determination for the heirs of Russell Dobbs,a crushing conclusion to the lives of the final descendants of this one distasteful enemy. Soon he would destroy the last trace of Dobbs, would turn to dust all that Dobbs had begotten in his defiant human life.

The cat, having faced off the devil with a power that seemed to Misto greater than he alone could have mustered, smiled with pleasure at Lucifer’s departure. Whatever had happened tonight, Lee and the cat together had bested the dark one with a triumph that made Misto feel he could whip immense tigers, could defeat blood-hungry carnivores from far crueler ages, long past.

Once the devil was gone, Misto waited on Lee’s bed only long enough to see that Lee slept soundly for the few hours remaining of the night, then he left the old convict and faded out into the cool dark. Above, on the roof of the building, digging his claws into the heat-softened shingles, he was still smiling a sly cat smile at the dark wraith’s retreat, at knowing that he and Lee, armed with a fierce anger born of love, could weaken the prince of malevolence. From the rooftop he watched the coyote enter the bunkhouses, watched the devil’s cold manipulation of the work-tired men, watched Satan’s failure to reach or make any impression on Jake and Lucita Ellson. Above Misto the stars sparked and gleamed, and a low moon hung over the desert hills, its thin curve picking out mirrored reflections in the black and glassy surface of the great Colorado River that flowed away beyond the ranch. Happily twitching his tail, the ghost cat immersed himself in the glory of the earthly world, a world so intricate, so complicated, so dazzling a panorama with its billions of living forms all so cleverly designed, all unique and all so freely given. To the cat, this world was a great and ever-changing wonder, he felt now the same joyhe had indulged in while riding atop the southbound passenger train down the coast, a giddy madness of pure pleasure. And now again he let his thoughts turn back in time, let his vision sweep back into a past when this whole vast valley lay deep beneath the sea, when these fields and low hills werepart of the sea floor, grazed by fishes instead of sheep, the undersea hilltops scoured by schools of Pleistocene sharks hunting their fishy prey. And then his vision leaped ahead to see the earth heave up and the sea floor violently lift, mountains rising as the earth’s plates buckled, the wrinkled coastal range pushing up and up and the sea draining away from the newly emerged land, sucked away in foaming rivers.

Sitting on the cabin roof, the cat reveled in those vast changes over eons of time. He knew a heady amazement that he, one small and insignificant cat spirit, could be privileged to witness such miracles, that he, in this time between his various lives, could look out upon whatever aspect of existence he chose, on huge events and small, all come together into the endless sum that formed life’s unfathomable tapestry.

Thus, on the roof, Misto waited out the night contemplating the earth’s richness but looking down often, too, beneath his paws through the cabin roof to make sure that Lee rested peacefully, praying that Lee wouldn’t falter, in the future, in his defiance of the dark one.

Only in the matter of Lucita was Misto uncertain, wondering how Lee’s resolve would endure—and well the cat should wonder, for in the days that followed, Lee found any excuse to be near her, any pretense to stop by the house at noon on some trumped-up errand, a need for clean towels, a request to borrow a broom. Or he would stop by the stable as she groomed orworked with the horses, or in the evening he would have an excuse to speak with Jake. Lee was more convinced each day that Lucita welcomed his attention and that she returned his feelings. The cat watched, lashing his tail, but for the moment he kept his remarks to himself; he only knew that Luciferwas not finished yet, as Lucita’s slightest smile, her smallest glance heated Lee’s blood. And though Lee stuck to his commitment regarding the Delgado money, Satan was busy honing Lee’s resentment that Jake stood in his way with the woman he wanted; Lee didn’t like seeing the two together,often so wrapped up in each other that they were aware of no one else.

Lucita kept her Appaloosa mare turned out in a half-acre paddock with Jake’s big sorrel gelding, and they often rode in the evenings, out along the levees. Lee would watch from his porch as she went off with Jake, sitting the mare easy, sleek in a Western shirt, her shining black hair tied in a knot at her neck beneath a white Stetson, and as Lee watched and coveted her, Misto sensed the dark wraith easing in to make his move.

If Satan couldn’t force Lee into the robbery that was against Lee’s deepest instincts, then he would see that Lucita was the cause of Lee’s downfall, he would stir Lee’s lust for her until Lee, one way or another, moved to destroy the Ellson family and so destroy himself.

On a Sunday night when Lucita had made a pot of chili and invited Lee over, the ghost cat followed him. Wanting to see how Lucita responded to him now, he trotted invisibly on Lee’s heels into the Ellson house. The smell of chili and of chopped cilantro filled the cozy rooms, making Misto lick his chops as he gravitated unseen to the top of the refrigerator, as he looked down on the three where they sat at the kitchen table drinking beer, laughing about old times. Misto could as well have made himself visible, could have walked right on in as he had done often these past days as he worked at befriending Lucita, as he sought to establish a bond with her, to gain an inside look at the little, easily missed moments that might arise between her and Lee.

The tomcat found Lucita just as charming as Lee did, just as pleasant to be near, beautiful, tender, soft-voiced. He would come to the back door to beg for handouts, would rub against her ankles, purring when she stroked him, and she always had a kind word. But tonight he remained unseen where he could observe the mood and preoccupation of the three players more closely, could listen and perceive without Lee’s wondering why this sudden, intent observation.

As they served up their bowls in the kitchen and moved into the dining room, where the rest of the meal was laid out, the cilantro and onions and salsa, the rice and beans, the ghost cat drifted to the top of the carved china closet. There he sat tall and bold and invisible looking down at the three, offering no telltale shadow, no hint of a purr to give himself away. He watched them sprinkle cilantro and onions onto their chili, sip their beer, watched the interaction between the three of them: Lee longing for her, Lucita aware but ignoring his glances just as, when they were alone, she did her best to ignore his heated looks though she was indeed drawn to him. Jake remained as unresponsive as if he sat at a high-stakes poker table, no clue to what he was thinking, even when Lucita tried to breach an uncomfortable silence recalling a cattle drive the three of them had made over in Kingman that, for some reason, brought color to her cheeks. She was passing the bowl of chili when they heard, from the nearby pasture, a horse squealing with fear, the Appaloosa mare’s shrill cry. Lucita bolted from her chair and was out the door. Jake grabbed his forty-five and was on her heels. Lee followed wondering if coyotes were prowling outside the paddock, or possibly a cougar, which were seen occasionally. Or maybe a stranger wandering in bothering the horses. Lucita’s leopard Appaloosa was showy and worth stealing, and the sorrel gelding was a registered Thoroughbred worth good money.

Only Misto, following them to the paddock, knew what was there. A dog would have known, would have barked wildly—if Lucita had seen fit to have another dog. In the paddock the mare and gelding were circling and wheeling at a frenzied gallop, white eyed and crazy with fear, rearing, spinning, and ducking as if attacked by hornets, so terrified they were ready to jump the fence or crash through.

Jake, as he passed the tack room, had grabbed his lariat. He managed to rope the gelding, and now he stood quieting him. Lee moved beside the mare as Lucita fought to halter her. When she’d buckled the halter on at last, trying to calm the mare, she led her rearing and snorting through the gate and toward the stable. Jake had quieted the gelding. He brought him to lead beside the mare, helping to steady her. Lucita got her into her stall, still white eyed and fighting. Jake nodded to Lee to stay with her, threw a saddle on the gelding and bridled him, and headed out—hunting a varmint that Lee knew he would never see, and could never kill.

As Lucita tried to soothe the mare, Lee moved quietly into the stall. The Appaloosa seemed to accept him, she didn’t shy away as he stood beside Lucita smoothing her mane. They talked softly to her, and at last the mare eased into Lucita, her shivering calmed, she didn’t flinch when Lee found a soft brush and began to brush her neck, to softly brush her face. Lucita rubbed her ears, and scratched a favorite spot on her withers. Slowly, slowly the mare calmed. If Lucita was aware of Lee’s closeness, she gave no sign. Only when the mare had settled enough to snatch a bite of grain, only when Lucita turned to look directly at Lee, did he see the fear in her eyes.

“What was that, Lee? What’s out there? That was no animal. Where is Jake, is Jake all right?”

Lee knew there was a shotgun in the kitchen, that he could pretend to go looking, but he wouldn’t go out there in the dark when Jake didn’t know he was there. And what was the point? What Jake hunted couldn’t be shot. Lucita looked at him, so shaken; they stood close together, the mare crowded against them for reassurance. “That was no man,” Lucita said. “You saw it, Lee. A shadow, a man-shadow. But not a man.” She turned, pressed her face against the mare’s neck. The mare turned, nuzzling her.

“Something moving,” Lucita said, “something … transparent. You saw it.” She turned to him, reached to touch his cheek. At once his arms were around her, holding her. “You saw it, Lee. That wasn’t anything living,” and she was trembling in his arms.

“Lucita …”

She lifted her face to him, he held her close and kissed her, a long kiss, felt the heat of her, they remained as close as one being, the mare pushing into them, pressing her nose to them, the three of them needing each other, until they heard the sound of hooves, the gelding coming into the barn. Lee turned away, letting her go. When he looked back, her eyes searched his for a moment, still frightened, still needful. She started to speak but then she, too, turned away, burying her face against the mare’s mane.

“I don’t know what frightened them,” Lee lied. Jake was coming, his footsteps in the alleyway.

Lee knew that this moment with her would lead nowhere, that it was fear that had done this, that she would not have touched him otherwise, would not have clung to him. The dark spirit had done this, and silently he cursed the haunt—and yet he would not have missed this one perfect moment even if he burned forever in Satan’s hell.

It was now that the cat appeared beside Lee’s boot and then leaped to the manger and into the partially filled grain box. He didn’t startle the mare, in fact only then did the Appaloosa settle down completely, nose in beside the cat, and begin carefully to nibble up her oats. The cat rubbed against her then he slipped out of the manger again and down into the stall. Wading across the straw bedding, he rubbed against Lucita’s ankles, his purrs calming the three of them as Jake opened the stall door and stepped in.

“I found nothing.” He looked pale; he looked at the mare, so quiet now, and reached to stroke her neck. “They’re both calm now. Whatever was there, it’s gone.” He looked at Lee, at Lucita. “Whatever that was—a cougar or whatever thehell it was, I hope it doesn’t come back. I took the electric torch, looked for tracks, couldn’t find anything. I’ll try again, at first light.” He touched Lucita’s cheek, took her in his arms as Lee turned away and moved out of the stall.

17

Lee had been at work for nearly two weeks when he discovered the perfect escape from whatever crime he ultimately planned, a foolproof way to vanish from Blythe, to slip from the cops’ grasp without a clue for them to trace. It was midmorning, he was inching the truck along beside the field below the levee keeping pace with the pickers, when above him atop the levee an unfamiliar truck came rattling along fast. It passed him and, some distance beyond, turned down the side of the levee onto an open dirt strip, stopping in a swirl of dust. Two men got out, began dragging heavily loaded burlap bags out of the truck bed. He was trying to make out the lettering on the truck’s door when a buzzing sound made him look up, the racket grew to a deafening roar and a yellow biplane flashed so low over him that he ducked.

The plane banked steeply, flying treacherously low as it swung back toward the strip. The engine cut to an idle, the left wing dropped, the plane side-slipped at such a steep angle Lee was certain it would crash. The pilot in the open, rear cockpit looked down unconcerned. At the last minute he straightened the plane, touched down, and rolled lightly to a stop just beside the truck.

Lee put his own truck in neutral, got out, and walked over to take a look, watching the truck driver and his partner as they began to empty their bags, one after another, into a hopper in the front cockpit, releasing a heavy white powder that smelled like the bug poison they used in prison to keep the roaches down, or like the white cricket bait scattered like snow on the streets of Blythe. The name on the truck was Valley Dusters. The pilot slid out of the rear cockpit, pulled off his helmet and goggles releasing a tangle of brown curly hair. A young man, fancy white scarf tucked into the collar of his black windbreaker, clean tan slacks, black boots. He looked at Lee questioningly, not quite belligerent but with a lopsided half-smile.

“I thought,” Lee said, “you were going to drive that booger straight into the ground.”

The young man smiled.“I guess you’re not a pilot. These babies are handy as hell, you can outfly a hawk in one of these.” He looked Lee over. “You look like a horseman. You ever been up higher than a bronc’s back?”

“Never have, never intend to.” In prison he’d watched pilots buzz the walls once in a while, that always brought men out into the yard, staring up, wishing they could grab on, catch a lift out of there. Some guys claimed that in the future huge planes would fly all over the country, more and bigger even than the planes that had helped win the war, planes that would carry hundreds of passengers clear around the world. Already there were a few such flights, out of San Francisco and L.A. But this little yellow plane seemed a different breed, so small and handy it was free to land anywhere,in a pasture, an open field, the pilot could come and go as he pleased.

“It’s a war surplus trainer, a Stearman,” the young man said. “I’m Mark Triple.”

Lee put out his hand.“Lee Fontana. I work for Delgado.”

Triple nodded.“Come take a look.”

Lee moved around to study the big radial engine, then stared into the open cockpit at the worn canvas seat cushion, the black instrument panel with its cluster of dials that looked only confusing to him. He couldn’t imagine leaving the earth in this little machine, a man would have to be crazy. Yet the idea, the freedom such a plane offered, deeply excited him.

“I put a bigger engine on it,” Triple said. “Four hundred and fifty horse. Carries a good load, but I’m going to get a new plane that will carry more dust, handle more fields without reloading. There’s a growing demand for crop dusting.”

Jake had talked about how much this method of distributing insecticides saved in produce, about the higher yield to the fields when the crops weren’t ruined by insects. It looked like a good business, all right. It would have to be, if this young a man, who couldn’t have been in business long, was already buying a new and bigger plane. How much, Lee wondered, would that set him back? Compared to a car or truck, a plane had to cost a fortune. He smiled at the kid, encouraging him. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

Triple laughed.“Just getting started. Going back to Wichita in a few weeks, there’s an aircraft plant there, and there’s a guy back there wants to buy the Stearman.”

Lee studied the pilot.“Which way will you go to Wichita?”

“Up through Vegas, to say good-bye to a girl there. Then on direct to Kansas.”

“Saying good-bye’s kind of final.”

“I’m going on to Florida, hook up with a friend. Tired of working for others, we plan to start up our own dusting business.”

“You won’t be coming back to California?” Lee asked with interest. “How long would a trip like that take?”

“Here to Vegas, a little over an hour. Vegas to Wichita, given good weather, maybe nine or ten hours.”

“Nice,” Lee said. “Time was, it took folks months to make that journey. I guess, the way you work, on your own and all, you don’t keep time schedules like an airline would, you’re not beholden to anyone?”

Triple smiled, studying him.“I don’t keep any schedules, and I work my own hours. As long as I do the work, my time’s pretty much my own. I have my own hangar, I work when and where I’m needed. I check in with the home office once a week and send them a bill, and that’s about it.”

Lee nodded.“Your hangar … You keep your plane nearby?”

“The abandoned military airfield—that flat stretch west of town up on the butte. I contract to Valley Dusters out of San Bernardino. I’m pretty free now, I guess, but I want my own operation, I want to do things my way.” He glanced up at the two men, who had finished the loading. “Have toget moving,” he said, swinging up into the cockpit. “Nice meeting you, Fontana.”

“Will you be back this way?”

“Next week,” Mark shouted, revving the engine. “Dust again next week.”

Lee wanted to ask him more but Triple was on his way, the engine roaring. Lee stepped back beside his truck, watched the yellow plane taxi, gaining speed, watched it lift at the far end of the field like a great bird leaping up, even with the weight it carried. He watched it bank sharply, heading back low, dropping its nose along the far side of the levee, where acres of young bean plants stretched away.

With its wheels just above the green rows it spat a white cloud of dust that settled quickly down on the long lines of bright leaves. At the other end of the field, Triple flew under a power line then climbed and turned, came back under the same line to make another pass. Lee stood with his hand over his nose and mouth, choking on the insecticide—but deep in thought, thinking where that plane could go without any record of takeoff time or destination. Soon he was coughing hard, but the idea that gripped him was more urgent than his sick lungs—a crazy idea, but he thought it might work, and a hot excitement surged through him. Mark Triple and his yellow plane could be, Lee thought, his one sure ticket to freedom.

All the way back to the sheds, driving the straining truck with its load of melons and pickers, and all the rest of that day driving back and forth he thought about Mark Triple, about the airplane that could put him over the mountains clear to Vegas in an hour or so, a four-hour trip or better by car. Looking off toward the hills, where the plane could so quickly vanish, he started counting the days until Triple would return, until he could bring Mark Triple innocently into the scheme he was building. He needed to get into Blythe, he needed to look the town over with more care, and to study the surrounding area. It had been many years since he’d spent any time there, things change, new and different businesses opening up. Now, with the anticipation of a perfect getaway, he found his excitement growing; this heist would not involve Jake Ellson, and that made him feel lighter, easier in spirit. Even his lust for Lucita settled into a dull ache as his common sense kicked in and his thoughts rallied to a more sensible robbery.

In the next days there were fewer times when he couldn’t get his mind off Lucita, fewer nights when his dreams were filled with her, when he tossed and fought his pillow—or when the dark presence returned to wake and hassle him and urge him in his lust. If he did lie wakeful, he would instead sort through various schemes, ever impatient to get into town and take a look, get the lay of the place and pick out a new mark, now that he had an inspired and, he hoped, reliable getaway. And then, on the nights when the dark presence came stronger, pushing him to pursue Lucita more forcefully and to follow the more certain path to the Delgado payroll, the ghost cat would crowd close to Lee. Then, Misto seemed almost to become one with Lee, fighting the dark force, hissing and snarling and even seeming to grow in stature as he sought to ward off the evil that would crush Lee. The power of the cat beside Lee strengthened him so much that some nights he would scoff and laugh at Satan; and as the dark and angry spirit drew back, Lee would stroke the cat’s rough coat, and smile at Misto’s rumbling challenge.

But Lee feared, and perhaps rightly so, that there would be times ahead when his own strength wouldn’t hold, when, alone perhaps, he would be overwhelmed, when he must watch Satan take the lead and, try as he might, Lee would be unable to best him, when it would be too easy to let the dark wraith bully and intimidate him into following the devil’s plan.

18

When Morgan Blake was mustered out of the navy, the minute he got home he had floated a loan to make the down payment on the old Wilson gas station. Working from early dawn through the evenings, it didn’t take him long to convert the building into a spacious automotive shop. He kept one gas pump, removed the other three, turned the remainder of the open, roofed area into parking for his repair customers. The shop itself was a white frame building with two bays and two hydraulic lifts. There wasan office attached, a storeroom behind that, and a small bathroom. The little office, with its plate-glass window looking out under the overhang held an old metal desk, three wooden chairs, and a small wooden table cluttered with automotive catalogs. Both the shop and the office smelled comfortablyof grease, metal, and the sharp scent left by the arc-welding equipment.

Now as he moved away from the raised lift where he had been greasing a forty-two Plymouth, a white delivery van pulled into the drive and parked to the left of the bay entrance, emitting the scent of fresh bread and pastries that traveled with it. He watched his motherin-law step out of the cab, waving and smiling in at him. He grinned and waved, and lowered the Plymouth to the concrete, as she went on into the office. Caroline Tanner was a handsome woman, tall like Becky, her dark hair peppered with white, her Levi’s fitting her lean body easily, her white shirt freshly starched. She carried a white bakery box, she set it on the table, balanced on a stack of papers. It was just noon, she had obviously come to share lunch, and he wondered why. She was more than welcome, but she didn’t do this often. He stepped into the little bathroom to wash up, and retrieved his lunch bag from a shelf among boxes of small automotive parts.

In the office he spread some paper towels on the desk as Caroline drew up another chair. They had exchanged no word, nor needed to. He laid his sandwiches out on the paper towels, one roast beef, one tomato and bacon. Caroline accepted half a roast beef sandwich, and poured coffee from his thermos into the two mugs he had rinsed out. He watched her with apprehension, and when she looked up at him, her gray eyes were filled with something so unpleasant that before she could speak he reached out, put this hand over hers.“Caroline, I already know.”

“Brad Falon’s back in town,” she said softly.

He nodded.“I heard he was out on the West Coast. L.A., I think. I wish he’d stayed there.”

“You haven’t told Becky?”

“No.” He sat looking at her, remembering the pain he had caused Caroline when he and Becky were going together in high school and he ran with Falon. In those days he wouldn’t listen to Caroline, any more than he’d listen to his own parents.

She looked at him steadily.“Brad’s mother was in the bakery yesterday, we sat back in the kitchen, had a cup of coffee. I don’t like the woman much, she’s so …”

“Righteous,” Morgan said.

Caroline smiled.“But she’s been through hell with Brad. And now, knowing Brad, it’ll start all over again.”

The Falon house stood three blocks from the house where Morgan had grown up, Morgan and his parents had gone to the same church as the Falons. Morgan’s mother had lost many nights’ sleep over his friendship with Brad, over the scrapes they got into, and there was a lot his parents had never known, the stolen car radios and batteries they had fenced outside of town. When Morgan went in the navy, Falon was already in jail, he had been in and out of jail ever since.

For Morgan, the trouble they got into had all been boyhood pranks. When he joined the navy, he was done with that. But for Falon, that early beginning had added up to more than pranks. Long before Falon went to jail as an adult for the first time, he did a hitch in Juvenile Hall for trying to kill a little girl’s puppy. He was stopped only just in time, but the judge said the intent was there. With Falon’s previous juvenile record, he wasn’t cut much slack.

That was when Morgan took his first honest look at Falon, saw Brad for what he was—and saw himself mirrored there. But even then, even in high school, he wouldn’t stop running with Falon.

Now he watched Caroline cut her homemade pie, the blueberries oozing juice. She had brought a container of whipped cream, which she spooned liberally onto the pie as he refilled their coffee mugs. Caroline had spent plenty of sleepless nights when he and Becky were kids. Becky wouldn’t stop seeing Morgan, and he wouldn’t stop associating with Falon. Caroline had told him, long before he would admit it to himself, that Brad Falon was an emotional cripple, that Falon had no conscience. Morgan hadn’t believed her, then, but of course she’d been right. Whatever it was inside a normal person that made them care about others, whatever it was that made them separate right from wrong, was missing in Brad Falon. Whatever made Morgan love Becky and Sammie so much he would die for them in an instant, had no meaning at all for Falon, love was a word without context, Falon could only pretend to love, just as he pretended to separate right from evil.

Caroline finished her pie and sat looking at Morgan, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. She didn’t believe he would go back with Falon, yet she was sick with fear that he might. She was thinking,Don’t start again. Please don’t let it start,and Morgan was ashamed that even now, even after all these years, Caroline had to assess him all over again.

“What you’re thinking hurts,” he said. “But I guess I have it coming.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll send him packing, you know I won’t hurt Becky and Sammie. I don’t want Falon around here, any more than you do.” But even as he said it, embarrassment twisted his gut almost as if he were sixteen again trying to con Caroline, and he felt his face burning.

When Brad Falon flew out of L.A., escaping before the law fingered him on a land scam, he was nicely set up to put into motion events that would destroy Morgan Blake and his family. Pleased with this scenario, already planning the moves, he had no notion that he would, as well, entrap in his web a second enemy, that he would find himself in the perfect position to bring down Lee Fontana. As far as Falon knew, Fontana wasn’t anywhere near Georgia or the East Coast, he knew no reason for Fontana to be there. After boarding a DC–4 in L.A., in his roomy seat Falon was soon enjoying the champagne and carefully prepared snacks including smoked salmon from Seattle and shrimp from Mexico. As he ate and drank, acceptingseconds from the stewardess, he entertained himself by mentally undressing and imaginatively using the tall blonde in a variety of creative ways.

The stewardess didn’t like his looks. Even when her back was turned, tending to other passengers, she could feel him watching her. He was a wiry, sour man who looked as if he’d never been young, there was no hint anywhere in that grim countenance of the shadow of a happy youth, his muddy eyes were set too close together, his face unnaturally narrow, everything about him seemed somehow wrong, she didn’t like waiting on him, she drew back her hand when he touched her.

He had boarded the flight wearing Levi’s, in a day when Levi’s were worn only by cattlemen and horsemen, men easy in their wrinkled jeans and jackets that were softened by work and age. She was a Montana girl, she knew the difference, Falon’s stiff new Levi’s jacket still smelled of sizing, still sported the store creases. His snakeskin boots with red and blue flowers had never seen, or ever would see, honest cow or horse manure.

Falon watched the stewardess, wondering what she was thinking with that closed expression when she glanced at him; but then he put the hussy aside and he turned his thoughts to the action ahead, to his long-overdue homecoming. He intended, when home in Georgia again, to take care of the Blake family once and for all, in a way that would not only make Morgan suffer but would provide a lifetime of bitter payback for Becky’s disdain of him, as she well deserved.

He hadn’t seen Morgan since Blake went in the navy. But he’d seen Becky, all right. He’d see her again, and this time he’d make her glad to see him, real glad. Even if Morganwas home, Becky would need some excitement, Morgan was dull as mud, what could he offer a woman? By the time the plane touched ground at Chattanooga, the cabin was stifling hot. When the boarding door opened Falon pushed on through to the head of the line, he was the first to step out onto the rolling metal stair—into waves of heat radiating up from the steel grid and from the black macadam below. He’d forgotten how heavily the Southern heat pressed down on a person. Even a summer in L.A. could not be this oppressive, and it was still only spring. Ignoring the passengers crowding impatiently behind him, he stood looking down at the hot black tarmac and beyond at the three-story concrete terminal building, its outlines quivering with heat. Did those behind him have to fidget and grumble? What was their hurry? Some broad started carping about making a hurried connection, so it was all he could do not to turn and swing at her. He stood trying to get used to the heat, so damn hot he couldn’t tolerate the fidgeting and nagging. Another woman was going on about her family waiting for her in the hot sun. He didn’t move until the stewardess slipped by her passengers out onto the landing and puta gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned, scowling, then licked his lips at her. Anger blazed in her eyes, but she said nothing. He turned away again and descended the hot metal steps, frowning back at the passengers pushing close behind him, then he crossed the tarmac and into the cooler terminal.

The stewardess watched Falon turn to survey the passengers crowding down behind him, an amused smile lifting the corner of his mouth. She was deeply relieved to see the last of the sour, thin man. There was something unhealthy and cold about him, she couldn’t really understand the fear he instilled in her. She turned back into the cabin feeling as violated as if he had physically assaulted her; she hoped he never flew with her again.

Falon carried his only piece of luggage, the leather valise containing an extra shirt, two pairs of shorts, two pairs of socks and a razor, stuffed in on top of ten packets of hundred-dollar bills, money he’d stashed long before the feds ever got on his tail, money they didn’t know he had. The afternoon time was 3:35 by the airport clock. Chattanooga temperature was ninety-seven degrees, the humidity 91 percent. As he crossed the hot paving, his hair felt sticky, his shirt and Levi’s were already clinging to him. He moved quickly through the terminal and out to the front sidewalk. He took the first cab in line, stepping in front of three old women dragging their bulky luggage. Pushing one of their suitcases out of the way, he stepped into the backseat, directed the driver to the center oftown where the car lots would be lined up like Vegas gambling joints waiting for the suckers.

He left the cab, tipping exactly 5 percent, and wandered among the shiny vehicles, checking them out, moving from one car to the next, looking them over, then moving on up to the next lot. In the Ford lot he found a 1945 black Mustang that suited him just fine. He paid cash, peeling off twenties and fifties from a roll that he drew from his pocket. He filled out the registration certificate under the name of Lemuel Simms. When he had completed the deal he laid his suitcase in the passenger seat, drove six blocks to a gun shop he’d spotted from the taxi. He bought a Colt .45 automatic with an extra clip and eight boxes of ammunition. In the car, loading the clips, he shoved one into the gun. Dropping gun and extra clip in his pocket, he pushed the boxes of ammo under the seat, and drove three blocks to the Merchant’s Bank.

Removing a fourth of the cash from the valise, he deposited half under the name of James Halyer, opened a safe deposit box and put the rest in there. He repeated this operation at three more banks, using a different name for each, supplying the required identification for each. He finished with a thousand dollars on him. He hid the bankbooks in the double lining of his valise. As he headed the Mustang for the main highway that ran south toward Rome and his parents’ place, he knew he would do well with what he planned, as he always did when under pressure. He didn’t mean to stay in Rome long, just until he pulled this job and got what he wanted. Growing up in that hick town had been a downer, he’d thought he’d never get out of there. Nothing to do but boost hubcaps, steal auto parts and batteries. No bars, no liquor, no dance halls, and most of the girls were straight as nuns, only a couple that would give out, and they were used by most of the male population in high school. Morgan Blake was his only buddy, though Morgan left the girls alone. Morgan had eyes only for Becky Tanner, the snotty little bitch, too good for anyone but Morgan.

He had to laugh remembering when he was in eighth grade, remembering the white dog, even if he had been sent to reform school for that little bit of fun. He’d been walking down the empty hall while school was in session, passing the front door of the second-grade room and then glancing through the half glass of the back door, looking up to the front watching the little kids at their show-and-tell, some brat standing in front of the class holding up his pet hamster.

Just inside the back door stood a line of cardboard boxes and a wire mesh animal carrier awaiting their turn. He could see movement in the carrier, something white and fluffy, and he’d heard a beseeching whine. He had stood a moment feeling excited and hard, his hunger intense. Then he spun away, around the corner past the boys’ restroom to the tool room where the custodian kept his cleaning and repair equipment.

The room was usually unlocked, he had often prowled in there, and among the hanging tools was a large pair of hedge clippers, he’d watched the janitor use them on the box hedges that surrounded the school yard. Lifting them down, he’d released the catch letting the blades spring open sharp and gleaming in the glaring light from the hall.

Returning to the second-grade room, he’d slipped the back door open and pulled out the carrier with the fluffy white puppy inside. The class was so intent on a big dog doing simple tricks that no one noticed when he slid the cage to him. The puppy whined and licked his fingers through the wire, so touching. Kneeling, he opened the latch and let the puppy charge out licking and wriggling. He was rolling the pup over, rubbing its stomach to keep it still, holding its one leg up and holding the clippers ready when hands grabbed him from behind, jerked the clippers away and flung him backward. The man forced him to the floor, he looked up at the brawny school custodian, the big man’s face contorted with rage. Falon had laughed at him, had kept laughing when the guy hit him, laughing, thinking about what he might have done, what he’d wanted to do, what that bastard had stopped him from doing.

Even when he was sent away to reform school, the first kid in his class to go there, that hadn’t impressed Becky. The last time he saw her she’d scowled and turned away, hadn’t even spoken to him. All through school, all those years, all she cared about was Morgan, she never would give him, Falon, a tumble—and a tumble was all he thought about. Lord, he could have used her. But he knew if he ever touched her, Morgan would beat the hell out of him, could be furious enough to kill him. He might have wanted Becky real bad, but he valued his own neck more.

After he left Rome, headed for California, he’d pulled a couple of nice heists; and he’d stayed in touch with his mother now and then, getting all the dull town news. She told him when Morgan married Becky and settled down in a rented house, and the next year they had a baby. Some years later when the war heated up, Morgan the patriot joined the navy and went off to fight, all that crappy flag waving. About that time, he, Falon, headed back to Rome. The army didn’t want him, flat feet and a bad heart, they told him. What a crock, but that was fine with him. With Blake gone, he could hardly wait to claim what he wanted, he’d thought he’d have Becky then, easy. But the little bitch, even with Morgan gone she wouldn’t let him near her, wouldn’t speak to him on the street. Well, she’d talk to him now. He knew Morgan was home, but he’d soon take care of that. Morgan would be out of the picture soon enough and this time for good. Brad Falon wasn’t one to give up, to turn away from the wrongs that were done to him, not without a payback.

19

On the night of Becky and Morgan’s tenth anniversary, their little girl experienced a nightmare so violent yet so very real, a shocking prediction of a change in their lives that was beyond comprehension. If such a vision were to come true, nothing for the Blake family would ever again be the same, their very lives would be shattered.

It was heavy dusk when Sammie and her parents returned home with their empty picnic basket after a day in the woods celebrating“their” anniversary. Morgan and Becky were laughing, holding hands, Sammie running ahead in the darkening evening past their neighbors’ lighted windows, beneath the reaching arms of the maple and oak trees that shadowed the sidewalks of the small Georgia town.

Arriving home, they gave Sammie a quick bath and a bowl of soup and tucked her into bed, then Morgan put some records on: Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw, the music that had been theirs when they were courting. They rolled back the hooked rug, danced to the music that had made Becky so lonely during the war when Morgan was at sea. But now the war was history, the world was at peace or nearly so. Morgan had done his time, now there was nothing to part them. They danced with their arms around each other, held in a nest of security and love. He had come home safe, they had Sammie and were hoping for more children; the business he had built from nothing was growing; they were a solid family now and would not be parted again. It was near to midnight, they were dancing slowly, touching each other, mellowing into rising passion when Sammie’s scream tore them apart, racing for her room, scream after scream, shock waves of terror.

Afraid to wake her suddenly, to jerk her from sleep, Becky flicked on the hall light, leaving Sammie’s room in the half dark. The little girl was sound asleep but kneeling on her bed in a tangle of covers, hitting and fighting at the air, screaming, “No! No! Leave my daddy alone! Let my daddy go!” Fists clenched, she jerked and pulled at the empty air. “No! You can’t take my daddy! No!” Her high, terrified cries shook her small body. Hugging her between them, they spoke softly to her.

“It’s all right,” Morgan whispered. “I’m here, I’m all right, I’m right here beside you, I’m not going anywhere. It’s all right, baby, I’m right here with you.”

They had no comprehension of what she was seeing, or of where such nightmares came from. No one on either side of the family had ever had anything remotely like Sammie’s visions, which so often turned out to be true, and there was nothing in their family life to create this kind of disturbance, no fighting, no cruelty, not even any overly frightening stories read to her. Long after the child woke, Morgan continued to hold her. “It’s all right, honey. No one has hurt Daddy, no one is going to hurt your daddy.”

“Those menwanted to hurt you, theytried to hurt you.”

Puzzled and deeply uneasy, Morgan held her and talked and sang to her, trying to make her understand that he was safe, that they were all three safe, but Sammie couldn’t stop shivering. Her pajamas were soaked with sweat, her long pale hair clung damply to her cheeks and forehead. She burrowed into his shoulder, her face white, and when he tilted her chin up, looking into her brown eyes that were so like Becky’s eyes, they were nearly black with terror.

“Policemen,” she whispered, pressing harder against him. “Policemen we know, pushing you into a cage. Don’t go there, Daddy. Don’t ever go there again to the police station, don’t let them put you in the cage. Fight them, Daddy, and don’t go there!”

“Not policemen? Not Jimson? Not Trevis or Leonard?”

Silently, she nodded.

“Sammie, I went to school with those guys, I’ve known them all my life. What kind of cage, honey?” Neither Becky nor Morgan made light of Sammie’s dreams, but this one was beyond understanding. “What kind of cage did you dream?”

“Bars. A room with bars.” She pulled away, looking helplessly up at him, then clutched him again, digging her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him as if he would vanish.

It took Morgan and Becky nearly two hours to calm her sufficiently to get her back to sleep. When Sammie wouldn’t let go of her daddy, they took her into bed with them, and Becky brought her Ovaltine and half an aspirin. But even in the double bed cuddled between them, the child remained rigid, unable to escape her fear. She slept only when she was totally exhausted, Becky and Morgan holding hands across her, remembering too sharply her previous dreams that had, in real life, turned out to be accurate and powerful predictions.

Morgan slept at last, still cuddling Sammie and holding Becky’s hand, but Becky couldn’t sleep. Whathad Sammie seen, tonight, what terrible threat? What were these visions, where did they come from? She couldn’t understand the dreams’ source, she had ceased long ago to wonder how their little girl could see a future that no one should be able to know. She only knew that Sammie saw truly, her earlier dreams had proven that.

Becky and Morgan hadn’t made too much of Sammie’s visions in front of the child, but the dreams terrified them both. They had hoped that as Sammie grew older, the crippling experiences would fade and disappear, that she would outgrow them. Yet it seemed, recently, that just the opposite was happening. Becky had to believe there was more in the world than they could know. Sammie had proven that, somehow their daughter was able to touch an element of the future that was hidden to most people. She lay hugging Sammie and holding Morgan’s hand, believing their child’s prediction, and terrified for Morgan. He woke once, whispered, “Probably in her dream I was going into the jail to see about fixing Jimson’s old Ford. It’s always breaking down. You can see the cell bars from the office.”

Becky didn’t say,Then who was shoving you behind the bars? Who was forcing you into a cell?She couldn’t rid herself of the vision, it burned in her mind as clearly as ifshe had seen it happen, she lay awake all night trying to think of logical explanations and finding none at all, she lay holding on to her husband and their child, on to the life they shared, and though she was strong on faith and love and prayed that would keep them steady, she was equally certain that soon their life would be cruelly torn apart.

In the days that followed, Becky tried to counteract the dream and to reassure Sammie, she spent more time with Sammie after school, she invented fun things to do in the evenings, she cooked special meals. She told herself it was stupid to think this nightmare would come true, to keep dwelling on that barred room, to keep hearing Sammie’s screams.

But what about the courthouse steeple struck by lightning, the bricks falling exactly as Sammie had seen? What about the kittens? The broken car?

She knew no way to shelter Sammie. She wanted Sammie to live her life with vigor, not in fear. When Sammie got that preoccupied, worried look, Becky tried to think of a new adventure to divert her, and some afternoons after school she would send Sammie off the two blocks to the shop, to be with her daddy. This afternoon, Becky hugged Sammie and watched her run down the steps hurrying toward town to the shop, wearing old, frayed jeans and carrying her small cotton work gloves and her cap. Sammie had only one side street to cross and she was a careful child. In a little over two hours Morgan would close up shop and bring her home again, a hungry little girl tired and dirty and deeply satisfied.

Sammie glanced back once at Mama then hurried on pretending to watch the birds and trees but thinking about her daddy and still afraid for him. No matter what else she dreamed, her thoughts always returned to the barred cage, to Daddy being pushed in there, and the men pushing him were policemen. But she had dreamed of another man too, the one who tried to hurt Mama, and who killed Misto. Now as she stepped over the sidewalk cracks and into the deepest shade, the shop was half a block ahead. Her gaze was fixed on its white roof shining in the sunlight when a black car came around the corner and slowed beside her.

Mama said to stay away from strange cars so she ran into a backyard but she would have run anyway when she saw the man driving, that same man with the close-together eyes. She stayed behind the tall gray house in the bushes until she heard the car drive away, then she ran as fast as she could all the way to the shop, and when Daddy picked her up she hugged him so hard he looked surprised, then hugged her back, harder.

“You all right? Something frightened you?”

“Fine,” she said. “A dog … The Lewises’ dog barked at me.”

Morgan looked hard at her.“Is that all?” He looked like he didn’t believe her.

“That’s all,” she lied, and grinned at him, then slipped down out of his arms and got to work beside him, handing him his tools from the black bag, and after a while the fear went away, as she worked close to her daddy, and she felt better.

20

The first time Lee left the ranch, first time he set foot off Delgado property since he arrived, was the day his parole officer showed up unannounced, as was the way of the U.S. Federal Probation and Parole system. George Raygor was waiting for him when he got in from the fields at noon with a truckload of melons and his noisy crew. Even in the hundred-and-ten-degree heat, Raygor wore a dark gray business suit, a red necktie closing the stiff collar of his starched white shirt. He was a young man, maybe thirty, his reined-in look as ungiving as that of any cop. Crisp brown hair cut short, rangy body, a deep tan, he looked as if maybe he played basketball. He stood on the porch of the mess hall as Lee headed there from the truck. Lee knew at once who he was, and from the way he looked Lee over, Lee guessed he was going to miss the noon meal.

Raygor introduced himself, gave Lee hell for not getting off the train at San Bernardino, and accompanied him over to his cabin where Lee toweled off the sweat and changed his shirt. As Lee bent over to wipe off his dusty boots, Raygor said,“Sit down a minute, Fontana. We’re going into town on an errand, but first I want to read you your parole instructions. Here’s a copy, and here are the forms you’re to fill out and send in, the first day of every month.” All business, stiff and cold and full of authority. These guys didn’t warm up until they got some years of experience on them; even then, some of them never did. Raygor sat in the straight-backed wooden chair, watching Lee button his shirt, patronizing and impatient.

The last PO he’d had looked more like a lumberman, they’d got along just fine, even shared a swallow of moonshine now and again. But this one—Lee would like to punch him out, shake him up a little.

Well, hell, he’d felt cranky all morning, the pickers too loud, their hot tempers getting on his nerves, and twice the truck had broke down and he had to get Tony to fix it. Tony said it needed a new fuel pump, and Raygor had to pick today to come down on him. Hell, he’d done his time, or most of it. Parole board had no right to send some snotty-nosed kid still wet behind the ears to hassle and annoy him, kid probably just out of school with his fancy paper degree, thought he was big stuff driving back and forth across the desert hassling his federal caseload, pretending to help guys who didn’t want his help. PO living fat off a good salary, looking forward to a secure retirement twenty years down the line, a nice nest egg for the rest of their worthless lives, courtesy the U.S. taxpayer.

Raygor, sighing patiently, began to read to him from the printed instruction form:“Your travel is restricted, you’re not to leave Riverside County. You are not to change your job, or your address, without notifying me and getting permission. You are not to violate any law. You are not to own or possess a firearm of any kind. You are to fill out one of these reports each month, have it to me by the fifth, listing your present address, where you are working at that time, and what kind of work you’re doing.”

“Even if I’m still here at Delgado Farms, doing the same job?”

“Same job, same address. Fill it all in, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. Besides the monthly report, I’ll be seeing you once a month, every month. In your report, you are to give me a detailed account of all monies you have received, and all monies you have spent.”

“I buy a candy bar, I have to write it down?”

Raygor nodded.“Right now, we’re going into town where you’ll put your prison earnings in the bank. Every week you’ll deposit your earnings into the account. Mr. Ellson will see you get into town or will do it for you.”

“What the hell do I want with a bank, I don’t trust banks. Why is it your business where I keep my money?”

“It’s my business because you’re on parole. You can keep out a little for spending money but make sure you account for it.”

Lee said no more, he swallowed back what he’d like to say. Silently he took off his boot, removed and unfolded the brown paper fitted along the inside, removed his prison-earned money and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He didn’t reveal to Raygor the seven hundred dollars he’d had when he entered McNeil, it was in his other boot.

Raygor stared at Lee’s makeshift safe. “That’ll be a nice start on a savings account, with your wages to build it up. I talked with your boss. Mr. Ellson’s going into town later, on business. He’ll pick you up, bring you back to the ranch. You can have a look around Blythe, Fontana, but stay out of trouble. You were inside for ten years, this is your first time on your own except for the train trip down here. Take it easy, watch your step, you don’t want to end up behind bars, locked up on the island again.”

Lee stared at him coldly.“What the hell do you think I’m going to do in Blythe, hold up some mom-and-pop candy store in the middle of the day, rip off some old couple for forty, fifty bucks?”

Raygor looked back at him, and said nothing, his lean tanned face drawn into long, sour lines. Lee knew he was being unreasonable. The guy was just doing his job, doing what the authorities told him to do—but did he have to be so officious about it? His urge to pound Raygor didn’t cool down until they were on the road, until he had slipped into the hot seat of Raygor’s dusty Plymouth and they were headed away from the ranch, up the dirt road toward Blythe, bumping along between fanning rows of melons and string beans. Looking away over the rich green carpets of crops to the dry desert beyond where the sand stretched pale and virgin, Lee told himself that his anger at Raygor was a stupid waste of time, but he knew that what he’d felt back there wasn’t all his own rage, that some of it came from the dark haunt like a residue of grease rubbed off on his hands and staining deep.

The cat, sitting on the paddock fence, had watched Lee and Raygor leave the ranch in the officer’s tan Plymouth, the four-door vehicle so thick with dirt it could have just been dug out of a nearby sand hill. As they drove away, and Misto felt Lee’s anger at Raygor, he knew it was magnified by the heavy spirit that still sought to manipulate Lee; but the cat had to smile, too. Lee’s eagerness to look Blythe over, with thoughts to an alternate plan, greatly pleased the tomcat; and as the Plymouth disappeared in a rising cloud of dust, as Misto watched it turn onto the highway heading for Blythe, he lashed his tail once, disappeared from the fencepost, and joined the two men, stretching out unseen on the mohair seat between them.

Lee glanced down, aware of the faintest breeze and then of the cat’s warmth, and he smiled just a little. The cat, settling in for the ride, pressed his head against Lee’s leg. Lee’s Levi’s smelled of cantaloupes and mud. But it was Lee’s thoughts that held the tomcat, the various businesses he wanted to look over as he sought a plan that would not touch Jake, that would direct Lee’s thieving onto a new path not so severely damning to Lee, as well. In this world of men, certain crimes stink of evil. Other crimes, though not strictly moral, do not burn so caustically into the fabric of the human soul.

Have to make your savings deposit at the post office,” Raygor said. “Bank had a fire just a few weeks back. Moved their operation next door until they can rebuild.”

“In thepost office? You’re asking me to give all my money, all I have in the world to some post office clerk for safekeeping?”

Raygor gave him a patronizing smile.“They have the biggest safe in town, big old walk-in number, walls a foot thick. No one’s going to pry your few hundred dollars out of there, Fontana.”

As Raygor pulled up in front of the post office, Lee eyed the burned-out bank building next door, its windows shattered, smoke-blackened glass swept into a heap on the sidewalk mixed with dead crickets. Two of the burned walls had already been torn away, and a tractor and bucket sat beside the gaping hole. Big Dumpster was parked behind that, half full of blackened wood and debris. The stink of burned, water-soaked wood rivaled the smell of white poison and dead crickets.“How’d the fire start?”

“Electrical,” Raygor said. “Fire marshal said it was a short in the lighting, sparks started a box of papers burning.” Lee could see blackened file cabinets inside, their drawers pulled open, nothing but ashes within.

“Burned a lot of their paperwork,” Raygor said, “and some hundred thousand in cash.”

Lee stared at the man.“And now they’re camping out in the back room of a post office. They can’t keep their papers or money from burning, and you want me to put everything I own in there.”

“All the deposits and remaining records are in the safe. Bank is negotiating with the post office to buy the building and the safe, underwrite new quarters for them.”

Sounded dicey to Lee. What made those bank people think they could do business timely with the federal government? That transaction would probably take a decade to complete. How could you depend on bankers who were that gullible and trusting, themselves? Getting out of the car, he moved inside the one-story adobe building beside Raygor. A half-dozen wanted posters hung on the wall to his left, surly, vicious-looking men, and Lee stopped to study them; he always took a good look to see who was roaming loose out there, you never knew when a heads-up might be useful.

Knowing none of them, he committed their faces to memory, then took a good look at the layout of the post office. The activity at the postal counter made his pulse quicken. As a pudgy bank officer met them and led them past the counter, Lee saw that the clerks were not only selling stamps, they were counting out stacks of money, big money.

The clerk, broad of girth in his dark suit, his hair thinning on top and combed to the side above his protruding ears, ushered them into a back room, a combination storeroom and office. Raygor made sure to come in with Lee, to see that he opened the account all proper, that he filled out all the papers. The two of them sat crowded at a small desk beside the pudgy banker, jammed in among rows of metal file cabinets, bookshelves stacked with black binders, and a narrow cot pushed in between with a pillow and rumpled blankets.

“Night man,” the banker said, seeing Lee’s interest. “Because of maybe another fire, you know,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “because, it’s just a post office building and all.” Lee looked at the man as if bored, his heart lifting with another surge of interest. Beyond the bunk and bookshelves, a safe occupied the rest of the wall, a big iron walk-in door that must lead into an iron-clad room nearly as big as the office itself. Big old combination lock that, Lee thought, would take a skilled craftsman to finesse open, if you didn’t have the combination handy.

Behind the desk was a back door maybe to the alley, set between two barred windows. It had a simple spring lock, but below that a heavy hasp with a big padlock that hung open now, during business hours. The inner door through which they’d entered was solid-looking, too. It stood open, and he could see the counter and the line of waiting customers; his interest settled on two men standing just outside, each carrying a zippered canvas cash bag, both bags bulging invitingly. Glancing in at Lee and Raygor, they seemed to be waitingfor their turn with the lone banker.

Lee, focused on them, hardly heard Raygor ramble on about how much interest Lee would earn on his prison-earned money. Some piddly sum that would make a goat laugh. In the end, all he got for his cash was a dinky little savings book filled out by the flabby-faced clerk—Lee’s prison money and ranch wages gone as completely as if sucked up by the desert wind, commingled with everyone else’s cash, sucked into a mass of bookkeeping that, with a few strokes of the pen, could be lost forever. As they left the office, moving out through the post office lobby, thetwo waiting men had been joined by five more, each in possession of a fat canvas money bag. Lee looked them over good, then glanced at Raygor, scowled, and pretended to study his new bank book.

Outside again, standing on the sidewalk, Raygor gave him a dozen more instructions that Lee didn’t listen to and then at last, having fulfilled his federal duty, he departed, leaving Lee on his own with a final admonition to stay out of trouble. Lee watched him pull away in his dirty Plymouth to head back across the empty desert, to harass some other unfortunate parolee. He’d been surprised when Raygor allowed him to keep part of his prison earnings. Lee had told him he needed to buy clothes, which the officer seemed to understand.

Now, alone at last, he wandered up the main street looking in the shop windows but his thoughts remained on the post office as the new job began to take shape. Yet at the same time, dark misgivings pushed at him, a fear of failure that wasn’t his doing, a dark and unrelenting message that this was not the right path to take. Angrily he shook away the invasive thoughts. Walking the wide main street, he passed a small grocery, an ice cream parlor, a drugstore, the broad windows of a dime store. He finally located a shoe repair shop about as wide as a tie stall. In the dim interior, he took a seat on the shoeshine chair. He removed his boots, sat in his stocking feet reading the local paper as the thin, bearded old cobbler put on new heels. He read about the 4H winners at the local fair, studied the picture of a pair of dark-haired sisters with their two fine, chunky Hereford steers. He read about the latest episode in the eternal battle over water rights, with statements by the mayors of four nearby towns, which Lee skipped. A local man had been assaulted by his wife, shot in the foot after he beat their two children. Thelocal sheriff had made him move out and issued a restraining order. The wife was not charged.

He watched the cobbler polish his boots, then pulled them on and paid him, asking for directions to the saddlery. He found it two blocks down, the storefront set back behind thick adobe pillars, the sidewalk in front piled with heaps of dead crickets. Stepping carefully to avoid staining his clean boots, he moved on inside.

The dim interior seemed almost cool, and smelled pleasantly of leather. Wandering toward the back, he found a table of Levi’s, found a pair that fit him. He picked out two cotton frontier shirts, and bought some shorts and socks. Elbowing among the saddles and harness, he picked out a good, wide-brimmed straw Stetson. The saddles, and the headstalls hanging behind them, smelled so sweetly of good leather they made him homesick. He looked with speculation at a couple of used saddles, their wool saddle blankets matted with horsehair and smelling comfortably of sweat. He looked, but didn’t buy. Not here in town, where he might be remembered later.

Leaving the saddlery, he had a good Mexican lunch at the same little caf? where he and Jake had eaten when he first arrived in Blythe, enchiladas rancheros, beans, tortillas, an ice-cold beer in a frosted glass. Then, with the afternoon to kill, he strolled the town letting his plan ease slowly together. Working out the details, he didn’t sense the cat padding alongbehind him.

Trotting invisibly up the sidewalk, the cat flicked his ears, lashed his tail, and kept his attention focused on Lee as the old convict thought about the post office, smiling at his foolproof getaway that would leave no possible trail. The cat had no notion whether this plan would work, but to try to prevent Lee from any future criminal activity at all would be futile. The cat, silent and unseen, was caught up with keen curiosity in Lee’s subsequent moves as the old convict put this one together.

Soon the faded storefronts gave way to small wooden cottages set on the bare sand as forlorn as empty packing crates. Some of the sand yards were picked out by low wooden or wire fences. The metal box of a swamp cooler was attached to each house, chugging asthmatically, their ever-dripping water cutting little rivers through the sand. In one small yard two husky little Mexican boys were hollering and jumping up and down throwing each other off a tattered mattress attached to rusted springs. A little girl, younger than the two boys, looked up from where she was playing in the dirt and caught Lee’s eye. She pushed herself up and toddled toward him, gray powder dust falling from her hair and torn dress. She stopped just short of the sagging picket fence that separated them, stared up at him, screamed, squatted, and urinated a little puddle in the dirt. Lee’s eyes flicked from the child to the porch where a black-haired woman sat on the steps holding a naked baby to her hanging breast. Her huge belly stretched her polka dot dress. Their eyes caught, she gave him a tired smile, then he moved on.

Beyond the houses rose the white wooden steeple of the Catholic church. The small sand cemetery next to it was, for the most part, raked and cared for, the individual plots cleared of weeds and debris, and decorated with pots of fading artificial flowers. A few graves were neglected, hidden by dry tumbleweeds and tall dead grass. A low, wrought-iron fence surrounded these, its curlicues woven with dry weeds. Five graves inside, the lettering on the stone markers worn nearly flat by age and by the desert wind. Lee stood at the rusty iron gate glancing around, looking toward the white Catholic church to be sure no one stood at a window looking back at him. When he was sure he was alone he swung open the squeaking gate and stepped on in, stood looking at the headstones choked with weeds, the neglected graves with, it seemed, no one to remember or claim them or to care. He studied the headstone of a child, and of a young man whose epitaph said he had left this world too soon. He paused at a grave marked James Dawson.

Dawson had been born September 10, 1871, the same year Lee was born. He died on November 3, 1945, nearly a year and a half ago. The lettering on this marker was sharp and clear, but from the looks of the grave, it had had no attention since Dawson was laid to rest. Maybe there was no one left, at least in this part of the country, to care or maybe even to remember him. Lee stepped close to the granite headstone, speaking softly.

“It won’t be long, Mr. Dawson, and it’ll be your birthday. You can’t really celebrate it anymore, can you? What did you do with your life? What places did you see?” Lee smiled. “Would you like to come out of there, leave your grave and live a little while longer?”

Lee pulled a weed from the mounded earth.“Would you like to step out now, and live part of your life over again? How would you like, Mr. Dawson, to walk around in my shoes for a while?”

Fishing the field tally pad from his pocket, he found the stub of pencil and copied the dates of Dawson’s birth and death. Slipping the pad back in his pocket, he stood a few minutes thinking, then he turned away, leaving the company of the dead man.

The cat watched him from atop a cluster of angels that guarded a family plot, his striped yellow tail hanging down over a stone wing, twitching impatiently. When Lee headed back for the center of town, again Misto followed trotting invisibly behind him, but once in town he gravitated to the roofs above and became clearly seen, stretched out in full view on the flat rooftop of the Surplus Department Store as he waited for Lee. Just another town cat taking his ease, letting the hot desert sun cook into his fur as cats so like to do. He watched Lee stop along the sidewalk beneath a spindly palm tree where he approached a pedestrian, a thin woman in a white dress, and asked for directions. She nodded and pointed, and Lee turned away smiling.

Lee found the library two blocks over, and pushed into its dim interior, the smell of the chugging swamp cooler wet and sour. Despite the damp air, the woman at the desk looked dried out, wrinkled from the desert sun. Her flowered cotton dress was limp with the breath of the cooler and with too many washings. When he asked for back issues of the local newspaper, she brushed her gray hair away from her glasses and gave him a tired stare.“What date you looking for?”

“November fourth or fifth, 1945.”

When she found the oversized, bound volume for him, he carried the heavy book to a table and sat down in the hard wooden chair. Opening it out, he turned the yellowed pages with care until he had the dates he wanted. He checked carefully through the obituaries until he found James Dawson, complete with his most recent address.

Dawson had been a retired mining engineer, he died on a Tuesday night of sudden, massive heart failure. His father, Neal Dawson, had been a prominent lawyer in San Francisco. His mother, Claire Dawson, n?e Patterson, had been well known in San Francisco for her civic work for crippled children. Both were long dead. James Dawson, born in San Diego, California, had one surviving relative, a son, Robert Dawson, a practicing lawyer in New York. Lee jotted down the particulars, returned the book to the desk, and asked for two more sets of newspapers.“I didn’t find what I wanted, I guess I wasn’t so sure of the year.”

He dawdled over the other two volumes for some time before he returned them and headed for the door. Before he pushed out into the hot street he turned back to thank the librarian. She smiled at him as if grateful for his courtesy.“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“There is one other thing, I almost forgot. Somewhere I’ve lost my birth certificate. Would you know how to go about getting it replaced?”

“Where were you born? What county?

“I was born in San Diego.”

“That would be San Diego County.” She fetched a directory from the shelf above her, thumbed through and copied down an address. “Send your name and date of birth to this address, along with your father’s name and your mother’s maiden name. You’ll need to send one dollar, and include a stamped, self-addressed envelope.” She studied him with more interest than Lee liked. Maybe the old doll was lonely. Reaching into her desk drawer, she handed him a clean sheet of paper. “Post office will have stamped envelopes.”

He thanked her in a way that brought a flush to her sallow cheeks, and sat down at a nearby table. He wrote out his request and information, folded a dollar bill inside, and placed it carefully into his pants pocket. He gave her a big smile, thanked her again, bringing another blush, and quickly left the library. Stepping out into the late afternoon heat he headed fast for the post office. He opened a post office box in Dawson’s name, using Dawson’s last address, thanking his good luck they were busy as hell and that was all the information they wanted. He bought two stamped envelopes, addressed one to the new post office box. He put that and his birth certificate application in the other envelope, addressed and mailed it, then headed for the train station to meet Jake. Scanning the street ahead, he didn’t see Jake’s truck—but he saw the yellow cat standing in plain sight on the roof of the train station, the big yellow tom looking down at him as if he could see clear through him, see Lee’s every thought and intention.

Though Lee knew the nature of the cat, though they talked together when Misto felt the need, the cat’s sudden appearances where Lee didn’t expect him could still unnerve him. Lee was standing on the sidewalk looking up at the cat when a little girl raced by laughing at a flock of kids behind her. She didn’t see Lee, she ran into his leg and half fell. He grabbed her shoulder lightly to helpher right herself. Pausing, she looked up into his eyes still laughing—then stopped laughing, and turned pale.

She saw something in Lee’s eyes that made her go white and still. Then she spun around and ran, her face frightened and grim. Lee stood looking until she disappeared. Pedestrians moved around him, glancing back at him puzzled and then moving on.

What had the child seen? Something of his own nature? Or had she seen that other presence, seen a hint of the dark spirit looking back at her?

But it was the child herself that unnerved him. She looked so familiar, almost like the picture he carried of Mae. She had dimples, long blond hair, so like his little sister. Except this child’s eyes were light blue, not dark, not like Mae’s eyes in the faded photograph that he had carried all these years and didn’t know why, only knew he couldn’t throw it away. Only knew, or thought he knew, that somewhere down the road he’d know why he kept it. But this child, she had seen something in his face that had scared her and, as tough as the old cowboy was, or thought he was, that hurt him. Whatever had frightened her had upset Lee, too, made him turn away uncertain in himself, badly shaken.

21

Outside Morgan Blake’s automotive shop the Georgia sun beat on the pavement, glaring up into the work bay where Morgan was replacing the fuel pump in a 1932 Chevy. It was just noon. He had pulled the Chevy onto one of the two lifts, but the lift was not raised. He was bent over the engine, his sandy hair tucked under a black cotton baseball cap, his lean, tanned face smeared with grease. He was priming the carburetor with gas when, from the other side of the upright hood, a man laughed. There was a long pause, as Morgan rose up. He stood unmoving, at the man’s unwelcome voice.

“Hey there, Morgy. Long time no see, Morgy boy.”

He hadn’t heard Brad Falon come in, that was Falon’s way, walking silently on soft shoes so you didn’t know he was there. At the first sound of his voice, Morgan’s whole being went wary. Falon used to practice that silent walk when they were kids, slipping up on him—or slipping up on Becky, which neither she nor Morgan had liked. Even when they were only little kids, that had given him the creeps. He looked across the Chevy engine at Falon. There was no smile on the man’s narrow face or in his close-set eyes. Across in the other bay, the farther one from the office, the new mechanic kepton working, paying no attention to the visitor, the tall, rail-lean, towheaded young man cleaning the plugs of a Ford truck, as oblivious of Falon as if he’d been invisible.

“What do you want?” Morgan said. “I heard you were in town, that you were out of prison again.” He stood silently looking the man over. Everything about Falon stirred up a part of Morgan’s life that he wanted only to forget. “I don’t want you around here, Brad. What do you want?” herepeated.

Falon’s narrow smile was no more than a grimace. His voice was hoarse, thin, and rough as he tried to make it jovial. “Hey, Morgy boy! Don’t say you’re not glad to see me, that’s not good Southern manners! It’s me! Falon, your old buddy!” He moved around the Chevy and slapped Morgan on theshoulder, his grin no more than an animal sneer. Morgan stepped back away from him, turned back to the engine, and set the last mixture screw onto the carburetor.

“Hey, I just got out of bed, Morgy. Couldn’t get my car started, had to leave it at my girlfriend’s.” He yawned hugely, and pushed back his ruffled hair. “Car sounds like something broke off, loose and clattering. I’m afraid to try it again, it sounds like hell.”

Morgan said nothing.

“You know I don’t know anything about motors. I had to walk the seven blocks over here, and this humidity’s got me, I’m not used to this weather anymore, I feel like a ton of lead weighing me down. Can you run me back over there, and have a look? I know you can fix it. I ain’t even had breakfast yet. Come on, Morgy, I’ll buy you breakfast. Or lunch, we’ll go out to Sparky’s for ribs, we can do that before you fix my car.”

“I don’t leave the shop at noon, Falon. Albert can run over there, Weiss is a better mechanic than I am.” He looked across to Albert. Albert straightened up then, laid down his tools, and pulled off his canvas apron.

But Falon shook his head and took Morgan by the arm.“Come on, Morgy. Everyone has to take a lunch break. We’ll just run out to Sparky’s, be back in half an hour. Your car parked close, here?”

“Can’t do it, Falon. If you want your car fixed, Albert will take a look at it. No one can eat at Sparky’s in half an hour.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Falon said agreeably. “Well, then, just run me over to get my car, I haven’t seen you in a long time. I don’t know Albert Weiss, here, but I know you’re tops with a Ford. Just for old times’ sake?”

“Sorry,” Morgan said, and turned away. When, in high school, he’d finally distanced himself from Falon, much of the reason was that Falon kept coming on to Becky. Becky hated him. She had kept away from him then, and while Morgan was overseas. According to Becky, Falon had made no trouble forher, while he was gone, but still Morgan’s distrust of Falon ran deep.

“Come on,” Falon repeated. “For old times. I’ve got something to tell you, Morgy. Something I think you’ll want to hear.”

“I’m done with that crap,” Morgan said, and began wiping off his tools, slipping each into its slot in their black cloth case.

“This isn’t anything like that,” Falon said. “This is …” He was silent until Morgan turned to look at him. “This is about Becky,” Falon said. “About Becky and that property outside of town that Becky’s mother owns and maybe about your little girl.”

Morgan began cleaning his hands with paper towels.“You’re giving me a bunch of crap.”

“That land next to Grant’s farm?” Falon said. “Along beside the Dixie Highway?”

“What has that to do with Becky? What are you trying to pull?”

“Not a thing,” Falon said easily. “Just a bit of information I thought might interest you. I was in the courthouse yesterday looking up the old deeds on my parents’ house. I ran across a piece of information I thought you’d like to know about.”

“So, what is it?”

“Come take a look at my car, and I’ll explain it.”

Morgan stared at Falon.“Have youseen Becky, or called her?” But then he wished he hadn’t said that, hadn’t let Falon know that it would even concern him. Not long before Falon was sent to prison, he came on to Becky real strong. She blew him off, told him to leave her alone, but that had hardly fazed Falon. Now, Falon glanced toward Albert as if he didn’t want Albert to overhear.

“Whatever you have to say, Albert’s welcome to listen,” Morgan said.

Falon just looked at him, his stare pinched and stubborn.“What I have to tell you is about Becky and Sammie.”

“So?”

“It’s private.”

Despite how Falon lied, his words stirred a cold chill in Morgan. Uneasily, and knowing better, he fished his car keys from his pocket.“I’ll take a quick look. Then maybe I’ll send Albert over, he might have to tow it in.”

Falon turned, slid some change into the Coke machine, and fished out two bottles of Coke. Opening them, he handed one to Morgan and then headed out through the big shop doors.

Morgan’s ’38 Dodge was parked half a block down, under a shade tree where it wouldn’t take up space in the shop’s small parking area. He had bought it pretty badly wrecked, had done the body work himself, had put in a new block, had had it painted and upholstered in exchange for automotive work. Now it was almost like new, and it ran like new. He hoped no one saw him with Falon, after all the trouble they’d been in together in high school and then Falon’s subsequent arrests. In a small town, everyone knew your business. If anyone saw him with Falon, they’d be sure to pass the word.

But what could just a few minutes hurt? Drive a few blocks, look at a stalled car right out in public? Auto repair was what he did for a living. And who knew, maybe what Falon had to tell him would be worth hearing, maybe something he’d be glad later to know about. Falon had worked in real estate for a while, years back, somewhere south of Atlanta. He knew Becky’s mother bought and sold land from time to time, always with a little profit. Caroline had bought that property out on the Dixie Highway some four years ago, with an eye to rising land prices. She had leased the land to John Truet, who farmed it and the adjoining ten acres. Caroline’s will left the land to Morgan and Becky, or in a trust for Sammie if they were gone.

Morgan didn’t know what papers Falon might have seen in the courthouse, but there were stories in town of land swindles where tax records had been falsified and land bought out from under the legal owners. He had heard rumors, as well, about some kind of land development along the Dixie Highway, stories that had stirred idle talk around town. He supposed he could go on over to the courthouse himself, or Becky could, and find out what Falon was getting at. But it might take a lot of searching to come up with what Falon already knew, if there was any truth in his words. If therewas something afoot aboutthat property, Caroline needed to know.

But still he was edgy, his common sense telling him to take care.

Morgan’s Dodge was burning hot inside, even under the shade of the oak and with the windows down. He let Falon talk him into a quick sandwich, just a few blocks up the street. But they’d barely pulled away from the curb when Falon, reaching down to straighten his cuffs, spilled his Coke all over Morgan’s new upholstery.

Morgan shoved his own Coke at Falon to hold, grabbed a towel from the backseat, and began wiping up the spill. He scrubbed the stain as best he could, swearing to himself. He drove on quickly to the next gas station to rinse out the towel and scrub the seat better, and dried it with paper towels.

When he got back in the driver’s seat, hot and angry, Falon handed him his Coke, and he drained it. “Skip the sandwich, Falon. Let’s look at your car, I have to get back. What’s this information you’re so eager to tell me?”

“Tell you after we look at the car,” Falon said. Of course he didn’t apologize about the Coke. He was quiet as Morgan turned down Laurel, heading for the Graystone Apartments where Falon said his car was parked.

They were several blocks from the Graystone when Morgan began to feel uncertain of distances. Puzzled, he eased off the gas and went on more slowly, driving with care. The spaces around him seemed out of kilter, the distance from one corner to the next seemed all wrong. What was the matter with him? Other cars on the street appeared foggy, they were too near to him and then unnaturally far away. He nearly sideswiped an oncoming truck, and the driver blasted his horn angrily. When driving became too difficult, he pulled over, was surprised to see he was pulling up in front of the Graystone. He felt sick and dizzy, he was so confused he couldn’t remember how to turn off the engine. He managed at last, clinging to the steering wheel.

“That’s it,” Falon said, watching him, “that black Ford.”

Morgan looked blearily across the street at the uncertain line of cars. Light shimmered off them as if from giant heat waves. He guessed one of them was black, and maybe it was a Ford. He wasn’t sure he had killed his engine, but when he looked down at the key, trying to figure it out, trying to hear if the engine was running, the dashboard heaved up at him, blackness swept him, and he knew no more.

Days later, trying to reconstruct those moments, Morgan would not be able to remember arriving at the apartments, would not be able to bring back anything after pulling away from the curb near the automotive shop and then Falon spilling his Coke. Everything after that was a dizzy blurr. But later, sitting on his cot in the jail cell as slowly his mind cleared, he would remember Sammie’s nightmare, of him being shoved behind bars by men he knew and trusted, and he knew Sammie would suffer the most. He worried far more over his little girl than over what would happen to him, even if, as the cops said, he could go to prison for the rest of his life. He had no idea what had occurred to put him here. None of it made sense, and no one would tell him anything more. What he didn’t understand was why Sammie had been sucked into this pain. What kind of fate was this, after they had been parted so long during his years in the Pacific, what fate so cruel it would seek to destroy them now?

22

Lee was back in Blythe four days later, another welcome break from the long hours in the fields, the dust choking him so he coughed up phlegm every night. Riding in the pickup beside Jake, he knew Jake’s pocket bulged with cash, money to buy a drilling rig, a pretty expensive proposition. Ramon Delgado had heard there were a few jerry-built rigs for sale and they were headed for the farm auction, ready to buy if Jake found what Ramon wanted. Looking out at the green fields and the harsh glare of the desert beyond, Lee thought about the information he’d already picked up on some of the local businesses, and what more he meant to accomplish today. He felt good, things were coming together. The way the plan was shaping up, he wouldn’t head for Mexico right away. He meant to lay a circuitous path that would put him back in the slammer for a short time before he moved on across the border. The degree of risk hinged on how dependable Mark Triple would be, in getting him out of Blythe when he needed to disappear. But the robbery itself was still nebulous, his mark still uncertain, andeven as he considered the possibilities, still the dark shadow whispered to him that this wasn’t the smart way. That whatever alternate plan he chose would surely fail and he’d be back behind bars for more years than Lee could count. The relentless prodding stirred in Lee a deep anger at the devil’s persistent invasion of his free will, he wished to hell Russell Dobbs had foundsome way, that half century ago, to keep from dragging his future descendants into his unholy bargain. Stubbornly Lee willed the shadow away, while beside him on the seat of the truck the cat rolled over, silently purring, his unseen smile heartened by his friend’s growing resolve. Lee, sensing Misto’s pleasure, hid a grin.

The truck rode like an edgy bronc, bucking through each dry wash, through the deep gullies that, though the sky might be clear overhead, could flood suddenly from a fast, heavy runoff pouring down from the far mountains. Sudden walls of frothing water boiling down faster than a horse could run, racing so hard across the desert and roads that it would roll a truck over and sweep it away. Lee, well aware of the danger, looked up toward the mountains where heavy clouds were gathering, where rain must surely fall soon. But Jake drove relaxed and unconcerned, listening to the softly tuned weather report on the radio.“If it starts to rain,” Jake said, “we’ll stay over in town, wait until the gullies dry up again.”

Lee nodded.“You think you’ll find the rig you want, that Delgado wants?”

Jake shrugged.“They’re all home-built jobs, but with luck we’ll find a good one. Ramon has planned this for a long time, drill some wells of his own, step out of the battle over water. The water table’s high all over Blythe.” Lee had always thought it strange that, even with water so close to the surface, the cotton and alfalfa and vegetable farms had to run irrigation canals from Blythe’s complicated aqueduct system.

“Water table so high,” Jake said, “that, come winter, the whole land will flood, destroy a man’s crops, wash away tons of good topsoil. But then in dry weather we still need the aqueducts—or wells,” he said, “to bring the water up.”

According to Jake, back in the twenties before the weir and aqueducts were built, Delgado was one of only a handful of men who dreamed of making the dry, barren desert produce any food crops at all. Most people said they were crazy, but the men had stuck with what they believed, and Lee had to admire that.

He looked at Jake, thinking about the complications of his job, envying what Jake had made of his life, his and Lucita’s lives. Lee knew he couldn’t have given her this much, that he would have ended up running off, following the only life that seemed to suit him. He thought about this noon, how she had reached to touch his hand as she’d brought fresh towels and linens over to his cabin. He had just been changing his shirt, discarding his ripe work shirt, ready to head for Jake’s truck, leaving Tony to handle the men, hoping the kid would act like a man and not like a snotty-nosed boy. He was buckling his belt when Lucita appeared at the half-open door, calling out to him.

She stood on the porch, but made no move to enter. Taking a step closer, she handed him a stack of clean sheets and towels. When he asked her in, she shook her head, but her eyes said something different. As she handed him the linens her hand brushed his and remained there, still and warm, for a long moment, her eyes on his generating a shock of desire.

Then she shoved the linens at him and was gone, down the steps again heading for the ranch house. He had stood looking after her, his pulse beating too fast, and then feeling let down and angry.

Turning back inside, he’d dropped the linens on the dresser, stripped his bed, wadded the sheets and used towels into the clean lard bucket she left in the room for laundry, pulled on his jacket and headed out to Jake’s truck. But there had been one other incident, two evenings before, that had left Lee even more shaken.

The horses had been spooky ever since their panic when the dark spirit lurked in their paddock—for what exact purpose the wraith had come there, Lee wasn’t sure. Simply to frighten Lee himself, to show his power? Some kind of promise of what hemight do, what he was capable of doing? Whatever the devil’s purpose, the horses hadn’t really settled down, even days later. Lucita rode hermare every morning, to try to get her over her nervousness. The Appaloosa was pretty good in the daytime, but Jake said that on their evening rides both horses were spooky as hell. Having to be gone overnight upto Hemet where Delgado wanted him to look at some land, Jake had asked Lee to ride with her. He wanted to keep the horses on a steady schedule, wanted to keep working them, and he didn’t want Lucita riding alone.

Lee was wary of being alone that long with Lucita. And he was eager as hell for the opportunity. When he headed on over to the stable, he found she’d already saddled both horses, and had strapped on scabbards. She handed Lee a loaded rifle, stowed her own rifle, and mounted matter-of-factly. She moved on ahead of him out of the ranch yard, the mare always liking to lead, and the good-natured gelding giving in to her. As the evening light softened around them, both horses were steady, nothing bothered them. Moving up the northbound trail between the verdant fields, Lucita didn’t talk, she gave him no heated glances, they rode in a comfortable silence between the green crops and then, before the evening darkened, they gave the horses a gallop on a hard, narrow path in between the dry desert hills, where the trail was less apt to offer chuckholes. Lee wanted to stop there among the hills, out of sight of the ranch, and let the horses rest. He wanted to swing down out of the saddle and hold her close, wanted this night to lead where he dreamed it should lead. He wanted not to turn home again discouraged, knowing this was never going to happen. But that was how they did turn back, with nothing else between them, both paying attention to their horses and to the trail ahead as the evening darkened around them. He knew she felt what he felt, her little movements, her small glances; but he knew just as clearly that she would do nothing about it, that she belonged to Jake, that he was Jake’s friend, and that that was how their lives would remain, no matter how his hunger for her stayed with him.

It was two-thirty when Lee and Jake pulled into Blythe. The thermometer on Jake’s dashboard said a hundred and fifteen, and that was with the windows open and a middling breeze blowing in. They’d passed a few trucks on the narrow desert road, all headed for the sale, same as they were, some with empty trailers rattling along and most likely those drivers carrying a wad ofcash, too. They’d passed a number of trucks already coming back pulling loaded trailers. When Jake parked in the auction yard, Lee left him to wander the grounds.

The loud staccato of the auctioneer’s voice followed him, its hammering rhythm soon making his head ache, the fast gibberish pounding unrelieved, mixed with the voices and laughter of crowds of people pushing and jostling around him. He walked through the lines of trucks for sale and then stepped into the barns where it was quieter. The narrow pens were nearly empty, only a few motley farm horses and half a dozen saddle horses left unsold. The morning auction had been livestock, the afternoon sales had begun with small vehicles and would work up to the big trucks and the heavy machinery that Jake was waiting for. Lee lingered over the saddle horses, speaking quietly, smoothing a rump, watching their ears swivel around at him. None of the horses impressed him much; but hell, for what he wanted, most any crowbait would do. Fellow could pick up one of these leftover nags real cheap.

But he wasn’t ready to make a purchase. He stood looking, and then left the auction area, heading for the center of town, the rattle of the auctioneer following him a long way, only slowly fading. In the center of Blythe he crossed the wide main street, its baking heat reflecting up at him like an open oven, and he moved off in the direction of the post office.

Along the curb, cars were angled in solid, not a parking space to be seen. Auction was a big day in town. The little grocery was crowded, women and children carrying out wooden boxes loaded with staples, cornmeal, sugar, salt, and lard. An occasional horseman threaded through the street traffic; two farm horses stood hitched to an open wagon in front of the drugstore, heads down, sweat drying on their necks and shoulders. He could smell heat-softened tar from the roofs above him, the flat roofs of the one-story buildings that had to be retarred every few years to keep from leaking. The tall, spindly palm trees that had been planted here and there in front of the stores looked like oversized, upside-down floor mops stuck in the sidewalks and streets, their drooping fronds ragged from the desert winds.

The crickets were mostly gone, at least the live ones, not crawling up every wall, but piles of dead crickets were still heaped in the gutters, their dark rotting bodies not yet shoveled up into some refuse truck, their stink so sour he could taste it as he approached the burned bank next to the post office. Heavy equipment was still at work there, a backhoe with a bucket, cleaning up the last of the black, sodden refuse.

Moving on to the post office, he’d meant to check his P.O. box; though there was no way they could have his new birth certificate to him yet, he burned to have a look. But the line snaking out the front door made him draw back, pausing in a shadowed doorway. Standing in the entrance to a small sandwich shop, he watched the longpost office queue that trailed away down the sidewalk. Men in work clothes, a few men in suits, a few women, all in housedresses, half a dozen cowmen in faded Levi’s and worn Western boots. His gaze paused on two men carrying heavy money bags, the canvas bulging beneath their zippers. Lee, his pulse beating quick with interest, tailed onto the line trying to look bored and patient.

Most of the patrons were buying money orders. As he edged nearer, then was finally inside the door, he watched amazed the amount of money passing across the counter. Stacks of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills being counted out, some bundles handed across to the patrons, some put over into the care of the two postal clerks. Behind the clerks on a long oak table stood tall piles of greenbacks that, he supposed, had all come out of the safe. That made him smile, guessing that the meager wad of his creased tens and twenties from prison was mingled in with all that wealth. Shyly Lee glanced at the man behind him.“I thought it would only take me a minute. Is there always such a crowd?”

The soft, florid man hooked his thumbs in his suspenders, laughing.“You’re a newcomer, all right. There’s no bank in town, since the bank next door burned. Otherwise, you’d see these lines over there. Since the bank burned they do their business here. But even so, the post office is always busy, a lot of us pay our bills and make catalog purchases with money orders.”

This was better than Lee had guessed, there was more money here than he’d ever dreamed. If he could bring off a heist like this, he’d be set real nice for wherever he wanted to travel.

“Won’t be this crowded for long,” the pudgy man was saying, “just until the new building’s up.” He shifted his weight as if his feet hurt. “Right now, you’d have to drive across into Arizona for the nearest bank. Not far, just to Parker. But it’s easier to do business this way.”

The line edged forward and they moved with it, Lee trying not to show his excitement.“That’s a bummer, you have to go into Arizona to cash your paycheck.”

“Oh, no. Folk here don’t get paychecks. The pay, everything we do in this town, is pretty much on a cash basis. Most of the farmworkers are paid with cash. Same with the mining company. Payroll comes in by mail on the last train. Fridays, this place is like Fort Knox. They shut the front doors but the small operators come in that way. Foremen from the big outfits, most of them come around the back, from ranches and mines from all over, to pick up their cash so they can pay their men the next morning.” The man seemed innocent enough in imparting the information. And why not, it was obviously common knowledge. Lee watched man after man, likely local businessmen and independent ranchers, approach the counter pulling out fat rolls of bills. The man ahead of him, dark hair slicked back, peeled off three one-hundred-dollar bills and two fifties as casually as Lee would flip out a quarter for a beer. When it was Lee’s turn at the counter, he had to grin as he asked for four more stamped envelopes, thinking that in some way he might need them—and giving him time for a closer look at the stacks of money behind the counter, money he coveted.

Leaving the post office, he strolled along the outside of the building, looking more closely at the layout. The burned-out bank was on his left, facing the street. Beyond that was a vacant lot, then a cheap two-story apartment house. On the other side of the post office, a small hardware store, boxed in by adjoining stores, dry goods, a dime store, used furniture. When he walked around behind the solid row of buildings he found a narrow dirt alley running their length, with access to half a dozen back doors, including the heavy post office door with its barred window on each side. Just the simple snap lock on the outside, giving no indication of the big padlock concealed within. Across the alley stood an old wooden building that he thought might be storage for the hardware store, a stack of empty wooden nail boxes was piled by the back step. Behind that were more vacant lots, then a line of willows, then the empty desert stretching away.

He returned to the main street thinking about the moves it would take to bring off a robbery here, and about Mark Triple and his duster plane. He had seen Mark again on Saturday, loading up to dust another run of melon fields, and Mark had kidded him about trying a flight. The young pilot was flying up to L.A. in a few days, before he headed for the East Coast, he said he needed to get some work done on the prop. He had invited Lee to go along, and Lee, with the same flash of certainty that had led him to James Dawson, had eagerly accepted. Strange how things fell into place. Seemed like all his life, he’d fallen into situations which, most of the time, turned to his benefit, fitting right in with the plans he’d already started putting together.

Thinking of his possible moves in L.A., he paced the length of Blythe again. Even here in the center of town the desert wind brought the stink of the big cattle-feeding yards that lay outside of Blythe, with their modern feed mills and storage tanks. Thinking about that wealth, the wealth he knew lay in the big farms, and the cash he had seen in the post office, he stopped in a small grocery for a pack of gum, stood unwrapping a piece of Doublemint, smiling at the white-haired old man behind the counter. Old, Lee thought. Older than me but still working all day every day for a two-bit living.

“Someone told me there was some kind of airstrip here, just outside town. Not the commercial airport, some little dirt landing strip, they thought. Said they saw a little plane land somewhere on the other side of town,” he said, pointing. “I thought that was kind of strange.”

The old man laughed.“Could of seen a plane, all right. There’s an emergency airstrip some eighteen miles east of town. Lies just where the road runs in from Jamesfarm. Sometimes a rancher or the gypsum mining company use it.” He jerked a thumb to the east. “Out on Furnace Road. Old, fallen-down barn near it, migrants camp there some.”

Lee made small talk for a few minutes, then touched the brim of his hat and left. Walking back out to the auction site, he felt almost good enough to do a jig. His scenario was shaping up real well. The sun was settling low, casting the mountains’ shadows long across the bare desert. The temperature, though evening was nearing, had dropped maybe all of two degrees.

He found Jake looking at the tires of a big drilling truck. From his grin, Lee figured he’d bought it. “They threw in a bunch of drilling rods,” Jake said, “and I didn’t have to bid as much as I thought. Come on, I’m dry as dust.”

They headed for the same small Mexican restaurant, the jukebox playing loud and brassy, the tables crowded with groups of men talking and arguing, drinking cold beer and tying into their early suppers. Lee and Jake wedged into the last table, in the far corner, soon easing the heat with icy beer as they ordered a good hot Mexican dinner. Outside the windows the light continued to soften; but the noisy din in the small room, the loud conversations, half Spanish, half English, mixed with the loud Mexican brass from a record player, soon began to pound in their heads. They didn’t talk much, they could only half hear each other, and they were glad at last to be out on the street again ready to head home. At the red pickup, Lee eased into the driver’s seat, watching Jake step into the drilling rig. He followed Jake’s taillights at a good distance as they headed away up the narrow, bumpy road.

23

It was the same afternoon that Brad Falon came to Morgan’s shop asking him to look at his stalled Mustang, that Sammie became sick at school. She grew lethargic and cranky in class, and when she started falling asleep at her desk, the school nurse called Becky. When Becky picked her up, Sammie crawled into the car yawning and dull. Becky felt her facefor fever but Sammie was ice-cold, her skin pale and clammy. “Does your head hurt?”

“No,” Sammie said drowsily.

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

“No.” Sammie sighed and snuggled closer. By the time they got home she was sound asleep. Becky managed to wake her, and half carried her inside. She got her settled on the couch, pulled off Sammie’s skirt and blouse, and examined her carefully all over for spider bites or bee or wasp stings. She could find no blemish. She parted Sammie’s hair with her fingers, searching for a bite there, feeling for any painful area. Sammie complained of the cold, her whole body was chilled through, though the day was hot. When Becky took her temperature, it was lower than it had been at school, a full degree below normal. She covered Sammie with a warm blanket, thinking she’d wait just a little while before calling the doctor, to see what developed. The nurse had said they had five children out with the flu. She made a glass of hot lemonade, and went to fetch the aspirin. When she returned, Sammie was asleep again.

But it seemed to be a normal sleep, she was breathing easily. Becky set the glass on the coffee table, stood watching Sammie for a few minutes and then, straightening the cover over her, she left her sleeping. She stayed near to Sammie, working at the dining table on the dry-goods books, looking up often at Sammie, and rising to feel her face. The child slept deeply; Becky woke her at suppertime but she wasn’t hungry or thirsty. She didn’t want to eat, didn’t want the thermometer in her mouth again but Becky managed to persuade her. Her temperature was lower, 96.4. Sammie was still so groggy she turned away from Becky’s hug and was asleep again. It was then, turning away to the phone, that Becky called the doctor. When she gave Dr. Bates Sammie’s symptoms and temperature, he said it sounded like the bug that was going around. He said to keep her warm, not to give her any more aspirin, to get plenty of liquids down her, and to call him back in an hour.

In less than an hour she woke Sammie. She had to cajole her to hold the thermometer between closed lips. The minute she removed the little glass vial, Sammie was asleep again. The gauge read 96.0. When she finally reached Dr. Bates he was at the hospital with an urgent stroke case, he said he’d be there as soon as he could.

James Bates had been their family physician for three generations, he still took care of Becky’s mother, took care of all of them. He listened again to Sammie’s symptoms, said again that there was some kind of summer flu going around, said if Sammie got worse, to bring her to him at the hospital.

Looking at the clock, Becky realized it was way past time for Morgan to be home. Usually he called when he was late, so she figured he’d be along soon. She set the chicken and rice casserole on the back of the stove, and examined Sammie again for insect bites, even more carefully this time. The child didn’t want to wake, didn’t want to be bothered. When she did speak, her voice was so blurred it was nearly incoherent. The time was past seven, and still Morgan wasn’t home.

Morgan did sometimes work late when a customer was in a hurry for his car, but he always called to let her know. Sharply concerned now, she phoned the shop. The phone rang eight times, ten, but no answer. Ten minutes later she called again, in between pacing with worry. Again, no answer. When it was fully dark and Morgan still wasn’t home, she phoned again, let it ring and ring and then she borrowed her neighbors’ car, bundled Sammie up, called Dr. Bates to tell him where she’d be. Sammie was only half conscious as she carried her to the car, covered her well, and drove first to the shop.

The office and bays were dark, the bay doors closed and locked tight, the parking area dark and empty, both Morgan and Albert Weiss, the new mechanic, were gone. She cruised a ten-block area looking for Morgan’s car. When she didn’t find it she drove home again but Morgan wasn’t there. She carried Sammie inside, tucked her up on the couch again, and looked in the phone book for Albert’s number.

There was no Albert Weiss listed. She called the operator, told her it was an emergency, but she had no listing for him, either. Becky sat at the dining table, her hands trembling. She phoned her neighbors. They said they wouldn’t need the car until morning, that she could keep it all night if she needed to. The Parkers were an elderly couple, both in ill health, and she couldn’t ask them to keep Sammie. She bundled Sammie back in the car and headed for her mother’s, she meant to leave Sammie with Caroline, the doctor could see her there. Or if Sammie got worse, Caroline would take her to the hospital. Both Becky and Caroline preferred to keep her at home, both were a little wary of hospitals, though for no particular reason. Once Sammie was settled, Becky intended to go look for Morgan, to drive every street in Rome and every surrounding farm road until she found his car. She didn’t imagine that he was out drinking or with another woman, she knew him better than that. Something had happened to him, and when she thought about Brad Falon newly back in town, a sick, almost prophetic fear touched her.

Approaching her mother’s sprawling white house, she was eased by Caroline’s welcoming lights. Maybe Morgan was here, maybe he had stopped by for something. Her own birthday was only a few weeks away, maybe they were planning a surprise and had lost track of the time.

But Morgan’s car wasn’t there. She parked in the drive, got out, carried Sammie across the lawn and up the front steps. When Caroline answered the bell and saw Becky’s face, she took Sammie from her. Settling the child on the couch, she sat close beside her easing Sammie onto her lap as Becky describedSammie’s sleepiness, her low temperature, and then her worry over Morgan. Caroline took charge as she always did, and soon Becky was out the door again, shaky with concern for Sammie, and frightened for Morgan, driving the dark streets of the small town looking for him, looking for their old blueDodge.

Lee, alone in the pickup following the drilling truck, was pleased by the silence after the noisy, busy day. The sun was gone behind the western hills, the glaring desert softened, now, into deeper shades, the dry gulches and low mountains catching streaks of gold in the last light. He spotted a coyote slipping along a wash, just its ears, a flash of its back, and the tip of its tail, maybe hunting alone, or maybe not. In the quiet he thought about James Dawson, and smiled. Both Lee and Dawson born the same year, Dawson with no one nearby to tend his grave or to care about him, maybe no one to know he was dead, a lonely old man lying in that little cemetery just waiting for someone to come along and take notice of him, to revive and resurrect him.

When, ahead, he saw Ellson’s truck buck into low gear for a long incline, Lee slowed to keep the distance, noting the gravel road that led off to the right following the slope of the rock-strewn mountain, marked with a faded wooden sign that read JAMESFARM. Somewhere down that road, not too far, should be the airstrip. Beyond a scraggly patch of tamarisk trees, he glimpsed an old barn, lopsided and about ready to collapse; but maybe it would hold up for a while longer.

He was going to need a car or truck and, as he scanned the upper slopes of the mountain, he knew he’d need a horse; that meant a trailer, too. And he sure as hell needed a gun. Easing his foot on the pedal, he swallowed back a tickle in his chest. He’d better not screw up this time or they’d lock the door on him for good. He followed Ellson’s taillights, heated with the growing excitement that a new job always stirred.

As evening settled in around them, Jake’s headlights came on and Lee switched on his own lights, their beams driving the last desert shadows into falling night, then soon into blackness. And, in the shadowed cab of the truck, Lee knew suddenly that he was not alone, he felt a cold presence nothing like the comforting nearness of the ghost cat. In the dark cab he turned to look at the seat beside him, and his hands tensed on the wheel. A woman sat beside him, her full, dark skirt swirled around silk-clad ankles, her black hair blending into the shadows, her face unseen. For an instant he thought it was Lucita, then knew that it was not. This was a thin-faced woman, a hard and lethal beauty. Watching her, Lee swerved the truck so badly that he had to fight frantically to right it, jerking the wheel, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

“Relax, Fontana,” she said softly, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“What the hell did you think you’d do?” The timbre of that voice, even in the tones of a woman, resonated with the cold chill Lee knew too well. “Why would you appear as a woman? How do you do that, turn yourself into a woman?” If the dark spirit had to torment him he’d rather it did soas a man, or what would pass for a man.

She smiled.“You have a new project, Fontana, and that is good. Very good.”

“What the hell do you want? Get out and leave me alone.”

When she touched his arm, he shivered.“But in choosing this new plan, Lee, you have abandoned the Delgado undertaking.” She waited, watching him. “Think about this. Why not take on both challenges? That would be a real triumph.”

“Get the hell out of here, go haunt someone else.”

“You could do that, Lee, you could lift both the post office money and the Delgado payroll. Think of what they’d add up to. A real fortune, a success that would make you famous across the country, you’d be in more history books than your grandpappy.”

“Why the hell would I want to be famous, and have every cop in the U.S. after me?” The truck went into a rut again, too near the edge, and he gave his attention to his driving.

“It would be so easy, Lee,” she said, rubbing his thigh with an elegant, thin hand. “So easy to pull off both jobs, to make a really big splash in the world.”

But then as she spoke, suddenly he knew the cat was there, he could feel Misto rubbing against his neck, winding back and forth along the back of his seat, could hear him hissing softly. When Lee looked for the ghost cat in his rearview mirror he saw only the black empty glass of the back window, there was no moving reflection, nothing visible—but the woman was visible enough, her pale, long face cold and evil. And the wraith knew the cat was there and she drew back.

Lee said,“What do you want from me?”

She laughed.“I want the same thing from you, Fontana, that I wanted from Russell Dobbs.” She reached out her slim hand and began again to stroke his thigh. When he knocked her hand away, she laughed. “I admire the way you go about your work, Fontana. You never have to build yourself up to a job as some men do. You lay it all out, you are all courage and you do what is needed.”

Well, that was a lot of bull.

“You’re quick, Fontana, and efficient—most of the time. But now—I don’t like to see you turn fearful, as you have with the Delgado payroll, I expected better of you.”

He said nothing.

“You could take down the payroll and then double back for the post office money, you’re famous for your timing. You could pull off a smart, sophisticated operation that would totally confuse the feds.” Again she laid her hand on his leg, again he brushed it away, gripping the wheel tighter.

“Why go to all the trouble of two jobs,” he said, “when one haul is enough. I only have so many years to spend the damn money.”

“For the fame, Lee, for the prestige. For the challenge,” she said softly. “The biggest job you ever accomplished, bigger than anything Russell ever pulled off.”

Lee wondered what would happen if he stopped the truck, opened her door, and shoved her out of there, wondered if hecould do that. But of course she would only vanish, turn to smoke in his hands, disappear laughing at him.

“Your time on earth is so fleeting, Lee, you should really plan further than that, you should plan not just for this short mortal life. In a few more moments, asImeasure time, all of this world that you see around you now will be dust and forgotten, and you will be forgotten, too—unless,” shesaid softly, “unless you grasp the eternity I offer you. Unless you’re bold enough to let yourself live forever.

“It would be so easy,” she said, “to go on forever creating new … enterprises with your special talent, so easy to work with me, to step into eternity beside me carrying out plans bigger and more rewarding than any you can even imagine.”

Lee stared ahead at Jake’s twin taillights.

“This is your last job on earth, Lee, it should be the wildest and most audacious, the biggest haul you’ve ever made, should leave behind you fame and admiration.”

Behind him the cat had begun to growl. The woman didn’t turn, she made no sign. “I can guarantee the success of both jobs, the entire farming and mining payrolls of this whole area, all the cash in the post office on that particular evening,and the full Delgado payroll. Enough cash to buy you a whole state in Mexico, to buy you the most beautifulwomen, the finest home, the most elegant horses.”

“And what the hell do you get out of that?” But he knew what she’d get, she’d own his soul, and he wanted no part of it.

“Under my guidance, Lee, when you die at a venerable age you will possess powers you never dreamed of, you will know eternal life, eternal adventure, you will never be bored or sick or old again, your every moment will be an even more … prurient and visceral challenge than you have ever yetknown.”

He wanted to stop the truck and haul her ass out of there.

“My proposition appeals to you,” she said softly. She ran her hand too close between his legs, then reached to touch his cheek, drew her finger across his lips. He flinched at her touch, let the truck hit a rut that sent it skidding sideways toward the soft desert sand, he spun the wheel, got it straightened out just before it hit the sucking dunes. Screeching the brakes, he pulled over.

“Get out! Get the hell out! If I burn in hell for what I do, I’ll get there on my own, not because of you.”

But already she had vanished, the seat beside him was empty.

Shaken, he jammed his foot hard on the accelerator, racing to catch up with Jake. He wished he was up there riding beside Jake and not alone on the dark, empty road. Even the cat seemed to be gone, he spoke to it and felt around the seat and behind him but could feel nothing. Had the cat helped drive her off, with its snarling anger? But then where had he gone, where was Misto now?

Could the devil have hurt the cat?

But that couldn’t happen—something in Lee believed in the power of that good spirit, even more than he believed in Satan’s evil force. Maybe he and the cat together had driven away the dark wraith, maybe their combined rage had liberated them both for the moment—and even as that thought brought a smile toLee, Misto appeared beside him, smiling, too. Sitting tall beside him, twitching the tip of his yellow tail, laying a big, possessive paw on Lee’s arm, Misto smiled up at him highly amused at their combined power against the eternal and destructive forces, against the despair that roamed, like slavering beasts, the vast and endless universe.

24

Morgan woke dizzy and sick, jammed in a dark, cramped space, his face pushed up against something rough that, when he felt it with his unsteady hand, he thought was automotive upholstery, rough fabric almost like the mohair with which he’d upholstered the Dodge. Even moving his hand that few inches sent a sharp pain through his head, a shock so severe that his stomach went sick and he thought he was going to throw up. He remained still for some time, then gingerly he tried to ease out of his confinement, to straighten his legs, but when he tried to sit up, the effort made his head pound and throb. Gingerly he fingered his forehead expecting to find blood, but he could find no wound. Moving slowly, he eased onto his side, the pain jabbing through his skull. The back of a car seat rose in front of him, the map pocket with a familiar silver flashlight sticking up, and under the driver’s seat a child’s blue jacket wadded up, Sammie’s jacket with the bunny on the pocket that had gone missing weeks ago. He was in his own car, lying doubled up on the floor of the backseat, his legs bent under him twisted and stiff. Slowly he rose up clutching at the back of the seat, pulling himself painfully off the floor until he was able at last to kneel and could see out the window.

Low sun shot between a tangle of trees, its rays blinding him. How could the sun be setting? He thought, when he could think at all, that it should be around noon, he had a hazy memory of someone coming into the shop at lunchtime, of someone in the car with him.

Falon? Brad Falon? Wanting him to go somewhere? Why would he go anywhere with Falon, he had nothing to do with him anymore.

The low sun was so harsh that when he closed his eyes, the red afterimage of overhanging tree branches swam painfully. He realized he was parked in a dense woods, he had to be somewhere outside of town. Why would he be hunched down in the backseat of his car, alone, parked somewhere in the woods? Shielding his eyes, he could make nothing of the location, there were woods all around Rome. And if the sun was setting, how could he have slept all afternoon? He felt so heavy, thick limbed, even his tongue felt thick and the taste in his mouth was sour. If he had gotten sick suddenly, why hadn’t he gone home? Why would he have come out here, into the woods, alone?

And when he looked at the sun again it had lifted higher. That wasn’t right. He squinted at it, puzzled. The sun wasn’t setting, it was rising. How could that be? It wasn’t evening, it was morning. Slowly he reached for the window handle. With effort, he rolled down the glass. Cool, fresh air caressed his face. Morning air, not the stifling heat of a Georgiadusk.

Trying to clear his head, trying to think back, he was sure he’d left the shop around noon. Yes, he had left with Brad Falon, something about Falon’s car breaking down. He couldn’t remember where they had gone, but he was sure it was lunchtime. So how could it be morning, now? If he’d gotten sick, he would have left Falon and driven home, not come outhere into the country. When he tried to get up and shift onto the seat, the pain in his head brought tears, and again his stomach heaved, dry heaves that sent pain shocking through him.

Had he gone somewhere with Falon and there’d been an accident? And Falon slipped away from impending trouble, leaving him alone? That would be like Falon. Through the open window the sun rose slowly higher between the trees. He didn’t have his watch. He thought it might be around seven o’clock. He didn’t wear his watch working, it got beat up too bad. A little breeze blew in, stirring a sour smell within the car, the same as the sour taste in his mouth, a taste and stink that it took him a while to recognize.

Whiskey, he thought. The sour smell of bootleg whiskey, same as when a few of the boys got together with a half-gallon jug out in the woods or at someone’s house, you could smell it on them four hours afterward. Why would whiskey be in his car? You couldn’t just walk into a store and buy liquor, even beer, this was a dry county. And neither he nor Becky bought bootleg, neither of them drank. With unsteady fingers he searched again for a head wound, feeling for blood, knowing he had done this just moments before. His mouth tasted like he’d swallowed something dead. The inability to remember, to know why he was here or how he had gotten here, struck fear through him. He had turned away from the blinding sun, pressing his face into his hands trying to think, trying to remember, when behind him the door was jerked open. He was pulled out onto the ground stumbling and falling. Trying to get his balance he spun around hitting out at his assailant, scraping his knee painfully on the metal doorsill.

Strong hands forced him upright, he struck at the man, still trying to get his footing, and then he saw the uniform. Cop’s uniform. Morgan dropped his fists, stared into the round face of Richard Jimson, the youngest member of the Rome police force. Light brown hair, the cowlick that wanted to hang over his forehead pushed back beneath his cap, light brown eyes that usually were smiling. Jimson wasn’t smiling now. What was this, why the anger? He and Jimson had gone through grammar school together, were on the baseball team, went squirrel hunting together when they were kids, had always been easy with each other, even in high school when Morgan was still running with Falon. Jimson watched him coldly, the officer tense with rage. Jimson was a stranger, now. His eyes hard on Morgan, he slipped the handcuffs from his belt, pulled Morgan’s hands behind him, and snapped them on, the metal chill around his wrists.

“Move it, Morgan.” Jimson’s round face was hard with anger. He forced Morgan across the narrow dirt road toward his patrol unit. Morgan could see, beyond the police car, a white farmhouse with a red barn. The old Crawford place, the narrow dirt road leading back to it lined with sourwoods andmaples. Jimson opened the back door of the black-and-white, silent and remote. He put his hand on Morgan’s head so he wouldn’t bump it, getting in. Pushed him into the backseat behind the wire barrier and slammed the car door. Morgan didn’t fight him, he didn’t resist. Sitting handcuffed inthe backseat, knowing he was locked in and feeling dizzy and sick, he realized that the stink of whiskey wasn’t just inside his own car, it was coming from his clothes, his shirt and jeans.

He looked out through the side window toward his car. It was pulled so deep in the woods that from the road it was hardly visible. He could see just beyond it the twisted oak that marked lovers’ hollow; he guessed every small town had such a hideaway, a tree-sheltered clearing scattered with empty bottles, Coke bottles, unmarked bootleg bottles. He hadn’t been out here since high school when he and Becky used to come out and park.

Jimson stood by the open driver’s door, the radio in his hand, calling for assistance. Why would he need assistance? Morgan couldn’t see enough of his own car to tell if it had been wrecked. At the thought of a wreck, fear iced along his back, brought him up alert. “Becky and Sammie,” he shouted at Jimson, “was there awreck, are they hurt? Where are Becky and Sammie?” He couldn’t remember them being in the car, couldn’t remember bringing them out here. Pressing his face into the wire barrier, he shouted crazily at Jimson. “Where’s Becky? Where’s my little girl? Were we in an accident? Are they hurt? Are they all right?”

“They’re all right,” Jimson said dryly. “As right as they can be.”

“What does that mean? Are they hurt? Tell me.”

Jimson was silent, staring in the mirror at him.

“Was there an accident?” Morgan repeated. “Is that why my car—why I’m out here? Where are they?” Becky’s face filled his vision, her brown eyes steady on him, Sammie’s elfin face so close to him he thought he had only to reach out and touch her soft cheek, reach out and hug her. “Where are they?” he repeated. “What’s this about?Was there an accident?”

“They’re at home,” Jimson said. “Youknow there was noaccident.” Why was he so enraged? Morgan started to press him, to ask what he meant, when another patrol car came barreling down the road and pulled up beside Jimson’s unit.

Sergeant Leonard stepped out. Morgan had known the brindle-haired police veteran since he was a kid, had an easy friendship with the older man, but now Leonard was as hard-faced and angry as Jimson. Morgan watched a young trainee get out the other side, a blond-haired young college type who, Morgan had heard, was good at cataloging evidence. Leonard stood looking into the backseat at Morgan.“Give me your car keys.”

Handcuffed, Morgan dug clumsily in his pocket for the keys and handed them over. Jimson slipped in behind the wheel of the black-and-white, as Leonard moved away toward Morgan’s car. Jimson started the engine, spun a U-turn on the narrow, empty road. Morgan hunched down in the moving car aching and sick, trying to figure out what was happening, whathad happened, trying to put the scattered pieces together—and worrying about Sammie and Becky, still terrified for them. And ashamed, because somehow he had failed them, because he had suddenly and inexplicably lost control of his life, had failed the two people in the world whowere his life.

“What was it, Jimson? What did I do, what happened?” He didn’t expect an answer, as closemouthed as Jimson had been. The woods swept by, the familiar farms, the long, stinking rows of metal chicken houses. As they neared town and turned onto Main Street, Jimson glanced in the mirror again at Morgan, his brown eyes flickering between rage and puzzlement; for an instant a touch of their friendship showed through, conflicted and uncertain.

And now, nearing the jail, all Morgan could think of was Sammie’s nightmare where he was locked behind bars, her terrified screaming that his friends were locking him in a cage. He wanted to fight his way out of the squad car and get home, find Sammie, tell her everything was all right, he wanted to hold her safe and tell her Daddy was all right.

But he wasn’t all right: he was coming more awake now, and as Jimson circled the block to park behind the police station, slowly Morgan began, with effort, to put events together. He had gotten into the car at noon, he was certain of that. Falonhad come into the shop, urging him real pushy as was Falon’s way. He remembered he’d been working on John Graham’s Chevy, replacing the fuel pump, remembered hearing Falon’s voice, looking up to see Falon there on the other side of the raised hood. He was sure, now, that he’d left the shop with Falon. They’d gone to look at Falon’s car? He thoughtFalon had wanted to tell him something, but he couldn’t remember what.

But that had to be yesterday, he’d apparently spent the afternoon and night in the car, and he could remember nothing of those hours. A whole afternoon and night wiped from his memory. He knew he hadn’t been drinking, no matter how he smelled or what he tasted. Had he been drugged with something worse than bootleg? And then left there in the woods alone, passed out cold, abandoned by Falon?

He remembered wiping up Falon’s spilled Coke, but didn’t remember much at all, after that. He looked into the rearview mirror at Jimson, wanting to ask if this was Friday, wanting to know if it had been just yesterday that he and Falon had gotten in his car, wanting to ask Jimson why he couldn’t remember anything after pulling away from the curb where he’d parked, driving just a few blocks, and then growing so dizzy and confused. He thought there was something about the Graystone Apartments. Was that where they were headed? He couldn’t remember arriving there.

“Jimson, I have to call Becky.” When he hadn’t been home all night, she’d be frantic. What had happened after Falon spilled the Coke? Those hours between yesterday and this morning had been taken from him as if they never existed, the whole night had been stolen from him. What had he done during those lost hours, those vanished and terrifying hours?

Jimson pulled around behind the impressive stone courthouse to the basement area below at the back, the entrance to the jail. Morgan watched his own car pull in behind them, to a fenced, locked area. He supposed the car would be held as evidence. Morgan knew, from walking through the lockup area, that the cells were small and dirty and they stank. Jimson parked the patrol car just at the back door of the jail, killed the engine, and got out. He opened the back door and motioned Morgan out, Morgan awkward with his hands cuffed behind him. Morgan stumbled up the steps ahead of the officer, herded along by the man who should be his friend, who now was as cold as if they’d never met. Jimson opened the big steel door, pushed him inside, forced him along the hall, on past the cells and up to the front, to the booking desk.

Morgan was booked into Rome City Jail at ten-fifteen that morning. Reeking of whiskey, he drew sharp, surprised looks from the staff and the other officers. At the front desk, Jimson fingerprinted him and filled out the forms, asking Morgan coldly for the answer to every printed question though he already knew the answers, he knew Morgan’s personal history as well as Morgan himself did. It was the charges that Jimson wrote down, that left him shocked.

Bank robbery?Murder? He looked at Jimson, feeling sick, looked at what Jimson had written. That couldn’t be right, not murder. He couldn’t have killed anyone. Nothing that could have happened to him, a hit on the head, some kind of drug, could make him kill someone. Nothing would allow him toforgetkilling someone.It was hard enough to forget what he had done during the war. Now, he wanted an explanation, he wanted to shout at Jimson and shake him until he found out what this was about.

But to make a fuss now might only make the situation worse. When Jimson finished filling in the report, he marched Morgan down the hall, shoved him in through a cell door so brutally that he fell sprawling across the concrete.

“Jimson?”

The officer turned, watched him as he struggled up.

He tried to talk to Jimson, tried to tell him he thought he’d been drugged, tried to reconstruct what little hecould remember: Falon showing up at the shop, his leaving with Falon, Falon spilling the Coke, Morgan turning to wipe it up.

Jimson said,“There was no Coke, no Coke bottles, no bottles of any kind except the empty moonshine bottle.”

“I didn’t have any moonshine. You know I don’t drink—no matter how I smell,” he said sheepishly. “Yousearched the car, and found nothing else? There were two Cokes, Falon bought them at the shop, from the machine. Ask Albert, he was there, working at the other lift.”

Jimson’s face softened, but just a little. “There was something sticky spilled on the seat.” He shrugged. “It might be Coke. We’ll look into it.”

Morgan looked back at him, deflated. What could a detective find in a stain of spilled Coke? Maybe a trace of some drug? Or maybe nothing. And Falon could have ditched the bottles anywhere. Easy to toss them back in the woods in lovers’ hollow, two more empty bottles rolled in dirt and buried among years of collected trash.

He watched Jimson lock his barred door, drop the key into his uniform pocket, watched his retreating back, watched the heavy outer door close. He was locked in a cell by himself—at least for that he was grateful, thankful for the privacy. Maybe Jimson had taken pity on him. Or maybe Jimson thought Morgan had turned too dangerous to share space with the town’s three drunks. All he knew was, this wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening. There was no way he could have killed someone, and no way he could have forgotten such a horrible act as if it had never happened.

When Jimson had gone, Morgan sat down on the stained bunk. The cell wasn’t as big as their small bathroom at home, but this cubicle wasn’t blue and white and sweet smelling, it was scarred with the filth of generations, that the janitor had tried repeatedly to scrub away, he could see the paler but still visible scour marks. Walls scarred with the shadows of old graffiti, newer smears of dirt, and stains of urine behind the toilet. He read the scribbled messages that were still legible, repeated the four-letter words to himself as if they might help him hang on to his sanity. Two inscriptions begged God’s mercy, penned by someone lying on the iron cot writing at a forty-five-degree angle. The cot’s striped mattress was grimy along the edges and sported three long brown smears. A threadbare blanket and a worn sheet were folded at the foot of the cot beside a grimy pillow. The washbasin was streaked brown with years of iron-rich water. Above the basinhung a ragged, torn towel. Across the corridor a drunk was singing dirty words to “Down in the Valley.” He used the toilet, washed his hands and face with the tepid water but avoided the towel. He smoothed his hair with his wet hands, cupped water in his hands, rinsed his mouth again and again but couldn’t get rid of the dead taste. What had Falon put in his Coke? This had to be something stronger, even, than moonshine. There was no other explanation for the way he felt and for his loss of memory. Whiskey wouldn’t do that, and how could Falon have forced that much whiskey down him? No,the liquor was soaked into his clothes; even his boots, when he pulled them off, smelled of booze, and the leather was still faintly damp.

But as he sat there in the cell alone, his sense of innocence began to fade. Whatmight have happened during those long hours he couldn’t remember? Whatmight Falon have made him do, what would he have beenwilling to do, drugged, that he wouldn’t do while sober?

He spread the sheet over the cot and lay down. The corridor light in his face made his head throb. From the moment Jimson had jerked him out of his car, scenes from yesterday and detached snatches of conversation had swum through his head in a muddle, none of it making sense, Falon’s voice urging him to leave the shop, Falon trying to get him to go somewhere … He remembered telling Falon he never left the shop for lunch. Well, it was too late now to change whatever had happened. What he didn’t understand was why? Falon was mean, had always been mean, but why this horror just now, when he and Becky and Sammie were finally together again?

But that would be exactly Falon’s way: hit them when they were happiest—out of sadism, out of a hunger for Becky that she had never encouraged and that, for all these years, could have festered, could have left Falon waiting for just the right moment, the cruelest moment. But was fate—certainly not the good Lord himself—so cruel that Falon’s evil would at last be allowed to destroy them?

25

The plane burst out of the clouds with a buzzing roar banking directly over Lee, it dropped straight at him, its shadow swallowed him, then the dark silhouette swept on by, raking the field below the lowering plane; at the far end of the rough, unplowed land the yellow Stearman touched down. Wheels kicking up dust, it swung around and circled back toward him, its propeller ticking over slowly as the plane taxied. Lee stepped aside as it rolled up to him. The front cockpit was empty. In the rear cockpit, young Mark Triple pushed back his goggles, but didn’t kill the engine. “Hop in, Fontana.”

Reaching for the struts, Lee made the long step up onto the wingwalk. Pausing, he looked down into the open metal hopper where Mark had bolted in a makeshift seat for him. Not much to hold him in there, only that little leather strap screwed into the sides of the plane. He glanced back at Mark.

“Climb on in, it’s safe as a baby carriage.” Leaning forward, Mark handed him a pair of goggles. “They’ll keep the bugs out of your eyes. Make sure your seat belt’s fastened.”

Warily Lee stepped in, groping for the seat belt. He got the ends together, pulled the belt so tight he nearly cut himself in half. He wasn’t half settled when the engine roared again and they were moving, Lee gripping the sides of the hopper hard, the ground racing by in a brown blur. He was lifted, weightless, as the tail came up, then a belly-grabbing leap, forcing him to hang on tighter than he had ever clung to a bucking cayuse. Ahead, a flock of birds exploded away in panic. Looking gingerly over the side, he hung on with both hands as the plane banked, tipping sideways. They swept low over the rusty tin roofs of the packing sheds, not a soul stirring in the ranch yard. In the paddock, Lucita’s spotted mare crowded nervously against the rail fence, staring up at the rising plane. In Lucita and Jake’s yard Lee glimpsed a tiny flash of white, Lucita’s little Madonna. Then they were out over the green fields, the melons and vegetables, the cotton and alfalfa broken by irrigation ditches thin as snakes, then the sharp line where the green stopped and the pale desert stretched away to the low Chuckawalla Mountains, brown and barren and wind carved. He’d feel more secure if he were riding behind Mark instead of up here in front where he felt like he should have control but didn’t—but hell, if this bird took a dive he wouldn’t know what to do anyway.

Forcing himself to settle back, he concentrated on the panorama below, so different than what you could ever see from the ground. He told himself this was a good feeling, floating high above the earth with nothing to hold him up there, and he tried to set his mind on the job ahead, patting the traveler’s check folder in his shirt pocket, making sure it was safe. He’d never pulled a scam like this one. The excitement of it made his stomach twitch, but also made him smile. Yesterday he’d skipped lunch, borrowed Jake’s pickup and headed for town, first for his post office box—and his birth certificate was there waiting for him. Smiling, he’d headed for the Department of Motor Vehicles where he applied for a driver’s license in the name of James Dawson, hoping to hell the clerk hadn’t known Dawson. Hoping the DMV wouldn’t check past the P.O. address, wouldn’t start digging around in the birth certificates. There must be a lot of Dawsons in the world, but he had to have some kind of ID. He told the clerk he was a mining consultant moving down from San Francisco, would be doing some work for Placer Mining Company. Said he hadn’t had a driver’s license in years because the last company he worked for furnished a driver, he said that when he was in the city he preferred to take the cable car or walk. He’d had to take a driver’s test, a piece of cake on the open desert roads, and he had aced the written test.

Fifteen minutes after he received his temporary license he had returned to the post office, parking around on the next street out of sight. Entering the lobby, standing in line before the window with the temporary cardboard sign reading BANKING BUSINESS, he was encouraged by the long line. A busy teller, hurrying through her transactions, was just what he wanted. A teller making quick decisions wouldn’t want to linger over unnecessary questions. When his turn came he gave the young redhead a grandfatherly smile, asked her for seven hundred dollars in traveler’s checks, in hundred-dollar denominations. He had stood admiring the young smooth look of her as she recorded the check numbers in the customer’s transaction folder, which was printed with the logo of the bank. He told her conversationally that he was on his way to San Francisco. She said she loved San Francisco, that the fee would be two dollars, and she had counted out the traveler’s checks to put into the folder. As he reached to his hip pocket, he picked up the folder. He dug convincingly in his pocket for his billfold, then looked surprised, looked up at her, frowning. “Oh, shaw. I’m sorry, miss. I left my wallet in the car.”

She smiled at him understandingly, and paper-clipped the checks together, glancing past him at the long line of customers.“That’s all right, sir. I’ll hold them until you get back. Just come to the window, you needn’t stand in that long line again.”

The customer behind him pushed impatiently closer as Lee slipped away pocketing the folder, leaving the young clerk cashing a paycheck.

Outside the post office, moving away around the corner out of sight of the post office windows, he swung into the truck and left, heading back for the ranch, the empty folder safe in his Levi’s pocket. That had been yesterday. Now he was on his way to complete the rest of the transaction.

His stomach dropped as the plane lifted higher yet, to clear the rising mountains, and he tried to ease more comfortably into the sense of flight, into the sudden lift, the speed, the throb of the engines. The wind scoured his face, sharp and cold. Below him the deep, dry washes dropping down from the mountains and across the desert floor looked ancient. Washes that during a heavy rain would belch out enough water to flood the whole desert, flood the highway deep and fast enough to overturn a car and drown an unwary driver. Maybe, Lee thought, every place in the world had its own kind of downside, unexpected and treacherous. Soon they were over San Bernardino, sailing smoothly over miles of orange and avocado groves, the lines of trees as straight as if drawn by a ruler. A few small farms, fenced pastures where horses and cattle grazed, a few small towns surrounded by green hills—and then the square grids of L.A. streets, neighborhoods of little boxy houses, and the main thoroughfares choked with traffic. Blue ocean beyond to his left, rivulets of white waves rolling in, and to his right the Hollywood Hills rose up, their pelt of green trees broken by the occasional glimpse of a mansion roof or the blue square of a swimming pool. This was the moneyed Neverland he’d read about, a place he’d never have reason to visit. Beyond the Hollywood Hills, forested mountains towered up, wild enough, by their look, to lose a man back among their rough ridges and gullies, wild enough to hide a man where the feds might never find him.

Lee eased down in his seat as Mark banked and circled, approaching the L.A. airport, the mountains swinging so close to Lee he caught his breath and clutched the seat hard again, staring straight out at what he thought was his last sight of this earth before they crashed into a thrusting peak, and died.

The ghost cat wasn’t frightened, he rode effortlessly on the wing above Lee, needing no support, watching Lee, amused, entertained by Lee’s fear, laughing as only a cat can laugh—though he felt sympathy for the old cowboy, too. If he had been a mortal cat, at that moment, riding in the little plane, he’d be crouched on the floor scared as hell, wild-eyed and out of control.

When Mark had first landed the plane back at Delgado Ranch and Lee stepped aboard, the cat had leaped lightly to the lower wing and then drifted up to the high wing, unseen. He had ridden there weightless as the plane took off, the wind tugging at his invisible fur, flattening his unseen ears without annoying the cat at all. Riding the yellow Stearman filled Misto with feline clownishness, caught him in a delirium of delight that perhaps no other creaturebut a ghost cat could know as vividly. The yellow tom didn’t often give himself to this degree of madness, he was for the most part a serious cat, but now he wanted to laugh out loud; sailing aboard the little manmade craft was more delicious than any binge of catnip, he rode the Stearman balanced without effort, he was one with the wind, he was a wind dancer, so giddy he wanted to yowl with pleasure. He let himself blow away free on the wind and then flipped over to land on the plane again, cavorting and delirious; he played and gamboled until Mark dropped the little craft smoothly down, to the landing strip in L.A., settling to earth once more. There the cat stretched out on the upper wing, lounging and watching to see what would happen next.

Taxiing, Mark quickly moved her off the runway, moved on past the terminal where passengers were boarding a big commercial plane, and headed slowly for the small hangars beyond and a metal building, its tin roof peeling paint. DUKE’S AIR SERVICE. REPAIR. CHARTERS. FLYING LESSONS.There, he cut the engine.

In the cockpit, Lee sat a moment, reorienting himself. At last he dropped his goggles on the seat, undid the seat belt, eased himself out of the hopper and climbed down.

But when he stood again on the ground he felt so small, and the earth felt unsteady beneath him, his balance so changed that for a moment he couldn’t get his footing. He watched Mark greet the mechanic, jerking a thumb at the prop. “It surges in high pitch,” Mark said. “Surges real bad.”

Lee moved closer to get Mark’s attention. “You going to be a while? I’d like to go into town if there’s time.”

Mark laughed.“See the big city. Sure, this will take … maybe three hours or better. You can catch a bus over there in front of the terminal. I’ll stay here and swap lies.”

The bus was nearly empty. When Lee chose a window seat close to the rear door, when he sat down laying his jacket across the other seat, he sensed the cat next to him, and that cheered him. In the plane, where the hell had the cat ridden? Had he needed to hang on for dear life, or had he been free to do as he pleased? Had he been afraid during that bouncing ride, or was such an experience nothing at all to a freewheeling ghost cat?

It was a half-hour ride into downtown L.A. The instant they passed the first bank, Lee rose and pulled the cord. He expected the ghost cat would tag along, but he didn’t sense him near. He had ceased to worry about the little cat, a ghost wasn’t mortal, nothing of this world could harm him, and how secure and amazing was that? Only something otherworldly could touch Misto, and so far as Lee could tell, he had taken care of himself just fine.

Walking back to the bank from the bus stop, he ran his finger into his shirt pocket, again making sure the paper with its record of the traveler’s checks was safe. He was feeling nervous, beginning to wonder if that young inmate, young Randy Sanderford, had given him the straight scoop about this scam.

The bank lobby was crowded, the lines long, and that was good. He picked a young, gentle-looking teller, and tailed onto the end of the line. The nameplate beside her window said Kay Miller. He fidgeted in line and tried to look worried, and as he stepped up for his turn he let his face twist into despair. Leaning into the window clutching the grill, he encouraged his voice to tremble.“Excuse me, ma’am—Miss Miller—I’m just worried sick and my missus is out in the car just crying her eyes out.”

The young woman’s clear green eyes searched his face, she leaned toward him over the counter, the gold heart on her necklace swinging. “What is it, sir? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve lost my traveler’s checks, every one of them, all the money we have. My wife said the money would be safer in traveler’s checks, we’re headed up to Oregon, I have a job there, and now—lost. Just—they’re gone. I don’t know where I could have dropped them …”

Lee clutched his bandana to wipe his eyes. He could feel the stares of people behind him. The teller started to reach out through the cage as though she would take his hand, then drew her hand back, but her face showed real concern. Maybe she had a forgetful father, Lee thought, some gentle, addled old duffer who too often stirred her pity. She said,“Do you have something to identify the lost checks, sir?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” He pulled the little slip of recorded numbers, in their transaction folder, out of his shirt pocket. “Just this.”

Her gentle green eyes brightened when she saw the folder. She took it from him carefully, looking at the name of the issuing bank.“May I see your driver’s license, sir?”

He handed over the temporary license.“Just had it renewed.” He let his unsteady voice carry softly. “It’s my wife’s sister, she—we’re having to move up to Oregon to look after her, we don’t think she has very long, and with the money so short … I just don’t know how I could have lost them. They were so loose inthe folder, one came out accidentally. My wife said they’d be safer in the glove compartment, and I thought I put them there. But then I couldn’t find them. I thought maybe I put them in my pocket when we stopped to get gas, but I paid for the gas with cash and …” He shook his head, clenching his hands together like a little old lady, trying to look shrunken and pitiful. “I could give you our address in Oregon, if there’s any way you could help us?”

Her eyes widened as she glanced at the line behind him, he knew everyone was listening, and she let her soft voice carry.“Mr. Dawson, we like to give our customers personal service. But, you see, our bank manager’s out today.”

Lee swallowed.

“But Miss Lester is here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get her.” She smiled at the line of waiting customers, and left the window. When Lee turned to look, most of the faces behind him were soft with sympathy. Only two men were scowling, impatient to take care of their business. Lee glanced down shyly, ducking his head, smiling sheepishly; most of the folks smiled back, nodding encouragement. He could see, at a desk at the back of the bank, Miss Miller speaking with a dark-haired older woman. The woman looked up, studying Lee. As the two women talked, the tension behind Lee in the line was like electricity, sympathy and impatience mixed, and Lee’s own nerves were strung tight. He was shaking with anxiety for real; by the time the pretty young teller returned to the cage, he was so nervous he could feel a cough coming. He did his best to swallow it back, but the cough racked him so hard he doubled over. He swallowed back phlegm, at last got himself under control. As he straightened up, another fit of coughing almost took him when he saw the sheaf of traveler’s checks in the young teller’s hand.

“I can reissue the checks, Mr. Dawson,” she said, smiling. Lee heard a pleased murmur of voices behind him. As he let out a breath, shaken and weak, he felt the cat brush against his boot, pressing hard, as if to say,See, everything went just fine. Lee watched Miss Miller count out seven one-hundred-dollar traveler’s checks. She showed Lee where to sign them, recorded the numbers, and clamped them securely into a new folder for him. Lee started to cough again, trying to thank her.

“We’re glad we could help,” she said softly. “Please be careful with them, now. You and Mrs. Dawson have a safe trip up to Oregon, and I hope her sister’s better soon.”

Collecting the folder, he thanked her again, reached through the grid to pat her hand, and then turned away moving slowly, almost feebly out of the bank.

On the street again, pretending to hurry to rejoin his weeping wife, James Dawson picked up his speed and, once he’d rounded the corner, he was moving fast and grinning with smug success. Not a damn thing wrong with that scam.

It took him more than an hour to cash five of the traveler’s checks, walking long distances between stores, buying a few items in each, half a dozen pairs of shorts, a shirt, some work gloves and, in a hardware store a small trenching tool. He saved the last two checks for the pawnshop. And as he moved around the town, every now and then he could feel the cat pressing against his leg, could feel it now as he pushed in through the barred pawnshop door. Why was the cat so interested? Just plain nosiness? Or was the ghost cat bringing him luck? Helping him along, tweaking the sympathy of young Miss Miller and her superior, maybe even weaving a sense of honesty around Lee as he dealt with each clerk and shopkeeper. Could the ghost cat do that? More power to him, then, Lee thought as he pushed in among the crowded counters of the pawnshop.

There were no other customers. Every surface was stacked with binoculars, cameras, musical instruments, jewelry, guns and ammo, all of it familiar and comforting. A pawnshop was always his destination soon after parole or release, a pawnshop was a source of sustenance where he could gather together the supplies to feel whole again, the equipment he needed to feel capable again and master of his own fate. Even the square-faced shopkeeper behind the counter seemed comfortable and familiar, the way he peered up over his horn-rimmed glasses, the way his veined hands stayed very still on the newspaper he had been reading, waiting to see if Lee wanted to sell, or buy, or try to rob him, his hands poised where he could reach, in an instant, the loaded weapon he’d have ready just beneath the counter. The man gave Lee a shopkeeper’s all-purpose smile. “Help you?”

Lee eased down a row of showcases, looking through the glass tops.“Like to see what you have in the way of revolvers.”

“Something for protection?”

“You might say that. Some critter is getting my calves—got home from a trip up north, my wife was pretty upset. I’ve watched for two nights—I don’t know what’s after them but I mean to find out.”

The man slid open a glass door.“Here’s a nice little snub-nose I can let go at a reasonable price.”

Lee looked down at the cheap little handgun.“I don’t want a toy. I want a gun.” He moved on down the showcase. “There. Let me see that one.”

He accepted the heavy revolver, opened and spun the cylinder, and eased it closed. He saw how the bluing had worn off from riding in its holster. He looked down the length of the six-inch barrel, examined the scars on the wooden grips. A forty-five-caliber, double-action no-nonsense handgun designed on the lines of the Paterson Colt. Not so fine or rare a weapon, but it would do for what he wanted.“How much?”

“Hundred dollars. Hundred and thirty with the holster.”

“I’ll take both, and a box of ammunition.”

But when Lee pulled out the traveler’s checks, the man did a double take. He looked at Lee hard for a minute.

“These are the last two. Always carry them when I travel. Hope you don’t mind. Won’t be needing them now, for a while.”

At last, under Lee’s innocent gaze, the clerk cashed the checks. Lee bought a wide roll of gray tape that the shop used for packing; he paid for that, too, and, knowing the guy was wondering if he’d been taken, he mosied on out, paused to look again in the shop window, then walked casually away to the bus stop. Moving on around the corner out of sight, he leaned against the brick building letting his rapid heart slow, waiting for the next bus bound to the airport. The twenty-minute delay made him real nervous before the bus finally appeared, before he was safely aboard and away from the watchful owner of the pawnshop.

Getting off at the air terminal, double-timing across the long stretch of tarmac, he arrived back at the hangar just as the mechanic was pushing his wheeled tool chest away from the yellow biplane. Reaching into the plane, Lee stashed his packages under the makeshift seat, then stood watching Mark approach from the office, where he had gone to pay the bill. As they pushed the plane out away from the hangar, Lee couldn’t help wondering where the cat was now, but knowing that wherever he lingered at the moment was exactly where he wanted to be.

“You heading out next week,” Lee asked. “Headed for Vegas?”

Mark nodded.“Vegas, and then on to Wichita.”

“Don’t know if it would fit in with your plans,” Lee said, “but I’d sure like to see Vegas, play the tables for a day or two.”

Mark grinned.“You getting to like this flying?”

Lee nodded, grinning at him.

“Might arrange it, if you can get the time off.”

“I can get the time off. I’ll be in town next Thursday on some business, I can get a lift in. Don’t suppose you could pick me up there, on your way? I’d pay for your gas to Vegas. Fellow told me there was an emergency landing strip just outside of town, at the junction to Jamesfarm.”

Mark scratched his head.“I was going to leave Wednesday, but what the hell, for the price of gas, I’m flexible. Sure, hell yes, I’ll pick you up, say Thursday evening? Smoother ride over the mountains when the air’s cool. I know the strip, I had a leaky oil line coming back from Vegas one time. That strip saved mefrom burning up the engine. How will you get back from Vegas?”

“I’ll hop a bus. How about six-thirty or seven, Thursday night?”

“Make it eight-thirty, I’ll have some things to clear up, that night. Take us an hour and a half to Vegas. My girlfriend doesn’t get off until nine.” He grinned at Lee. “This thing burns thirty gallons an hour.”

Laughing, Lee crawled up into his seat.“I can make that much in an hour or two at the blackjack table.” He snapped on the goggles, buckled his seat belt, tucked the brown paper packages securely between his legs, patting the forty-five. Wherever the ghost cat was, he wondered if he was in for the ride to Vegas as well, if he’d be with him for the rest of this gig, for the bad time Lee expected to endure before he headed for the border, rich and living free.

26

Two hours after Brad Falon had slipped into Morgan’s blue Dodge, and Morgan pulled away from the tree-shaded curb near the automotive shop, Falon himself sat in the driver’s seat, with Morgan sprawled in the back, passed out cold. Leaving the Graystone, in front of which he had parked, and driving sedately through town, Falon returned to park behind the apartment. Making sure Morgan was still deep under, and seeing that the windows were down partway so the comatose man wouldn’t suffocate, Falon left the car. Walking across the few feet of tarmac, he entered the apartment building through the back door. He didn’t go upstairs to his girlfriend’s place where he’d been living, he’d fill Natalie in later. She’d go along with whatever he said, whatever he told her to say. Crossing the small lobby to the front door, the afternoon sun glittering in through its carved glass panes, he left the building and crossed the street to the little neighborhood market where he liked to buy magazines and sweets. He purchased a pack of gum and a candy bar, and talked idly with the owner, remarking on the time, which was just two-thirty, and setting his watch by the store clock. Leaving the market, he entered the lobby through the frontdoor again as if he were going on up to their apartment. Instead he continued out the back, where he slid into Morgan’s car. He had left his own black Mustang in plain view parked in front of the building.

In the backseat of the Dodge, Morgan hadn’t moved, he was still deep under. Smiling, Falon drove the few blocks to the elementary school and parked in the alley behind the gym. Getting out, he dropped a small metal box into one of the refuse cans, and eased his hand in to pull a tangle of brown, wadded paper towels over it. Getting backin the car, he drove the nine blocks to Shorter Street, its maple trees shading the entries to several small businesses, the barber shop, a sandwich shop, a women’s clothing store, a bank, a dry goods and a five-and-dime, stores supplying most of the necessities of the small town except for livestock feed, lumber, and gardening supplies, which could be acquired just a few blocks over. Parking beneath a large live oak half a block from Rome Southern Bank, again he left the windows cracked open to the hot afternoon. Pocketing his loaded .38, he tossed a light windbreaker over Morgan so he wouldn’t be easily noticed from the sidewalk, and he left the engine running.

Rome Southern wasn’t the biggest bank in town but it was on the quietest street. Paradoxically, it was just two blocks from Morgan Blake’s house. Falon had driven by there just a couple of days ago, had seen the little Blake girl coming down the street, no mistaking her dark eyes, exactly like Becky’s. When heslowed, she’d looked up at him, startled. Becky’s eyes, yes, and even as she ran from his car behind the nearest house, something had twisted in his belly.

All during high school Becky had refused to go out with him—she was Becky Tanner then—using the poor excuse that she was dating Morgan. He told her she could be going with them both, that he’d show her a real good time, better than Morgan ever could, but she’d had a snotty, stuck-up attitude. She wouldn’t date him, wouldn’t give him a tumble—when a tumble was all he wanted. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven that.

He left Morgan’s car at exactly two forty-five, and approached the bank. He had already changed shirts with Morgan and put on Morgan’s greasy work boots. To make his hands look like Morgan’s he had rubbed black watercolor paint from the child’s paint box into the creases between his fingers and around his nails and the cuticles, wiping off the excess. He had wiped his prints off the tin paint box, and smeared the colors all together in a wet mess. Who would think anything about a ruined paint box that some kid threw away? Earlier, getting Morgan settled in the backseat, he had pulled half a dozen hairs from Morgan’s head and placed them in an envelope, which was now safe in his jacket pocket.

Approaching the bank, he took from his other pocket a blue wool stocking cap, the kind you’d wear in winter, and pulled it on. The street and sidewalk were empty except for three small children bouncing a ball against a storefront a block away, paying no attention to him. Just out of sight of the bank’s glass doors, he pulled the cap down over his face, lining up the two eyeholes hehad cut in the front. Then, with his hand on the revolver in his pocket, the hammer cocked, he shoved in through the bank’s front door.

The portly, uniformed security guard had been looking up at the wall clock checking it against his pocket watch. Adjusting the watch, which was five minutes slow, satisfied it was time to close up, he started across the tile lobby to lock the door and pull the shades. He glanced across to the teller’s window, where Betty Holmes was placing paper collars around packs of tens, putting away the last of her change. She, too, was eager to lock up for the evening. She smiled at the elderly guard, flipping her long, pale hair over her shoulder. She liked Harry Grogan, he had been at this job ever since he retired from the police force fifteen years before, long before she came to work here. She knew he could feel the years weighing on him, just as her father complained about the aches and discomforts of increasing age. She knew Harry meant to quit soon and help his wife, Esther, at home where Esther still took in sewing. Grogan planned to put in a bigger garden and try canning some beans and homemade vegetable soup which was, in every household with a garden, a favorite winter staple. Harry said Esther never had time for canning and she’d sure be glad of the help. Betty watched Grogan ease the heaviness of his service revolver, lifting his belt away from his body as he moved toward the bank’s front door—then everything happened fast, the sudden thrust inward of the heavy glass door, the masked figure exploding in jamming a revolver into Harry’s belly as Harry reached for his gun.

Two shots exploded. Harry’s gun never cleared the holster, the shots dropped him in a dance jig, he fell twisting and lay still. The gunman lunged past him straight at her window and before she could react he grabbed her hair, jerked her into the wrought-iron barrier. Pain exploded in her belly as her ribs cracked against the counter bending her double. He jerked her harder into the metal teller’s cage and rammed the gun in her face, the gun and the navy blue mask filled her vision, and his cold expressionless eyes.

Falon was pretty sure the guard was dead. As he rammed the muzzle of the .38 into the teller’s face, two women appeared from the back. They stopped, frozen, their faces going pale and dumb.

“Get the money,” he shouted. “In the drawers, in the vault. I want all of it. Do itnow, or she’s dead.” The two women remained still with shock. Falon gestured the cocked gun toward a pile of empty canvas bags that lay folded on the back counter. “Move! Put the money in the bags.Now, orI blow the broad’s head off.”

They moved, scuttled like frightened rats to do as they were told. His new voice amused him, he had practiced for a long time to perfect Morgan’s deeper voice, his lower tones. The two tellers were unlocking and jerking open drawers, grabbing out money and dropping it into the bags. The younger, dark-haired one moved quickly but the old, skinny broad was slow and shaking. He’d started to yell at her again when a man, a bank officer, appeared from an inner office down at the end of the lobby. Looking surprised, taking it all in, he lunged for a phone.

“Back off. You touch it, they’re all dead!” Stepping around the end of the counter, Falon stood over the blonde. She was still conscious, holding herself and moaning.

“Get over here,” Falon shouted at the bank officer. “Get over here now behind the counter with the rest of them!” But when he grabbed the limp girl and jerked her up she came to life under his hands, clawing at him trying to jerk the mask off his face, her own face white with rage.

He jerked her off him, pulled her long hair, bending her backward, her face cut by the bars. The other two women had backed away from the cash drawers, they stood dumb and shaking again but the blonde still fought him, kicking at his shins, her fear wild and so exciting he laughed, fear had always thrilled him, as far back as he could remember, other kids’ fear of him, a helpless animal’s fear. Remembering grammar school, the puppy’s white silky hair filling his fist, he twisted the girl’s hair, jerking her up against him, contorting her body so violently that he felt her urine drench his leg. Enraged that she’d do that, he slapped her with the butt of the .38. She swung around, jammed her knee in his crotch. He doubled over. She scratched his arm deep and then went for his face. Hunched with pain, he threw her to the floor and screamed at the two tellers, “Get the rest of the money in the bag or I’ll kill her, kill all of you.” When the girl at his feet tried to get up he kicked her in the face, then in the ribs. “Get the money,” he snarled, “all three of you, all of the money.All of it!” He felt high and he felt good, he was filled with power.

When he had the two loaded money bags, he locked the bank officer and the women in the vault and spun the dial. Before he left the bank carrying the two canvas bags he dropped the hairs from the envelope into the blood on the marble floor. When he hit the door he had already pulled off the stocking cap and shoved it into one of the bags. Quickly he slid into the Dodge, pushed the bags under the seat. He was ten blocks away when he heard sirens; he never had heard a bank alarm, maybe it only sounded at the station and that didn’t seem fair.

The sirens grew louder but he eased on at a leisurely pace, heading north to the outskirts of Rome. He parked Morgan’s car in a patch of woods next to the red pickup he had “borrowed” earlier from a man that he knew would be out of town all week. He crammed the money all into one bag and dropped it into the cab of the pickup, left the other bag with a few scattered bills under the passenger seat of Morgan’s car. He changed shirts and boots with Morgan, hard to do, manipulating a limp body. He emptied the bottle of bootleg whiskey over Morgan’s clothes, smeared some in his mouth, the rest on the driver’s seat. He wiped his prints off the bottle, forced Morgan’s prints onto it in several handholds. Holding the bottle with his handkerchief, he shoved it under the seat with the canvas bag.

Pulling the red pickup out onto the narrow macadam road, he got out and picked up the four wide boards on which he had parked to prevent tire tracks in the raw earth of the shoulder. He scuffed leaves over the indentations the boards had made, threw the boards in the bed of the pickup, and headed around the outskirts of Rome, up toward Turkey Mountain Ridge. The way he figured, taking his time to hide the money in the one place where no one would ever look, he’d have the truck back in his friend’s driveway well before midnight, would be back in Natalie’s apartment in perfect innocence, fondling her in her warm bed. He had no thought for the dead guard or the girl he had hurt, he had no idea of the extent of her suffering nor did he care, his thoughts were on the damage he had done to Morgan Blake, for taking Becky from him, and on Becky for turning her back on him. Soon now Morgan would be hurting bad, as would Becky, and that was only right, that was as it should be, those who crossed him were meant to pay, and he was making it happen.

In Blythe, the ghost cat, as he accompanied Lee in the careful laying of his plans, was aware as well of Falon’s brutal robbery even as the iron door to the vault was slammed and the manager and tellers locked inside. Misto hurt for those who had been beaten, for the guard who had been killed and for his poor wife newly widowed. He hurt for Morgan, who would suffer long and hard, too, for Falon’s cruelty, and he hurt for Becky and Sammie. But at this juncture there was little he could have done. A momentum was building that was beyond the ghost cat’s frantic powers; this shifting of fate was now far too strong for one small and angry feline.

But he knew this: the lust of Brad Falon against the Blakes was inexorably drawing Lee in. Lee would soon become a part of the scenario, as surely as pressures could build beneath the earth toward an explosive cataclysm. The paths of Morgan, and Brad Falon, of Sammie and Lee were tangling ever closer; and the ultimate outcome, the final choice, would be Lee’s to make. Uneasily the cat watched and waited, often giving Lee a gentle nudge, rubbing warm against him, his purring rumble meant to remind the old convict where survival lay: Lee’s ultimate afterlife lay with those who could give of their love, never with that which destroys love and joy. Never with that which would leave nothing of Lee but dust, scattered and gone, swept to nothing by the winds of time.

27

Pausing on the porch of the mess hall, Lee stamped dust from his boots, startling a flock of chickens that flapped up squawking, kicking sand in his face. Beside the tool house the trucks stood idle, and the packing-shed doors were shut tight. Looking in through the wide screens, he could see that the mess hall was empty; but the smell of cooking breakfasts lingered. On Sunday mornings, the men fixed their own meals. Moving on inside the screened room and back between the long tables, he stepped into the kitchen and set about making his breakfast.

The big wire basket on the counter was full of rinsed dishes left to drain and several burners of the oversized commercial stove were still warm. The stove was familiar to Lee, from working in a number of prison kitchens. He found bowls of eggs in the refrigerator alongside rolls of chorizo, and there were packages of tortillas on the counter and a couple of loaves of bread. The big commercial coffeepot was warm but nearly empty and was of a kind he didn’t know. He found a saucepan instead, and made boiled coffee. He fired up the stove’s big gas grill, started the chorizo, and when it was brown he broke three eggs beside it. He dropped two slices of bread in the big commercial toaster, buttered them from a gallon crock, and carried his steaming plate and coffee mug to a table beside the long, east-facing screen, where the edge of the rising sun was just appearing over the sand hills and above the scraggly willows.

The cash from the traveler’s check scam was in his hip pocket. He’d left his new gun and the ammo hidden inside his mattress, had ripped the stitching just enough to slide them in. Not very original, but they wouldn’t be there long. His cabin didn’t offer a lot of options, not even a cupboard under the sink. But no one seemed to have been in there since he’d moved in, his few personal possessions, his clean clothes, Mae’s picture on the dresser, never seemed disturbed.

He had dreamed of Mae again last night. He didn’t dream of her often but when he did the scene was shockingly real. Again she had been in a strange place, lying half asleep on a flowered couch, a blanket tucked around her, and her face very pale. She woke and looked up at him, looked right at him. “Cowboy,” she said, reaching up to him, her thin little hands cold in his hands. She was telling him that he had to come and help her, when Lee woke.

It must have been around midnight, though in his dream it seemed to be morning. Outside his window the moon had already moved up out of sight above the cabin roof. He lay wakeful a long time staring into the dark, seeing Mae so vividly, hearing her voice so clearly—Mae’s voice, and yet not quite her voice. There was something different in the way she spoke, an accent of some kind. Dreams could be so deceiving; but something in her voice left him uncertain and puzzled. The child had to be Mae, but something was different not only in the way she spoke, butsomething in her searching look that wasn’t quite like Mae, something that teased and puzzled him so that when he slept again he worried restlessly. Even as he stirred and tossed in his dreams, part of him knew that Mae would be an old woman now, if she was still alive. Maybe he had dreamed of a time long past, when Mae needed him and he wasn’t there for her?

But he didn’t think so. This child belonged to the present, this child so like his small sister, this little girl was real and alive, now, today, this child reaching out to him, badly needing him.

Trying to settle his puzzled uncertainty, he told himself he’d let last night’s dreams run away with him, that he needed to calm himself, not indulge in crazy fancies. Forking up the last of his eggs, looking out through the screen to the bunkhouses, he watched half a dozen pickers lolling on the long, roofed porches, and he could hear the murmur of Spanish radio stations clashing together in a senseless tangle. In the yard, a ball game had started, loud and energetic, lots of shouting and swearing in Spanish. He watched four young pickers leave their bunkhouse all dressed up in clean shirts, clean jeans, and polished boots, laughing and joking. They piled into an old blue Packard and took off, heading for town. He hoped that wasn’t the last car to go. The next step in his plan depended on a ride into Blythe—but he could still see Tony polishing his car, and that was what he was counting on. Smearing jam on the last of his toast, he crammed it in his mouth, washed it down with the last swallow of coffee. He got up, picking up his plate, thinking about the day ahead.

He hadn’t had much time to get himself organized but so far the moves had been smooth. It was the dreams that unsettled him. When he dreamed of Mae, the devil’s urgings had backed off. But then, when he least expected it, the dark presence would return, pressing him to center his attention on the Delgado payroll, to set Jake up for a long prison term, and to move in on Lucita. He would wake from these encounters angry and fighting back.

No one but Lee himself, the cat, and the dark incubus knew the inner battles of Lee’s sleepless nights, his dreams sometimes so conflicting that he began to think of himself as two people: his own natural self with the code he had known all his life, and the stranger whose hunger and viciousness didn’t really belong to him. He didn’t see Lucita much during the day. When he did, he knew she wouldn’t play his game. But his hunger for her could still turn fierce, wanting her for himself—and too often the devil would reappear, urging Lee on to pursue her.

Last night the cat had waked him from such an encounter, had spoken so angrily that Lee had had to listen. Crouched on the foot of the bed, Misto had awakened Lee hissing and growling, kneading his claws so hard in the blanket, catching Lee’s foot with a claw, that Lee rose up out of sleep staring at him, startled.

Why do you listen to him?the cat hissed. You have grown oldernow, Lee, and you are wiser. But in your resolve, and in your body, you are weaker, while the devil is still strong. He will always be strong. Now, in your declining age, do you plan to let him beat you? Is Satan strong enough, now, to beat you?

Now, leaving the table, still hearing the cat’s words and angry at his own weakness, Lee returned to the kitchen, rinsed his dish and cup and set them to drain, then he headed out toward the bunkhouses.

Beyond the softball game two young Mexicans were tinkering with the engine of a cut-down Ford, the car’s radio blaring its hot music. Near them Tony Valdez, stripped to the waist, was sloshing a last bucket of water over his two-door white Chevy coupe. The car was maybe fifteen years old, but looked in good shape. Lee went on over. “Nice car, Tony.”

Tony grinned.“Haven’t had it long.” He picked up a rag and began to wipe down the roof and hood.

Lee ducked to look inside. A Saint Christopher medal dangled from the rearview mirror, but the interior was clean and uncluttered.“Don’t suppose I could talk you into driving me into town?”

Tony gave the hood a final swipe.“Sure can.” He wiped the rest of the car quickly and efficiently, then turned away from Lee, wringing out the rag. “I’m leaving, pronto. Five minutes.” He grinned at Lee again. “She doesn’t like me to be late.” Turning, he headed for his bunkhouse.

Waiting for him, Lee stood watching two men playing with a thin, mangy black dog, shaking a stick for it to grab. The radios were still dueling, metallic music against what sounded like a Spanish church service. When Tony emerged from his bunkhouse he was as clean and polished as his white car, a fresh white shirt with cuffs turned up once, open at his chest to show the silver cross against his brown skin, a pair of freshly creased blue slacks that made Lee guess the men must have an ironing board in the bunkhouse. Tony walked gingerly through the dust, trying to save the polish on his black boots. Easing into the clean Chevy he held out each foot and wiped off the dust with a rag.

Getting into the clean car, Lee held out his boots and brushed them with his hand, hiding a smile.“You better be careful, Tony. She’ll have you before the altar.”

“That’s okay by me. Maybe Delgado would give us one of the cabins, that would sure beat living in the bunkhouse.” He backed the Chevy around real slow so not to raise any dust, pulled out of the yard heading for the road into Blythe. Not until they were on the harder dirt road did he give it the gas, the car coming to life like a spurred bronco. They were rolling through the crossroads burg called Ripley when Lee spotted a FOR SALE sign on a rusty truck parked beside the gas station. “I’ll get out here,” he said quietly. “Something I need to do—catch a ride later.”

Tony pulled over, glancing at Lee with curiosity.“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Lee said, swinging out. Tony sat a moment looking around the bare little crossroads, then put the car in gear. “See you tomorrow, then,” he said, easing away, looking at the gas station and the old truck with interest. When his car had disappeared, Lee walked back up the dustyroad to the filling station.

He circled the old pickup. There was a rusted hole in its bed, covered by a piece of plywood. The tires had little tread left. Years of use had worn the ridges on the running boards smooth and concave. Lee opened the driver’s door, studied the worn pedals and cracked leather seat. A few rusted tools, a hammer, a length of cotton rope, and a trenching tool were stuffed into the narrow space behind the seat. He got in, stepped on the clutch, moved the shift through the gears. They seemed all right. He stepped out, walked around the truck again. It had a spare tire, and it had a trailer hitch but no ball. As he turned toward the office a fat man in bib overalls came out through the screened door. “Like to hear it run?”

Lee nodded, and opened the hood. The man slid in, easing his belly under the steering wheel. He cranked the truck without any trouble. The straight six-cylinder engine idled smoothly, with a soft clatter. Lee reached in under the hood close to the carburetor and pushed the throttle forward. The racing engine sounded smooth, and when he released the rod it dropped back to a soft clattering idle. The man killed the engine and stepped out.

“It’s been a good old truck for me. I was just able to buy a newer model.”

“Are there any tools, in case of a flat?”

Grunting, the fat man lifted the seat cushion to show Lee a tire iron, a heavy lug wrench, and a screw jack.

“How much?”

He dropped the seat, stuck his thumbs under the straps of his overalls.“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I’ll give you two hundred cash.”

“Two and a quarter and it’s yours.”

Lee pulled the money from his back pocket, counted it out. The owner reached into his bib pocket for the pink slip, signed the back of it, and handed it over.“Fill out the rest and mail it to Sacramento, you’ll get a new one in your name.”

Lee dropped the pink slip in his shirt pocket.“Know anyone who has a horse trailer for sale?”

“Not personally. I did see an ad in this morning’s paper. Let me get it.” He turned, heading for the office. Lee stepped into the truck, eased it around close to the screened door. The fat man returned, handed the folded paper through the truck window. “Keep the paper, I’ve read it. RiverRoad Ranch is about five miles south out of Blythe, next road to your right, you’ll see the sign.”

Lee found River Road with no trouble. About a quarter mile down, through dry desert, he turned up a long drive to an adobe ranch house. It was low and sprawling, but not too large. Pole construction supported the wide overhang of the roof, sheltering the long porch against the desert sun. A man sat on a rocker in its deep shade, his boot heels propped on a wooden box. Lee parked, watched him come down the steps: a thin man with sparse hair, his Levi’s and boots well worn. His walk was that of a horseman, a little stiff, a little bowlegged. From the truck, Lee said, “I saw your ad on the trailer.”

“Kendall, Rod Kendall. I still have it, pull around the side of the barn,” he said, stepping onto the running board.

“John Demons,” Lee said, not wanting his name remembered. Easing the truck around to the back of the barn, he pulled up beside a narrow, one-horse trailer, a homemade job of wood and angle iron with a sheet-metal roof. The tires looked good, though, and it had a ball hitch hanging from the tongue. “How much?”

“It’s yours for seventy-five dollars.”

Lee was going to dicker, but then he saw several horses move into view from behind some tamarisk trees in the fenced pasture.“You wouldn’t have a horse to put in it? Nothing special, just a good saddle horse.”

The man grinned.“You ever know a rancher that doesn’t have a horse or two to sell? Could let you have either one of those mares. The black’s seven, the buckskin about nine.”

This meant to Lee they were both fifteen or better. He was about to dicker for the black mare when a gray gelding followed the mares, ducking his head, edging them aside from the water trough. He moved well, and looked in good shape, a dark, steel gray.“What about the gelding?”

Kendall paused a moment, looking Lee over. As if maybe he cared more about the gelding, didn’t want him used badly; but he must have decided Lee looked like an honest horseman. Leaving the truck he stepped to the barn door, shouted into the dim alleyway. “Harry! Harry, bring the gray in, will you?”

Lee watched a young boy, maybe twelve or so, halter the gelding, lead him across the field and out through the gate. No lameness, no quirks to his walk. Stepping out of the truck, Lee rubbed the gray’s ears, slid his hand down his legs and lifted his feet. He seemed sound, and he was shod, his feet and shoes in good shape. Opening the gray’s mouth, he looked at his teeth. The gelding was about twelve. Well, that was all right, they wouldn’t be together for long.

He dickered for a saddle and saddlebags, a bridle with a heavy spade bit, a halter, four bales of hay, and a sack of oats. He got that, the horse and trailer for two hundred dollars. He pulled out of Kendall’s ranch with a balance of two hundred and forty dollars left in his pocket, and he hadn’t touched his savings account, which would alert Raygor.

Conscious of the weight of the trailer on the old truck, he took his time driving back into Blythe. The gray pulled well, he didn’t fuss. In Blythe there wasn’t much traffic. Lee moved along in second gear until he recognized the side street he wanted. He parked along the curb near the post office.

The main section of the post office was closed on Sunday, but the lobby that housed the P.O. boxes was open. He filled out the title transfer section on the truck’s pink slip, using the name James Dawson and the Furnace Creek Road address. Lee would never receive the pink slip, but it wasn’t likely he’d need it. As he sealed the envelope he looked with some interest at the wanted posters hanging above the narrow counter. The newness of one caught his eye, and the word “Blythe.”

“Luke Zigler. Age 33. Five feet, ten inches, 190 pounds. Swarthy complexion, muscular build. Under life sentence for armed robbery and murder. Escaped Terminal Island Federal Penitentiary, March 20, 1947. Zigler’s hometown: Twentynine Palms, California. May attempt to contact friends there. Subject should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Persons having any information are requested to contact the nearest office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or local law enforcement.”

Blythe wasn’t far from Twentynine Palms or from Palm Springs, the man could be anywhere in the area. Zigler’s eyes, vacant under bushy brows, stared coldly at Lee from the grainy black-and-white photograph. Lee had seen enough of his kind, in prison and out. But still, that look disturbed him. Haunted, half-crazy bastards, stick you in a minute for no reason.

He gave the poster a last look, dropped his envelope in the mail slot, and left the lobby. But all the way back to the ranch, among other thoughts he kept getting flashes of Zigler’s ugly face, and flashes of those he had known who were like Zigler, men he wouldn’t want to meet again. Driving and preoccupied, he was unaware of the ghost cat riding with him and that the yellow tom was as unsettled by Zigler as Lee had been, that the cat might be even more riveted than Leeby the evil in Zigler’s cold stare.

Lee drove onto the Delgado land by a narrow back road, keeping the tamarisk trees between him and the ranch yard, moving slowly to keep the dust down, turning at last onto a narrow trail he’d spotted days before, a track barely wide enough for the truck and trailer. The times he’d walked down here, he’d found no tire marks in the fine dust and no hoof prints as if Jake and Lucita might have ridden down this way. Usually they headed north, up between the planted fields. This trail led to the river, where mosquitoes could be bothersome.

Pulling in deep among the willows and tamarisk trees, he knew the truck and trailer were out of sight, tree limbs brushing the top of both, the strip of woods dim and sheltered until, farther in along the narrow track, he broke out into an open area of hard-packed earth some twenty feet across, the woods dense around it. He killed the engine and got out.

An overgrown footpath led down to the broad, turgid water of the Colorado. A circle of dead ashes shone dark in the clearing, tall weeds growing through the campfire of some forgotten hobo or migrant worker. Dropping the tailgate, he squeezed through to the gray’s head, and backed him out.

He tied the gelding to the side of the trailer, brushed off his back, and settled the faded saddle blanket in place. The gray swiveled an ear when he swung the saddle up, and filled his belly with air. Lee bridled him, led him out a few steps then tightened the cinch again. The gray looked around at him knowingly. Swinging into the saddle, Lee walked him around the clearing then moved him out toward the river at a jog. He cantered him, stopped him short, backed him, spun him a couple of times, let him jog out slow, and he felt himself grinning. He rode for maybe half an hour up along the river. It had been a long time since he’d felt a good horse under him. “You’ll do,” he told the gray. “I guess we both will.”

In the falling evening, as he unsaddled the gray and rubbed him down, his thoughts turned sharply back to the South Dakota prairie when he and Mae were kids, to the long summer days when, hurrying through his chores, they still had daylight to slip away while Ma and the girls were getting supper and his dad was maybe in town or busy with the cattle in a far field. He could see Mae’s smile so clearly, her dark eyes, her dimples deep as she stepped up onto her small cowhorse.

Why had he dreamed of Mae last night? And why had that other little girl, in town that day, stared up at him shocked, bringing Mae so alive for a moment? Why was his little sister, from half a century gone, suddenly so clear and real in his thoughts? Riding up along the river, he’d felt for a moment almost as if she rode behind him, her small arms around his waist, her head resting against his back as she used to do; the feeling had been so strong that near dark when he returned to the clearing he felt he ought to help Mae down off the gray before he stepped down, himself.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he tied the gelding to the trailer again, and then secured two five-gallon buckets to the side, one filled with water from the river, the other with a quart of oats. He heaved the hay from the pickup into the trailer, broke open one bale, pulled off two flakes of good oat hay, and dropped them on the ground where the gelding could reach them. He shut the tailgate so the gelding couldn’t get in at the rest. Leaving the quiet saddle horse with the truck and trailer, leaving him to sleep standing, he set out through the falling night on the two-mile hike back to his cabin, keeping his mind, now, on the job ahead.

28

Half an hour after Morgan was booked into the Rome jail, Jimson returned, moving in through the heavy outer door, looking in through the bars at Morgan.“Becky’s on her way. I couldn’t get her at home, she was at Caroline’s.” Morgan was surprised Jimson had bothered to call her. But he knew that wasn’t fair, Jimson was only doing his job, and when Morgan looked up at him now, some of the old warmth had returned.

“She’s been out all night looking for you,” Jimson said, “looking for your car. She started to cry when she knew you were all right, that you weren’t lying dead somewhere.” The officer paused, a frown touching his round, smooth face. “She said to tell you she wasn’t bringing Sammie,said Sammie has a cold, she’s left her with Caroline.” The officer colored a little. “She said to tell you she loves you.” Quickly he turned away again, locking the outer door behind him.

Morgan stared after him. Of course she wouldn’t bring Sammie, not here to see him locked behind bars just as in her nightmare. What had Becky told Sammie when he hadn’t come all night, when Sammie didn’t hear him get up and shower this morning, when he didn’t appear at the breakfast table?

What would she tell Sammie if he didn’t come home at all, if this couldn’t be straightened out, if he was kept in jail and was arraigned and even tried, a prisoner escorted back and forth to the courtroom? Thinking about what might lie ahead of him turned him shaky, cold and despondent again. How could he be charged with murder? He had killed no one. Not even if he’d been drugged would he kill a man—except in the war, he thought, bitterly.

There was only one explanation for his long lapse of memory, his long and debilitating sleep, and that was that Falon had given him some drug. Easy enough for Falon to get drugs, maybe some kind of prescription that was passed around among Falon’s sleazy friends. Opium, maybe, that was easy enough to get, it was prescribed for colds and the flu. Dover’s Powder, he thought it was called, something like that. He supposed, unless they found the Coke bottle, there was no way to tell. He doubted the Rome cops would go looking for Coke bottles, as surly as they’d been. And even then, could a chemist or pharmacist find such a thing?

Sitting on the sagging bunk, he put his face in his hands, sick and cold with fear. No matter what Becky told Sammie about why he wasn’t home, at some point Sammie would have to learn the truth, and what would that do to her? They’d tried never to lie to Sammie, even when she was very small; only those few times that, because she was so young, the truth would have been inexplicable to her. Now, this morning,would Becky lie, so that Sammie wouldn’t know so soon that her worst nightmare had come true? He couldn’t bear to think of his little girl’s terror. Or of Becky’s own pain, when she heard the inexplicable charge of murder. What could he have done last night—what could Falon have done—to make this happen, to hurt the two people in the world whom Morgan loved more than life itself?

He and Becky had been sweethearts since before high school, they had married the week after they graduated, just a small wedding in her mother’s garden. He lay thinking about their honeymoon at Carter Lake, how happy they had been, how perfect life had been then. They had stayed in a cabin borrowed from a friend of Becky’s mother’s, had spent most of that week in bed, a little of it walking the woods or in leisurely twilight swims.They didn’t give a damn that they had little money and would have to live with Becky’s mother at first, in the bedroom behind the bakery kitchen. He liked Caroline, had always liked her, though they had had their moments when, in high school, he still wouldn’t stop running with Falon. That week on Carter Lake they would lie in bed spent from loving each other, planning how soon they could buy their own business and maybe even buy a house, planning how many children they would have, planning the beginning of their real lives as if they had only just been born.

The next week after their honeymoon he went to work as a mechanic at one of the three local gas stations, and Becky found a job with an accountant. When she’d learned enough, she left to start her own freelance accounts, to build her own new business. She had the same drive and stamina that had helped her mother succeed alone in the bakery business after Becky’s father died.

Becky had taken only a little time out to have Sammie, balancing her customers’ books while caring for the baby. When war was declared, he’d joined the navy rather than being drafted. During his absence, their need for each other, their passion had built intolerably. All the time he’d been gone his dreams had been only of Becky and of their baby girl, of the business they would build together and the large family they planned, of a rich, long life together.

When he got home, they had saved enough for a nice down payment on the old abandoned gas station. His mother would have scraped to send him to college but he’d never wanted that, he had no use for that kind of learning. He loved machines, he loved cars and trucks, anything mechanical, and he had gotten further education for that, for the learning he really wanted, in the navy.

All the time he was gone, Becky sent him pictures of Sammie. She had his pale Irish coloring, but Becky’s dark eyes and turned-up nose, she was the spirit of their spirits, she was proof of the eternity of their union, her existence filled him with an even deeper love of being alive in God’s world. At six years old Sammie had handled her bicycle like a pro, she knew how to make her own bed and how to mix and cut out cookies for her mother—but the minute he got home she became Daddy’s helper, his gamin-faced grease monkey.

Becky had already taught her the names and uses of most of his automotive tools and where they belonged in the pocketed black cloth wrapper where he kept them, and Sammie soon loved working on cars. And why not? A little training in mechanics wouldn’t hurt; when she grew older, she could do anything she wanted with her life. Becky kept her dressed in jeans and hoped, just as Morgan did, that the child would develop some other loves besides pretty clothes. Becky said frills would come soon enough without encouragement. Sammie made her motherlaugh aloud when Morgan brought her home at night dirty faced, grease-stained clothes, dog tired, and so deeply happy with having helped her daddy.

Now, this morning, Sammie would be asking for him, she would want to know why he had left so early, even before he’d had breakfast. Maybe Becky would tell her he’d gotten home late and left early to work on a special car for one of his longtime customers. But Sammie was only a little girl. When she did at last learn the truth, how would she cope with this? How could she ever sleep again, knowing that any nightmare, any terrible dream, would be sure to come true?

He had turned away from the bars, was smearing tears away with the back of his hand, when the barred door clanged open behind him. Morgan turned, ashamed of crying, looking up at Jimson. The officer motioned Morgan out, walking behind him.“Becky’s in the visiting room.”

“She’s alone?” Morgan asked.

“She’s alone,” Jimson said. Sergeant Trevis met them halfway down the hall and the tall, lean officer gestured Morgan toward the little visiting room, standing behind him as he entered.

Becky stood on the far side of the table that occupied the center of the room, her knuckles white where she gripped its edge, her face drawn and pale. The room was hot and stuffy, the one small, barred window behind her was open but admitted only hot, humid air laced with gas fumes from the street, the traffic noise loud and distracting. Morgan approached the table, stopping at Trevis’s direction. He and Becky stood looking across at each other, separated as if they were strangers.

“Did they tellyou what happened?” Morgan said. “Do you know what the charges are about?”

Behind him, Trevis stepped on in and closed the door. When Morgan turned to look at him, Trevis looked politely away. Morgan wished they could be alone. He knew Trevis would record in memory their every stilted word. James Trevis, thin and rangy, had played basketball in high school two years ahead of Morgan, then had served a hitch in the marines, had returned home to continue with the law enforcement he had learned as a military policeman. Morgan glanced at him again, and moved on around the table. Trevis looked away, and didn’t stop him. Morgan put his arms around Becky, they stood for a long time in silence, desperately holding each other.

When Becky spoke at last, her voice was muffled against him.“They told me nothing. Sergeant Trevis only told me the charges.” She took a step back, her hands on his shoulders, looking up at him. He reached to gently touch the smudges under her eyes. The look in her dark eyes told him she knew more about what had happened than she wanted to say, that shedidn’t want to talk in front of Trevis. If a manhad been killed last night, no matter what the circumstances, by now it would be all over town.

She said,“I called Mama’s attorney. I know he’s an estate attorney, that he doesn’t do this kind of work, but he gave me a couple of names. I’ve made appointments with both.

“And they did tell me,” she said, “that you were drunk. When Sergeant Trevis told me that,” she said, glancing up, “I asked Dr. Bates if he would come and talk with you.I know you weren’t drinking, I thought maybe some kind of drug. Has he been here yet?”

Morgan shook his head. As for an attorney, Morgan had never had need of one, and there were only a few lawyers in their small town, two with reputations that he and Becky didn’t like. He couldn’t think who would handle charges like this, someone they could trust. Becky’s dark eyes hadn’t left him, she looked at him a long time then pressed against him again, holding him tight. “Someone has to tell you what happened,” she said. “It isn’t fair for you not to know.”

Trevis moved to the table beside them.“As soon as you’re questioned, Morgan, we’ll lay it out for you.”

Morgan nodded. That made sense, so he couldn’t make up some story to fit whatever had occurred. Trevis moved again, as if to separate them, but then he let them be.

“It’s some kind of mix-up,” Becky said. “We’ll find out the truth.” She looked up at Trevis. “The police will find out, they’re our friends, Morgan, they’ll find out, they’ll make it all right again.”

Morgan wished he could believe that.“You went looking for me last night, you borrowed a car, you and Sammie …”

“When you didn’t come home, I went to the shop, before I took Sammie to Mama’s, she wasn’t feeling well. The shop was locked up tight, the new mechanic was gone. I didn’t know where he lived, and the operator had no phone number for an Albert Weiss.”

She held Morgan away, letting her anger center on the mechanic.“Yesterday when you left, when you weren’t back by closing time, did he just go on working? Didn’t he wonder where you were, didn’t he worry when you weren’t back to close out the cash register and lock up? Why didn’t he call the house? At five o’clock he just locked up and went home?How ironic. You hired Albert because he was calm and didn’t get ruffled, because he didn’t fuss about things. He was calm, all right,” she said bitterly. “He didn’t wonder—because he didn’t care.”

Morgan could say nothing. She was right. That was Albert’s way, he was a silent man, not the least interested in others’ business, focused solely on the cars he repaired.

“Where did he think you’d gone! And then this morning he just—he just opened the shop and got to work?” she said incredulously. “He might be a good mechanic, but his brain stops there. He could have come over to the house last night to see if you were all right, see if you’d come home.” Her voice broke, she took a minute to get control. “You could have died out there last night, died in the car, all alone.”

“You just kept driving,” he said, “driving around looking for me?”

“I drove all over Rome and then out around the farms, over on the Berry campus. At last I called the station, talked with Officer Regan. He told me the patrols would keep an eye out, he said he was sure you’d turn up, that it was too soon to file a missing report. I drove down every back road, some of them twice, but I didn’t see the car. Later, when Jimson found you, he said it was parked way back among the trees, that it was easy to miss.” The muscles in her jaw were clenched. “Parked out near lovers’ hollow,” she said, and it didn’t occur to him until that moment that she might have thought, last night, that he was with another woman.

But Becky knew there wasn’t anyone else, there was no woman in the world he’d look at except her. Holding her close to him, needing her steadiness, he tried to tell her what he could remember, tried to bring the fractured scenes from yesterday clearer, tried to make sense of them. Trevis stood intently listening. Morgan knew he would write it all down the moment Becky left, that Morgan’s words would be compared with the formal questioning that he would soon face. The police had to know, early last night, about the robbery and murder, but of course it would be policy not to mention it to Becky. Morgan had no idea whether they thought, at that point, the two events might be connected. Both cases were police business, and the officers kept conjecture to themselves.

Morgan told Becky how Falon had wanted him to look at his car, that he hadn’t wanted to go, told her what Falon had said about her mother’s property out on the Dixie Highway. Slowly, talking it out, he was able to put those moments together more clearly—until the moment when everything went hazy and the afternoon fell apart into a wavering and senseless haze.

“When Falon spilled his Coke, I wiped up the spill and then pulled into Robert’s gas station to get some wet paper towels. I came out, finished my Coke while I was cleaning the seat. I remember the Coke tasted kind of funny, but I didn’t pay much attention. When I had the seat pretty clean, and dried off, we headed for the Graystone Apartments, I remember that. I’d driven a couple of blocks when the street started to look fuzzy, the cars and buildings blurred, the distances all warped. I remember pulling over, dizzy and sick. After that, nothing’s very clear. Everything looked strange, twisted and unreal.”

“You drank all your Coke?”

He nodded.“Falon handed it to me, I drank what was left in the bottle, tucked the bottle in the side pocket so it wouldn’t drip on the floor. I drove until things began to reel, then I pulled over.”

Becky looked up at Sergeant Trevis.“Have you picked up Brad Falon?”

Trevis’s face went closed, his look ungiving. “We questioned him.” Trevis searched Morgan’s face, and turned to glance at the door. “I shouldn’t tell you this much, until after you’re interviewed.”

Morgan waited. He didn’t see what difference it could make, as long ashe told the truth.

“Falon said he was with his girlfriend from one-thirty yesterday afternoon until this morning.” Trevis looked more kindly, with perhaps a touch of regret. “We talked with her, she swore Falon was there in her apartment. At this point,” he said, “we haven’t enough to bring him in.”

“What girlfriend?” Becky said.

“That’s all I can say,” Trevis said.

Neither Becky nor Morgan had heard anything about what women Falon might be seeing; they’d had no reason to know or to care. But now, from the look in Becky’s eyes, Morgan knew she meant to find out. He wanted to say,Be careful.But she would do that, he let only his look warn her:Take care, Falon can be vicious. He said,“What did you tell Sammie?”

“That you worked late, got home late, had to get up real early to fix a special car.”

He smiled.“Did she believe you?”

“She might not have, except she was so disoriented herself. She has a cold or the flu, something … Dr. Bates came out, to Mother’s. He said the usual, keep Sammie warm, lots of liquids and rest, half an aspirin every four hours. She doesn’t have a fever, and she isn’t coughing, she’s just very dull, so sleepy she can hardly stay awake.”

“How long?” Morgan said. “How long has she been like that?”

“From around noon yesterday,” Becky said. “So sleepy she couldn’t stay awake. If I woke her, she’d just drift off again, she just wanted to lie there on the couch and sleep, she slept most of the afternoon.” Her description struck a chill of fear through Morgan.

“Once when I woke her, she said she felt dizzy, that every time she went to sleep she dropped down, deep down into darkness. So dark, she said, falling down into darkness.”

Morgan went ice-cold.“That … That’s how I felt, when I woke in the car. As if I were trapped deep down in some heavy darkness. Even in the patrol car, and here in the cell, moments when I could hardly keep awake, so dull, wiped out.”

They looked at each other, frightened. Filled with Sammie’s perceptions, with her sure and specific cognition. As if Sammie had experienced exactly what Morgan had felt, Morgan’s confusion and dullness, her daddy’s helpless lethargy. Becky shivered and clung to him, a coldness reaching deep inside her like an icy hand.

She said at last,“I called Dr. Bates again, though still Sammie had no fever, no pain. He wanted to put her in the hospital, but I didn’t want that. I wanted her with Mother, I knew she’d take her to the hospital if she needed to. Once she was settled at Mother’s and sound asleep, I went looking for you. I feel sick that I must have passed our car twice and never seen it. The last time, it was just getting light, I must have just missed the police.

“But then,” she said, “the strangest thing. When I got back to Mama’s, Sammie was awake, sitting up and more alert. Mama said she woke cranky, that Sammie complained that her head hurt. Mama gave her another aspirin and called the doctor again. She was ready to take her to the hospital whenSammie came awake, sat up, and looked around her, surprised she was at Mother’s.

“Mama got her to drink some juice and eat a little hot cereal.” Becky looked at him, frowning. “That was … That was when Jimson found you. Early this morning, just after sunup? That was when Sammie woke.”

“The sun was in my eyes,” Morgan said. “I thought it was sunset, but then figured out the sun was coming up, that I must have slept all night in the car, I was trying to figure that out when Jimson jerked the door open and dragged me out.”

Becky glanced at Sergeant Trevis. She didn’t like talking about Sammie in front of him, she had no notion what he would make of the conversation. Trevis let them stay close together, let them talk. He was more eager to listen, apparently, than to take Morgan back and separate them.

“By the time I got home to Mama’s and sat down to eat some breakfast, Sammie was brighter, she came to the table and shared some scrambled eggs and toast with me. When the station called to tell me you were here, that you were in jail, it was all I could do not to panic. I asked if you were allright, I didn’t want to say much in front of Sammie, but the minute I got my purse, ready to leave, she had pulled on her sweater and meant to go with me, she was so tense, fidgeting with impatience to be with you, so out of control, so determined and stubborn I had a hard time making her stay behind with Mama. She said she had to talk to you, she had to tell you what she’d dreamed while she was sick. You remember that old man she talked about when she was playing with the airplane she made? The man she called the cowboy.”

“Yes, she’s talked to me about him.”

“She said she had to tell you about him. Somehow, in her mind that dream was connected to your being here. As little as I said, she figured out where you were, she figured out that the prison dream had come true.” Becky looked at Morgan helplessly. “She said this dream of the cowboy was part of what was happening to you, said she had to tell you.” She looked uncomfortably at Sergeant Trevis then turned away, muffling her face against Morgan’s shoulder.

“When I left, she clung to me,” Becky said, “she tried to come with me, she wept and wept, and all I could do was hold her.” Becky was weeping, too. He held her as she had held their child, seeking to heal her, wondering if anything could ever heal her, or heal Sammie, if any power could heal the three of them.

Morgan was hardly aware when Trevis turned and nodded to him, letting him know he must go back to his cell. Becky stepped back, freeing Morgan, wiping at tears again.“Do you have our car keys?” But then she realized the booking officer would have taken everything from Morgan, everything in his pockets.

Trevis said,“We have them, we’ve impounded the car for evidence.”

“Oh. Of course.” She looked at Morgan. “I still have the Parkers’ car. If it’s very long, I’ll use Mama’s old Plymouth. I need to see the attorneys. I want to see Mama’s attorney, too, before I see the others, I want advice from someone we trust.”

“I didn’t rob any bank, Becky. You know I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I know that. But even if the police want to believe you, they have to do it their way.” She looked at Trevis. “I know you’ll find out what happened. Did you find the Coke bottles?”

“No Coke bottles in the car,” Trevis said. “McAffee’s out searching the woods.”

Morgan felt stupidly grateful that they would take the trouble. He’d felt so betrayed by the police, abandoned by the men who were supposed to be his friends. He knew that was foolish, that they had a job to do, but now those few kind words, knowing they were trying to help, lifted his spirits some. He prayed they’d find the bottles, both of them. Only one bottle would have a trace of drugs, if that was what had happened. He knew no other way to explain the yawning cavern of emptiness he’d experienced, that had left his whole being hollow.

“If you find the bottles,” Becky said, “you’ll fingerprint them?”

Trevis nodded, looking put out that she would ask such a dumb question. He cleared his throat, turned, and opened the closed door. Becky hugged Morgan once more, kissed him and then turned away. As Trevis ushered Morgan back to his cell, she was met in the hall by another officer and escorted on out to the front. Morgan glanced back at her once, then was through the door of the lockup, through his barred cell door and locked in again. He lay down on the bunk, sick and grieving. He’d gotten himself into a mess, out of pure stupidity, had brought their lives shattering down around them. Had left Becky to fight, alone, a battle that terrified and perplexed him.

And Becky, outside the courthouse getting in the borrowed car, left the Rome jail wondering how she could keep Sammie from coming with her on her next visit. The child was so stubbornly determined. What would it do to their little girl to see her daddy in jail, after the terror of her nightmare? Yet she knew she couldn’t keep Sammie away, not when she burned with such an urgent need to see Morgan, with what seemed, to Becky, might in fact be a critical part of the wall that fate had built around them.

29

On Lee’s last night at Delgado Ranch he didn’t stay in his cabin, he slept under the stars beneath the willows, near to the gray, his head on the saddle, the saddle blanket over him. He dreamed not of the robbery as he usually would, sorting out, in sleep, the last details; he dreamed of Lucita. He’d had dinner with her and Jake, a painful evening, only Lee knowing this was the last time they’d ever be together, the last time he’d be even this close to Lucita.

She had made chiles rellenos for dinner, she knew they were his favorite, and that, too, bothered him. Almost as if she knew he would be gone in the morning, though of course she couldn’t know. Sitting at the table in their cozy dining room, feeling guilty in his longing for her, and feeling ashamed that he was running out on Jake after Jake had gone to the trouble to get him the job, he told himself that at least he hadn’t turned on Jake—though even now, at this late hour,he felt a pang of greed for the fat Delgado payroll. All evening his conflicting emotions kept him on edge, his remorse, his painful, bittersweet farewell that only Lee himself was aware of—only Lee, and the big yellow tomcat.

The cat had made himself clearly visible tonight, had strolled in through the kitchen door before even Lee arrived. He lay stretched out now in the living room on the big leather couch, looking through to the dining room watching their last, sad gathering. He felt nearly as heavy with angst as Lee, at leaving the Ellsons’. He had come to like and respect Jake, and each day he was drawn more and more to gentle and beautiful Lucita, Lucita who baby-talked him and who stroked his neck and under his chin just the way he liked. As many lives as Misto had known over the centuries, and as many painful partings, tonighthe seemed filled with the deepest pain of all, at leaving this gentle lady.

But leave her Misto did, looking regretfully back, following Lee not long after dinner. The last cup of coffee was finished, the bowls of flan had been scraped clean. Lee thanked Lucita for dinner, a casual hug, a casual good-night and he was through the door, down the steps, and out into the night before he might fumble something that should be left unsaid, before he tangled himself in his own emotions, his own embarrassed dismay at leaving them.

Returning to his cabin he finished packing his saddlebags, made sure he had the roll of heavy tape handy in his pocket where he could reach it. He turned off his cabin lights as if he’d gone to bed, lay in the dark for nearly an hour, occasionally stepping to the window to look across at the bunkhouses and at the ranch house, watching until all the windows were dark. Still he didn’t leave the cabin until Jake and Lucita’s lights had been out for some time.

Carrying his saddlebags, silently he shut the door behind him and moved down the steps. Even the chickens slept, none woke to fuss at him as he crossed the ranch yard. Beneath the pale wash of stars he walked the two miles to the clearing and settled in for his last night at Delgado ranch, smiling as the gray nickered to him and then pawed at his hay, snorting softly.

Since he’d brought the gray here to the clearing, he had checked on him every day, had fed and watered him morning and night and brushed him down, all in the dark before breakfast or long after supper, walking across the black desert and among the willows and tamarisks that skirted the south field. He was surprised that Jake or one of the pickers hadn’t come down this way, hadn’t seen the truck and trailer here by the river and come to investigate. He was sure that hadn’t happened, or Jake would have said something. And in the evenings when Jake and Lucita rode, they headed north away from the river, avoiding the seclusion where hobos or migrants sometimes liked to camp. Lee had been wary about strangers, but there was no sign anyone had been around disturbing his hidden retreat.

Now, bedded down beneath the cool night sky he lay thinking about Lucita, her brief glances at him sometimes, a quick look that had held a suppressed longing that both knew wouldn’t go any further. Once when she was feeding her chickens and had knelt to examine a layer’s hurt leg, cuddling the fluffy red hen close to calm her as she fingered the small wound, she had looked up at him, the spark clearly there for a moment; but then abruptly she put the hen down, rose, andturned away.

It had been a stupid dream to think she’d ever leave Jake for him. And now, the minute the robbery was known and Lee had vanished, though Jake might understand his drive and his need, Lee would have lost Lucita’s respect forever, would have lost her as a friend as well as the lover she would never have been.

Twice during the previous week he had had supper with them, not a fancy meal like tonight, but more casual, tacos and beer one night, the other evening a bowl of green chili. Both times he had excused himself early, soon turned his cabin light off and waited for a while, then headed for the clearing, to quietly ride the gelding through the willows along the river, taking peace in the silent dark and in the companionship of the gray.

Lee’s parole officer had shown up this morning, and that had put him off, had left him edgy. But it was good luck, too. This monthly visit meant Raygor wouldn’t be around again for a while, it meant that he might not know, for some time, that Lee was gone. Jake would be obligated to tell him, to call the San Bernardino office, but Lee didn’t think he would. He thought, when Raygor contacted Jake, he’d make up some excuse. Jake would know, by then, that Lee was on the run, and would buy him what time he could. Rolling over, looking up at the stars one last time, Lee felt the cat slip in under the blanket beside him and immediately he felt easier, stroking the tomcat, smiling at his rocking purr. Maybe Lee thought, his PO wouldn’t approve of what he was about to undertake, but the ghost cat, purring and snuggling close, seemed fine with the plan.

The gelding woke Lee, pawing for breakfast. Lee gave him a quart of oats but they wouldn’t have time to fool around with hay, it was starting to get light. He stood in the coolness of the new day stretching, scratching, then walked to the river to relieve himself. He packed the truck, tucked a flake of hay into the manger of the trailer, led the gray in and tied him, and closed and fastened the tailgate.

He opened the cylinder of the heavy revolver, checked that it was fuly loaded. He had slept with it under the saddle blanket that was his pillow. Closing the cylinder, he slid the gun into its worn holster and laid it on the truck seat. He opened a can of beans from his pack, ate that with a plastic spoon wishing he had something hot, thinking about sausage and pancakes from the mess hall. He could smell the good, warm scents of breakfast drifting down to him, where the men would be crowding in, swilling coffee and filling their bellies.

Stashing the empty can in a paper bag in the truck cab, he made one last walk around the clearing. He picked up the fold of baling wire from the bale of hay, and scuffed away the chaff where the gelding had been feeding. Returning to the truck, he dropped the wire in the paper bag, stuffed the gloves he had bought into his back pocket, and slid behind the wheel.

He cranked the engine, listened to its soft clatter, and moved on out through the hanging branches onto the dirt track. Easing along, he had one more moment of unease over what he had begun. Was this the smart thing to do? Well, hell, he didn’t know about smart, but he was on his way, he’d started something that had felt right at the time, and he meant to finish it. In the slowly lightening morning he pushed the intruding shadows out of his mind; driving along the narrow dirt path, at the main road to Blythe he shifted from low to second, felt the trailer balk and then come on as he turned north.

Once he had gained the outskirts of Blythe he pulled into a truck stop, filled the pickup with gas, checked the oil and filled the ten-gallon barrel with water. In the little twenty-four-hour caf? he ordered two ham-and-cheese sandwiches to go. At the cash register there was a cardboard display of pocket watches, shoved in under the glass counter between boxes of candy and gum. He bought a watch, set it by the restaurant clock, wound it and tucked it into the watch pocket of his jeans. He’d have a long wait, he didn’t want to hit the post office too early, but he needed to be back at the remote airstrip no later than seven. He had all day to wait, but then at the last he’d have to hustle. It was a long pull from the post office up where he’d be headed. He hoped to hell he didn’t have a flat, on either the truck or the trailer. All these tires had seen better days. He’d have to unload the gray to change a tire, and that would slow him down more than he liked.

He traveled north out of Blythe on the same road he and Ellson had taken. The old truck rolled right along, though he didn’t push it, he let it go over thirty only on the gentle downgrades. He rode with both windows cranked down and the wind wings open. It was still cool but it wouldn’t be for long. Twice he slowed the truck thinking of turning back and chucking the whole plan. Then, angry at himself, he pushed onagain faster. It wasn’t like him to have second thoughts so late in the game, that made him impatient with himself; and when he remembered suddenly that he’d forgotten to fill the radiator, that turned him hot with anger.

Well, hell, he guessed the gray wouldn’t begrudge a quart or two from his water barrel. Lee told himself to settle down, he tried to bring back the old steady calm with which he always worked. His plan was to wait in or behind the old barn beyond the Jamesfarm cutoff, leave the gelding and the trailer there, go on into town in the truck late in the day, as evening settled in. Hit the back door of the post office late, when the ranch foremen started showing up for their money. He’d have a long wait, all through the middle of the day, and then a fast hustle. Thinking about the moves, and the last-minute timing, he began to sweat.

Maybe he shouldn’t wait all day at the cutoff and risk being seen, maybe he should move on up into the dry hills and lay up there. Return to the cutoff in late afternoon, leave the gray and the trailer there. Hit the post office, return to the cutoff until it started to get dark, leave the truck and trailer withDawson’s ID and then, as he’d planned, head for the mountains on horseback. That was where the timing grew critical. If he took too long or was delayed, he’d miss the last, crucial move. Thinking about that, his gut began to twitch. He had to get up into the mountains, bury the money, and be back down at the airstrip in time to meet Mark.

Well, hell, he could do that. Mark had said eight-thirty. That gave him two to three hours. That was the plan, the rest, the getaway itself, was a piece of cake. There might be a few weak spots, but there was risk in everything. He pulled off his straw hat, flipped it onto the dashboard, and headed past the cutoff up into the hills.

Hidden among the sand hills, he had a little nap and so did the gelding, sleeping on his feet. At three o’clock Lee loaded the gelding up again and headed back down for the Jamesfarm cutoff. He was halfway there when the truck dropped, jerking the steering wheel, and he felt the dead thump of the tire on the sand road. Swearing, he let the truck bump to a stop, set the brake, and stepped out.

At least it was on the truck, not the trailer. Front tire, and he thought maybe he could change it without unloading the gray. He kicked the bastard tire hard, kicked it again, and knew he had to cool down. There was plenty of time, he’d planned it to give himself time.

He looked up and down the empty road. Not a car in sight, the desert so quiet he heard a lizard scramble off a rock into some cactus. But he reached into the cab for the revolver and laid it on the floorboards. Then he lifted the seat cushion, pulled out the jack, the tire iron, and lug wrench, and dropped them beside the flat tire. Before he got to work, he blocked the truck and trailer wheels with rocks. By the time he got the wheel changed he was sweating, and breathing hard, was so tired that it seemed a huge effort even to tighten the lug nuts. He couldn’t get his lungs full of air, and there was a heaviness on his chest so he had to rest several times before he finished tightening the last lug. The emphysema hadn’t been this bad in a long time, he knew it was the stress. He struggled to get the blown tire and wheel up into the pickup, wondering why the hell he was keeping them. Too tired to lift the seat cushion, he threw the jack and lug wrench on the seat. He removed the rocks from under the wheels, beat the dust and sand off his pants, and crawled into the driver’s seat, sank behind the steering wheel feeling weak and old, swearingwith anger at his weakness.

Cranking the engine, he eased on slowly so as not to jerk the trailer. He rolled on, cursing old age, until he saw the Jamesfarm sign, saw the old barn among the scrawny tamarisk trees. He pulled in among them, backed the gray out under the low, salty-smelling branches. He tied the gelding to a tree, then checked out the barn.

It leaned a bit to the right, and half the roof shingles were missing, but when he shook the supporting timbers, nothing wobbled, the barn stood steady. There were four fenced stalls inside, four tie stalls, and an open space for a truck or tractor. He unloaded the gray then, backed the trailer in there, out of sight of the road. Before he unhitched it, he opened both truck doors to keep the cab cool, and unloaded the water barrel.

He led the gelding into one of the larger stalls, fed him, tied his water bucket to the rail. After filling that, he filled the truck’s radiator, then washed the grime and sweat off his face and hands. He had moved the saddle from the pickup bed into the trailer, had turned back to get the bridle, which had fallen to the ground, when the gelding jerked his head up, and Lee tensed.

The gelding snorted, looking back toward the big door, and Lee heard a faint noise, a dry snap. He spun around, grabbing the bridle as a blurred image flickered across the truck window. A man filled his vision, a crazed look in his eyes, a knife flashing in his hand. As he charged, Lee swung the bridle. The heavy bit hit him hard in the throat. He staggered but came at Lee again. Lee stumbled backward into the open truck, grabbed the lug wrench, and swung it at the man’s face.

The heavy wrench connected hard, the man fell, twisting away. Lee backed against the truck, looking around to see if there was another one. The gelding was rearing and snorting, white eyed, blowing like a stallion. Lee reached for the gun on the seat, watching the shadows around him. The man lay on the ground unmoving. What had he wanted? The truck? The horse? Or was he just some nutcase, out to hurt anyone who looked weaker? Lee remained still, watchful and tense until the gelding began to settle. When the horse had calmed and turned away, when Lee was sure there was no one else, he rolled the man over with his boot, holding his gun on him.

The body was limp. The face was a pulp of blood from the blow of the lug wrench. There was a bloody hole where his nose had been, as if the bones had been driven deep. Lee felt his breath coming hard. He palmed his revolver, glancing at the gray to see if anything else alerted him, but the good, sensible gelding had put his head down again and started to eat.

Lee eased himself down on the running board, sucking air. Where the hell had the guy come from? Had he been in the barn all the time? Sleeping, camping out in the old barn? Lee thought he’d looked around good. He had seen no sign of anything to alarm him, nothing in there that he’d noticed but some old gunny sacks, twists of bailing wire, a rusty bucket.

Rising from the running board, Lee studied what he could see of the dead man’s face, what was left of it. Dark eyes beneath the blood, bushy brows soaked with blood. Despite the gray’s quiet assurance, Lee still wasn’t certain the man had been alone. Nervously he circled the barn and then eased away into the trees beyond, looking back watching the barn, and watching behind him; the light was beginning to soften, but so far, by his watch, his timing was okay. Some twenty yards into the trees he found a small clearing and a makeshift camp. One dirty blanket, a backpack with some canned goods, an empty cook pot. A single metal plate lay beside a miniature fire, near an unopened can of beans, a can opener, and a spoon. As he turned back toward the barn, he could see again the man’s dark eyes under the bushy, bloodied brows. He stood over the body, looking more carefully. Despite the gaping wound he could see how close the eyes were together, the face long and thin. Zigler. Luke Zigler, peering out from the wanted poster hanging in the Blythe post office.

Zigler, serving life for murder and armed robbery, escaped from Terminal Island some two hundred miles to the north but born and raised in Twentynine Palms. If that was Zigler’s home, maybe he’d been waiting here for someone he knew, maybe had camped here to join up with a partner, and that made Lee nervous. He sure didn’t want to leave the gray here for some badass to find. But what other choice did he have? He sure couldn’t leave Zigler, either, for someone todiscover.

Double-timing back to the truck, he studied his watch, thought a minute, then dragged the body around the truck. He searched Zigler’s pockets but found no identification, false or otherwise. A few dollars, chump change. Lifting Zigler by the shoulders, breathing hard, he managed with a lot of grunting and straining to heave him up into the passenger seat. He rolled up the window halfway, closed the door, and pulled Zigler snugly against the doorframe. He slipped his own straw Stetson from the dashboard, jammed it on Zigler, settled it down over his battered face.

Before getting in the truck he ground Zigler’s blood into the dirt, scuffed it in good. He rubbed the gray behind the ears, talked to him a minute, gave him another flake of hay, and left him happily munching his early supper. If the gray grew alarmed, if some no-good approached and tried messing with him—or if Lee himself didn’t return—Lee figured the gray would jump the four-foot rail easy enough, would take off out of the barn running free.

Inside the truck he rolled up Zigler’s window, and settled the hat a little better. He pulled out with Zigler’s body riding easy beside him. Driving, he lifted the revolver out of its holster and pushed it into his belt at the small of his back. He made sure the bandana around his neck was knotted loosely, as he wanted it. The sun was disappearing in the west and, as he moved out from the stand of salty trees, a cooler breeze eased in from the desert.

30

The old truck entered town looking like many another farm vehicle, rusted and dirty, a ranch hand half asleep in the passenger seat, leaning against the window with his straw hat pulled down, maybe a little drunk, this late in the day. Several times Lee had slowed the truck to make sure no blood had seeped through the straw hat, and to wipe away trickles of the blood that crept down Zigler’s face, using a rag he’d found stuffed behind the seat. The blood had stopped now. As he drove carefully past the post office, a clerk inside was closing the venetian blinds, though lights still shone within as he locked up the front part for the night. Lee guessed the small business operatorsand the larger companies would pick up their cash from the back office. Two big pickups passed him and turned the corner heading around to the back, new vehicles marked with the names of two local ranches. He heard truck doors slam, heard a muffled knock and then voices, heard the back door open andclose. He hoped to hell his timing was right. When he heard the men leave, when no other trucks showed up, he turned left between the post office and the burned bank, left again to the little dirt alley behind, and parked beside the wooden storage building.

He took his hat from Zigler and turned the man’s body so his face was half hidden, propping Zigler’s arm up over the seat back to hide his smashed nose. He wiped Zigler’s blood off the hatband, jammed the hat on his own head, and made sure the red bandana around his neck was loose enough. He stepped out of the truck leaving the door ajar, moved quickly to the metal-sheathed door and thumped on it hard, feeling as edgy as if he trod on hot cinders.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Lee leaned close, speaking loudly but garbling the words.“Placer Mining,” he slurred. This was the weakest point in his plan, that Placer hadn’t already been here and gone, that he could get in and get out again before their legitimate messenger drove up.

“Placer?”

Lee grunted.

“You’re early today.”

Lee relaxed a little. He’d started to say something more when he heard the spring lock turn. He pulled the bandana up over his face and drew the revolver. The instant the door cracked open he hit it with all his weight jamming it hard in the face of the startled guard. The man staggered back snatching for his gun and grabbing at his glasses, but he was already staring into the barrel of Lee’s cocked forty-five.

“If you want to live, do exactly what I tell you.” Lee’s blood surged with excitement at the thought of killing the man, a sensation that shocked him. This poor fellow wasn’t Zigler, who had attacked him and who deserved to be taken out. This was just a soft young bank guard, probably hiredat the last minute and obviously not well trained at the job. The frail man gaped at him, his glasses flashing in the overhead light as Lee backed him deeper inside, pulled the door shut behind them, and slid the padlock into the hasp. He had no reason to want the man dead, to envision him bloodiedand dead. The sharp thought upset him, yet he found himself shoving the gun hard into the man’s terrified face, taking pleasure in seeing the little man tremble and gasp. This wasn’t Lee’s mode of operation, his robberies were coolheaded and precise, he didn’t set out to abuse the weak and frightened. This was nothis thinking, that had turned his blood hot with malice, he didn’t like where this was coming from. Angrily he eased off, pressed the barrel of the gun sideways instead, along the man’s cheek. “Get that empty mail sack, there on the desk. Take it in the vault and fill it,stuffall the money into it. I’m right behind you, you make one dicey move and you’re dead.”

Standing in the door to the vault, Lee watched the frightened clerk retrieve bundle after bundle of big bills from a set of metal drawers, watched him stuff the contents down in the bag. Two more bags stood on the floor against the wall, one full, one empty. Lee watched him fill the empty one, fight it closed at last, and pull the drawstring. The bag that was left, already bulging, was marked PLACER MINING.

“Is that all of it?”

“Yes, sir. You can see there’s nothing left.”

“Set the bags by the door, then bring the desk chair in here.”

Looking scared, the man did as he was told, wheeling the chair inside.

“Sit down, hands behind the back of the chair. Is the vault vented?”

“Yes, sir, but … The vent only works when the fan is on. That—that switch inside the vault door.”

“If it’s an alarm, you’re dead.”

“It’s the fan, I swear.”

Lee backed toward the door. He hesitated, watching the man. This was stupid, the damn thing had to be an alarm.

But a plain electric switch? Wouldn’t an alarm look different? Some kind of metal plate and handle or metal button? When he looked up where the clerk was looking, he could see the fan, through a dust-coated grate in the ceiling just above them. He reached for the switch, paused a moment waving the gun threateningly at the guard.

“It’s the fan switch, I swear. I’ve got a wife and two kids at home. Please …”

Lee flipped the switch. The fan started sluggishly,thump, thump, then took hold and began to whir. Lee backed out the door, eased to the desk while still holding the gun on his victim. He picked up a hole punch, returned to the vault fishing the roll of tape from his pants pocket. Working awkwardly, one-handed, he taped the clerk’s arms and legs to the chair. Only when the man was secure, did he slide his gun back in his belt.

With the punch he made holes in a long piece of tape, pressed this against the man’s mouth, wrapping it around to the back. That would smart when someone found him and pulled it off, but the little man looked relieved that he could breathe.

“You may be here for a spell,” Lee said. “You want me to take your glasses off?”

He grunted and shook his head.

Lee dragged the mail sacks out of the vault, looked the man over once, shut the heavy door and spun the dial. Turning, he eased the back door open, stood to the side looking up and down the alley. Dusk was falling fast, the sky deepening into gray, but the alley, the buildings and truck and Lee himself were still visible. When he didn’t hear another vehicle coming down the side street he moved on out. He carried the three bags to the truck, dropped them in back, and covered them with the saddle blanket.

Stepping into the cab, he pulled his bandana off and stuffed it in Zigler’s pocket. He resettled Zigler’s position a bit, took off the straw hat, put it back on Zigler, tilting it down again over the man’s bloody face.

He started the truck, pulled out onto the hard dirt alley, which he followed for several blocks before cutting back to the main street. Car lights were on, the windows of the stores that were still open were brightly lit. Driving slowly out of town, he was just another farm worker, his truck dirty and nondescript. Opening the wind wing, he let the thin evening breeze cool him, he hadn’t realized how bad he was sweating. But now, with Zigler beside him, he had to smile. The dead man made a nice change to his plans. Somehow, his dead companion made him feel steadier and more in control.

When he got back to the gray, everything was as it should be, the gray sleeping on his feet, not nervous or watchful as if anything had disturbed him. He saddled the gelding, fished a length of rope from the truck and tied the three canvas money bags on top of his saddlebags, tied the trenching tool across those. Putting on the gloves he’d brought, he wiped his prints off places on the trailer he’d touched. Lifting the tongue, he pushed the trailer deep inside the old barn, into the shadows. Last of all, he wiped any earlier fingerprints from the hitch.

He returned to the gelding, put him on a lead rope, and led him up close to the driver’s door. Stepping into the truck, he slipped the rope in through his open window and started the engine. Pulling out slowly, leading the gray, he eased away from the barn and up the incline to the little turnoff that led up into the hills. The gray followed willingly, trusting Lee, moving along at an easy jog. Lee drove until he found a deep embankment that was steep enough for what he wanted, an ancient, dry waterway, sheer and far to the bottom.

Pulling onto the shoulder and getting out, he led the gelding across the road out of the way and secured his rope among a scattering of boulders. In the dusk, the pale desert floor held the last of the light. He could see the old barn far below, and the airstrip. Off beyond the strip by several miles lay a ranch, the thin lines of fences, a barn, a windmill, a cluster of trees, and a glint of white that would be the ranch house.

Returning to the truck, still wearing the gloves, he got in and angled the truck facing the cliff. He set the hand brake, then wiped clean the steering wheel again for good measure, wiped the lug wrench, the jack, and the door handles. He slid Dawson’s driver’s license deep into the dead man’s back pocket, then, opening the driver’s door and stepping out, he pulled Zigler’s body across the seat and arranged it behind the steering wheel. He wiped the revolver good, pressed the dead man’s fingers to it, in the firing position, then laid it on the seat near Zigler’s right leg. Reaching in, with the hand brake still set, he started the truck, the gear in neutral, and let the engine idle. Along the edge of the canyon, the wind blew sharply up at him. He cranked the steering wheel toward the edge. If he wasn’t quick, he’d be as dead as Zigler. In one move he released the brake, forced the gearshift into low, and jumped clear, giving the truck a shove to get it moving.

It lurched over the bank and down the side with a hell of a rumble, kicking up rocks, plowing up dust that blew in his face. He listened to the truck fall bouncing against the cliff, sounded like it was turning over and over. He heard it hit a boulder and bounce, then a heavier sound, as if it had rolled. Warily he peered over but it was too dark to see down into the canyon, too black down there to see anything. He thought about climbing down and putting a match to the truck—if he could get down, in the dark, without breaking his neck. But what the hell? If the law found the truck, what did they have? An escaped convict gone over the cliff, false ID, a truck with false registration, and a dark revolver the bank teller might recognize with its six-inch barrel, woodengrip, and worn bluing.

Returning to the gray, he patted the canvas bags behind him as he stepped up into the saddle. He made sure the money rode steady and secure as he moved the gelding on up the western slope of the mountain. The gray moved out at a fast walk even climbing, but at last he tired at the uphill pull and wanted to slow. Lee let the willing mount take his own pace, he had enough time. His pocket watch said seven o’clock, straight up. He had an hour and a half, and that was plenty.

When the gray had rested, Lee urged him along again. They were high up on the northwestern slope at the base of a pinnacle rock when they stopped in the shadow of an overhang, and Lee stepped off. He untied one of the canvas bags, sat down against the bank with the bag between his knees and opened it. In the fading light, he counted roughly through the money, his heart pounding. Looked like, altogether, he might have around three to four hundred thousand. Hell, he could buy half of Mexico for that. The crisp green bills felt good in his hands. He managed to stuff two canvas bags in the saddlebags. Then, just below the cliff, he dug a deep hole in the dry desert. Even with the trenching tool, he was out of breath when he’d finished, and now time was getting close. Breathing raggedly, he dropped the saddlebags into the hole, laid the third bag between them, and covered them. He kept the trenching tool. Feeling pushed now, he stood for only a moment looking out over the valley, mentally marking his position. He could just see, down to his left, the airstrip like a small scratch next to the dirt road to Jamesfarm.

He let the gray pick his own way down the bare mountain, around boulders and across ravines. The land was dark now but the sky still silver. When they hit the road he pushed the gelding to a gallop. He could barely make out the emergency airstrip now, couldn’t see the faded orange windsock drooping or filling in the gusting wind. Descending fast, thankful the gray was sure-footed, he began to worry that Mark had been early, hadn’t seen him and had gone on, though he hadn’t heard a plane. Or maybe Mark had changed his mind and had made other plans.

Pulling the gray up near the old barn, in among a small cluster of scrubby willows, he dug a second hole. It was harder digging among the roots and in the dark, but then he hit a patch where ground squirrels had made tunnels, and it went faster. When he had a saddle-sized hole he laid the blanket in and laid the saddle on top, the skirts and cinch and stirrups folded in, hoping the rodents would leave it alone, hoping he’d buried it high enough above the wash so the hole wouldn’t flood. He didn’t cover the hole, but waited quietly beside the gray, his chest heaving. The sky above was darkening now, too, the far mountains humping in heavy, deep blackness. Alone and wondering if Mark would come, he was gettingfidgety when he heard the faint drone of the plane and saw its lights high above the mountains.

Only then did he remove the gray’s bridle, point him in the direction of the ranch on beyond, and slap him on the rump. The good gelding snorted and took off at a gallop, glancing back once at Lee. Lee laid the bridle in the hole with the saddle and trenching tool. With his boots he scraped sand and dirt into the hole, coveringthem well, stamped them down, then scuffed leaves and dry grass over the bare scar of earth. As the Stearman’s lights grew large and descended, he walked out, staying clear of the strip.

The plane bounced once on the wind and touched down. He waved both arms over his head as it taxied toward him, though he guessed Mark could see him against the lighter sand. Near him the plane paused, idling.

Walking on out, Lee had to grin. He’d done it. A third of a million bucks, hidden, and all his. Maybe in due time the losers would be reimbursed for some of it by the U.S. government. He didn’t know how this bank insurance worked, but as wasteful as Washington was, they wouldn’t miss the money. Feeling good, he stepped up on the Stearman’s wing walk and eased down into the hopper, where Mark had added a heavy blanket for his comfort. Lee fastened his seat belt, gave Mark a thumbs-up, and they were off, Mark heading clear across the country, for Wichita and then Florida, Lee choosing the shorter distance to establish his alibi. At the time the post office guard was first tied up and robbed, Lee would have had to be four hours or more away, hitching with an unknown trucker, heading for the roulette and blackjack tables of Vegas. And Mark, if anyone ever thought to make the connection, which wasn’t likely, would have been much farther away, gassing up the Stearman at small, country airports where the young pilot always paid cash, an unrecorded flight not likely to ever be traced.

31

Becky managed a visit with Morgan the next day while Sammie was in school but when she picked the child up, Sammie guessed at once where she’d been; she was so agitated at being left out again, at not seeing her daddy, was so completely focused on telling Morgan something deeply important to her, that Becky gave in at last; she knew that stubborn determination wouldn’t go away. When she looked into Sammie’s dark and grieving eyesshe was filled, herself, with Sammie’s same driving need to tell him whatever was so urgent, so very meaningful to her. Sammie might be only nine, but she was not like other children; her perceptions awed and frightened Becky, and Becky had to listen to her.

But there was one thing that Becky made her promise not to tell Morgan. Her daddy knew nothing about Falon’s breakin and his attack on them, he didn’t know about any of the trouble they’d had with Falon. She had always thought, long before Morgan was arrested and put in jail, that if Morgan knew how Falon had behaved he’d be so enraged he might kill Falon. She had kept silent to protect Morganand now, with Morgan locked up, what good would it do to tell him, it would only create more hurt, more desperate and helpless rage.

“Grandma made carrot cake today,” Becky said. “We’ll stop at her house for a little snack first, then we’ll go to see Daddy. On one condition,” she said, looking down at Sammie. “You remember to keep your promise not to tell Daddy about Falon coming to the house?”

Sammie looked up at her.“You mean, the last time?”

“I mean all the times, as we agreed. Clear back, long ago. Even that time when—”

“When he killed Misto,” Sammie said.

Becky nodded.“You know I’ve never told him, it would be too upsetting.”

“You were afraid of what Daddy would do.”

Becky nodded.“And right now, Daddy has enough to worry him without hearing about that ugliness.” She knew there’d be a police report from when Falon broke in the last time. She just hoped they hadn’t told Morgan about that.

Sammie looked up at her a long time, but said nothing. She was still quiet when they pulled into Caroline’s drive, she didn’t say a word as they went inside. Sitting at the big kitchen table as Caroline cut a piece of carrot cake for her and poured a glass of milk, Sammie hadn’t said a word.

“Can you promise that?” Becky said. “Will you promise—for Daddy’s sake?”

Sammie ate some cake, took a sip of milk.“I promise,” she said at last, but in a reluctant little voice. Becky looked sternly at her. Sammie blinked, and looked down. “I promise,” she said more boldly. Caroline watched them in silence. “I promise,” Sammie repeated, and then she tied into her milk and cake.

The evening light was softening as they pulled into the courthouse parking lot. Sammie was still quiet as they went inside, the child walking very determined, very straight in her light summer jacket, her chin up, her eyes straight ahead. Whateverwas on her mind, whatever she needed to tell Morgan, no matter how shaky Becky felt at the emotional disaster it might cause, this couldn’t be avoided. Whatever Sammie had to say, Becky half expected a meltdown that would leave Sammie tearful and leave Morgan intolerably shaken.

Maybe her mind was filled with a dream she hadn’t told Becky, a worse nightmare even than the last one where Morgan was thrown in jail—that trauma would stay with them for the rest of their lives, she couldn’t imagine what would be worse than that prediction.

For a moment, she wondered if this had to do with Morgan being drugged, wondered if Sammie had seen something in a dream where Falon was giving him a drug as well as alcohol?

She had already talked with their doctor about that. Dr. Bates had visited Morgan in jail, had questioned him, had done what small, simple tests there were to do, had looked at Morgan’s pupils, had checked his heart, even smelled Morgan’s breath.

He said whatever Morgan had been given could have been an overdose of some prescription medication. He said there wasn’t much in the way of testing, if they didn’t know what they were looking for, particularly this long after the dose had been given. Dr. Bates said that, because Morgan didn’t drink, a sufficient amount of bootleg whiskey could have knocked him out overnight, could have left him uncertain andgroggy, the way the police found him. But he didn’t see how Morgan could have been forced to drink so much without trying to refuse, without remembering. He did say that some bootleg whiskey contained additives to make it more potent, but usually that was found in the bigger cities, not in moonshine from these small, backwoods stills.

At the jail, Sergeant Trevis ushered them into the same small, ugly visiting room, Sammie holding Becky’s hand tight, her own hand cold and tense. Becky hardly noticed the scarred table and two metal chairs. The afternoon heat inside the small room was nearly intolerable, and the street noise added to their stress. Becky sat down with her back to the window. Sammie stood waiting near the door, tense and watchful, listening to footsteps coming down the hall.

Officer Jimson stood behind Morgan, and as her daddy entered, Sammie flew straight into his arms, clinging to him, pushing her face against his chest. Morgan pulled out the empty chair, sat down with Sammie on his lap. He kissed her cheek, buried his face in her pale, clean hair. At the other side of the table Becky sat quietly, trying not to send emotional vibes, wanting to let Sammie have her say without interference or distraction. Even Sergeant Trevis seemed tuned in to Sammie’s urgency, he stood back against the wall, looking at the floor, remaining very still and disconnected as if his attention were miles away.

When at last Sammie pulled away from her daddy’s hug, she took his face in her two small hands, looking deeply at him. Her words startled Becky, they were not what she’d expected. “I dreamed of the cowboy,” Sammie said. “He’s coming, Daddy.”

Becky looked down, trying to hide her frown, her hands clenched out of sight under the table. Whatwas this, what was this about the old man?

“He’s coming now, Daddy, he’s coming here to help you.”

Morgan looked at her, puzzled.

“I knew he’d come,” Sammie said sagely, looking deeply at him. “I dreamed before that he would, I dreamed about the airplane. That’s part of how he’s coming, he was so happy with escaping in the plane. He’s coming, Daddy. But not right away. There will be jail for him, too. I dreamed of prison walls around him, but not here. Far away from here.

“Prison walls around you both,” she said very low, glancing at Sergeant Trevis and then away. “But at first in different places.” She put her arms around Morgan, pressed her forehead against his chest, speaking half muffled against him. “You’ll be in prison, Daddy, a big prison right here near home. But then the cowboy will come there, you’ll be together then. You’ll both be there, inside that high wall. And then, Daddy—then the cowboy will help you.”

She looked at Morgan hard.“You’ll get away from there, Daddy. In the dark night the cowboy will help you get away. Only the cowboy can save you, he’ll help you prove the truth, he will help you, Daddy.”

Morgan looked at Sammie a long time, his expression stern and unchanging, but tears welled in his eyes. When he looked up at Becky, a long look over the child’s head, his gaze was filled with fear, with disbelief, with dismay at the thought of prison.

“How do you know?” Morgan whispered. “How can you know this?” But then from somewhere deep inside, Becky saw his calm certainty rise. She watched Morgan’s faith surface, his faith in Sammie, sure and trusting, his faith in a talent and knowledge that no ordinary human would possess. “How can you know?” he repeated.

“The cowboy,” Sammie said, looking deeply at him. “My dream,my cowboy. My dream told me. The cowboybelongs to us.He doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know about us, not yet. It will be a long time,” she said, “a long journey. I dreamed of snow and prisons and then he is sick, but then he will get better and he will come to us and he will help you.”

Sergeant Trevis seemed to be paying no attention, looking blankly away as if his mind were on something far distant, as he took in Sammie’s whispers.

Again Sammie took Morgan’s face in her hands. “You mustn’t lose hope, Daddy. You must take what comes, until the cowboy is here with us, until he comes to help us.”

Across from them, all Becky could do was wipe away her own tears, rise from her chair, come around the table and put her arms around them, holding them close, holding the two of them close to her, wondering, frightened but strangely hopeful.

32

As the Stearman lifted higher into the night wind, Lee pulled the blanket over his legs, looking down over the lower wing where the pale desert caught the last gleam of light. For a second just below them he saw the gray jogging free, the good gelding ducking his nose and switching his tail, smart and sassy at his own release. He’d have a fine taste of freedom and, when he got thirsty and hungry, he’d head for the one lone ranch off beyond the little dirt strip, he was already moving in that direction. No horseman, seeing the gray, would let him wander. As the plane passed over him he shied, bucked a little, and broke into a gallop.

When Mark banked sharply, lifting toward the mountains heading east, Lee leaned over scanning the foothills, but it was too dark among the massed rocks to see the higher pinnacle where he had buried the money. How long before he’d be back, to dig it up again? And what would happen to him, meantime? He began to worry about someone finding his stash, then he worried about the saddlebags and canvas bags rotting, or pack rats digging in and chewing up the money for nests. Sitting hunched under the blanket in the hopper of the front cockpit, he got himself all worked up worrying, like some little old woman.

Well, hell, the money was safe enough, it wasn’t going anywhere. He was too edgy, he’d been nervous ever since he accidentally killed Zigler. He didn’t like the thoughts he’d had, either, back there in the post office, wanting to hurt that young guard, he didn’t like that it had even crossed his mind to kill him. That young fellow wasn’t Zigler, he didn’t deserve to die, he wasn’t anything like that scum that Lee had wasted.

Mark had said they’d be following the Colorado River most of the way to Vegas but, looking out over the plane’s nose, Lee couldn’t see much but the night closing in on the deeper blackness of the low mountains, just their crowns catching the last gleam of daylight. Soon between the mountains they hit a patch of turbulence, the plane bucking, the wind so cold Lee pulled his jacket collar up, settled deeper in his seat, and pulled the blanket tighter. When he felt a tap on his shoulder, he looked back to see Mark shoving a wadded-up coat at him. He grabbed at it, the wind trying to tear it away. He got it into the cockpit and gladly pulled it on. Soon, bundled in the coat and blanket, he grew warmer—warm all but inside his chest where it felt like his breath had turned to ice. Hunching down in the coat collar like a turtle to warm his breath, he thought about the wagon trains that had crossed the desert and crossed those bare ranges below him, pioneers stubbornly heading west: a trip that took many months, where he and Mark were looking at just over an hour.

Some of the mountains those folks had crossed would take three teams of horses or oxen to pull one wagon up, with everyone pushing from behind. And on the other side, going down, trees had to be cut to use for drags to keep the wagons from getting away, from falling wheel over canvas, dragging their good teams with them. Those men and women, crossing a foreign land hauling their loaded wagons over the frozen mountains, they had had no idea what lay ahead, and they’d had only themselves to rely on. But they kept on, despite starvation, frozen limbs, despite sickness and death, despite the ultimate desperate measures that had kept some of them alive, that had shocked the generations who came after them, had shocked descendants who might not be here at all, if not for what they called, looking back, the most heinous of crimes.

Lee didn’t know how to judge what was not his to judge, all he knew right now was, if it was cold in this open hopper, the winters during those crossings had been a hundred times colder, down there among the wild mountains.

As a kid, growing up in South Dakota, he’d thought there’d never be an end to winter. Every chore seemed twice as hard, his hands froze to any metal he touched, ropes frozen stiff, even the flakes of hay froze hard. Barn doors stuck, latches wouldn’t work, ice had to be broken from water buckets several times a day and at night, too, so the animals could drink. He’d hated winter, andhe’d had a home to live in, they’d had a fire at night to warm them and where his mother cooked, they’d had plenty of food, good beef from their own cattle, grain and root stores, but still he’d grumbled. Grumbled about splitting the firewood, grumbled about dragging hay over the snow to the waiting cattle. He’d even complained when he had to slog through deep snow to the barn to do his chores where he’d be cozy and warm among the warm animals.

Now, hunched down in the little airplane traveling in a way he had never imagined as a boy, he felt strangely unreal. The land below the wings humped away in darkness, a glint from the river now and then, and above the upper wing a glint of stars; and then far ahead Lee saw a cluster of lights, warm and beckoning, and that would be Vegas, a glittering oasis appearing and then vanishing between the low hills.

But where, all this time, was the ghost cat? Why wasn’t he here beneath the blanket, warming Lee? Why had Lee not seen or sensed the cat during all his moves at the post office and then burying the money, turning the gray loose, getting in the plane and taking off—all without Misto?

Had the yellow cat abandoned him? Had even this crime of robbery, so removed from any betrayal of Jake Ellson, had even this transgression against the law turned the cat from him? Lee prayed not. He would feel a failure, he would feel betrayed if that were the case. To be abandoned so suddenly, without a word, without a last rub and purr, that couldn’t make any sense to Lee.

Beneath him, now, the little city took shape, the land below brightened by colored neon, by palaces of yellow lights as the Stearman dropped down over the last ridge into Vegas. Mark circled the city lights, then put her nose down toward the valley. Warmer air washed over Lee. He sat up straighter watching the lights come up at him in sweeps of raw neon, the windows of the tall buildings crowded together and bright, and then a dark and empty space delineated by long straight rows of airport lights picking out the runways.

Mark banked the Stearman, coming around for a straight shot, a long approach. He set her down lightly and taxied to the far end of the runway, where he moved off toward a row of small planes tied down, and a few small hangars. The night was pleasantly warm, Lee pulled off the heavy coat as Mark killed the engine.

He was stiff, getting out. And he was still wondering about the cat, he still had that empty feeling, without the companionship of the ghost cat. Even when he didn’t see Misto he could often sense him near, but now he sensed only emptiness. He felt lost, felt so alone suddenly that he might even welcome the goading presence of the dark spirit—if the cat would return, as well.

He helped Mark wheel the plane to a tie-down beside the hangars. Across the way, Lee could see the public terminal, and beyond that a parking lot, lines of cars reflecting the lights of the building. A commercial plane stood nearby, maybe from San Francisco or L.A. As Mark snugged the Stearman to the ground ties, looping the short lines through the metal rings, Lee fished a handful of bills from his pocket to pay for the gas.

“Hope you make a killing in Florida,” he said, handing Mark the money, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “And good luck in Wichita. Take care getting there.”

Mark grinned.“Thanks, Fontana. I’ve enjoyed knowing you. Maybe someday we’ll see each other again.”

Lee nodded.“Maybe.” Turning away, feeling strangely lost, he swore softly at his sudden loneliness. Then he straightened his shoulders and made his way across to the terminal.

He took the front taxi of three that were parked at the curb. The driver was maybe fifty, a Latino man, short hair, smooth shaven, pictures of his pudgy wife and three handsome kids stuck around the edges of the windshield, a small silver Virgin fixed to the dashboard.

“Take me to the best Mexican restaurant you’ve got,” Lee told him. The driver smiled and took off, soon moving through a tangle of residential and small businesses, and then between the bright neon of casino signs that flashed along the street. At a small, noisy Mexican caf?, the man pulled over. Lee paid him and pushed in through the carved door to the good rich smell.

He found a small table in a corner away from the fancy-dressed tourists with their loud talk and laughter. He ordered dinner and two bottles of beer. He meant to take his time enjoying his meal. A few minutes wouldn’t make a difference, and who knew when he’d eat Mexican again? Not where he was headed. He watched the bleached-blond tourist women in their low-cut dresses, the soft-bodied greenhorn men dressed in fancy Western wear, the creases still showing in their pearl-buttoned shirts, their brand-new boots and Stetsons that had never been near a horse or steer, their loud tourist talk and brassy smiles, their feverish partying.

And then, when again he missed the cat, he wondered suddenly what he was doing here. Wasthis why the cat had vanished? Had Misto left him because he found this whole plan repugnant? Because even this last robbery had been against what the cat wanted or approved of?

Frowning, he thought about changing his mind and sliding back to Blythe, of staying innocently on the job there. But that would mean some bad loose ends, would put him in Blythe at the time of the robbery, would put him in immediate danger. He needed this alibi, or he’d have the feds wide awake, coming down on him like buzzards on an injured calf. A new parolee in the area, known for his train heists. A bank robbery in the small town, such as they may never have known before. What else would they do but close in on him?

Even as it stood, they’d want to know why he’d taken off, leaving the state against his parole, at the exact same time as the robbery. Hell, he thought, maybe he should have kept the gray, hauled the money out with him right then, and beat it straight for the border. Maybe he could have made it into Mexico free and clear, could have vanished now rather than later.

He was still feeling uncertain about what was ahead when his dinner came, steaming on the sizzling plate, enchiladas ranchero, beans and rice and chile relleno. He ate slowly, savoring each individual bite as he went over his next moves, letting the noise of the tourists fade around him. At last, wiping up his plate with the one remaining tortilla, he felt better, felt easy and at peace. This plan was all right, he had it set up just the way it should be, he knew for sure that the next steps were exactly what he needed to do.

When the feds were convinced he’d been in Vegas during the post office robbery, when they received the police report that he would soon set up for them, why would they question that kind of proof? What were they going to do? Stop and interrogate every trucker who had taken that route? Every tourist who might have picked up a hitchhiker? And how would they make the timing work out, for that long drive from Blythe up into Nevada? Smiling, he ordered a second side of corn tortillas and another beer. By the time he’d finished the third beer, a soft glow filled him. Feeling content, and full of good Mexican food, his worries evaporated. The plan ahead looked just fine. He paid his bill and left the caf?, smiling. Ducking into a liquor store at the next corner, he bought a pint of whiskey, and then found a deserted alley.

He broke the seal on the whiskey, took two swallows, swished it around and spat it out. He poured the rest of the cheap, dark booze over his shirt and pants, then tossed the empty bottle in a trash can, where it clanked comfortably against its brothers. Leaving the alley, he entered the first big casino he came to. At the main cage he bought a stack of chips with some of the money he’d carried in his boot.

He picked a roulette table, positioning himself across from the hard-eyed operator, bumping the player next to him, knocking some of the man’s chips on the floor. The tourist wrinkled his nose at the reek of whiskey, picked up his chips, and moved farther down the table. The operator glared at Lee, then spun the wheel. Lee placed a stack of chips on seventeen and as the wheel slowed he weaved back and forth, picking his nose. When the ball dropped into sixteen he reached over the table and shoved the operator hard. “You son of a bitch. I saw you drag your thumb on the wheel.”

The black-suited, hard-jowled operator slid around the table toward him, his pale brown eyes fixed on Lee. Lee stared at him, spat on the table, and threw the stack of chips in his face. He grabbed Lee, and Lee hit him hard in the stomach. People began shouting, dealers and security people came running, surrounding him. He grabbed up a stool, swung it hard, charging them, forcing customers to stumble over each other, getting out of his way. He glimpsed a man in Levi’s leaning over a gaming table grabbing up a stack of chips and then the place was filled with cops, cops storming in. Lee paused, waiting, weaving drunkenly, ready to light into the bastards the minute they touched him.

When two of them grabbed Lee, he raked the edge of his boot down a uniformed shin so hard the cop swore, swung his nightstick and hit him in the kidneys. As Lee doubled over they hit him again across the shoulders, pulled his wrists behind him, and snapped on the cuffs. He fought and kicked as they dragged him away, he swore at them slurred and drunkenly as they hauled him out through the crowd, the tourists backing away opening a path for him, as wary as if the cops were leading a wild man.

Outside on the street the uniforms pushed him into the backseat of a patrol car, behind the wire barrier. He cursed them loudly all the way to the station, calling them every name he could think of. In the station, while they booked him, he managed to knock the sergeant’s coffee cup off the desk and break it. He was booked for being drunk and disorderly, for fighting in a public place, for assaulting several officers, and destroying police property. When they searched him they found his parole officer’s card in his hip pocket, folded in with the address of Delgado Ranch, and Jake Ellson’s phone number. The booking officer, a short, heavyset sergeant, studied Lee.

“You’re under the feds?”

“That’s what they like to think. If I want to leave the damn district and have a little fun, that’s my business.”

“Where and when were you released?”

“McNeil. March eighth, this year.”

Sergeant Peterson raised an eyebrow.“Not long. Mr. Raygor will be interested to know how you feel about his supervision. Any message, when we call San Bernardino?”

Lee scowled at him, and said nothing. He watched Sergeant Peterson seal his pocketknife, his savings book, three hundred dollars in loose bills, and Mae’s picture into a brown envelope. “I want the picture back in good shape, not broken.”

Sergeant Peterson looked at the photo of the little girl.“Granddaughter?”

“My sister.”

Peterson studied the yellowed, faded photograph.“Long time ago. Where is she now?”

“I have no idea. Haven’t seen her since she was little.”

Peterson looked at him a long time.“No other family? Anyone you want us to contact?”

“If there was, my PO would do that.”

Peterson said nothing more. He nodded to a young, redheaded officer who ushered Lee on back to the tank, walking behind him, very likely his hand resting on his weapon. He unlocked the barred door, gave Lee a shove, and locked him in. The big cell was half full, mostly of drunks, the place smelled as sour as a cheap bar, that stink mixed with the invasive smell of the dirty latrine. Lee picked a top bunk at the far end of the long cell, stood with his back to the ladder glaring around him, looking for trouble, for any challenge to his chosen space.

There wasn’t any, most of the men were asleep or passed out. A sick young man lay curled on the floor in one corner, shivering. Lee climbed to the upper bunk and stretched out. He checked the ceiling for roaches, then rolled onto his side with his face to the wall. The mattress and thin blanket stunk of stale sweat. But in spite of the depressing atmosphere of another lockup, Lee lay smiling.

His moves had come off just as he’d planned. All he had to do now was wait. If he got lucky, he’d do his time right here in the Vegas jail, and he could think of worse places. Why would the feds bother to send him back to the federal pen just for drunk and disorderly? They sure wouldn’t send him back to McNeil for such a small infraction. Maybe they’d tack some extra time on his parole, but what was the difference? As soon as he was out again, he meant to jump parole anyway. No one would come looking for him in Mexico, or be likely to find him, if they did. The money was there in the desert waiting for him, and they sure wouldn’t get him on the post office charge. What court or jury could put him in Blythe when he was nearly three hundred miles away at the time, tearing up a Vegas casino?

Turning over, ignoring the stink of the cell, Lee drifted off toward sleep, quite content with his fate. Unaware, as yet, of the long, dangerous, and tangled route he had chosen, oblivious to the precipitous road he had embarked upon. He hadn’t a clue to the tangled connections he was yet to encounter and to the many long, dangerous months before he would return to Blythe to claim his bounty and head for the border. And if, three thousand miles away in Georgia, a young man waited, puzzled, for the old cowboy’s fate to play out, forthe cowboy’s future to join his own, Lee did not know that, either.

If Morgan Blake, sitting hunched on his sagging bunk in the Rome jail, waited with a desperate hope that indeed a miracle was in the making as predicted by Sammie’s dream, if he clung to his wild belief that his little girl had seen truly, who could blame him? He had nothing else to hang on to. If their attorney failed to free him, Sammie’s prediction was the only hope Morgan had.

Maybe only the cat, sitting unseen in Lee’s jail cell in Vegas, saw clearly the direction the two men were headed, saw how they were connected, saw how their futures were drawing together. Crouched invisibly at the foot of Lee’s bunk, so weightless now that Lee was unaware of him, Misto looked around at the human scum that occupied Lee’s cell—a worse lot, by far, than the men in the Rome lockup where Morgan waited. Though, in Rome, Morgan’s view of the future was far more agonizing than the future that Lee envisioned.

For Lee, the dark spirit seemed to have pulled back, his aura of evil to have thinned, easing off the pressure on Fontana. Perhaps, Misto thought, Satan had grown bored with Lee, maybe he was soured at the effort he’d made that had garnered no satisfying results. Whatever the cause, Misto sensed that, at least for the moment, the devil had stepped back, that all was well with the world; and the invisible cat twitched his tail with pleasure.

Lee and Morgan and his family would keep Misto tethered to this time, to the drama that was only now unfolding and that would lead ultimately to the cowboy’s final fate. One day, not far off, the cat must return to the world as a living part of it, as a mortal beast only, without the powers and the freedom and vision he presently enjoyed. But, the great powers willing, he meant to remain close to Lee, as spirit, until Lee broke Satan’s curse for good and forever, until Satan gave up the chase, admitted defeat, and turned to tormenting other men, weaker souls who would be more amenable to his wiles.

You are the loser, the ghost cat thought, sensing Lucifer watching now, curious and waiting.You are the loser, Misto thought, soonLee will drive you away and the child will drive you away, forever. You are wasting your time in this quest of Dobbs’s heirs, you will fail, you will finally and ultimately fail.And, smiling, the ghost cat rolled over across Lee’s feet, making himself heavy suddenly, purring mightily, jarring Lee awake. Lee looked down at him, and laughed. And in that moment Lee knew the cat would stay with him, that Misto wouldn’t leave him. In a rare instance of half-dreaming perception, Lee knew the ghost cat would remain beside him as Lee wove through a longer and more complicated tangle than he had imagined, as he fought through the encounters and trials that were laid out for him; as he was united with the child he had dreamed of and, surprised by the relationship, he discovered new partners and, with them, fought his way to his final and eternal freedom.

2. THE CAT, THE DEVIL, THE LAST ESCAPE

1

THE CAT PROWLED the prison rooftops invisible to human eyes, a ghost cat, a spirit cat unseen by anyone living. He could make himself visible when he chose but that wasn?t often. A big, rangy tomcat, long and lank, his golden ears ragged from past battles during his earthly lives. Now, floating free between those lives, his mission was keen as he searched for his quarry, for his dark and indestructible adversary.

Padding across the shingles he paused at a noise from the walk below, dropped to a predator?s stalk and slipped to the edge, to peer over.

But it was only a guard passing between the buildings with a pair of inmates, the men?s shadows cast tall by the lowering sun. The shadow that Misto sought was not among them. When, in the softening light, some unease made the men glance up to the roofline they saw only wind-scattered leaves dancing across the shingles.

The men moved on and so did the ghost cat, scanning the walks below him, alert for that errant shade, for the demon that, unlike the cat himself, harbored no trace of goodness. For the wraith that haunted his human companion, that tormented Lee Fontana. In the windows of the prison offices warped reflections moved about as prison staff finished up for the day. He heard the casual click of a door closing but not a stealthy sound. Across the roofs the prairie wind scudded, tickling through his fur, turning him suddenly so giddy that he ran in circles, tail lashing, his yellow eyes gleaming. He played and raced unseen until the light shifted, far clouds dimmed the dropping sun and, sobering, the cat turned steady again and watchful.

Away at the far reaches of the prison grounds the vegetable gardens shone bright green in the sun?s last rays. Ears sharp forward, he surveyed the dim corridors between the young fruit trees that the prisoners tended, but nothing stirred there, he saw no foreign presence. Tail twitching, he looked up past the gardens, out past the prison wall to the blowing wheat that rolled to the horizon. The ghost cat had, earlier in the day, sailed weightless on the wheat?s flowing crest, diving and somersaulting, giddy with play, forgetting his quarry as he reveled in his ghostly powers, in his weightless and windblown freedom. Now he could see nothing spectral waiting there within that golden pelt. Nor did anything unwelcome move among the farm buildings or within the fenced paddocks where the cows and sheep browsed, casting their own docile shadows. The animals remained content, nothing evil lingered among them. They would know, the animals always knew.

The scent of the farm beasts, carried on the wind, comforted the ghost cat. Their warmth and familiarity, their steady and incorruptible innocence were as balm to Misto?s restless nature. He turned away only when the stink of the prison pig farm reached him; he wheeled away then, his lips drawn back in a flehmen grin of disgust.

Galloping across the roofs, he paused to study the lighted factory windows where the inmates produced clothing and shoes and furniture. Nothing seemed amiss within those busy rooms, only the usual whine of machines, the pounding of hammers, and warped movement beyond the glass as the men went about their work. He watched for a few moments more, his ears down to keep out the wind, then headed for the roof of the hospital. There he settled on the shingles, his paws tucked under, to wait for his human cellmate, for crusty old Lee Fontana to finish his daily session with the prison doctor and return to his solitary cell.

But even here, peering down through the hospital windows, still Misto watched for the dark presence that had followed Lee these many years, intent on his destruction. Had followed Lee long before he was transferred here to Springfield Federal Prison. The dark spirit that had followed him across the country from California and, months earlier, had shadowed him as he departed McNeil Island Federal Prison on parole, had followed Lee down the coast of Washington State and Oregon, down into California?s southern desert. Tenacious and devious, hell?s spirit sought to possess and destroy the vulnerable old man, in a vendetta that ranged back three generations of Lee?s family. Back to the time of Lee?s grandpappy, when train robber Russell Dobbs, late in the last century, made a wager withthe devil and won it.

Satan didn?t take kindly to defeat, he hadn?t liked losing that bargain. Russell Dobbs, having miraculously bested the devil at his own game, had brashly stirred Lucifer?s rage. The curse Satan laid on Dobbs?s heirs led the dark spirit, long after Dobbs?s own death, to return again and again into Lee?slife attempting, with each visit, to suck away Lee?s soul, to establish final victory.

So far Lucifer had not won the battle. Often enough he had masterfully tempted Lee, but still he could not possess him. Always, one way or another, Lee resisted. When recently in the California desert Lee had outmaneuvered Satan so stubbornly in a clashing of wills that the devil had drawn back, the cat thought Lee had won at last, he thought that was the end of the devil?s harassment, that Lee would face the haunt no more.

This was not the case. Fairness means nothing to Satan, the devil keeps his own rules. Though there in the desert Lee had clearly bested Lucifer, the wraith wasn?t done with him. The ghost cat had fought beside Lee, as much as one small catcan defy hell?s forces; sometimes they had watched Satan falter, but the battle was far from ended.

The yellow tom had been with Lee for all this present ghostly interval between his earthbound lives, but he had known Lee far longer. Misto had known Lee Fontana before the cat?s previous life ended. The two of them, both loners, had been close at McNeil Island. Misto, the boldest of the motley collection of cats that roamed the prison grounds, had moved as he pleased within the compound, strolling the dining room, demanding food from the friendlier inmates, slipping inand out of the cells as he chose. Though most of the time he remained in Lee?s company, spending his days on the prison farm where Lee had worked as a trustee caring for the milk cows and chickens and sheep, a job Lee much preferred to working indoors in prison industries, where dust and sawdustfrom the machinery irritated his sick lungs.

When, at McNeil, Misto died from the quick but painful complications of old age, Lee, one of the guards, and a cortege of prisoners had buried him outside the prison wall. But even during the ceremony, before the first shovelful of earth tumbled down on his carefully wrapped body, Misto?s spirit had risen up from that somber grave light and free. Riding the breeze above two dozen mourners he had watched his own funeral and listened to his friends? rough eulogies, and the ghost cat had smiled, touched by the men?s awkward sentiment.

As ghost he had remained on McNeil with Lee until Lee was paroled. The old man might be a thief and a train robber, but Misto saw something more. He saw a vulnerability in Lee Fontana, a tenderness that Lee, all his life, had tried to conceal. The ghost cat saw qualities within the old convict that made him purr, that kept him close, determined to shield Lee from the fate the dark prince held in store for the crusty old train robber. When Lee was paroled, Misto followed him off the island. Balanced invisibly on the rail of the prison launch that carried them across Puget Sound, amused by the icy spray in his face, the ghost cat raced along the rail as the boat plied the rough, deep waters drawing near to the small town of Steilacoom, to the railway stop where Lee would board his train for California.

Once Lee was settled on the southbound train, claiming a long bench seat for himself, the ghost cat had moved invisibly through the rocking cars staring up at the passengers and nosing into their lunch bags. But soon enough he had returned to Lee to curl up beside him on the cracked leather seat. It was a long journey. Misto had napped close to Lee but then, when he grew bored, he would drift up through the iron roof to ride atop the train; galloping the length of the racing cars in the gusting wind, Misto was part of the wind. As ghost, the small spirit was far more frivolous than ever he had been as a living, earthbound tomcat.

That had been only a few months back, in early March, when Lee headed down the West Coast to take a job in the Coachella Valley at the parole board?s direction, working one of the vast vegetable farms that fed half of California. Leaving Steilacoom, their train had swayed along beside the sea through green pastures and through small cozy towns dwarfed by Washington?s snowcapped peaks. When, along the ever-changing coastline, flocks of birdsexploded away, the cat leaped after them into the wind, diving and banking, gulping the small, winged morsels as a hawk or eagle might feast.

Only near the end of their three-day journey did the land abruptly change. As they moved south through green miles of orange and avocado groves, suddenly the groves ended. They were racing across pale, dry desert. As they descended a rocky, parched mountain the ghost cat crowded between Lee and the window, watching the flat desert, dry as bone, stretching to the horizon.

But soon, startling them both, the sandy expanse was broken by green farms laid out in emerald squares on the pale bare desert. A patchwork of vegetable fields, each as lush as a jungle, where river water fed the land, water piped in from the great Colorado. They could see men with trucks and tractors working the fields, harvesting rich crops of beans, melons, strawberries, and produce Lee couldn?t name?but the ghost cat, ascending again to the top of the train for a wider look, was suddenly engulfed in blackness. Darkness hid the sun and from it a man-shape emerged towering over him, its eyes gleaming.

Hissing, the cat stood his ground, ears back, teeth bared.?What do you want?? He had no physical power over the wraith, he had only the power of the spirit?his will against Satan?s eternal and devious lust. ?You?ve done your work,? Misto growled, ?or tried to. You?ve made your pitch too many times over the years. Every time, you?ve failed. At none of the crimes you?ve laid out have you succeeded in corrupting Lee. Whatever robbery he undertook, he did it his way, not yours.?

His yellow eyes raked the devil.?You think the curse you laid on Lee?s family is still to be won? No,? the tomcat rumbled. ?You?ve failed in your vow to take down the heir of Russell Dobbs, you?re the loser. Go torture someone else, you have no business here.?

Satan?s smile made the cat?s fur stand rigid, but the next moment the wraith was gone, vanished, his lingering look of promise stirring a shiver along the tomcat?s spine.

It was only a few weeks later that Lucifer appeared on the farm where Lee was working. Again, after weeks of sparring, Lee refused to commit the crime Satan pressed on him. It was that refusal that had led Lee here to Springfield. Lee had chosen, against the devil?s seduction, a robbery that, instead of maiming and destroying lives, would harm no one. Scoffing at the devil, he had devised a foolproof alibi that would remove him from the crime scene but leave him with a wealth of stolen cash. And that would burden him with only a few months? prison time ona less serious misdemeanor.

But even then, the wraith continued to torment Lee. And, as well, to ply his evil on the little child back in Georgia who was the other half of the puzzle that so fascinated the ghost cat, the child about whom Lee knew nothing.

Though in a previous life Misto had lived with Sammie, had been her own cat, she was still a mystery to him. He knew only that there was, somehow, an inexplicable connection between nine-year-old Sammie Blake and Lee Fontana.

Lee, nearly all his life, had carried with him the small framed photograph of his little sister Mae, taken some sixty years ago on the Dakota ranch. Mae was eight then, and Lee was twelve. He carried the picture when he left the ranch, a boy of sixteen setting out to conquer the world. Setting out to learn, on his own, to rob the steam trains as skillfully as Russell Dobbs could ever do. Lee didn?t seek to join Dobbs or to find him, Dobbs would have had none of that. To him Lee was only a boy.

Lee hadn?t seen Mae since he?d left the ranch; he?d seen none of his family again and didn?t know if they were still alive, except for his granddaddy. The legends and stories he heard of Dobbs?s feats, and the newspaper headlines, were fodder to his young mind. But, like Dobbs, Lee was a loner. He hadgone his way, and the rest of his family had gone theirs. Still, he thought about Mae often and always carried the small tintype wrapped in cloth, bent from being stuffed into a saddlebag or in his pocket.

It was only the ghost cat who knew and worried over the likeness between Lee?s little sister of some sixty years gone, and the child now in Georgia, the child Misto loved and had so recently lived with. The mirror images shared by the two children teased at the tomcat. But even now, as a ghost with his wider vision, he was not all-seeing: The puzzle was as stubborn as a knot of tangled yarn.

Was there a connection between the two children? How could there not be when they were so alike, and when fate had put them both so close to Misto as he moved through time and space? It seemed to him that Lee, and present-day Sammie Blake, were being inexorably drawn together; he felt himself part of a drama that was only beginning to play out. A pattern was forming within the vastness of eternity, but he didn?t know why. Were these events driven by the will of the dark one? Or were they happening in defiance of Satan?s efforts? That was the heart of the question.

Misto?s short life in Georgia occurred between the moment he died at McNeil Island and the instant that he, moving back in time, rose from his own grave as a ghost cat. A whole life lived outside the linear view of time. He was given to Sammie when she was five, when her daddy first went in the navy. Now, as a spirit, he saw his various lives floating on the realm of eternity as fishing skiffs might float rocking and shifting on an endless sea.

Now, stepping off the hospital roof, Misto rode the wind, floating along peering in through the rows of windows, one window to the next until he found Lee in a small examining room. There he rested on the fitful breeze, watching.

The old convict looked so vulnerable sitting on the metal table with his shirt off, his thin, ropy shoulders, his chest ivory white and frail. But his lower arms, his neck and wrinkled face were hard-looking, tanned to leather. Dr. Donovan, stethoscope in hand, was listening to Lee?s lungs. Ed Donovan was young and lean, short blond hair, deep blue eyes. He was a runner, Misto would see him of an early morning circling the paths inside the prison complex, his pale hair mussed, his pace easy. He was patient with Lee, and at each visit he seemed to read precisely Lee?s stateof health, even before he examined the old man. He could tell by Lee?s expression, and the way he moved, how Lee felt, though he always did examine him, designing Lee?s treatments according to what he observed. Under Donovan?s guidance, Misto thought Lee would grow as healthy as he could ever expect to be, considering the debilitation caused by the emphysema.

The cat thought about Lee?s hope that within a few months, under the good care at Springfield, he would be pronounced healthy, would be discharged from the federal medical facility, would be back on parole heading for Blythe to retrieve the stolen money and then down to Mexico beyond easy reach of the feds.

Misto didn?t think so. Trying to see the future, he felt his fur crawl. He sensed a far longer journey ahead, a more complicated and dangerous tangle than Lee dreamed before he reached California again to claim the treasure. Misto?s fragmented glimpses into the future were often like the abandoned skiffsinhigh water, visible for only an instant: the shadow of a prow or of a coiled line obscured by engulfing waves. Now the yellow tom prayed for the old train robber in the journey that lay ahead; he prayed that Lee might find a new kind of treasure, more tender than Lee would ever imagine.

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 saidhe 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. Andyou 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?dbeen 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 andsteady 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 usethe 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 thesea.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 areyou 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 thanany 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 ownhome, 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.

3

MISTO, WAITING ON the roof for his prisonmate to leave the doctor?s office, was half asleep when he sensed Lee?s departure. He didn?t see Lee emerge from the building but he could hear his footsteps. The old convict had moved down the inner stairs into one of the subterranean passages that connected most of the buildings. His steady pace echoed along the tunnel from the hospital to the building that held the dining room, the kitchen, the big auditorium, and the prison library.

Lee had found, early on, that not only was the library a comfortable retreat but that librarian Nancy Trousdale, with her bobbed gray hair and laughing brown eyes, was nice to be around. She knew her collection, and the shelves held a surprising number of nonfiction books for inmates with a variety of interests, whether from their own professional backgrounds or prisoners planning to branch out into new endeavors. On Lee?s first visit Nancy had guided him to exactly the history section he wanted. She made Lee feel at home as he pursued information about the old train robbers of the last century, looking for mention of his grandpappy. She had helped him find a surprising number of volumes about Russell Dobbs?s time, many with a wealth of information on Russell himself. There were clear descriptions of Russell?s train robberies plus a number of tall tales about the old robber and the devil, stories that Lee knew were more than fiction.

As the ghost cat prowled the library, invisible to Nancy and to the inmates reading at the various tables, Lee moved to the desk to return four books. Nancy looked up at him, smiling as she retrieved three new books that she?d saved for him. ?You?re looking fine, Fontana. Our weather agrees with you??

?The weather,? Lee said, ?the good food?and the good company,? he said, giving her a wink.

?And you?re finding what you want about Russell Dobbs??

?Thanks to you,? Lee said.

?He was a colorful man. You have me reading about him, too. Colorful and bold, a good man to have onyour side,? she said shyly. ?According to the folktales about him, as well as his history, he was bold enough to face up to true evil.?

They exchanged the friendly look of a shared interest; Lee checked out his books, gave her a parting smile, and headed back to his room. Misto followed and passed Lee, a breath of warm wind brushing Lee?s face. The tomcat was crouched on the windowsill when Lee came in, but not until Lee shut the door did the cat materialize, first his furry yellow tail lashing against the barred pane, his whiskers curved in a sly smile, then the rest of him.

Lee laid his books on the small night table and stretched out on the bed. As he doubled the pillow behind him and selected a heavy volume, the cat leaped to the blanket and settled against his knee. Lee checked the index, found the sections on Dobbs, and marked them with some torn slips of paper that he kept on the nightstand. He knew well enough the more spectacular events of his grandpappy?s history, the tales that had been told over campfires or were in the local papers. What he was looking for were the periods in Russell?s life that, whenever he?d asked questions of his mother or Pa, they would ignore and abruptly change the subject to something more ?respectable.? Lee had wanted, even as a child, to understand better the long-standing curse on Russell. He hadn?t known, then, that this curse would spill over to harass him as well.

He?d been twelve years old that morning on their South Dakota ranch when he stood beside his grandpappy watching Satan?s shadow move across the open prairie.

No figure walked there, only the tall, drifting shadow where there should be no blemish against the pale ground and cloudless sky. The haunt had frightened Russell?s horse so he reared back where he was tied and broke his reins, and had made the steers in the pasture wheel away running. The shadow had frightened Lee?s grandpappy in a way Lee would never have guessed. It was the only time ever that he?d seen Russell Dobbs show fear

But Russell was his idol. Lee had put aside his grandpappy?s unease, had put aside the strangeness of that day. As Lee grew older he?d patterned his life on that of Russell Dobbs. Before he was twenty-one, most often working alone, he had taken down some nice hauls of cash?and spent most of the money as fast as he stole it, on women, cards, and whiskey.

Only when the old steam trains began to vanish, replaced by diesels too fast for any horseman, did Russell change his methods. He took on a few partners and moved into the new era. But Lee didn?t like the diesels; he stuck to the few steam trains remaining, on the smaller lines. He had stayed away from the large and vicious train gangs that Russell sometimes confronted. Detective Pinkerton had long ago become a whole army of Pinkertons, and for a long while Russell avoided them, too, ashe avoided the shadow that hounded him.

The cat looked down from the dresser at Lee so deeply lost in tales of the past century, then nosed with curiosity at the picture of Lee?s little sister that Lee had placed beside the lamp, the tintype of Mae taken some sixty years ago, the picture that could easily be of Misto?s own Sammie.

Sometimes in Misto?s spirit life distant events came to him clearly; other times they remained uncertain, endlessly frustrating. Lee knew nothing of Sammie Blake, but Misto felt clearly that the child and the old man would meet.

The ghost cat lost in speculation, and Lee lost in the past, were jerked back to the present when the noon whistle blasted.

Carefully closing the book, Lee rose, washed his hands and face, and headed out to the mess hall. Misto, leaping on the bed, knowing Lee would return to his room directly after lunch for the noon count, pawed out a warm nest among the covers and snuggled down, purring. A count was taken every morning, another after lunch, a third count before supper. Lee had no work detail at Springfield. It still amused Lee and amused Misto that the prison work, the gardening and kitchen, the farm work, the cleaning and maintenance was handled by trusties from other prisons. Men assigned from Leavenworth, from El Reno, or from the Atlanta Pen, first offenders chosen as the most responsible among their prison populations.

Once Lee had left for lunch, closing the door behind him, the cat?s thoughts turned back to Georgia where the murder trial of Sammie?s daddy was about to begin. The tomcat was well aware of Morgan Blake?s arrest. He knew Morgan hadn?t committed the murder he was charged with, he had suffered with Sammie when her daddy was jailed. He didn?t doubt this trial would herald a painful time in the lives of the Blake family; he didn?t like to think what life would be like if Morgan was found guilty and sent to federal prison on a life sentence. Bank robbery and murder weren?t looked upon kindly in rural Georgia. Morgan was just a young man, a clean-living, hardworking man who did not deserve the bad luck, the cold and deliberate evil that now surrounded him and his family.

The ghost cat, vanishing and reappearing as he pleased, visited Sammie often. He would snuggle into her dreams at night and into her arms to comfort her. Though he remained unseen, Sammie stroked and cuddled him, put out a finger to feel his soft paw or gently scratched his ragged ears the way she?d done when he was alive. She didn?t question that he was a ghost, she loved and needed him. But when, deep in the night, Sammie slept soundly, at peace again, Misto would return to Lee.

Often at night Misto was filled with Lee?s sickness; he could feel within his own body Lee?s struggle for breath, his fear of what lay ahead, his desperate bouts of depression. And often at night Misto puzzled mightily over the connection between Mae and Sammie. Always the future blurred, as undefined as if the dark spirit himself had stepped between the ghost cat and whatever beckoned, whatever waited for Lee.

4

LATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT shone in through the Blakes? living room windows, brightening the white wicker furniture and flowered cushions, the potted red geraniums on the sill, the hooked rug Becky?s mother had made. Slanting sunlight heightened the carved details of the antique pie safe that had belonged to a great-aunt Becky had never known. Allher treasures gathering the afternoon glow would normally comfort her, warm and welcoming; but now, at this moment, Becky?s beloved retreat seemed close and constricting, the colors too bright, the sunlight brassy. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair like a stranger in her own house, holding her white purse awkwardly on her knees, her dark hair damp with perspiration. She had no idea how long she had sat there. Thinking too much and then not thinking at all, just sitting, numb and unfeeling, incapable of thought.

The trial was over. After a long and shattering three days in the hot, crowded courtroom, Morgan had been found guilty on one count of murder, three counts of assault and attempted murder, and one count of armed robbery, sentence to be pronounced after an extended noon break.

During the trial she hadn?t slept much at night, had lain awake staring into the dark, unable to deal with the concept of a death sentence. Praying,praying it would at least be a life sentence, but then wondering what that would do to Morgan. Wondering if all the rest of his life spent in prison was better than death, when he had done nothing? When he had not killed that man?

In court this afternoon waiting for the judge to pronounce sentence she had been so shaky and so terribly cold. She had attended all of the trial alone, unwilling to bring Sammie into the courtroom, make the child listen to the ugly accusations. Alone, she had listened as Morgan received sentence. Life plus twenty-five years.

She didn?t remember leaving the building. The last formalities of the trial had swirled around her without meaning. She had been allowed to embrace Morgan and kiss him awkwardly as he stood handcuffed and desolate between the two guards. He had been taken away to a cell, shackled and helpless. He would bedriven to Atlanta tomorrow morning, in a U.S. marshal?s car. She and Sammie must be there by eight if they were to say good-bye. A few minutes with him at the jail before he was taken away. After that she and Sammie would see him only when they drove down to Atlanta to visit with him like a stranger inside the prison walls.

She felt uncertain about taking Sammie to the jail in the morning to say good-bye. Sammie having to part with him there behind bars, part with him maybe forever. But how could she not take her? The child had a right to be there no matter how painful the parting. To be excluded would be far more heartbreaking.

She didn?t remember coming home after the sentencing. She remembered coming in the house, sitting down in the chair. She didn?t know how long she had sat there, but evening was falling, the sun slanting low. She had not gone to her mother?s, where she and Sammie were staying. She?d needed to pull herself together before she faced Sammie, before she went to tell Sammie.

Tell her they must begin now to live the rest of their lives without him.

Unless they could get an appeal, could win an appeal. That was the only chance they had. The only chance for Morgan to come home, to ever set foot inside his own house again, for him to live his life in freedom, the only chance for them to hold each other close, to be a family again.

Was he never again to play ball with Sammie, take her to the automotive shop to hand him his tools, as she so loved to do? Tomorrow he would leave Rome for the last time, to be locked in that vast concrete prison that rose on the south side of Atlanta, its high gray walls austere and forbidding, its guard towers catching light where loaded rifles shone in the hands of grim-faced guards. The world they had built together had ended. Their family?s carefully nurtured life, their gentle protection of one another against whatever chaos existed in the world, had all been for nothing. Morgan?s war years fighting against the tyranny of Japan and Germany, his safe return, had been for nothing.

But, she thought, Morgan?s contribution to his country, to America?s successful campaigns, had not been for nothing. And yet now, after all he had given, Morgan himself had been betrayed.

The jury of their own neighbors had believed?all of them believed?that Morgan had murdered the bank guard, had beaten those women and taken the bank money. The jury?s unanimous vote was beyond her comprehension. Such unfairness didn?t happen, not under the free government which, in the war, Morgan and so many men had fought to preserve. Morgan faced the rest of his life behind prison walls for crimes he?d had nothing to do with, to be harried by armed guards, harassed and maybe beaten by other prisoners, at the mercy of men as vicious as caged beasts. He didn?t belong in there, she didn?t want him in there; she wanted to scream and never stop screaming, wanted to put her fist through the window and smash it, hurt and bloody herself. She wanted to arm herself and find Brad Falon and kill him, wanted to destroy Falon just as he had destroyed Morgan and shattered the life of their little girl. Shewould kill him, except for Sammie, for what that would do to Sammie.

Falon had always been hateful. When they were kids in high school Morgan hadn?t seen how twisted Falon was, he?d seen Falon?s adventurous side, his boldness, had admired Brad Falon for the brash things he did that Morgan was reluctant to do. Though Morgan hadn?t wanted Falon hanging around her. She?d never told Morgan the extent of Falon?s unwanted attention when he found her alone; she?d tried never to be alone with him. Falon was possessed of a cruelty that she guessed some young men, with all that animal energy, found exciting. They were halfway through high school before Morgan realized how twisted Falon was and backed off, leaving Falon to pull his petty thefts alone. But after Morgan left for the navy, Falon started coming around, increasingly pushy, refusing to leave her alone. He had frightened her then. Now he terrified her.

There was no doubt Falon had set Morgan up, had drugged him, left him unconscious in Morgan?s own car that afternoon. Had left him parked there in the woods overnight while Falon himself, disguised as Morgan, had walked into the bank, killed the guard, beaten the bank clerks, locked them in the vault and walked out with the money. Falon?s planted evidence, the scattered hundred-dollar bills and canvas bank bag in Morgan?s car, had incriminated Morgan well enough, coupled with Morgan?s inability to remember where he?d been all afternoon and night. Though it was Natalie Hooper?s testimony that, in the end, had sealed the conviction.

Anyone with common sense could see that the woman was lying, but the jury hadn?t seen it. Gullible and unthinking, they had bought Natalie?s story that Falon had spent the afternoon and all night with her, in her apartment. It was Natalie?s lies that the jury believed. That fact alone left Becky hating her neighbors.

Rome was a small town, everyone knew Morgan, knew he was a good man, knew how hard he worked at the automotive shop he had built. And everyone knew Brad Falon, knew he?d been in trouble all through school, had been in Juvenile Hall and later in prison. Everyone knew that Falon meant trouble, and that Natalie wasn?t much better. What dark and twisted leverage, what illusion, had been at work in the courtroom while that slovenly woman occupied the witness stand?That slattern with her wild black hair and tight skirts and jangling jewelry who had already gone through three husbands and a dozen lovers? What magnetism had been in play among the unseeing jury of townspeople, of six men and six women, to make them believe Natalie, to allow her to successfullyhoodwink them?

Becky didn?t know how she was going to tell Sammie that her daddy wasn?t coming home. She felt drained, wanted to be with her own mother, wanted Caroline to hold and comfort her as if she herself were a child again. Wanted Caroline to reassure and strengthen her as they must now support Sammie. She wanted to be the little girl again, to be held and soothed, to be told what to do, told how to live her life, now that they were alone.

After the verdict Becky had phoned Caroline from the glassed-in phone booth at the courthouse, trying not to cry. Later, after the sentencing, she had phoned her mother again, had stood with her back to the glass door that faced the courthouse hallway, avoiding the eyes of her neighbors as they crowded out of the courtroom glancing at her with righteous or with embarrassed stares. She had wanted only to be away from them, to remove herself even from the few awkward attempts at sympathy. She hated her neighbors, she hated the jury that was made up of her neighbors, she hated the courts, hated the judge, the police, hated the damned attorney who had lost for them.

Sitting rigid on the edge of the chair, she thought of making herself a cup of tea. She hadn?t eaten since last night, but she didn?t care enough to get up and put the kettle on or to rummage in the refrigerator for something she thought she could keep down. She needed to pull herself together, needed to go on over to her mother?s and tell Sammie. She didn?t know how to face Sammie, didn?t known how to present the truth to her. Even if she talked about an appeal, tried to say he might be coming home, that wouldn?t be straightforward, the hope was too slim. If one attorney couldn?t win for them, how could another? She and Morgan had always been honest with Sammie. With the perceptive dreams Sammie had, one couldn?t be otherwise, couldn?t sidestep the true facts even though they were painful.

Sammie knew as well as she did that Brad Falon had set Morgan up, that the child feared and hated Falon and with good cause. While Morgan was overseas Falon broke into their house, terrified them both, and killed Sammie?s cat: Sammie knew too well what he was. The fact thatthis man had destroyed her daddy made the blow all the more frightening. That night when he broke in, Sammie?s yellow tomcat had leaped on Falon and done considerable damage before Falon killed him with a shard of broken glass. Sammie had never gotten over Misto?s death, she still dreamed of him. Sometimes she imagined he was there in bed snuggled close to her, she imagined that Misto?s ghost had come back to her. But lots of children had imaginary companions. The dreams comforted Sammie, and they hurt no one.

It was Sammie?s dreams of future events that were upsetting. Powerful predictions that, days or weeks later, would turn out to come true: the courthouse fire that Sammie dreamed in surprising detail exactly as it would later happen, its fallen brick walls, every detail occurring just as she?d seen.

There were happy dreams, too, the birth of the neighbor?s kittens, each with the same exact coloring that Sammie saw in her dream. But then had come the terrifying nightmare that brought Sammie up screaming that her daddy had been arrested and shoved behind bars, that he had been locked in a cell by the very officers who had been Morgan?s friends. That was the beginning. It had all happened, the robbery, Morgan?s arrest, Morgan locked in jail just as she?d dreamed.

On the witness stand, Falon told the jury that, originally, Morgan had driven over to look at Falon?s stalled Ford coupe, which was parked in front of Natalie?s apartment building. He said Morgan had noted the parts he must order and then had left, saying he was going back to the shop. Morgan?s mechanic testified that Morgan had never returned there, that at closing time he?d locked the shopup himself and gone home.

Falon said when Morgan came to look at his car he had acted nervous and seemed anxious to get away. He said he?d gone back upstairs to Natalie?s after Morgan left. Said he?d come down again shortly before three, walked across the street to the corner store and bought some candy and gum. The shopkeeper had testified to that, he said he?d seen Falon go back to the apartment building and in the front door. Falon testified that he had been with Natalie the rest of the afternoon and all night. When Natalie took the stand to corroborate his testimony she had blushed and tried to act shy that they had spent the night together. Right, Becky had thought angrily, and how many dozen other men over the years.

The court had allowed Becky to sit at the table with Morgan and Sed Williams, their attorney. She?d had a hard time avoiding the stares of the packed gallery. She had listened to the bank tellers identify Morgan?s voice, identify his hands with the thin lines of grease that clung in deep creases and around his nails, from his work in the auto shop when he forgot to wear gloves. The empty bootleg whiskey bottle the police found in Morgan?s car had Morgan?s fingerprints on it. Everyone in town knew that Morgan and she didn?t drink. A shopkeeper across the street from the bank had heard the shots, had seen Morgan?s car pull away, and had written down the license number.

Why couldn?t the jury see that Falon had planted it all? Why couldn?t they see that? Her helplessness there in the courtroom, her inability to speak up and correct this evil, had made her physically ill.

Now, when she rose from the wicker chair to go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, her stomach twisted so hard that she ran for the bathroom. She threw up in the sink, angrily cleaned the sink and scrubbed it with cleanser, then began to pace the house, living room to the two small bedrooms to kitchen, then back again, aimless and lost, desperate with rage.

An appeal was the only chance they had, was all they had to cling to. She had to think about that. How to get the money together? The best way to find a more competent attorney. She shouldn?t have hired Williams; he was too quiet, too low-key. She had thought he was a family friend, that he really cared about Morgan and would work hard for him. She?d thought that his quiet, professional manner in the courtroom would help them get to the truth. But when he had a witness on the standshe?d seen how weak he was, with no ability to defend his client.

She didn?t know how to start an appeal. She didn?t know if there was a waiting period, didn?t know how appeals worked. She?d been so sure Morgan would be acquitted that she hadn?t bothered to find out. She had to find a new attorney and figure out how to pay him. They?d bought the house after Morgan went in the navy, with the smallest payments they could obtain. Maybe she could get a second mortgage or borrow money on the shop. She wanted an attorney who would dig harder, a man strong enough to make a new jury see the truth. She tried to cheer herself that an appeal would end the nightmare, that Morgan would be out soon, that it wouldn?t be long and he?d be home again. Meantime she could run the shop just fine. Albert, the new mechanic, was a skilled worker even if he was dull about everything else. She knew she could take on more bookkeeping jobs, she always had a waiting list.Sammie would be in school, and she?d have plenty of time to work. Long empty nights in which to work. Long, empty weekends.

She supposed, if they were to get a new trial, there would have to be new evidence. Where and how would she, or even a new attorney, find evidence after the police had been over everything, had collected and presented in court all the evidence to be found? She stood in the middle of the living room frantic with fear, her mind circling like a caged animal searching for a way to escape.

At last she picked up her purse and headed for Mama?s, to tell Sammie what must be told. Try to explain to her nine-year-old child that the law, which was meant to protect them, had turned against them. That the grown-ups on the jury whom Sammie knew and trusted, did not believe her daddy, that the whole town had betrayed him.

5

IN THE VISITING room of the Rome jail, Morgan stiffened as two deputy U.S. marshals pulled him away from Becky and Sammie. It took all the resolve he had not to fight them as they jerked his arms behind him, snapped on handcuffs and forced him toward the door. The time was eight-fifteen, the morning after he was sentenced in Rome?s U.S. courthouse by the town?s one federal judge. He and Becky and Sammie had been allowed only a few moments to say good-bye, the three of them clinging together. As if they might form an unbreakable chain that could never be wrenched apart. Sammie, when she looked up at him, was so vulnerableand perplexed. He knew Becky had debated a long time whether to bring her this morning. But the pain Sammie was experiencing now was preferable to his being taken away without seeing her, to Sammie learning later that Morgan was gone for good, that he might never come home again.

From the hall, he looked back for as long as he could see them, Sammie biting her lip, the tears streaming down. Becky stone-faced, holding the child close, trying not to cry. Then he couldn?t see them anymore, he was forced down the hall, through the jail?s back door and into the backseat of a U.S. marshal?s car. A heavy metal grid separated him from the front seat as if, despite handcuffs and a belly chain, they thought he would attack the driver from the rear.

In the backseat of the official vehicle, handcuffed to a second deputy, he watched the driver get settled, listened to the engine of the heavy Packard start up smooth and powerful. As the black car headed through Rome in the direction of Atlanta, he imagined Becky and Sammie getting in their car, holding each other, comforting each other. Imagined them driving the few blocks to Caroline?s, and he was mighty glad for Becky?s strong and caring mother.

Becky had been so still during the trial, sitting near him at the attorney?s table, never moving, and so very pale. After the verdict, when he was back in his cell he kept reliving that moment: ?Life and twenty-five years, life and twenty-five years.? He kept seeing her face, closed and still, trying to hide the pain. Kept seeing the faces of his neighbors, membersof his church, his automotive customers?the hard faces of strangers. In less than four weeks from the day Falon walked into the shop asking Morgan to come look at his car, nearly the whole town had turned against them. Their lives had been blown away as thoroughly as a landing craft sunk by a destroyer.

During the two-hour ride to Atlanta, handcuffed to the deputy marshal, he experienced every bitter emotion, desolation, helplessness, a violent rage that he had no way to act upon. He had always viewed the U.S. legal system as carefully designed to protect honest men, to confine those who threatened ordered society. How dumb was that?

If a federal jury could do this to an innocent man, what other destruction might the courts be capable of?

He and Becky had made their marriage vows for life; they had joined as a team not to be parted. Now Morgan himself, in one moment of bad judgment, had wrenched their family apart. In going with Falon to look at his car, he had broken all his promises to Becky and had shattered their little girl?s life. Now, if he hadn?t been chained he would have tried to grab the deputy?s weapon, would have done his best to break away and get the hell out of there. Watching the thin, scowling deputy, he grew increasingly restive. Only when the deputy?s hand edged toward his gun did Morgan try tosit easier. These men didn?t know him, they didn?t know what he might try. He was dealing with a different world now. He had no rights anymore. He would soon be surrounded by guards like these who lived by power, and by inmates just as power hungry, and he?d sure have to watch himself.

After the trial he had suggested to Becky that she file for divorce, that she try to make a new life for herself and Sammie. Her face had gone red with anger, her eyes blazing, then she had clung to him, weeping. Not since a mortar shell had ripped through the hull of his ship in the Pacific, the water gushing in through splintered metal, had he realized how frail and precious life was. Falon?s deliberate destruction of their lives had been as brutal as any enemy attack.

They entered the outskirts of Atlanta, passed the Fox Theater and then the hotel where he and Becky had had dinner before he left with the navy. She?d ended up crying halfway through the meal. The future then, as he went off to war, had seemed irrevocably black and empty.

He?d come home from that one?but maybe he?d had better odds, even in war, than he had now.

South of Atlanta the modest little houses gave way to mottled fields and then the Federal Pen loomed, tall and gray and cold, its fortress face and guard towers challenging all comers. Parking their black limo before the front door, the deputies pulled him out, forced him up the steps and inside.

He was booked and told to strip. His clothes were taken away, and a guard searched the cavities of his body, stirring his rage. He showered as he was told. He dressed in the prison blues he was issued, then moved into the cellblock followed by a guard. The cells stood five tiers high. He climbed the narrow metal stairs to the third level, walked ahead of the guard along the steel catwalk. He was locked into a single cell, and was grateful for that. He hoped he wouldn?t be moved later into one of the bigger cells with multiple cots and with unrestrained roommates. Sitting down on his narrow bunk, he didn?t look at the men in the cells across the way, didn?t make eye contact. Some of them watched him idly; others stared directly at him, caged predators assessing new prey.

6

THE NIGHT BEFORE Sammie said good-bye to Daddy she dreamed she was there in the police station. Sleeping next to Mama, Misto close in her arms, she saw their good-bye there in the jail and she hugged Misto tight, trying not to cry and wake Mama.

?It will be all right,? Misto murmured, his whiskers tickling her ear. ?It isn?t over, Sammie. Your daddy will be all right.?

?The cowboy will come?? Sammie whispered. ?He will help Daddy??

?You dreamed he would,? Misto said.

She hadn?t answered, she?d hugged the big cat tight and he pressed his cool nose against her cheek. ?You are my Sammie, you will endure.? He purred against her so hard she thought his rumble would wake Mama, but it didn?t, she was too tired from the courtroom trial.

?It must have been ugly and mean,? she whispered, ?if Mama wouldn?t take me.?

?It was ugly. But your daddy will prevail, and so will you.? And Misto had leaped from her arms, raced around the night-dim room, raced up the curtains never moving them and making no sound, only delighting Sammie. He sailed from the curtain rod to the dresser with not a stir of air, then to the top of the open closet door and back to the bed, then up, up to the ceiling. His joy and wildness, his cat-madness made her want to race and fly with him, and maybe that would make the pain go away. He sailed around the room twice, then pounced down again and snuggled close, still and warm againsther, purring and purring. Misto was with her all the rest of the night, snuggled in her arms. In the morning when she and Mama drove to the jail she knew he was near; sometimes she could feel his whiskers on her cheek or feel a brush of fur, and that helped her to be strong for Daddy.

At the jail when they said good-bye she clung to Daddy and so did Mama but that cop pulled him away and forced him from the room. She could see Daddy?s anger, she knew he wanted to fight them but what good would it do? They?d hardly had time to hug each other and then he was gone, was marched away down the hall. He glanced back once, then she and Mama were alone. Everything was empty, the whole world empty. She felt Misto?s warmth againsthercheek, but now even her loving cat couldn?t help.

?You know we?ll visit him at the prison,? Mama said. ?They have visiting hours, we?ll be with him then.?

?In a cage,? Sammie said. ?We can?tbe with him at home. We have tovisit Daddy, like a stranger in acage.?

Another cop walked them out to the front door. They crossed the parking lot, got in their car and sat holding each other. Mama tried to stop crying but she couldn?t. Sammie pressed so close that when Mama started the car she could hardly drive; she drove one-handed, her arm tight around Sammie. Sammie was nine but she felt like a tiny child, pressing her face against Mama. Now, without Daddy, they weren?t a family, they needed to be together to be a real family. When Daddy went overseas, when she was little, he told her he was going to fight for freedom. Freedom for their world, he said. Freedom for their country and for every person in it. But instead of freedom for all, like the history books said, those people in the federal court and even their own neighbors had stolen her daddy?s freedom from him, and Daddy had done nothing wrong.

Ever since the trial began, she and Mama had stayed with Grandma, and Sammie had been with Grandma every day. Mama didn?t want her in school, when Brad Falon with the narrow eyes might still be in town, might follow her. And where the kids would bully her and say her daddy was guilty.

During the trial Grandma had gone right on running her baking business; she said the money she made was even more important now, and you couldn?t just tell longtime customers there would be no more pies and cakes until the trial was over. Grandma said that would lose all her good customers and she had already lost some of them because of what people thought Daddy had done. Grandma was up every morning at three; the smell of baking alwayswoke Sammie. A lady came in to help her, and once the cakes and pies and bread were out and cooling they would stop long enough to make breakfast, but Sammie could never eat very much. Later when the cakes were iced and everything was boxed and ready, Sammie would ride with Grandma in the van to deliver them to the local restaurants. And every night, during the trial, Misto was with her.

Now, after saying good-bye to Daddy they came in the house, through the closed-in porch, and straight into Grandma Caroline?s arms. They stood in the middle of the living room clinging together hugging each other, needing each other, hurting and lost.

The whole house smelled of sausage biscuits. In the kitchen, Grandma had already poured a cup of hot tea for Mama and milk for Sammie. Grandma always wore jeans, and this morning a faded plaid shirt covered by a bright apron of patchwork, one of the aprons she liked to sew late at night when she couldn?t sleep. She must be awake a lot because she sure had a lot of aprons, all as bright as picture books.

CAROLINETANNERWORE no makeup, her high coloring and short, dark hair needing no enhancement. She set a tray of sausage biscuits on the table beside a strawberry shortcake. Comfort food, Becky thought, watching her mother, never ceasing to wonder at her calm strength. Becky had been seven when her father was killed in a tractor accident. Two weeks after the funeral Caroline began baking and selling her goods. She was a Rome girl, and the town had given her its support. They had lived on what she made, Becky and her two brothers helping all they could.

Becky was ten, her brother Ron twelve and James fifteen when Caroline got a loan from the bank and extended the kitchen of their little house into a bigger and more efficient bakery and storeroom. Becky and her brothers had helped the carpenter after school and on weekends, as he built and dried in the new walls, then tore out the original walls. The children had learned how to paint properly, how to clean their tools, and her brothers had learned how to plaster. After the stainless steel counters were installed, and the two big commercial refrigerators and two sinks, they had taken the bakery van into Atlanta and brought home the new ovens, the big stovetop, and the smaller commercial appliances. The big window over the sink looked out on the side yard beneath a pair of live oak trees.

Before the remodel, Caroline had done all her baking in their small, inadequate kitchen, her equipment and trays of baked goods spilling over into the dining room, where cookies and breads and cakes cooled on racks, along with those already boxed and ready for delivery. The two iceboxes never had enough space for the salads and casseroles for the parties that Caroline catered. Their own simple meals had been eaten in the living room, worked around the urgent business of making a living. When the new bakery was finished, they?d had a little party, just the four of them, to celebrate the new and more accommodating kitchen, to reclaim their own house.

Within three years Caroline had paid off the van and equipment and could hire more help for the catered weddings and parties, though still, the whole family pitched in for those. All the years Becky was growing up, her mother would be out of bed and dressed by three in the morning, rolling out pie crusts, baking cakes. Becky?s brothers made breakfast until Becky was old enough to cook. Her brothers, as soon as they could drive legally, had done the bakery deliveries before school.

Becky missed her brothers. Even after Ron was killed in the Pacific, she still felt often that he was near her. And though their older brother, James, was still in Japan he was close to them, he liked to write home of that very different part of the world. She looked forward to his return next year when his tour of duty ended.

By the time Becky turned sixteen and got her driver?s license, her brothers had moved on with their lives. She had felt very grown-up, handling the deliveries herself, before and after school. She had helped with them after she and Morgan were married, until Sammie was born. Even during the war years Caroline made an adequate living, using specialrecipes that took little of the precious rationed sugar but were still delicious.

Now, at forty-eight, Caroline was as energetic and slim as ever, a tall, strong woman whom Becky, at this time in her life, deeply envied. She wished she had half her mother?s resilience, wished she could follow better Caroline?s hardheaded approach to life. Caroline Tanner had always tackled problems head-on, stubbornly weighing each possible solution, choosing the most viable one, then plunging ahead with no holds barred. If Caroline had tears during those hard years, she cried them in private.

They were halfway through supper when Caroline said,?The next thing is to go for an appeal. You need a better lawyer.? She looked steadily at Becky. ?I plan to help with his fees. I want Falon taken down, I want to seehim in prison. I want Morgan out of that place.?

?Mama, I don?t??

?It?s family money. Half of it will be yours one day and you need it now. If it bothers you to take it, you can pay me back after Morgan gets out.?

?If he gets out.?

Caroline stared at her.?When he gets out. Morgan is in prison unjustly. We keep at it until we find a better lawyer, get an appeal and a new trial. A fair trial. But not in Rome,? she said bitterly.

Becky laid her hand over Caroline?s. ?You make it sound so simple.?

?There?s no other way. First thing is to find an attorney.?

?I?ve already made some inquiries,? Becky said. ?There are several lawyers in Atlanta I want to see. But, Mama, we need new evidence, stronger evidence, for an appeal. I want to talk with the tellers, with Mrs. Herron and Betty Holmes, and the younger teller. I want to talk with the bank manager, and the witness who saw Morgan?s car leave the bank.? She sighed. ?I mean to talk with Natalie Hooper, though I don?t look forward to facing that piece of trash.?

Caroline gave Becky a long look.?That?s not the way to go.? She rose to cut the shortcake and lathered on whipped cream. ?Let the lawyer do that. You could compromise the case.?

Watching her mother, Becky thought about that. She watched Sammie, too. Though the child made quick work of her dessert she was too quiet, hurting so bad inside, missing her daddy.

Still, though, after the good meal Sammie seemed steadier. Her color brightened; she seemed more alive, less subdued than when they?d left the jail. ?Can I go outside and play??

Becky and Caroline looked at each other.?In the front yard,? Becky said. ?Stay in front of the big window where we can see you.?

Sammie nodded. She walked quietly through the house and out the front door, not running as she normally would. Becky and Caroline moved into the living room to sit on the couch looking out the bay window, watching her.

?The new attorney should talk to the witnesses,? Caroline repeated. ?Particularly Falon?s girlfriend, his key witness. What if Falon found out you?d questioned her? Don?t you think he?d make trouble??

?Mama, I .†.†. tried to speak to her yesterday, in the parking lot after the sentencing. He probably knows that. She was still nervous, even more upset than she showed on the witness stand. I thought if I could get her to say something incriminating .†.†.?

Watching her mother, Becky wilted.?I guess that was foolish. I approached her as she was getting in her car. She scowled and turned away, said she couldn?t talk to me. But,? she said, her hand on Caroline?s, ?it gave me satisfaction that she was so shaky. I .†.†. hoped to scare her, make her think about what she?d done.?

?Leave her alone, Becky. That?s your attorney?s job.? Caroline was quiet for a moment, then her look softened. ?When you?re the most determined, the most set on something, I see your father in you.?

Becky grinned.?You don?t see yourself??

Caroline laughed.

?I didn?t understand until I got older,? Becky said, ?how hard it was for you, raising us alone.?

?We did it together,? Caroline said, ?the four of us. It was our life and it?s been a good one. It?s still a good life,? she said. ?We?ll get through this hard part, this isn?t forever.?

Becky hoped it wasn?t forever, hoped her mother was right. ?No one could have had a better childhood,? she said, ?or a closer, stronger family.?

Watching Sammie out the window, where she was petting the neighbors? collie, Becky smiled as Sammie tried to push the dog into the bushes as if in some new game. When he wouldn?t go, and Sammie herself crept in beneath the shrubs, a chill touched Becky.

Rising, she moved quickly to the window. Sammie was out of sight. A sleek black convertible came slowly down the street, the top up. As Falon?s Ford coupe eased to a crawl they raced for the front door. As they crossed the glassed porch, Falon was in the yard. Behind him the driver?s door stood open, they could hear the engine running. They lost sight of him beyond the porch blinds. When they burst out to the walk the car door slammedand the car sped away.

The yard was empty. They couldn?t see Sammie, and couldn?t see if she was in the car. Becky parted the bushes, peering in, but saw only shadows. The dog had disappeared, too. She screamed for Sammie, then ran, chasing the car, ran until she heard Caroline shout.

?She?s here?she?s all right.?

Becky turned, saw Caroline kneeling, hugging Sammie. The dog was there, too, pressing against them. Becky knelt beside them, holding Sammie close, the dog licking their faces. Picking Sammie up, Becky carried her in the house like a very small child. They locked the door, and as Caroline checked the back door, Becky sat at the table holding Sammie.?What did he say? What did he do, what did he say to you??

?He came to the bushes and looked in. We were down at the end. When Brownie growled, Falon backed away. But he kept looking.? She shivered against Becky. ?He told me to come out. Brownie growled again and he turned away. I heard his door slam, heard him drive away.?

Caroline had picked up the phone to call the police. At Becky?s look she put the receiver down.

?What good,? Becky said, ?after the way we were treated in court? The Rome cops don?t like us. They?ll write it up as grandstanding, trying to get attention. Who knows what the report would say?? She stared over Sammie?s head at Caroline. Could Falon have come in retaliation because she?d talked to Natalie? She should have left the woman alone. She cuddled Sammie, kissing her, terrified for her.

Caroline sat down at the table.?I think you can?t stay in Rome. You?ll have to get out, move where he won?t find you.?

?Where, Mama? I can?t afford to rent somewhere. And my work, my bookkeeping accounts are all here.?

Caroline?s look was conflicted. ?There?s my sister, Anne. I doubt many people know where she is or even know I have a sister. I never talk about her, she never comes to see us.?

?I couldn?t go there. I haven?t seen her since I was in high school. She wouldn?t want me and Sammie, she doesn?t even like children.? The only time they heard from Anne was an occasional phone call, a familiar duty in which she?d ask after everyone?s health but didn?t seem to really care.She would send a stiff little card at Christmas, cool and impersonal.

Caroline and Anne, even when they were young children, had been at odds, Anne an austere and withdrawn little girl, disdaining the small pleasures that brought joy to Caroline and her friends. She didn?t care to climb trees, play ball, compose and act out complicated stage plays with wildly fancy costumes. Aloof and judgmental, Anne had seemed caught in her own solemn world. As if, Caroline said, Anne had neverbeen a child, not in the normal sense. Over the years, after Becky?s father died, their family had visited Anne twice in Atlanta. They weren?t comfortable in her big, elegant home, with her formal ways. She had never come up to Rome, though Caroline had invited her many times.

Anne had left Rome very young to work as a secretary in Atlanta. She had married young, and some years later was divorced. She had remained in Atlanta in her Morningside home, comfortable with the money her philandering husband had settled on her. Becky thought that asking to move in with Anne, begging to be taken in like a charity case, was not something she could handle.

But she had to get away from Falon, she had to get Sammie away.

?I?ll call her,? Caroline said. ?Let me see what I can do.?

?Mama, she won?t want us. She certainly won?t want a little girl in the house. And to know she?d be harboring a convict?s family .†.†. No, I don?t want to go there.?

?We have to try. Sammie can?t stay here, it?s too dangerous.? She put her hand over Becky?s. ?Only a few people in town would remember Anne. I doubt they?d know where she went or that she married and later divorced. I doubt anyone would know what her name is now.?

Becky wasn?t so sure. In a small town, everyone knew your business. And this small town had turned vicious; people might dredge up anything they could find.

?You have to get Sammie out of Rome, she?s the one vulnerable weapon Falon has. He?ll use her if he can, to make you stop going for an appeal. He has to be terrified of an appeal, of a new trial.?

Becky watched her mother.?I?ll look for a room in Atlanta, I can find a job there. You can keep Sammie close for a few days, keep her inside with you. Once we?re settled she?ll be in school. Maybe I can get a job with short hours, or take work home as I do here.?

?If Anne will invite you, she won?t want rent. Let me try. You?d be better off there, among other people, if you mean to keep Sammie safe.?

IT WAS LATE that night, Becky and Sammie asleep tucked up in Caroline?s guest bed, when Sammie woke shivering, clinging to Becky, her body sticky with sweat. When Becky gathered her up, holding her tight, the child said nothing, but lay against Becky in silence. Becky would never force Sammie to tell a dream, that could make her reluctant to reveal any others in the future. Silently she held Sammie until at last the child dozed again, but restlessly, as if still trying to drive away whatever vision haunted her. Only in the small hours did Sammie sleep soundly. Becky slept then, exhausted, holding Sammie close.

INSAMMIE?S DREAM Daddy was inside the bars and the man with the cold eyes and the narrow head was looking in at him but then he turned and looked hard at her, too. When he reached out for her she woke up. In the dark room she could hear her own heart pounding. Mama held her and kissed her, she clung to Mama for a long time but she was still afraid.

But then when she slept again her dream was nice. She was with the old man, the cowboy, his thin, tanned face, his gray eyes that seemed to see everything. He was in a big airplane looking out the window down at the world laid out below him, the green hills, the tall mountains. Then he was in a big black car with two men in uniform. He was coming now. Soon he would be with Daddy. And in sleep Sammie smiled, snuggling easier against Mama.

BECKY WOKE AT dawn, her eyes dry and grainy, her body aching. Whatever Sammie had experienced last night had left Becky herself uncertain and distraught. She rose, pulled on her robe, stood looking down at the sleeping child, wanting to touch her soft, innocent cheek but not wanting to wake her.

But when Becky left the room, Misto did wake Sammie. His purr rumbled, his fur was thick and warm, his whiskers tickled her face. In the dim, early light, as she recalled her dream of the cowboy she hugged Misto so tight he wriggled. The cowboy was coming now, and she didn?t feel afraid anymore. When she slept again, cocooned with the invisible tomcat, it was a sleep filled with hope that her daddy would come home. That he would come home again, safe.

7

WITH THE SUMMER heat soaking into Lee?s bones, with plenty of good food and rest and with the help of the prison doc, Lee?s condition slowly improved. As he grew stronger and wanted something to do, he was assigned light work on the prison farm. Feeding and caring for the four plow horses suited him just fine; they were placid, loving animals and he liked to baby them, to groom them, bring them carrots from the kitchen, trim their hooves when they grew too long. As fall approached, Lee settled comfortably into the pleasant routine of morning work in the stable, then breathing and gym exercises, and late afternoons on his cotwith a stack of library books. He was in Dr. Donovan?s examining room when the blow struck, when his cozy life changed abruptly and not for the better.

Donovan, finished examining him, paused beside the table, his look solemn, his eyes way too serious. Lee waited uneasily. Were his lungs worse, even though he felt better? But then Donovan smiled, running a hand through his short, pale hair.

?I know you like it here, Lee. I hate to tell you this, but it looks like you?re being transferred.?

?What the hell? I?m just starting to get better. Transferred where? Why would??

?Down to Atlanta,? Donovan said. ?We?re receiving two dozen incoming patients, men from a number of states. They?re all pretty sick, we need every space we can muster.?

No one had asked what Lee wanted. His choices weren?t a concern of the U.S. prison system. Scowling at Donovan, he finished buttoning his shirt.

?You?re fit enough to move on, Lee. It?ll be cold here pretty soon, but should still be warm down south. Atlanta will be good for you.?

?Sure it will,? Lee said. ?Thrown in a cage of felons again where every minute I have to watch my back.?

Donovan looked apologetic. Lee knew there was nothing the man could do. They said their good-byes, and early the next morning Lee was out of there, handcuffed, belly-chained, and shoved in the back of another big limo by two surly deputy marshals.

The deputy in the backseat took up most of the space and stunk of cigar smoke. The early morning road was empty, the yellow wheat towering tall on both sides of the two-lane. In the distance Lee could see a row of combines working, cutting wheat just as they would soon be doing outside the prison walls. Crowded into the small space, he couldn?t get comfortable, couldn?t move his arms much, and the belly chain was already digging in. Did they have to leave him chained like a mass killer?

His temper eased only when he felt a breeze behind him where there was no wind, then felt a soft paw press slyly against his cheek. He imagined the ghost cat stretched out on the wide shelf, enjoying the view through the back window?enjoying a little game, Lee realized when the deputy began to scratch a tickle along his neck. Lee hid a smile as the deputy scratched his ear, then his jaw. When the portly man slapped at his balding head, Lee had trouble not laughing out loud. When he scowled at Lee as if his prisoner was causing the trouble, Lee glanced sternly toward the shelf behind him?kitty-play was all right, but the cranky deputy looked like he wanted to pound someone, and Lee was the only one visible.

MISTO STOPPED THE teasing when Lee frowned. He rolled over away from the deputy, hissing softly at the way the heavy lawman hogged the seat, squeezing Lee against the door, deliberately crowding him in the hot car. When Lee?s companion lit up a cigar Misto wanted to snake out his paw again and slap the stogie from the fat man?s face.

And wouldn?tthat make trouble, when the unpredictable lawman felt his burning cigar jerked from his mouth and saw it flying across the car?an armed and unpredictable lawman. Smiling, Misto guessed he wouldn?t try the man?s temper that far.

LEE SAID NOTHING about the cigar smoke, but sat trying not to cough. Neither deputy had said much to him and he didn?t want to get them started; he?d take the smoke and the silence. He looked out the window at the yellow wheat fields stretching away; he stared at the back of the driver?s head until the thin deputy met Lee?s eyes in the rearview mirror, his glance cold and ungiving. Soon the car was so thick with smoke that Lee couldn?t help coughing.

?Can I crack open the window? The emphysema?s getting to me.?

The fat deputy scowled, but grunted.

Taking that as a yes, Lee managed, despite the handcuffs, to roll down his window, and sat sucking in the fresh breeze. The warm wind made him think of the desert, of Blythe, of the buried post office money and the simple pleasures it would buy.

?What?re you smiling about, Fontana?? the fat deputy said. ?You know something we don?t??

Lee shrugged.?Hungering for a good Mexican meal. They ever serve Mexican in the Atlanta pen??

In the front seat, the thin deputy drawled,?Atlanta, you?ll get Brunswick stew. That can be as hot as you?ll want to try.? When Lee began to cough hard despite the open window, the driver glanced back at his partner. ?The doc at Springfield told you, Ray, no smoking in the car. That cough gets bad, he keeps it up, we?ll have to turn around and take him back.?

Scowling, Ray opened his window and threw the burning cigar out on the shoulder of the highway. Lee hoped to hell he didn?t set the wheat afire. This wasn?t going to improve the man?s temper, if he couldn?t smoke. And it was a two-day drive to Atlanta.

Soon, with the cigar smoke sucked away by the wind, Lee was able to breathe again. As he settled back, easing pressure off the belly chain, trying to get comfortable, he felt the weight of the ghost cat stretch out along his shoulder. Felt the insolent tickle of bold whiskers, and again he tried not to smile. Lee wished they were flying instead of driving, he liked looking down at the world below, the patterns of farms and cities, the snaking rivers. He?d been startled when, during the flight out from L.A. to Springfield, they?d passed right over the country he had known as a boy. He?d pressed his forehead to the plane?s tiny window seeing, in a new way, the wrinkled face of Arizona, the great plains broken by dry, ragged mountains. He saw Flagstaff, the San Francisco peaks rising behind. Where the highway moved north of Winslow, and the Little Colorado River made a sharp turn, a lonely feeling had clutched at him. Off to his left, three fields formed a triangle with trees marking their borders. Those had to be the north fields of the ranch where they?d moved when they left South Dakota, when his dad sold out, sold all the stock, hoping for a better living.

The ranch his father had bought was no better for grass except in early spring, and that new green grass had been without much substance to put any fat on a steer. Sparse grazing land again, hot as hell in the summers, and the well water tasted bitterly of iron. He?d worked long hours, as a boy, doctoring and branding their scruffy cattle. He could still smell the dust, could still feel his favorite bay gelding under him, could still bring back the sweet smell of new grass bruised by a horse?s hooves. He could taste the vinegar-soaked beefsteak his mother would cook for breakfast, for the few neighbors who helped each other during roundup, moving from one ranch to the next. Fresh-killed range beef was tough as hell if you didn?t soak it overnight in vinegar.

He?d been fourteen when they moved west to Winslow. His brother Howard was fifteen but as useless in Arizona as he?d been in South Dakota, making more work for others than if you did the job yourself. Ma had kept the girls busy tending the garden and chickens, and canning what she could from their pitiful garden. His two older sisters didn?t want to work with the cattle, but Mae had yearned after horses. She rode whenever she could sneak away, she would have grown into a good ranch hand if Ma had let her.

The year they moved to the Flagstaff land, Russell Dobbs had followed them all the way out from the Dakotas. Lee had been thrilled when his grandpappy showed up, but his mother was cold with rage. She?d been so relieved to come west to get away from her renegade, train-robbing father.

Grandpappy would be with them for a few days, then gone for a few. Shortly after he arrived, the Flagstaff paper reported a train robbery just north of Prescott. Two weeks later a second train was held up, east of Flagstaff. That was the start of a dozen successful jobs, all at night when Russell might have been there at the ranch, asleep in his bed. Russell knew, if the feds came looking, his daughter would lie for him despite her disapproval. It was at that time that Lee?s mother turned inward. She didn?t speak to her father much when he was at the ranch and she didn?t smile often. After Russell left them for good and moved on again, she lived the rest of her life blaming him for everything that went wrong in the family. It was his influence, she said, that hadsoured their lives.

As a boy, Lee had known exactly how his grandpappy felt, had known the wild need that kept Dobbs robbing the trains and moving on to rob again. On the ranch, even when Lee stood on a knoll looking across emptiness as far as he could see in every direction, he felt the same trapped need to move on. He could still see that look in Dobbs?s eyes, the intensity in Dobbs?s movements and in his impatient ways.

Lee, with his own hunger for the fast trains, would do anything as a kid to get into town to see the train pull in, to watch that thin line of smoke curling up from the bell-mouthed stack, the black engine belching steam, steam sighing from the big pistons and drive wheels. His father always wanted Lee to go with him to the stockyard, to take an interest in the cattle trading. But the minute their buggy hit town Lee would sneak off to the station and beg the engineer to let him aboard. He could still feel the warm iron floor under his bare feet as he stood inside the engineer?s cab looking at the bright brass gauges and levers, drinking in the power of the engine, a power that filled him right up like a dipper of water on a hot day.

But then his eyes would turn to the engineer?s heavy thirty-thirty hanging beside the seat in its scarred leather scabbard, and he would imagine that weapon turned on his grandpappy during a robbery, imagine his grandpappy shot, twisting and falling, and Lee?s excitement would turn to fear.

When the engineer shooed him off the train again he would wait beside the track feeling the ground rumble as the engine got moving, would stand there caught in the scream of the whistle and the jolt of the drive wheels as she gathered speed. Would stare up, entranced, at the big pistons pushing to a gallop and the rocking cars heaving past him.

Now, remembering that day flying from the West Coast to Kansas City looking down from the airliner at his old home, he had that same sense of living in two times. As if part of him was still a young man back on the prairie sixty years in the past, while part of him stumbled along toward the end of his life?s journey.

In the end, what was it all about? What did it all add up to?

But when he paid attention to the ghost cat draped over his shoulder, one paw resting playfully against Lee?s neck, to the frisky, small ghost, he knew what it all added up to: If Misto had transcended from earthly life into a vast and more complicated dimension, why would humans be different?

Lee felt uncomfortable thinking about such matters, but Mistowas the living?more than living?example that something more lay ahead, after this life. Not just the dark weight of evil, that was only part of it. Something more, so bright it shamed the golden wheat fields through which the car sped. Crushed in the limo beside the cigar-stinking deputy, Lee was embarrassedbysuch thoughts, but the proof of a better life was right there, draped over his shoulder, warm, heavy, invisible.

IT WAS A long pull, a two-day trip moving south, crowded against the sweaty deputy. And the layover in Tennessee was no picnic. Lee was lodged in Jackson?s dirty county jail while the two deputies went off to a hotel and a steak dinner. Lee?s meal, shoved through the cell bars, was some kind of watery stew that had been around too long. The coffee was the color of dishwater and tasted like it. He ached from sitting in the car and his back was sore where the belly chain gouged him. He lay on the jail?s dirty cot thinking there wasn?t one damned person in the world who cared whether he made it to Atlanta or dropped dead before he got there. But then the ghost cat nudged him, and Lee smiled; and soon, eased by the insistent presence of the ghost cat, Lee slept.

The next day?s travel was worse than the first. The weather grew hot and humid, and Lee?s seat partner, without his smokes, grew increasingly cranky. They made half a dozen extra stops, pulling over at some turnout or campground so Ray could light up a stogy. Afterward he would heave himself back in the car stinking all the worse. At seven that evening when they pulled into Atlanta, Lee was done in. He wanted only to fall into a prison cot, to stretch out with no chains binding him, and ease into sleep. Moving through the city he could see, off to the right, a fancy section of big, beautiful homes withtheir spreading shade streets. ?Buckhead,? the driver said when he saw Lee looking. ?Too fancy for you, or me neither.?

They moved down Peachtree past closed, softly lit shops until they hit narrower streets, shabby little houses packed close together. In the fading evening, kids played ball in the street, running and shouting. The deputy honked impatiently at a bunch of Negro boys in a game of kick-the-can. Ahead loomed the penitentiary: thick concrete walls, one guard tower that Lee could see, the glint of rifles reflected from big spotlights glaring across the entry doors.

Belly-chained, Lee slid awkwardly out of the car and climbed the marble steps, aching tired. Once inside and through the sally port the deputy marshals freed him of the cuffs and chain. He stood rubbing his sore wrists where the cuffs had eaten in, rubbing his back, listening to the hum of the heavy barred gate sliding closed behind him.

Down both sides of the long passage were vaulted openings that led to the cellblocks. He followed along beside the uniformed admissions officer, a trim, dark-haired young man with a full mustache. Down at the end of the corridor he could see open double doors and could smell greasy dishwater and boiled cabbage, could hear pans clanging and male voices. The corridor was hung with inmates? paintings, some crazy paranoid, some nostalgic. An oil painting of a cowhand riding across open prairie struck him hard.

When he had showered and been issued prison clothes he was led into a cellblock five tiers high. He had stuffed his savings book and Mae?s picture, which he was allowed to keep, into the pocket of his loose cotton shirt. He followed the officer up the metal stairs that zigzagged back and forth between metal catwalks. Some fifty feet above the main floor were barred clerestory windows, their glass arching up another thirty feet. Hecraned his neck to look up, the height dizzying him. ?Some hotel, Lieutenant.?

?Sorry, no elevator,? the officer said in his soft Southern speech. ?You?ll be on the third tier.? They climbed in silence as the rumble of a train broke the night from behind the prison, its scream shrill and demanding. By the time Lee reached his tier he was breathing so hard he had to stop twice to get enough air. ?Long drop,? he said when the train had passed and he could talk again. ?Anyone ever cash it in and jump??

?It?s happened,? the guard said. ?Not often.?

At midpoint of the catwalk he was ushered into a single cell.

?You?ll see Mr. Hamilton, the section custodian, in the morning. Then the classification officer. After that you?ll be able to move around the prison.?

His cell was no different than the others he?d lived in: stainless steel washbowl, stained metal toilet. A cot bolted to the wall, with a cotton pad, a worn-out pillow, and a gray prison blanket. He didn?t bother to undress. He pulled off his shoes, lay down and drew the blanket up around him, listening to the familiar prison noises, mensnoring, metal clanging, the crinkle of paper as a candy bar was unwrapped. Maybe life was just one long cellblock after another until they planted you outside the wall.

But this thought brought a flurry of hissing. The cat leaped heavily onto the cot, right in Lee?s face, as solid as any living beast. Solid and very visible, shocking Lee. Quickly he looked up and down the corridor at the cells on the other side.

He saw no one looking back, and saw no guard near. Misto grinned, flicked his tail, and vanished again?but when Lee lifted the blanket the invisible cat crawled underneath, warm against Lee?s shoulder, the comfort of his purr easing Lee into sleep.

8

THE CLANG OF metal and the echo of men?s voices woke Lee. Morning light flooded the cellblock, striking down from the high clerestory windows. He staggered out of his bunk in automatic response to the wake-up call, stood at his barred door in his wrinkled prison clothes and stocking feet while the count was taken, then turned to the metal basin. He splashed water on his face, used the toothbrush and toothpaste he?d been issued. He was sitting on his bunk putting on his prison-issued shoes when a big-bellied custodian in blue pants and white shirt slid the barred door open. His nametag readHAMILTON. He stood looking Lee over.

?You sleep in those clothes??

Lee pulled the shirt straight, tried to brush out the wrinkles.

?Once you?ve made up your bunk, Fontana, you can go from here to the mess hall. Then to classifications, then return to your cell. You?ll stay here until you?re notified, until you?re allowed to move around the prison and exercise yard.?

Lee listened to Hamilton?s directions to the various buildings, then followed him out, moving away along the metal catwalk among straggling inmates and down the iron stairs.

The prison cafeteria smelled of powdered eggs, bacon fat, and overcooked coffee. Inmates pushed in around him half awake, grumbling and arguing or shuffling along silent and morose. Again a train rumbled and screamed passing outside the wall. None of the men paid any attention. Lee guessed they were used to it. Maybe the siren?s call didn?t stir their blood the way it excited him, the way it made him want out of there, made him feel all the more shackled. He kept to himself in the crowded line until he was jolted hard from behind by two men horsing around, pummeling each other. Lee didn?t look at them, he left it alone, he didn?t want to start anything.

Not until one of them bumped him hard, did he turn. The man was right in his face. Lee stood his ground. The guy would be a fool to start something here, with half a dozen guards watching. He stared challengingly at Lee, his face hatched by deep lines pinched into a scowl. Dark hair in a short prison cut, a high, balding forehead. It was the look in his black eyes that brought Lee up short, a stare so brutal Lee paused, startled by the sense of another presence within that dark gaze.

But just as quickly the man?s look changed to the insolence of any prison no-good. Lee could see the guards watching them, ready to move in. He took a good look at the man?s companion: blond pompadour combed high above his weathered face, pale, ice-blue eyes. A pair of twisted inmates that a fellow wanted to avoid. Lee moved on with the line, picked up a tray and collected his breakfast. Turning away, he crossed the room to a small, empty table.

The two men joined a crowded table in the center of the big cafeteria and in a moment all seven inmates turned to watch Lee. He ate quickly, ignoring them, trying not to think about the spark he?d seen in those dark eyes, that quick glimpse of something foreign peering out.

He didn?t look at the crowded table as he left the mess hall. Pushing out into the prison yard, he headed for the counselor?s office. To his right rose the stone buildings that would be prison industries. Beyond, at a lower level, sprawled the exercise yard, surrounded by the massive stone wall that enclosed the prison grounds. The wall must be thirty feet high. From this position he could see only one guard tower, two guards looking down, rifle barrels glinting in the morning sun. He had started toward the classifications building when a short man crossing the yard stopped, stared at him, then approached Lee with a dragging limp, a stocky man with husky arms and shoulders. His voice was grainy. ?Hey, Boxcar, is that you??

Lee hadn?t heard that name in fifty years. ?Gimpy, you old safecracking buzzard.?

Hobbling along fast, Gimpy joined him, his eyes laughing beneath bushy gray brows. His hair was gray now, and he was maybe some heavier.?When the hell did you get in, Boxcar??

?Just transferred in from Springfield. How long have you been here??

?Two years, doing five. I might make parole one of these days.? The little man scowled. ?My last safe job went sour.?

They?d been just kids when they?d pulled a few jobs together, Gimpy opening the train safes slick and fast. He was the best man with a punch and hand sledge Lee had ever seen. ?Do you remember .†.†.? Lee began. He was silenced by the loud blast of a Klaxon, the sudden blare brought ice grippinghis stomach. Gimpy nudged him out of the way as four guards ran by, followed by two medics carrying black bags and a stretcher, their white coats flapping.

?It?s in the furniture plant,? Gimpy said. They moved toward the industries building, where a short spur track ran from the loading platform out through a sally port in the prison wall. A freight car sat on the track, guards and inmates milling around its open door, pulling out heavy crates.

?Furniture crates,? Gimpy said, ?desks for the military.? There was a lot of shouting, the sound of wood being pried and splintered. A guard and two prisoners eased a body out from the collapsed wooden crate, lifted the bloody figure onto a stretcher.

Once the injured man had been carried off, four inmates pulled the crate out. Lee could see the false bottom the man had built, splintered now and crushed. Gimpy said,?He must have squeezed into it after the crate was loaded. Maybe the crates on top shifted. Doesn?t say much for his carpentry.?

Lee shook his head.?An ugly way to go.?

?Hell, Boxcar, no one?s ever broke out of this joint, something always goes bad. One guy had a gun smuggled in by a guard, got himself rifle shot before he got through the main corridor.?

Lee looked up with speculation at the thirty-foot wall, but Gimpy snorted.?Not over that wall, nor under it neither. Wall?s a dozen feet thick at the bottom, and sitting on solid rock. I?ll do my time right here,? he said, shifting his weight. ?No one could get over that baby.?

When they parted company Lee headed for the classifications office, moving up the steps and inside past rows of desks where prison personnel sorted though files or sat talking with inmates, men fidgeting nervously in straight-backed chairs or slouching with bored disdain. The room stunk of sweaty bodies and stale cigarette smoke. Lee?s classification officer was a soft little fellow in his forties: slick bald head, white rumpled shirt, his tie pulled loose and his collar unbuttoned. He laid his unlit pipe on the desk among stacks of jumbled papers. ?I?m Paul Camp. You?re Lee Fontana? You just came in from Springfield.?

Lee nodded. Camp gestured for Lee to sit down and handed across a printed set of rules, a meal schedule, and a laundry and mail schedule.?I do three jobs here. Classification, parole, and counseling.?

?You think I can get a job in industries? I like to be doing something.?

?You?ll have to see the doctor first. When I get a slip from him, you?ll have more freedom, we?ll see what we can do. You can go on over to the hospital from here.? Camp gave him directions. ?He?ll want to see you every week for a while, to check on the emphysema.? Then the jolt came. ?Twice a week,? Camp said, ?you?ll be attending group counseling sessions.? He handed Lee another short schedule.

?I don?t need group counseling. What do I want with that??

Camp studied him, then thumbed through Lee?s file. ?You may not think you need the sessions, but I do. If you had used a little restraint, Fontana, if you hadn?t gotten into trouble in Vegas, you?d still be out on parole.? He fixed Lee with a hard look. ?Unless, of course, you wanted to be back behind bars.?

Lee?s belly twisted. ?Sure I did. I have what the shrinks call a subliminal need to be confined, to be shut in by high walls, safe from the outside world and with all the prison amenities.?

Camp just looked at him. Lee couldn?t decide whether the counselor?s eyes reflected anger, suspicion, or a suppressed desire to laugh. ?The Federal Bureau of Prisons, Fontana, has moved into the age of treatment. Just go to counseling, it?s the policy. Just go and endure it.?

He left Camp?s office swallowing back a cough, hating modern prison ways. He?d rather take a beating than be forced into their fancy headshrinking show. Why couldn?t they leave him alone? They?d locked him up, they had him where they wanted, so why couldn?t they leave him be?

As he headed for the dispensary beyond the officers? mess, the thirty-foot concrete wall loomed over him and over the big exercise yard. He could see two tennis courts laid out, where six inmates in cutoffs were batting the little white balls. Two more guys were playing handball, and beyond the empty baseball diamond, on the oval track, several men were jogging laps?the place was a regular country club. His own first time behind bars, when he was eighteen, he?d had a rock pile to exercise on. Did the guards here in the South spoon-feed these punks and wipe their runny noses before they sent them out to play?

The dispensary waiting room was painted pale green like most government offices he?d seen, a color that was supposed to be restful. He wondered how many billions of gallons of that stuff the government had bought, allowing some big company to make a killing. Half a dozen inmates sat on folding metal chairs waiting to be seen by the duty doctor. Lee took a chair. He?d waited maybe twenty minutes when he got a shock that spun him around, looking.

?Lee Fontana?? a woman?s voice called out. A woman? In a men?s prison?

A young woman stood in the doorway holding a clipboard, and she was some classy lady. Dark, wavy hair cut short and neat, curled softly around her smooth face, dark eyes smiling at him through large oval glasses. The skirt of her short white uniform hit her just at the knee, the uniform accenting the curve of her hips, and was zipped down the front low enough to show the soft curve of her tanned breasts. He stared at the nametag on her lapel, but taking in a lot more. Karen Turner. Every male in the room was staring, their expressions just short of a drool. She smiled and motioned to Lee. Rising, he followed her as eagerly as a hungry pup. When he glanced back, the men were still looking. She led him into an office, handed his file to the thin-faced doctor, smiled at Lee again and left, brushing past him. She smelled good, a clean soap-and-water scent. He stood looking after her, then turned to the drawn, tired-looking doctor. His nametag read JAMES FLOYD, M.D.

Lee took off his shirt as Dr. Floyd directed, trying not to flinch as the icy stethoscope pressed against his bare chest. The doctor listened to his heart and chest as Lee breathed deeply, in and out, taking in as much air as he could manage. He took Lee?s blood pressure, looked down his throat, thumped his back. While Lee pulled on his shirt again, Floyd made a number of notations in Lee?s file.

?Everything?s as fine as it can be, Fontana. You had excellent treatment at Springfield.? Floyd handed him a slip of paper. ?Give this to your counselor. I want you back here in three days. After that, once a week.?

?Will I be allowed to work??

?I think you could take a job, something that won?t stress the breathing.? He filled out a release-to-work form and handed it to Lee.

Lee said,?I?ve never seen a woman working in a men?s prison.?

?Karen Turner?? Floyd smiled. ?It?s good for the men?s morale to see a woman once in a while. She?s a premed student at the university, works for me part-time. She cheers the place up considerably; I think it?s a good change in the system.?

Sure it is, Lee thought. Until you get her hurt.

He doubled back to Paul Camp?s office, where he dropped off the medical form and the work form. Camp handed him a slip for his custodian that would let him move around the area more freely. When Lee asked about the jobs available, Camp said, ?I?ll let you know later, Fontana. I?ll see what?s open in industries.?

Outside again, as Lee cut across the yard from classifications, Gimpy turned away from a group of men and limped to join him.?They getting you squared away, Boxcar??

?Camp put me in one of those group counseling sessions,? Lee said sourly. ?I start this afternoon,?

Gimpy chuckled, and scratched his bald spot.?They had me in there for a while. Guess they gave up on me. But hell, Boxcar, it passes the time.?

?I?d rather pass it somewhere else.?

?Maybe you could work in the cotton mill with me. Noisier than hell, but I like it. I like the clatter and activity.?

Lee nodded, interested. He?d feel better when he was doing something. ?Let me know if they could use another hand.? He wondered if the doctor would allow it. Maybe, if he promised to wear a mask or kerchief, something to catch the lint, he could get permission.

?I?ll talk to the foreman,? Gimpy said, and swung away with his uneven, rolling gait. Lee stood looking after him; a lot of years had gone by, but Gimpy was still the same. Lee turned away, smiling, heading back to his cell, thinking about the old days.

He was moving along the narrow third-tier catwalk when a man came out of a cell walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the pages of an open book. He was heavy boned, prison pale but built like a barrel, was dressed not in prison blue but in the white pants and white shirt worn in the kitchen, the whiteness stark against the thick black hair on his arms. Lee stepped to one side to let him pass.?I guess we?re neighbors.?

The dark-eyed man smiled.?Al Bronski. I saw you come in last night.?

?Lee Fontana.?

?You looked bushed yesterday. Still feel a little pale??

?It?s a long pull from Springfield. What are we having for the noon meal??

?Beef stew and French bread.?

?Sounds good. If I get bored with the routine, are there any jobs in the kitchen??

?Always use help in the kitchen,? Bronski said. ?See me when you?re ready.?

Lee thought he might like the relative quiet of the kitchen better than the noise of the cotton mill, but he?d like to work with Gimpy. Behind Bronski, coming along the catwalk headed for the stairs, were the two men from breakfast this morning, the dark-haired one in the lead, his face frozen in the same pinched scowl, his black eyes fixed on Lee. Behind him, the blond man?s masklike face and pale eyes telegraphed a malice that Lee knew too well. They didn?t move over for Lee and Bronski. When Lee stepped aside on the narrow catwalk to let them pass, the dark man elbowed him against the rail. ?Ain?t no place for a gab fest.?

Bronski stiffened and reached for him. The man sidestepped, rounding on Bronski. Bronski crouched, waiting?but a guard shouted from the main floor, and he drew back. The two men pushed on past, pressing them both to the rail and giving them the finger.

?Their cells are down beyond yours,? Bronski said, watching the two swagger away along the catwalk. ?The dark one?s Fred Coker. The blond is Sam Delone. There?s been more than one knifing involving those two.?

Lee kept the two in sight until they disappeared down the stairs and outside. He watched Bronski amble along behind them, reading again, then Lee moved on to his cell. Swept by a wave of exhaustion, he lay down on his bunk. Nobody had to spell it out for him. He was back in a big joint, crazy hotheads around him. And more than hotheads, too, with the shadow that fit so easily among Coker and his kind. As much as he?d admired his grandpappy, he wished Russell had never bargained with the devil, wished that in that one instance Russell had backed off and turned away.

The position he was in now, Lee thought, it was time to get himself a weapon. It was one thing to be threatened by prison scum when you were young and strong, when you could handle a battle bare-handed. It was different this late in life, when every move was an effort, when in every threat you saw the face of defeat. Suddenly cold, pulling the blanket over him, bleak and alone, he felt the weight of the ghost cat hit the bed, crowding against him purring like a small engine. He almost laughed when the ghost cat clawed the mattress, licked Lee?s hand with his rough tongue, and said softly, ?Screw Coker. Screw Delone. There?s more to this prison, Lee, than you yet know.?

?What? What are you getting at?? But Lee felt the cat curl up as if he?d tucked his head under, and in a moment the ghost was softly snoring. Lee smiled, turned over easy so as not to disturb him, and soon they both slept, Lee drifting off to Misto?s rumbling purr, soothed in his apprehension of the days to come.

9

DRIVING SOUTH TO the Atlanta Penitentiary to visit Morgan for the first time, Becky made herself sick thinking every ugly thought about his life inside, so upsetting herself that her driving was off. Twice, passing another car on the two-lane highway, she had to swerve fast into a tight space to avoid hitting an oncoming vehicle. She felt as if she was turning into one of those women so ruled by sick nerves they couldn?t do anything right.

Coming into Atlanta, where they would be moving in a few days, driving down Peachtree and on south through mixed commercial and small cottages, she was shaky, her hands unsteady on the wheel. When she drew into the parking area outside the prison wall she sat in the car for a long time trying to pull herself together. She felt so nauseous she was afraid if she went in she?d be sick in the visiting room.

Thinking about leaving Rome didn?t help, about leaving Caroline, thinking how much she depended on her mother?to take care of Sammie, but most of all tobe there for them. Caroline was her friend, her best friend except for Morgan. Life was shattered without Morgan and now would be more empty still without Caroline nearby.

But at least living in Atlanta she?d be closer to Morgan, not an all-day trip to visit him. She and Sammie could run over to the prison in just a few minutes, she thought bitterly, just swing by the prison after school like any mother and child.

She got out of the car at last, feeling the stare of the guards from their towers. They would be wondering why she?d sat there for so long. Would they call down for extra security measures because she seemed suspicious? Her neck prickling from their stares, she hurried up the walk, up the steps. She pressed a buzzer, waited for the lock to click, and pushed through the iron door into a six-foot-square sally port, bars and heavy glass trapping her in the small space.

Through the slot in a thick glass barrier she told the guard her name and Morgan?s name. A second guard stepped out of the glassed area, a tall, pale-haired man who asked for her purse. She watched, embarrassed, as he searched around a pack of tampons. Satisfied she wasn?t carrying a weapon he handed it back and motioned her through a door into the prison?s visiting room.

The room didn?t look anything like part of a prison, was far more welcoming than she had expected: tan tweed carpeting, white walls, beige couches, and soft chairs set about in little groups. Half of the seating was already occupied, wives and children, elderly couples, each group gathered around an inmate dressed in prison blue. Most of the men were somber and withdrawn even among their friends and family. One man was so emotional, hugging his wife and children, he was almost in tears. Only two of the prisoners seemed relaxed and at home, chatting away, one man holding two little boys on his lap. She chose an empty couch, stood beside it watching an inner door where Morgan would most likely enter.

What would they talk about? For the first time in their lives she couldn?t be open with him. She didn?t want to tell him about her aborted effort to question Natalie Hooper. She was so sorry she?d done that. And she didn?t dare tell him how Falon had come to Caroline?s and gone after Sammie.

She didn?t understand Falon. If he wantedher, Becky, as he?d always said, why did he go after Sammie? Caroline said he showed psychopathic tendencies; Becky had to agree but the thought terrified her. She could cope with a normal person, but how did you deal with a psychopath?

She couldn?t tell Morgan about this morning at work, before she left for Atlanta. Couldn?t tell him that Falon had cornered her in the storeroom of Rome Hardware as she was getting together the bills to do their books. He must have waited hidden behind the shelves of stock as she came in. She was standing at an open file drawer when he grabbed her from behind and backed her against the shelves, his voice a low whisper.

?Keep your mouth shut, I can hurt you bad.? His slimy tone sickened her. ?You haven?t any man in your bed now, Becky.?

She came alive, kicking him and shouting. He slapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him so hard he grunted and slapped her again, harder. She yelled louder, so the clerks up front had to hear her.?Get out of here! Help! Help me!? When footsteps came pounding he slammed her against the wall, spun away, and was gone, vanishing between the shelves. She heard the back door open and scrape closed, heard the latch click.

The storeroom was empty, only her fear remained.

She had gotten through the confusion with the two clerks and the assistant manager who came running in, had fielded their questions, begged them not to call the police. She?d said she didn?t know who the man was. The Rome police would do nothing to help her, she couldn?t handle their patronization, and she didn?t want Falon?s added rage if she filed a report on him. When she?d mollified the staff, calmed them down, she?d hurried home to Caroline?s to change clothes, to head for Atlanta.

When she told Caroline what had happened, her mother said,?That settles it. You?ll have to move down to Anne?s.?

?But??

?I talked with her this morning. She was??

?She doesn?t want us, Mama.?

?Let?s say she was reluctant. She?ll get over it. You have to go, as soon as you can, at least until you find an apartment. As long as you?re here Falon won?t leave you alone, won?t leave Sammie alone.?

Caroline put her arm around Becky.?Anne will soften up once you?re settled in. Once she gets to know you better, and gets to know Sammie.?

Becky said nothing more. This plan would have to do for the moment.

?We can trade cars,? Caroline said, ?I keep mine in the garage, he can?t see in there. I always drive the van. I?ll leave your car out, park it in different parts of the drive so he knows it?s being used.?

?It will take me a while to wrap up my accounts,? Becky said, ?to give notice and pack a few things.? The thought of moving in with Anne unwanted wasn?t pleasant, she felt like a charity case.

?When you?re ready, we?ll pack the car at night and you can leave before dawn. You said Natalie and Falon sleep late??

Becky nodded.?I think so, as much as I can tell from the street.? She?d driven by Natalie?s apartment several mornings, looking up at the windows. The curtains were never open until midmorning, and twice when she drove by at midnight she?d seen the living room and kitchen lights burning. Maybe she could slip away before daylight without Falon knowing.

NOW SHE WATCHED the door into the visiting room open, repeatedly letting other prisoners through, but all were strangers. She watched openly as inmates, each with a black identification number stenciled on his shirt, were hugged and kissed and made over. She needed Morgan to comfort and hold her; and she couldn?t imagine how lost he felt, lost and alone. She didn?t want to think what his life was like within these high, cold walls.

She?d promised herself she?d tell him only hopeful things, that she?d make the move to Atlanta sound like exciting news: She?d be near the prison, she could come every visiting day. If she found a lawyer in Atlanta it would be easier to see him often. But she?d have to lie to him, tell him Anne had invited her. Of course he?d ask questions; he knew the cool relationship between Anne and Caroline. Maybe she could distract him with the four Atlanta attorneys she?d seen this week. She?d leave the best one for last, she thought, smiling.

When a guard ushered Morgan in, for an instant she didn?t recognize him: another reserved figure in prison blues, his eyes cast down, his face expressionless, his hands limp at his sides, his walk stilted as if every ounce of fight had been taken from him.

Or was this rage she was seeing? Confined, bottled-up rage? As if even the smallest movement might stir a violence of rebellion that he dare not unleash? She stood looking, then ran across the big room, flinging herself at him. They held each other close, Morgan?s face against hers, then kissing her neck, her hair, coming alive again. It was all right now, they were together.

Morgan held her away, searching her face.?I was afraid you?d bring Sammie. Does she know you?re here??

?I didn?t tell her. She?s with Mama. I don?t think she?s ready to come but she would have insisted. She?s still so upset, I wanted to give her more time.?

Ever since Sammie had run from Falon into the bushes she had slept badly, had had nightmares that she wouldn?t talk about, and during most of the day was quiet and withdrawn. Only in the mornings did she seem easier. She would appear from the bedroom after Becky was up, relaxed and sunny and willing to smile. As if something about that last sleep strengthened her, as if her predawn dreams were happy ones. This morning Becky had heard her in her room talking to herself or maybe to her imaginary playmate. Whatever Sammie had found to comfort her was surely needed now.

Sitting on the couch, Morgan?s arm around Becky, comforted by their closeness, they didn?t talk for a long while. Becky wanted to know what it was like inside but she couldn?t ask. She prayed he wouldn?t ask how her work was going. She?d lost so many of her accounts that if she didn?t find a job in Atlanta she?dhave tosell the house to hire a new attorney and to rid herself of the mortgage payments. Even some of her oldest bookkeeping jobs had gone sour, so many people believing Morgan guilty had turned against them. She?d lost more than half her customers, though the folks at the hardware had remainedloyal. And business at the automotive shop was no better.

She told Morgan that her work and work at the shop were just fine. She hated lying to him. As natural and upbeat as she tried to be, no color returned to his face, no laughter to his eyes. He didn?t brighten when she told him about the four Atlanta lawyers, though he listened carefully, trying to assess each. She had so wanted to find a man she could have confidence in, someone sympathetic but capable and strong, who would give them hope.

?I think,? she said, ?Quaker Lowe might be the man. He didn?t sit tapping his fingers on the desk or making lengthy notes on a legal pad as the others did. He focused on me, he really listened to me.?

Lowe was a florid, square-faced man, big and rangy. Wide hands, like a farmer, his suit and white shirt limp from the heat, an active-looking man who seemed out of place in his cramped office. But his blue eyes showed a keen intelligence and, deep down, an easy wit. From the moment she sat down facing him across his desk she had liked him.?He took in what I had to say, all the details of Falon?s setup. I told him about the witnesses, recalled as much of the testimony as I could.

?He said he was booked solid with court cases but he?d do his best to rearrange his schedule, said his assistant would handle some of the court work. He seemed .†.†. as if hewanted to help. I didn?t get that from the other three.

?He said that if he could take the case he?d come up to Rome within the week and go through the court records.? She laid her hand over Morgan?s. ?He really listened, Morgan. He .†.†. I think he might really care about how you?ve been treated.?

She knew there was only a slim chance that Lowe would have time for them, but it was all they had. She prayed with every breath that he would make the time; she didn?t let herself think that Quaker Lowe would let them down.

Snuggling close to Morgan she knew that the longer they were apart the more difficult it would be to talk, the more different their lives would become, the less they would have to share. Morgan absorbed into the regimen of prison life, she struggling to keep them financially afloat, trying to keep Sammie safe, trying to appease an aunt who didn?t want them in her house. The one thing they had to share, besides Sammie herself,was the appeal.

When she told Morgan they?d be moving to Atlanta, that Aunt Anne had invited them, he knew she was leaving out half the story but he didn?t push her. He said he was glad she?d be near and wouldn?t have to make the long drive, and he left it at that. This wasn?t pleasant for either of them, this tiptoeing around asubject; it made her feel as stiff as a stranger. Nor did she mention Sammie?s continuing dreams of the cowboy?those parts of the dreams Sammie was willing to share with her.

She longed to tell him the dream from the previous night, which Sammie had shared; she wanted Morgan?s response. But somehow, she was wary of that response. It was two in the morning when Sammie sat straight up in bed, wide awake, not screaming with fear but instead solemn and demanding. ?Mama! Mama!?

Becky had turned on a light and drawn Sammie close. The child wasn?t afraid, she was quiet and composed, her dark eyes serious. ?He?s here, Mama. The cowboy is here. He?s in the prison, he?s behind the wall with Daddy.?

Becky had visualized the thin, leathery old man Sammie had once described. She hadn?t known what to make of the dream, this one couldn?t be real. Yet she never took Sammie?s dreams lightly; they were not to be brushed aside.

?He came to help Daddy, help him get out of that place, help him come home again.? Becky told herself thiswas a fantasy, how could it be anything else? It was nothing like Sammie?s dreams of the believable though painful events one might expect from life, the death of Sammie?s puppy, the courthouse fire.

But what about that last terrible nightmare where Morgan was locked in the Rome jail? They had known that was a fantasy, dark and impossible. And that nightmare had come true in all its terror and ugliness. Now, sitting close to Morgan, she knew she had to tell him, to share one more disturbing vision.

She described Sammie?s waking, so different from other nightmares. ?She woke so alert, more certain than with anything she?s ever experienced. She kept repeating, ?He?s here. He?s here to help Daddy. The cowboy?s here to help Daddy get away, help Daddy prove who robbed that bank and then Daddy will go free.??

Morgan said nothing, he sat looking at Becky trying to take a matter-of-fact approach. Over the years Sammie?s predictions had made a believer of him, but how could this dream ever be based in fact? This fanciful idea was impossible. He said, ?I haven?t noticed anyone like Sammie described. No thin wrinkled old con who walks bowlegged. Maybe this time, maybe itis just a dream.? But somewhere in Morgan?s heart a web of hope had begun to gather, a shadow of promise to weave itself into his thoughts, ready to spring to life.

10

MORGAN WENT ABOUT his prison routine in the days that followed, putting aside the small hope he?d found in Sammie?s dream. This time there was no substance, her idea of escape was wishful thinking. He settled into life behind bars as best he could except for the group counseling session. He didn?t need counseling, he needed justice.

The courts had locked him up for the rest of his life, but why force him to listen to a bunch of bickering inmates air their petty complaints? Or to the sanctimonious platitudes of the fresh-faced counselor who led the others in their pointless rankling? He didn?t want to share his pain.

The problem was, the day the counselor started working on him he ended up bellyaching just like the rest of the group. Afterward he felt cheap and ashamed. He?d let it all out, the unfairness of the jury, the uncaring judge and U.S. attorney, the incompetence of his own lawyer. He?d gone on about being used, manipulated like a rat in a lab experiment. The counseling he got, in front of the whole group, only made it worse. At least the counselor had gotten him a job in the automotive shop, but only because they needed skilled men. Now, thankful for that good luck, he crossed the prison yard on his way to another ?shrink? session, for another hour of misery.

IT WAS JUST one o?clock when Lee found the group counseling room and stepped inside. A gray metal desk stood across the room, arranged so the group leader sat with his back to the wall facing three rows of folding chairs, all empty. The young counselor looked up from his paperwork, then glanced at a list. ?Lee Fontana??

Lee nodded. The first one there, he took a seat in the middle so he wouldn?t have men pushing by stepping on his feet. The young man was all of twenty-some, a college type with an almost pretty face, a deep tan, a blond crew cut. He wore a V-necked red sweater with turned-up sleeves over a starched white shirt. He gave Lee a charming smile, introduced himself as Tom Randall, and returned to his loose-leaf notebook. He didn?t look up again until a broad-shouldered black man entered. He looked Lee over and slid into the chair next to him. Lee hoped he wasn?t going to be talkative, he wasn?t here to be social.

But the man?s smile drew Lee, his eyes alive with intelligence and humor. He was middle-aged, square faced and clean-cut, with flecks of gray through his short hair. He extended his broad, lined hand. ?Andy Trotter,? he said in a polished British accent.

?Lee Fontana.? Lee shook the man?s hand. ?You?re a Brit? What are you doing in here??

Trotter grinned and pulled a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket.?Born right here in Georgia. But I spent most of my childhood in Jamaica with my granny, she made sure I could speak the King?s English. Smoke?? He extended the makings.

Lee shook his head. As Andy rolled a cigarette quickly and neatly, three more men wandered in. Two of them were the dregs of prison population, scruffy, edgy types. Lee could smell the body odor of the frazzled, dirty one before he sat down at the end of the row. The man?s hair was greasy, his eyes darted restlessly, and he couldn?t keep his hands still, his twitching fingers rubbing and fidgeting. This fellow didn?t need counseling, he needed to dry out. The man who took the chair next to Lee held himself rigidly, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. His thin red hair was combed straight back over a premature baldness, his mouth and chin dwarfed by a large beaked nose.

The third man, who came in behind them, was younger, clean-cut, probably in his late twenties, an honest-John citizen type. Lee watched him with interest, wondering what he was in for. Open, friendly face like that, he?d make a great con artist. Only when their eyes met did Lee see his deep, embedded anger.

The young man grinned at Andy, received a smile in return, and took the seat on the other side of him. When Andy made introductions, when Morgan Blake reached across to shake Lee?s hand, Lee saw something else in his look. Not the buried anger now, but a spark of surprise, a puzzled frown as he studied Lee. A surprise and confusion he found hard to conceal. What was that about? Around them more men drifted in jostling, scraping chairs along the floor as they settled down.

Morgan Blake?s look lasted only a minute, then was gone. Turning away he gave his attention to Tom Randall. With only two chairs vacant, Randall closed his notebook, glanced at his watch, and looked up at the group. In the open doorway, Sam Delone sauntered in, his blond pompadour catching light from the overhead bulb, his cold eyes scanning the group. His gaze settled on Lee.

The counselor looked Delone over.?Glad you could join us, Delone,? he said coolly.

?Sorry,? Delone said. ?Those dummies in the laundry took forever, farting around slow as hell.?

Randall introduced Lee to the group. Ralph Smee was the one with greasy hair and nervous eyes; he barely flicked a glance in Lee?s direction. Red Foster stared straight ahead over his big nose and didn?t acknowledge Lee. Sam Delone lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ?I?m afraid Gramps and I have already met.?

?Who wants to start?? the counselor said, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. ?Anything where you think the group, in an exchange of ideas, can be of help.?

Delone flicked his burnt match onto the linoleum.?Why the hell can?t they hire someone in the kitchen who knows how to cook? Those dumb bastards can?t even cook an egg without pounding it into leather.?

Lee tried not to smile, but Delone caught his look.?You think that?s funny, old man?? Turning, he fixed his gaze on Trotter. ?And what are you grinning about, darky??

?Perhaps,? said Andy slowly, ?Mr. Randall has something more important in mind than your gourmet sensitivities.?

?And maybe,? Lee said evenly, ?you ought to be more careful what you call people.?

The counselor adjusted his sleeves again.?These sessions are not for petty gripes, you men know that. How about you, Blake? You settle into the automotive shop okay??

Morgan Blake nodded.?Yes, sir. I appreciate getting the job.?

?Have you heard anything on your appeal??

Lee saw Blake?s jaw tighten. ?Not yet,? Blake said, ?but my wife?s found a new attorney. One who might really try.?

Sam Delone snorted.

?I didn?t rob that bank,? Blake snapped at him, ?and I didn?t kill anyone.? He looked hard at the counselor. ?The courts don?t want justice, all they want are bodies to fill up their prisons, any scapegoat they can lay the blame on.?

Lee watched Blake with interest. If he was lying, he was pretty good.

But Lee had seen plenty of scams in his time, a man could fake anything if he practiced long enough.

Delone ground out his cigarette with his heel, glaring at the counselor.?Ralph, here, he has the same problem, don?t you, Ralphy? Tell us, Ralph, how you didn?t rape that little girl, up at Stone Mountain. Tell us how the park ranger and that girl made it all up just to get at you.?

Smee darted a hasty look at Delone and laughed raggedly.

Delone said,?You see, Blake, everyone in here is innocent.?

Lee leaned back, watching the group and watching the ineffective young counselor. Morgan Blake said no more, but sat quietly, his hands tense, his face flushed.

?Anyway, Blake,? Delone said with mock sympathy, ?there?s always parole. Don?t forget parole. You might be old by then, as old as this old fart here,? he said, glancing at Lee. ?But maybe you?ll have some time left, a year or two to spend with your little wife and family.?

The counselor tried to take things in hand, shooting Delone a look to shut him up, then looking at Morgan.?You haven?t told us your whole story, Blake. Would it help to talk about it??

Blake was silent. Randall nodded encouragement.?How long is your sentence??

?I?ll be eligible for parole in twenty-three years,? Blake said reluctantly, and Lee could see that he needed to talk. ?Fifteen on the life term, eight on the twenty-five-year jolt.? He had turned, was talking to Lee and Andy, glancing up at the counselor only to be polite. ?For the next twenty-three years I?ll get to see my little girl grow up, from right here behind the bars. I?ll be here on visiting days to talk with her, to help with her problems, to help shape what kind of a young woman she?ll be. When I get out, she?ll be grown and married. My wife will be over fiftyyears old.?

Blake seemed, once he got started, to need badly to spill it all out. He looked deeply at Lee, again that puzzled look that made Lee uneasy.?My life, their lives, are down the drain because of a crime I didn?t commit. But what do the courts care? No one in law enforcement, no one in the courts will listen.?

?Even if you lose your appeal,? the counselor said, ?you know you can try again.?

?What good is a second try?? Morgan said. ?The first jury didn?t believe me. If we lose an appeal, why bother with another? The witnesses who lied in court, they?ll keep on lying.? Morgan flushed deeply. ?If I were guilty I?d figure I had it coming, I?d figure I had to get used toprison. But I?m not guilty and every day I?m in here is hard time, unfair time. I don?t know how to get used to it.?

Andy stubbed out his cigarette, his broad, dark hands catching the light. His look at Morgan was gentle and patient.?The reality is, you are here. You cannot change that, not until the appeal. You can only take each day as it comes. You are fortunate, you know, to have such a loyal and loving wife working to help you, and to have your little girl to visit you, to hold her and love her, even here in the prison setting.?

Morgan nodded. He looked companionably at Andy and was quiet.

Randall listened to several more petty complaints from other inmates, then he tried to draw Lee out.?You were transferred down from Springfield, Fontana. That means your health has improved.?

Lee didn?t care to discuss his weakness in front of these men. Didn?t Randall have any sense? ?Springfield had a new bunch of men coming in, they needed the space,? he said. He clammed up and would answer no more questions, scowling at Randall until the counselor turned to another inmate.

At the end of the session, as they headed for the door Andy Trotter laid a hand on Morgan Blake?s arm. ?Stay steady, man. I?d like to talk, have a cup of coffee, but I have to get to work.?

Lee moved out behind them. The ground shook as, beyond the wall, a train thundered and screamed, passing the prison. Lee was getting used to their freedom call, to their beckoning. He?d started to turn away from the other men when Blake fell into step with him, and again that searching look. ?Sorry I came on so strong back there. I know that doesn?t do any good.? Blake?s frown as he watched Lee seemed to hold some question about Lee himself.

Warily Lee said,?Why do you care what I think??

Blake colored, lowered his gaze, and moved away. Lee felt relief but then, on impulse, he stepped up beside Blake again.?Come on, kid. Let?s go down to the mess hall, see if we can wrangle that coffee.?

Even as he said it, he wondered what he was doing. A few minutes over a cup of coffee could get him uncomfortably involved, could gain him a persistent sidekick that he didn?t want hanging around. This guy needed a friend. And Lee wasn?t interested. He knew nothing about Blake or about Blake?s crime. He didn?t know whether Blake?s trial had been fair or rigged. He didn?t want to know. He knew only that any friendship, in prison, could end up the kiss of death.

11

BRADFALONWASN?T finished with the Blake family. Having skillfully finessed Morgan into the federal pen, his full attention turned to Becky and the child. They had been staying with Caroline Tanner but it looked now as if they?d moved back home again just as he?d hoped they?d do. Last night he had cruised bymeaning, if he saw no one about, to jimmy the back door and slip inside.

But the Tanner woman?s white van was parked in the drive beside Becky?s car, there was another car behind it that he didn?t recognize, and the living room and kitchen lights burned bright behind the drawn drapes. Easing his car along past the house beneath the overhanging oaks he had parked for a few minutes, looking back, watching the house, wondering what was going on, wondering what Becky might be up to.

But now, this late morning, there was no car at all in the drive. There was no room for a car in the small garage, he knew it was stacked with boxes of automotive parts and new tires for Morgan?s shop. He remained parked for a few moments, scanning the neighborhood. He saw no one in any of the yards, no one looking out a window. Parking half a block down, he walked back beneath the tree shadows to Becky?s front porch.

Having studied the lock on earlier visits, he quickly inserted a thin screwdriver, tripped the simple device, and let himself in. Locking the door behind him he made a leisurely tour of the rooms to be certain the place was empty. In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, drank some milk from the bottle, took out a bowl of cold spaghetti, found a spoon in one of the drawers. He ate half of it, then put the bowl back. The kitchen was too neat, the counters scrubbed, everything put away behind cupboard doors. None of the easy clutter his mother kept on the counter, the cookie jars filled with flour and packages of staples where she could reach them, the pots of miniature cacti, the pictures and lists she kept stuck to the refrigerator and to the walls between hooks bearing limp dish towels and greasy potholders. His mother still lived alone, the house too big for her. The rest of his clothes were there, but he didn?t stop by often, they had their differences. She seemed sometimes almost afraid of him, he thought, smiling.

Moving down the hall to the front bedroom he opened the closet, stroked Becky?s neatly arranged dresses and fondled them. Morgan?s clothes still hung beside hers?as if they thought he was coming home again. He chose a pale blue cotton dress Becky had worn during the trial. Stretching it tight on the hanger he slashed it with his pocketknife, ripped it nearly in half and dropped the pieces on the floor. He?d reached for a second dress when a chill ran through him, a sense that he was watched.

He stared into the shadowed end of the closet where Morgan?s clothes hung but saw nothing to threaten him. He looked foolishly up at the shadowed shelf as if someone could hide among the half-dozen shoe boxes and the battered suitcase. Nothing there of course, and no one behind him in the small bedroom. He checked the hall, went through the rest of the house, then returned. On the dresser stood a cluster of framed photographs, one of Becky and Morgan standing before the house, their hands clasped, and several pictures of the child, from baby to little girl. One by one he smashed the glass, pulled the pictures out and broke the frames. But even as he tore the pictures into small pieces and dropped them on the floor he felt watched again, felt that he was not alone. Nervously he began to open dresser drawers. He removed Becky?s panties and bras one at a time, dropped his pants, and rubbed them over himself. She wore only cotton, not silk, but the garments felt smooth and cool. From the next drawer he lifted out nighties and some stockings and did the same with these, leaving the drawers in a tangle ripe with his male scent.

He left Morgan?s side of the dresser alone except for the top drawer, which was locked. That interested him, and he was examining the lock when he heard a car door slam. As he stepped to the closed window a faint breeze touched the back of his neck, making him shiver. But when he turned, nothing was there. Outside, a car had parked at the curb. A strange man was heading for the house as Becky?s car pulled into the drive, a big man, broad of shoulder, his tie loosened over a white shirt, his gray suit wrinkled. Quickly Falon headed for the kitchen, eased open the bolt on the back door and left, shuttingthe door softly behind him.

BECKY CAME INTO the house ahead of Quaker Lowe. She made him comfortable in the living room, then went to make some coffee. They had met outside the courthouse where Lowe had spent the morning going over the transcripts of the trial. They hadn?t talked there, Lowe had followed her directly home. She was comfortable with Lowe, he seemed to understand clearly her lone battle and her helpless frustration.

He had driven up from Atlanta two days before to talk with the bank employees who had witnessed the guard?s murder and then been beaten and locked in the vault. He was staying at the nicest of Rome?s three motels. So far he had seemed content with the five-hundred-dollar retainer she?d given him, which was all the money she had in their savings account. She had seen him for only a few minutes the day he arrived and then again last night when they?d had a simple dinner here at the house, when Caroline had joined them bringing a hot casserole. Now, as she carried the tray of cookies and coffee into the living room, Lowe was reading his copies of the police reports.

?I read the transcripts,? he said, smiling up at her, ?and talked the court steno out of a set of her carbons.? He spooned sugar into his coffee. ?Last night after I left you I tried again to see Natalie Hooper. There was a light in the living room, but she didn?t answer the door. I tried again this morning. She didn?t respond and she isn?t answering her phone.?

He added cream to the brew and slid three cookies onto his saucer.?It wasn?t much good sitting in the car watching the front entrance to the lobby when she could slip out the back. I parked around the corner, borrowed a chair from the building manager, and sat in the hall. When she did come down, she wasn?t happy to see me,? Lowe said, smiling.

?I told her we could either go upstairs to her place or talk there in the hall. Reluctantly she took me upstairs. I spent over an hour with her but I didn?t get much, just the same lies she told in court. Except for one small discrepancy.

?On the stand, she said Falon left her apartment at two-thirty, the day of the robbery, to go across the street to the corner store. This morning she told me two-fifteen, I got her to say it twice.? He looked evenly at Becky. ?I don?t see how she could forget what she said on the witness stand,though the woman doesn?t seem too swift.

?It may be nothing,? he said, ?but it flustered her. I?ll talk with the store manager when I leave here. But the biggest hole in Falon?s story,? Lowe said, ?is that double entry to the apartment building, the fact that when he left the grocery he could have gone in the front door and out theback. But with no witness, there?s nothing to support that. Can you think of anything that might have been overlooked??

She couldn?t. Yet despite that discouragement she had faith in Lowe, he was far more positive than their trial attorney, he left her feeling so much more hopeful. She was thankful he?d taken the case, though she didn?t know where she was going to find the money to pay him, and she hated taking it from hermother. Lowe had told her to take her time to make payments, that what he was interested in right now was getting the appeal and winning it.

This morning when she?d met Lowe at the courthouse she had just come from taking the ledgers over to Farley?s Dime Store and collecting her last paycheck. Farley would no longer need her services, and he had been pretty cool. He hadn?t apologized for letting her go, he had just abruptly fired her. Last Thursday she had lost three accounts including Brennan?s Dress Shop, and she?d known Beverly Brennan all her life. She couldn?t believe Morgan?s trial and conviction had caused such a change among people she?d thought would stand by them. And business at the automotive shop was so bad she wasn?t sure she could pay Morgan?s mechanic.

Selling the automotive shop would help pay the bills. But would destroy what Morgan had worked so hard to build, destroy another big piece of his life.

Lowe finished his coffee.?You can think of nothing else?? When she shook her head, he stood up to leave. ?I want to check the records on Falon, see if the police missed any old outstanding warrants here or out on the coast, maybe in Washington State or while he was in California.? He put out his hand. ?Please take care. Doors locked, that kind of thing.? He took both her hands in his, looking at her kindly. ?Will you and Sammie be all right? You?ll be moving to Atlanta in a few days, to your aunt?s? You?ll be near the office then, when we need to talk.?

She handed him the paper where she?d written Anne?s address and phone number. ?Maybe we?ll be lucky, maybe he won?t know about Anne. His mother might remember, but they don?t get along, I?d guess he seldom sees her. We?re taking Mama?s car to Anne?s. Mine will be here, in Mama?s garage.?

On impulse Lowe gave her a big bear hug that made tears start.?I?ll call you before I leave Rome, let you know what else I find, and of course I?ll call you at Anne?s.? He turned and left her, swinging out the front door heading for his car. Getting in and pulling away, he waved. She stood at the front door, tears gushing in spite of herself, watching him drive away.

It was twenty minutes after Quaker Lowe left that she discovered someone had been in the house. She hadn?t gone into the bedroom when she got home. Now when she went in to change to a pair of slacks she stopped, looking down at scattered shards of smashed glass, at broken frames and the torn pieces of their family pictures. She spun around, her back to the dresser facing the closet door.

Reaching up, she snatched the dresser key from where it clung to a magnet behind the mirror. She unlocked the dresser drawer and took out Morgan?s loaded and holstered .38. Only when she was armed did she open the closet door.

No one there. Her blue dress, Morgan?s favorite, lay on the floor torn into rags.

No other clothes had been disturbed but when she turned to the dresser and pulled out the drawers she found her bras and panties tangled in a mess and they smelled; every piece of her more intimate clothing reeked with an ammonialike male smell. Her sweaters, blouses, everything had been pulled out, wadded up, and stuffed back again. Morgan?s clothes had not been touched.

Carrying the gun pointed down, her thumb on the hammer, she walked slowly through the rest of the small house, stepping back as she flung open each door: Sammie?s room, Sammie?s closet, the coat closet, the bathroom, the kitchen. When she checked the service porch, the back door was unlocked. She locked it and called the police.

From now on she?d keep the loaded gun with her. She would train Sammie, she?d gun-proof Sammie just as she knew the children of police officers were trained. She should have done that before. Now she would drill Sammie over and over in the rules for caution and safety, she had no other choice.

Standing at the front window she waited nervously for the police, but then when Sergeant Leonard did arrive, the stern older man made her feel that she had called him out for nothing. Leonard was a beefy man, forty pounds overweight with soft, thick jowls and an attitude of boredom. He made little effort to conceal his amusement even when, entering the bedroom among the broken and torn pictures, she showed him her ruined dress and the wadded clothes in her dresser. When he looked at them, stone-faced, embarrassedly she asked him to smell them. He sniffed her clothes with distaste and gave her another amused look.?Is anything missing?? he said as if she had made up the intrusion, had made this mess herself.

?Nothing?s missing that I?ve found.? She told him she had locked both doors when she left the house that morning, and that just now, when she went through the house, the back door was unlocked, the bolt slid back.

When she moved to the front door and asked him to look at the lock, the pry marks were easy to see, bright scratches in the weathered brass. When, in the kitchen, she showed him that the milk bottle had been left out and the leftover spaghetti had been dug into, she felt awkward and stupid. She said Sammie was at Caroline?s, that she hadn?t been home at all to enjoy a little snack. Everything she showed him or told him seemed to amuse him. He moved back to the living room, stood by the front door asking questions about what time she had left the house this morning, how long she had been gone, and where she had been. He didn?t make any notes, though he carried his field book in his hand.

She said,?Can you take fingerprints, can you find out who was in here??

?If there?s nothing missing, no breakin, no door or window broken, we don?t take fingerprints.?

?But the pry marks on the front door. Thatis the sign of a breakin.?

Carelessly he scribbled a few lines in his field book as if to humor her. His disdain, his refusal to take prints made her feel totally helpless. This was not how the police handled a problem, this was not what she?d been raised to expect of them, in Rome or anywhere else. Enraged by his lack of concern, by his sarcasm, all she could think was that the entire Rome PD was against Morgan, was sure Morgan was guilty, and had lost respect for their family. Leonard said nothing more. He turned, let himself out the front door. She watched from the window as his patrol car pulled away.

When he had gone she locked the door and checked the bolt again on the back door. Tonight she would either booby-trap both doors or go back to Caroline?s. She had moved home yesterday, leaving Sammie cosseted at Caroline?s, so she could get her bills and papers in order and pack what they?d need in Atlanta.

In the bedroom she removed her clothes from the drawers, her panties and nighties, bras and slips, and put them in the washer. She washed everything twice, with a little bleach. But for months afterward the touch of her undergarments against her skin made her feel violated and unclean.

While she was running the wash she called Quaker at the motel. He was out but she left a message. When he called back and learned what had happened he made her promise to go back to Caroline?s, where at least the neighbors were younger and more able to come if they were needed. ?How soon can you leave for Atlanta? How soon can you be out of Rome??

?A day, maybe two. As soon as I can wrap up the figures for my last job.?

He said to call him when she left, and again when she got to Atlanta, he wanted to know she was safe.?As soon as I get back to Atlanta myself, I?ll set up a meeting with Morgan, go over the transcript with him, see if he can come up with anything else, even the smallest lead I might follow.?

?Don?t tell him Falon broke in. I?ve told him nothing about Falon?s attacks, it would only worry him when there?s nothing he can do.? She was still shaky when they hung up. She put her clothes in the dryer, dragged out their old battered suitcase and some grocery bags, and got to work packing.

SAMMIE SNUGGLED DEEPER under the quilt, pulling Misto warm against her.?You?ll come with me tomorrow, you?ll come to Aunt Anne?s house. No one will know.? It was late after supper, Mama hadn?t come to bed yet, she could hear Mama and Grandma in the kitchen, the bright rattle of silverware as they washed dishes, the soft murmur of their ?good-bye? voices, theirsad voices. ?You can ride on top of my new suitcase or anywhere in the car you want and Mama can?t see you.?

Sammie?s small brown suitcase, the one Grandma had given her, stood packed and ready, across the room on the cedar chest beside Mama?s battered one. She didn?t want to leave Grandma, she didn?t want to move to Atlanta, she wanted Daddy home again, not gone away like when he was in the war. Why did things have to change? Mama saidlife was change, she said the important things stayed the same because the important things were inside you. Like loving each other and being strong.

Ducking her head under the covers she pressed her face against Misto. When she stroked his ragged ears and tickled him under the chin the way he liked, he purred and patted a soft paw against her cheek and she knew he loved her just the way she loved him. That would never change.

MISTO THOUGHT ABOUT Falon in Becky?s house rummaging through Becky?s clothes, peering up at the closet shelf knowing something was there, never guessing that a ghost crouched inches from his face, an angry invisible tomcat who could have clawed and bloodied him if he?d wanted. Misto had simply crouched there entertained by Falon?s fear, he could still see Falon shiver and back away. Falon had been even more afraid when Misto streaked through the air letting his tail trail across Falon?s neck. Falon?s reaction would make any cat laugh.

Now as Sammie drifted into sleep Misto slept, too, as deep and restorative a sleep as if he was a mortal cat; a sleep that helped embolden him against the dark that not only tormented Lee but so often traveled with Falon. As the little cat slept he knew in his enduring feline soul that he was not alone, that neither he nor Sammie was alone, that they could never be abandoned; eternity didn?t work in that way.

12

ANNECHESSERSON HAD grave reservations about allowing Becky and the child to move in with her. She had never been close to Caroline, even when they were children, for reasons her younger sister wouldn?t have understood. Now she was already sorry she?d let Caroline manipulate her into letting Becky and the little girl live there. What had possessed her? She wasn?t comfortable with children, she had never wanted a family, she liked her life as it was. She didn?t like changes in her routine. She didn?t care much for houseguests, though she had room for them, and of course she had Mariol to wait on the few visitors she did invite.

Anne was a handsome woman, meticulously turned out, her black hair coiffed in a sleek French twist, her dresses custom made of pale silks which, on anyone else, might become quickly spotted or watermarked. Her winter coats were confections of beautifully draped cashmere. Her couturi?re, in Morningside, was so well situated that she had an unlisted phone. Anne had invested wisely the money John had settled on her when he left. While Caroline, with much lower goals, ran a bakery business that couldn?t be very profitable. Anne couldn?t find much sympathy for Caroline or herniece in this present situation. Becky knew, when she married Morgan Blake, that he ran with a troublemaker in high school. Caroline should never have allowed her to marry the boy?Morganhad been only a boy when they married. Then when Morgan came out of the navy all he wanted to do with his life was become an auto mechanic. No one could support a wife as a simple mechanic; no wonder he?d resorted to theft. The Atlanta papers had been full of the robbery and murder, it was an ugly business that she would prefer to keep at a distance. She could hardly do that if Becky was staying with her. But the decision had been made, so she wouldn?t back out.

At least Becky and the child would have the basement suite, downstairs where Becky?s early rising to go to work, and the child?s noisy play, might not disturb her. Mariol lived on the main floor in the back bedroom; Anne?s own bedroom suite took up the smaller, second floor where she could look out over the rooftops of Atlanta. Anne believed in stairs; the exercise kept her waist and legs trim. She liked to cook, and on the nights she was home she prepared their meals, though Mariol did the shopping. Anne had been a temperamental, nervous child, and had been treated with extra care. Their mother had kept her perfectly groomed, immaculately dressed, not a wrinkle allowednor a hair out of place, while she let Caroline run as she pleased in ragged dresses or boy?s jeans. Caroline had been a sturdy child, Anne had not. Anne?s interest in perfecting her outer self had helped to build a wall of protection, hiding her inner fears; that was the best shelter their mother could provide for her.

BECKYANDSAMMIE moved into the basement suite on a Friday afternoon, slipping almost subserviently down the carpeted stairs from the foyer carrying their tattered suitcases. The Tudor house was built all of pale stone, with sharply peaked slate roofs and diamond leaded windows. From the basement sitting area one could step out onto a stone patio surrounded by an expanse of velvet lawn and carefully shaped azalea and rhododendron bushes. The downstairs suite seemed as big as Becky?s whole house, occupying three fourths of the large basement, with a laundry off to one side. The bedroom wing had twin beds done up with elegant satin spreads. This room could be hidden by cream velvet draperies drawn across. The other wing of the guest suite, the sitting area, featured a LouisXV?style desk and a rose marble fireplace. The rooms were carpeted in off-white wool carved in a Chinese pattern, the cost per square yard a sum that would have kept Becky and Sammie in luxury for months. The storage chests and dressing table were finished in hand-laid gold leaf. The room terrified Becky. She couldn?t feel comfortable here; she was afraid that either she or Sammie would mar the furniture or leave a stain on the carpet, on the velvet settee or on the two brocade chairs, would mar this perfect grouping arranged before the marble mantel and gas log. Even now with the chill nights of early fall she wouldn?t dare light a fire.

There was no kitchenette and no possible place to comfortably open a can of tuna and a package of crackers except the bathroom. That room was done in mauve marble and mauve tile with both a shower and a tub, the shower protected by three layers of shower curtains, the outer, mauve one deeply ruffled. Stepping in the shower made Becky feel as if she was slipping into a closet filled with lacy ball gowns. The one new addition to the bedroom was the phone with a private line that Anne had had installed for her. Whether this was added out of thoughtfulness or to keep Becky from interrupting Anne?s own calls, the phone was welcome and made her feel more accepted.

She had brought half a dozen of her own bedsheets to spread over the carpet where they would walk the most and to cover a six-foot square between Sammie?s bed and the wall so Sammie would have a play area. She had not allowed Sammie to bring paints or crayons, only a drawing pad and pencils. Sammie had specific instructions about keeping the carpet clean?Becky gave her more instructions than either of them wanted to deal with. Sammie was a good child, she was never intentionally destructive, but children were children and Becky worried obsessively about damaging Anne?s perfect house.

For the first few days she made their breakfasts and dinners from cans, she and Sammie sitting on the bathroom floor on a folded sheet pretending they were having a picnic. Maybe she was making too much of trying to keep the rooms clean, but she hadn?t been invited here, she couldn?t help feeling like an intruder.

She had turned the bedspreads wrong side up to keep them clean and now, after her third day of job hunting, she lay across her bed, exhausted. Her feet ached from walking the streets, her head ached from filling out countless job applications, answering the same probing questions over and over, and dealing with countless interviews. The questions always included the same inquiry about her marital status and her husband?s occupation. In the last week and a half she had applied for eighteen jobs and had been told eighteen times, after filling out all the applications, that there were no openings or that she didn?t fit the qualifications or that they would call her if something came up. What did she expect whenshe told the truth, that Morgan was in the Atlanta pen for a robbery and murder that he hadn?t committed, that she was working with an attorney on an appeal?

On the nineteenth application, where she must check either married, single, divorced, or widowed, she marked widowed, and she used her maiden name, Tanner. She had to find a job, and soon, and then a small apartment near a school for Sammie. The problem of after-school weighed heavily, she hadn?t solved that one yet. Now, when she was out job hunting, Sammie stayed quietly in their room but she couldn?t leave Sammie alone in an apartment.

On their visits to Morgan she found it increasingly hard to hide her despair at the lack of a job. When she was with him she talked hopefully about their request for an appeal, but too often he would simply hug her and change the subject, knowing she was holding back her stress and doubts. She worried, too, because Sammie wasn?t sleeping well. And now Sammie wouldn?t talk about her dreams, though she had never before been secretive. Sammie had started to make a picture book of small pencil drawings in a plain, unlined tablet, but she didn?t want to show Becky, she made her promise not to look.

But soon, when Anne was out at one or another of her club meetings, Becky would come home to find Sammie upstairs in the kitchen with Mariol; at first that disturbed her, but Mariol herself put Becky at ease. The housekeeper was a handsome Negro woman to whom Becky had warmed at once. She had been with Anne since before John left, before the divorce. Soon Mariol was giving Sammie a hot lunch, and then she had them both coming upstairs to a hot breakfast. Anne was quiet during those meals but she seemed to tolerate the arrangement. Mariol would hug and cuddle Sammie, but of course Anne didn?t put aside her own reserve, Becky knew she never would.

One thing was certain?Anne didn?t want to talk about Morgan or the trial. If Becky mentioned Morgan, Anne grew ill at ease. Becky wanted her to understand that Morgan was innocent, but after three awkward attempts she gave up. Anne would think what she pleased. Becky was surprised when after only a few days, Mariol?s kindness to Sammie seemed to stir a subtle change in Anne. Several times Becky found her watching Sammie with a puzzled frown and once, when Becky was tucking Sammie in bed and hearing her prayers, Sammie said, ?Bless Aunt Anne and please make her less lonely.?

But then came the night when Sammie woke screaming,?Look out! Look out! Get away from him! Get away!? Becky lunged for the lamp switch, turned it on to find Sammie sitting up in bed still half asleep but trembling and terrified. Becky crawled into bed with her, holding her close. ?What was it?? she said softly. ?What did you dream??

?I don?t remember,? Sammie said, clearly lying. ?It?s gone now. I want to go to sleep now.? Whatwere these new dreams, that she wouldn?t talk about them? Prison dreams? Ugly prison incidents that no child should see and that Becky couldn?t stop her from seeing?

?Whatever you dreamed,? Becky said, ?there?s more good in life than ugliness. We have to hold on to the bright part, so we?ll be stronger.? They lay holding each other until at last Sammie slept?leaving Becky wakeful, certain that Sammie had seen Morgan hurt. No matter what she told Sammie, she couldn?t shake her own fear. She had no notion that across the room brightness did touch them; that the yellow tomcat sat on the mantel watching them, reaching out an invisible paw to ease them as he, too, considered Sammie?s dream.

MISTO HAD SEEN the child?s drawings, had looked carefully at the little sketches. In one a man was falling a great distance tied to a rope, and that puzzled him. The tomcat had been in and out of the Chesserson house ever since Becky and Sammie had arrived; he had prowled the opulent rooms getting to know Anne and Mariol, seeing how each interacted with Sammie. He had rolled luxuriously on the fine upholstered furniture and the dense imported carpets, leaving no mark; he had sampled Mariol?s good cooking, licking his whiskers; he had stalked the neighborhood rooftops. Galloping along the steep angles of the Tudor?s slate roof, leaping into the high foliage of the great oaks and across the roofs of the big Morningside homes, he had spied down through mullioned windows, and peered down into lush, shaded gardens; but always he returned to Sammie. He was shocked to a rigid stillness when Anne Chesserson realized that something unseen wandered the house.

If Misto drifted into the room with her, she would turn in his direction with a puzzled frown. If he stood on the kitchen table licking a plate or peering down at Sammie?s drawings, Anne would look around the room, frowning. She never seemed afraid. When she became too intently aware of him Misto would vacate the house, would return to prowl the prison beside Lee, abandoning the luxury of Morningside, watching for the shadow that, too often, followed his cellmate.

13

LEE?S MORNING WAS brightened considerably on his next visit to the dispensary by the sight of Karen Turner coming down the corridor carrying a sheaf of files, the zipper of her short uniform pulled low, her dark hair clean and bouncy.?Hi, Fontana. You look chipper today.?

Lee grinned at her, the very sight of her made him feel lighter.?Guess I do feel pretty good, I just got myself a job.? Thanks to Gimpy, when a job had opened up in the cotton mill, Lee was in?with some reservation from his counselor, on a try-and-see basis. He was to start the next afternoon on a short, three o?clock shift.

?I?m glad for you, Fontana.? Karen?s smile warmed him clear to his toes. She went on past him, but before she entered the next office she turned and gave him a wink and a thumbs-up.

His counselor had been hesitant about the job, but Lee persisted until Camp said he could give it a try.?Wear a handkerchief over your face, Fontana. Or get a mask from the dispensary, the air isn?t the best in there.?

Lee said he would, but he wasn?t going to go in there acting like a sissy, with some kerchief tied around his face.

He moved on down the hall to the doctor?s office, still thinking about Karen?s smile and wink. Swinging up onto the examining table, he took off his shirt, wincing as Dr. Floyd slapped the cold stethoscope on him. With the doctor preoccupied, thumping his chest and back, telling him to take deep breaths and listening to his heart, Leescanned the small, square room. A tray of several sizes of adhesive tape and bandages sat beside the sink, along with a bottle of antiseptic. There were no small, sharp tools to be easily slipped into a guy?s pocket. But across the room on the wall hung dispensers for rubber gloves and paper towels, a disposal bin for waste products and another one for used razor blades: a simple metal box with a handle that operated a dump bin at the bottom. Lee studied this as Dr. Floyd took his blood pressure. He was looking innocently at the doctor when an orderly stuck his head in the door, a thin guy in a pale blue lab coat. ?Can you take a phone call from the warden??

Floyd glanced uneasily at Lee, then looked around the room, making sure that no sharp instruments had been left out.?Stay put, Fontana.? He moved away, leaving the door wide open, stopping to speak to the orderly. The orderly disappeared from Lee?s sight and Lee moved fast. When the orderly reappeared, stepping into the room, Lee sat on the table as before, his legs dangling.

Dr. Floyd wasn?t gone much longer. Returning, he nodded to Lee. ?You can put on your shirt, Fontana. So far you look good. Keep doing your breathing exercises. I want to see you in a week.? As Floyd moved to the sink to wash his hands, Lee left the room walking carefully, conscious of the tangle of double-edged razor blades wrapped in a paper towel; he had slipped them into his pants pocket in the second before the orderly stepped in, blades that must have been used to shave around wounds before they were stitched and bandaged.

As he left the clinic, pushing out through the iron door, an icy wind hit him, cutting down the open walk. As he passed the cotton mill he casually checked its trash bins, glanced around, and removed a length of cotton cord from among the detritus.

From there he headed for the automotive shop, where the sound of hammering on metal rang sharply. Even from a distance the wind carried the smell of oil and solvent and wet paint. He found Morgan at work on a sleek red roadster. They could hardly talk for the noise echoing through the busy shop, and then the rumble and cry of a freight train. At least a dozen men worked in the shop, sanding car parts, carefully tapping out dents with rubber mallets, filling tiny flaws in fenders and door panels, spraying on primer. Three men at the far end stood under a lift working on the axle of an old Model T. Lee smiled, watching Morgan. It was clear that Blake liked his work. When Blake turned to look at Lee his usual anger was gone, his expression almost happy. Lee made small talk, admiring the red roadster and the work Morgan was doing, the newly painted fender replacement, the new tan upholstery. They visited for only a few minutes. As Lee turned to leave, blowing his nose, he managed to drop his handkerchief over a lost machine nut that had rolled beneath a tire. Picking up both, he left the auto shop with everything he needed for a good, no-nonsense weapon.

So far he had been passive with Coker and Delone, had played it low-key. But those two were half crazy, the kind who got a jolt from bullying and hurting and worse. That night after supper, alone in his cell, Lee checked the cells across the way to be sure no one was idly watching. The custodian had already done the count, the cells were locked for the night and that was the most privacy he?d get. He glanced the length of the cellblock, then, sitting on his bunk with his back to the bars, a pillow behind him as if he was reading, he got to work.

In the half-light from the corridor, keeping the materials close in his lap so he could pull the blanket up, he cut the cotton cord in two and unraveled the shorter piece to produce lengths of heavy-duty thread. He stretched out the other cord, and at one end he tied the heavy, half-inch-thick machine nut. Moving down the length of the cord he commenced to tie on the double-edged blades with the heavy thread, taking care not to slice his fingers. He was lucky to have gotten them. In the cellblocks the guards kept tight count of every razor blade a fellow was issued and collected them again pretty quick.

Down at the end of Lee?s cot the tomcat appeared as the faintest shadow watching with kneading claws the enticing lengths of thread twist and writhe as they unraveled, watching the heavier, snakelike behavior of the long cord. He wanted to leap into the tangle playing and rolling, biting at the threads. The sharp blades stopped him?though they couldn?t hurt a ghost, memories of past lives and sharp tools were too indelibly a part of his nature. Restraining himself, he only let his shadowy tail lash as Lee fished each thread through the narrow slot of a blade and around the cord and back.

In order for the weapon to be effective each blade had to be strongly secured at both ends. Working on the garrote Lee found himself thinking about Morgan Blake, puzzling over the young man?s story. Why did it keep nudging at him, why did he keep thinking about Blake?s version of the crime and the trial? He?d heard a million sob stories, all of them as fake as counterfeit twenties, so why did he believe this one?

But somehow he did believe, and that bothered him. They?d had breakfast together several times when Blake sought him out; each time Blake got onto the bank robbery and the events leading up to that day. Lee didn?t want to listen, but his instinct said Blake was telling the truth, said Blakehad been set up, that a carefully planned robbery and killinghad been smoothly pulled off at the young man?s expense.

Lee was irritated that he believed Blake; it bothered him that he?d begun to care about the guy?s predicament. Getting involved in someone else?s life, in prison, was the best way Lee knew to jeopardize his own life. There was no way he could help Blake even if he was stupid enough to try. Yet he couldn?t shake his growing interest.

It was late when Lee finished tying on the razor blades, working in the dim light of his own shadow. Every time he heard the guard?s soft footsteps walking the rounds he pulled up the blanket, picked up his pulp novel and bent over it. Sometimes he rattled and wadded up a candy wrapper, tossing it on the floor. When the guard had moved on, Lee would continue with the garrote. The weapon was about twenty inches long. At the opposite end to the nut he tied a loop large enough to slip his finger through. The blades, crowded close together, started ten inches from the loop and ended four inches from the steel nut. Turning to check the cellblock, Lee let the weapon hang from his right forefinger.

Along the rows of cells, the men he could see were either asleep or busy with their own concerns, lying in bed reading, writing letters. Satisfied no one was watching, he moved back into the shadows.?Get out of here,? he hissed at the ghost cat. Misto disappeared but reappeared at the head of Lee?s cot, the faintest shadow. Lee could just see his whiskers and ears flat to his head, but Misto?s toothy hiss was all bravado. Free of the cat, he swung the garrote in a circle, letting the weight of the nut pull the cord taut, whirling it until a faint light flashed off the sharp blades, then the garrote began a faint whistle. At the sound he stopped its motion, glancing across the way. Carefully he rolled the nut and blades up inside the cord until the finished product looked like no morethan a ball of string. He dropped this in a Bull Durham bag he?d fished out of the trash behind the mess hall, slipped it under his mattress, and crawled into bed. If Coker and Delone wanted to play rough, he was ready.

14

THE COTTON LOOMS thrashed and banged as if they?d tear themselves from the floor; the big room rocked with rows of clattering looms, the thread feeding into them faster than Lee could follow. His job was to keep the spindles supplied to machines fourteen and fifteen so they?d never stop running, and he had to stay on his toes. Red lines painted on the floor cautioned him where to keep clear. As the canvas fabric edged its way out of each loom, Lee?s freckle-faced partner guided its dropping in folds onto a rubber-wheeled cart.

Gimpy had warned him that no matter what job a man did in here, he had to be careful, everything in the place was dangerous. When Gimpy had introduced him to the foreman, the middle-aged, military-looking man walked Lee through the routine just once and then put him to work. The cotton came into the mill already ginned, the seeds removed. It was air-blown in a big metal hopper up on the second-level loft, was sent from there through a large tube to machines that spun it into thread, wound the thread on spindles, and the spindles sent down to the busy looms. The room?s thunder seemed to rip right through Lee. He had put cotton wads in his ears, as his partner wore, but it didn?t help much. The air was murky with cotton dust, but he wasn?t wearing a sissy mask. He thought he could breathe shallowly until he was out in the fresh air again. Only when he left his machine to get more spindles did he find something to laugh about.

Glancing into the adjoining room he saw the woven canvas being sewn into large bags, and each stamped in black letters,U.S. MAIL. He was helping make the exact same bags he?d buried in the desert full of hundred-dollar bills. The bags he?d taken at gunpoint from the Blythe post office. And didn?t that make him smile.

By the end of his shift his cough was bad and his body ached from the noise, the clatter penetrated clear to his bones. The most positive thing about the job, he thought, was that it allowed him to drop out of group counseling?but even that didn?t work. As he left the noisy cotton mill, the guard stopped him.

?You?re to go from here to your counselor, Fontana.? The man had a face like a bloodhound, drooping jowls, no smile. ?He?ll set up a new time for your group sessions.?

Lee swallowed back his reply, which would only have gotten him in trouble. Heading for Paul Camp?s building, walking back between rows of desks, he found Camp leaning over his own desk tamping tobacco into a dark, carved pipe. Leaning back in his chair, Camp took his time lighting up. Drawing the smoke in deeply, he handed Lee his new counseling schedule. Lee wanted to argue, but what good?

Camp sat looking him over in a way Lee didn?t like. ?I have a request from Morgan Blake.?

Lee waited. Why tell him about Blake?s problems?

?Blake wants you to accompany him on his wife?s visiting days, says she?d like to meet you.?

?Why would she do that? What the hell is that about? Visiting is for families.? Why would Blake want him there during that private time? Why would the woman want to meethim?

?It?s an unusual request,? Camp said. ?Did you know Blake before you were transferred to Atlanta??

?Never heard of him. Why would I want to get involved in someone else?s family??

Camp leaned back until his wooden chair creaked.?You?ve gotten friendly with Blake pretty fast.?

?He?s a nice enough kid. But visiting day? I don?t think so.?

Camp just looked at him.

?I listen to him,? Lee said, ?the kid needs someone to vent to, but I sure didn?t put it in his head to meet his family.?

?Morgan says that talking to you has helped him accept his situation. You think you?re some kind of counselor??

?I listen good,? Lee said, hiding his amusement.

?Whatever you?re doing,? Camp said, ?seems to be working. I?ve noticed a change in Blake.?

?So what do I get, a medal? Maybe I can counsel the whole family.?

Camp gave him another long, hard gaze. Lee was about to rise and leave, but his curiosity got the best of him. What harm would it do, a few minutes in the visiting room? It might answer some questions about the way Blake watched him, frowning and puzzled.?What the hell,? he said. ?I can give it a try.?

Camp studied him, made a notation on a pad, and handed Lee a list of visiting hours. Lee moved on out of the office wondering why he?d agreed. Wondering why Blake had made the request. If there was something Morgan knew that Lee didn?t, maybe now he?d find out.

Bushed from the cotton mill, he skipped supper and headed for his cell. One day on the job and his cough was bad. His body ached, his head pounded, he knew he should have taken the kitchen job.

But he wasn?t going to call it quits, he?dwear a damned handkerchief around his face, he?d getused to the noise.

In the cellblock, as he climbed the metal stairs and moved in through his barred door, his bunk looked mighty good. He collapsed onto it, his strength gone. He was getting old. The thought sent a chill through him. He was deep asleep when Misto dropped onto the cot and stretched out beside him, lying close, listening to Lee?s ragged breathing.

?She will come now,? the cat whispered, placing a soft paw on Lee?s cheek, sending his words deep into Lee?s dreams. ?The child will come now. You?ll know soon enough why Morgan watches you. You?ll know soon enough why, all these years, you?ve carried Mae?s picture with you. You?ll begin to see now that you can defeat the dark spirit. You will take strength not only from me, but from the child.?

LEE DIDN?T WAKE until morning, to the sounds of men starting the day, coughing and grumbling, the water running, an angry shout, springs creaking and metal clanging. He washed, dressed, stood for the count and then headed for breakfast. Collecting his tray, he found Morgan already at a small table.

?What?s that about?? he said, setting down his tray. ?Why would your wife want me to visit? What kind of scam is this??

Morgan looked down at his plate, his face coloring.?Actually, it?s my child who wants you there, it?s Sammie who asked for you.?

Lee scowled at him.?How does your kid even know about me? What have you told her? Why would .†.†. ??

Morgan drizzled syrup over his pancakes.?I didn?t tell her anything about you. She .†.†. she dreamed about you. She .†.†. said you came here from California.?

Lee looked hard at him.

?She?s only a little girl,? Morgan said, forking pancakes. The clatter of breakfast dishes and the staccato of men?s voices echoed around them, bouncing off the concrete walls. ?She .†.†. Sammie has these dreams. About people, about things that will happen. Sometimes,? he said, looking almost shyly at Lee, ?sometimes her dreams turn out to be real.?

?What do you mean, real?? Lee said uneasily.

?She knows what you look like. She knows you worked in the desert, driving a truck, and she dreamed of you flying in a small, open plane. She knows you, Lee, though you?ve never met.?

Morgan?s words chilled Lee, pulled a memory from deep within and nearly forgotten, incidents from childhood that he?d put away from him, that he hadn?t wanted to think about. Secrets came alive again, his sister Mae?s secrets when she would whisper her dreams to him, dreams that later turned out to be real.

Once Mae told him that their milk cow, Lucy, would birth triplet calves, and triplet calves were rare. Lucy bore three live calves, all healthy little bull calves. The predictions frightened Mae; she would tell them shyly, painfully but earnestly, only hoping the adults would listen. Once she told Pa that he?d better fix the roof of the hay barn before the next snow or it would cave it in. Pa didn?t fix the roof. In the heavy winter it did collapse, ruined half a barn full of good hay, but luckily none of the animals was hurt. Pa was angry at Mae that the roof fell in, like it was her fault, and that was the last dream she ever told Pa.

By the time Lee left home, either the dreams had stopped or Mae stopped talking about them. Pa grew angry if she mentioned a dream, and their mother didn?t want to hear it, either. Lee was the only one who listened, uncomfortably, then he?d put the dreams away from him. Mae never knew how much they frightened him, this seeing into the future, predicting a future that hadn?t yet happened, that no one should be able to see. Now again the shadowed memories from that long-ago time filled him. ?Your little girl dreams of something that hasn?t happened?? he asked softly.

Morgan nodded.?She described you exactly. She dreams of you and feels close to you. She wants you there on visiting day,? he said awkwardly.

Lee shivered.

?She?s only nine, Lee. She?s my child and I love her and she has these dreams, that?s all I can say. What will it hurt to humor her??

?She dreamed about me because you talked about me.? Lee said nothing about Mae, he wasn?t telling Morgan about Mae.

Morgan laid down his fork, fixing his attention on Lee.?I never talked about you. I never mentioned you. I can?t explain why she dreams of you. She dreamed of you and me talking together in the automotive shop.?

?That?s because you told her you were working there. That?s where she pictures you, in a place like your shop in Rome.?

?In her dream there was a red Buick roadster up on the rack.?

?How would a little girl know a Buick roadster from a hay wagon??

Morgan smiled.?She helps .†.†. used to help me in the shop, handing me tools. From the time I came home from the navy she?s hung around the shop, she knows all my automotive tools. She knows the makes of most cars, she can stand on the street and rattle off the make, model, and year of nearly every car that passes.

?It was hard on her,? Morgan said, ?being without a father. Hard on all the service kids, those years without a dad to lean on and to learn from. Becky took the best care of her, but when I got home Sammie clung to me, wanted to be with me in the shop.? Morgan shook his head. ?We were so happy, the three of us together again, our life starting again as it should be. And then, long before the robbery and murder, Sammie dreamed about me being locked behind prison bars.

?Becky and I thought this dream was just a simple nightmare, we knew such a thing couldn?t happen. But then it did happen,? Morgan said. ?The afternoon and night I was drugged? Sammie, at the exact same time, reacted in the same way; she was groggy, she kept falling asleep, she couldn?t stay awake.?

Lee said nothing. To believe in the ghost cat was one thing, and to know the dark spirit was real, he had learned to adjust to that unseen world. But to bring alive the future as Mae had done, to reach forward into unformed time?that bruised something young and painful in Lee, brought back an unsteady fear he didn?t want to deal with.

?Yesterday,? Morgan said, ?Sammie told me that when she dreamed of you in the shop, you dropped your handkerchief on the floor. She said when you picked it up, you picked up a metal nut off the shop floor, that you made sure it was hidden in the handkerchief that you put in your pocket.?

Lee choked, couldn?t swallow. When at last he got the coughing under control, Morgan said, ?Come on, Lee, humor a little girl. What can it hurt to meet her, to spend a little while with us next visiting day??

Lee knew now that he?d better do that. This kind of thing would turn a man crazy unless he knew what it was about.

15

BECKY LEFT THE drugstore at five feeling good after her first day at work. She?d found a bookkeeping job at last, after multiple tries. She liked the people she was working with; she liked the fact that the Latham family had slowly, over the years, established a small chain that gave five areas of Atlanta excellent pharmacy service. She would be paid at the end of each weekand she badly needed the money to pay their attorney. The shop windows along Peachtree were bright with Thanksgiving color, a hint of Christmas scattered among them, and the air had turned crisp and chill. She had started to cross the street to the department store meaning to buy some stockings before her last pair gave way when she thought she saw Brad Falon.

Catching her breath, she drew back into the shadow of a doorway. The man moved swiftly away from her; she could see only his back, a slim man, Falon?s height. Same narrow head, light brown hair combed into a thick ducktail. He turned the corner and was gone and she hadn?t seen his face. Had he seenher, was that why he hurried away? She wanted to follow him, but that wasn?t wise. Instead she returned to the pharmacy, stood in the shadow of the doorway for a long time watching the street.

He didn?t return. Maybe it wasn?t Falon, maybe only someone who resembled him. The man had been visible for only a minute, and was half hidden by shoppers. How could Falon have found out so soon where she?d gone? Moving on into the drugstore as if she had forgotten something she smiled at Amy, the small, blond clerk, and went on into the back office. She sat down at her desk, feeling shaky. She stared at the neatly stacked ledgers, at the chrysanthemums that Mr. Latham had brought from his garden to brighten her first day on the job, a homey, kindly gesture.

The Latham?s pharmacies were small shops selling prescriptions only and over-the-counter medications, no ice cream counter, no magazines or toys. The plate-glass windows were kept sparkling, the marble floors immaculate. Near the front door were two benches where customers could wait for their orders. Behind the pharmacist?s counter was a large safe where cash and a few narcotic drugs were kept, a refrigerator, and shelves of prescription medicines. The inner office was lined with file cabinets facing the two desks. Becky?s job was to keep daily accounts for the five stores. Invoices and sales records were put on her desk each night, after John Latham had made his rounds. Latham was a slim, quiet man, with a habit of smoothing the top of his head, where his hair was thinning.

Becky had found the job through an agency after two weeks of looking on her own. She had chosen the agency with the most comfortable atmosphere, and had indicated on her registration forms that she was a widow. Two days later she had the job. The previous bookkeeper, who was leaving to have a baby, had interviewed her, and then Mr. Latham had talked with her. Her salary was more than she had hoped, and this downtown branch was a five-minute drive from Anne?s, an equal distance from the grammar school. Sammie should already be in school, but Becky was still reluctant to send her off by herself. Now, if shehad seen Falon, she would have to keep Sammie home.

If he had tracked her this far, he would find the house?or had already found it, was already watching the Morningside neighborhood. Fear and anger made her heart pound. She breathed deeply, trying to relax. She couldn?t let panic paralyze her, she had to think what to do, had to watch more carefully around her, further caution to her aunt and Anne?shousekeeper to be aware, to keep the doors locked. And she?d have to carry the .38. An empty gun was no good, lying in the bottom of a suitcase.

She waited at her desk for twenty minutes, then left by the back door, crossing the small parking area to her car. She drove home to Anne?s by a circuitous route, watching for Falon?s black coupe. The next morning when she dressed for work she unlocked the .38 from her battered overnight bag, loaded it and put it in her purse.

Leaving Sammie at home with Mariol, Becky drove to work, warily watching the streets. Pulling into the narrow parking area behind the redbrick building, she left the gun under the seat of the locked car. Maybe she was being paranoid, carrying a gun, and maybe not. Falon had been in their house more than once. He had killed one man that she knew of, and he had nearly killed bank teller Betty Holmes. He might well have killed her and Sammie that night when Sammie was small, when he broke into their house and Sammie?s good cat attacked him. Sammie was so little then. Neither of them had forgotten Misto?s bravery and the terrible shock of his death.

Could she shoot Falon if she must? Oh, yes. If he came at Sammie, she?d kill him. She had warned Anne and Mariol about Falon, though she wasn?t sure that either one took the threat seriously enough. She had made them promise not to open the door to any stranger and not to let Sammie play outside alone.

On her second day, arriving at work, she didn?t glimpse Falon or his car, and when she didn?t see him the next day or the next, her tension began to ease. Very likely that wasn?t Falon she?d seen, but a stranger, a coincidence not a threat. She had been at work a week when she came out of the drugstore at four feeling good, her first week?s pay in her purse, feeling strong and secure to be making a regular salary again. Things were better at Anne?s, too; something was changing that puzzled her, Anne seemed almost pleased that they were staying there, she wasn?t nearly so grim and cold as when they arrived.

To further lighten her mood, Quaker Lowe had called not fifteen minutes ago, just before she left work. He said he should know about the appeal within the week, and he had sounded hopeful. That cheered her considerably. She didn?t let herself think they might be denied. Leaving the pharmacy by the rear door, she checked the alley, glanced between the parked cars, then moved toward her own car. She unlocked the driver?s door, tossed her purse on the seat?and was jerked backward. Hard fingers dug into her shoulder, jerked her off balance, she hit her head on the door frame. Falon spun her around, threw her to the ground, the rough surface ripping her outthrust hands.

He crouched over her, pawing at her dress. She tried to shout but was mute with fear. When he shoved his hand under her skirt she clawed him and tried again to scream. It was broad daylight, four o?clock, there were people on the street, people in the drugstore, someone had to hear her if only she could make some sound. He grabbed her hair, jerked her up so hard blackness swam, pulled her close, pawing and stroking her. When he leaned down as if to kiss her she bit him in the throat. He struck her hard across the cheek. She grabbed his face, dug her fingers in his eyes. He let go, knocked her hands away, and bent over, pawing at his eyes. Free of him, she pulled herself up into the car, but again he lunged at her. She kicked him in the crotch and reached frantically under the seat, feeling for the gun.

She couldn?t find it. Searching, she hit her head on the steering wheel. Behind her Falon was bent over groaning, holding himself. She spun around and shoved him off balance. He stumbled back. She jerked the door closed and locked it, snatched the key from her pocket, jammed it in the ignition and started the car. As the engine roared she pressed her face to the window, he was getting up. She backed out fast. She?d like to put the car in low and ram him. Careening out of the parking lot she swung into traffic nearly hitting an oncoming car. Falon would be parked nearby, would be behind her in seconds, and she didn?t dare lead him to Anne?s. Turning off Peachtree she sped two blocks to a gas station and swung in. Staying in the locked car with the window half down, she asked the attendant to call the police. The grizzled old man stared at the black car swerving in behind her and raced for the office phone. Falon paused, watching the attendant, then swung a U-turn, narrowly missing the gas pumps, and took off again.

When the police arrived she told them only that a man had attacked her behind the drugstore, that he had chased her, that she didn?t know who he was. The attendant gave them the make and model of the Ford but he hadn?t been able, at the angle and speed it moved, to see the license plate. She gave the police her Rome address, she said she was in town only for the day. If Falon didn?t know where she was staying, she didn?t want him finding out by some fluke at the police station, by some clerical indiscretion. If her lies caught up with her, she?d deal with them later.

Falon would be back, she was only grateful that he had come after her and not Sammie. Driving around the business district watching behind her and watching the side streets, she kept seeing the look in his eyes.

She drove around for half an hour and didn?t see the sporty black Ford. She hurried on to Anne?s, got out quickly, opened the garage door, pulled her car in beside Anne?s Cadillac, jerked the door closed from within. Locking it, she could hear the fiery music of Stravinsky coming from the living room. Mariol had told her Anne didn?t use the record player often, usually when she was upset, perhaps after some conflict in one of her women?s club meetings. Fishing her compact from her purse, looking in the little mirror, she frowned at the bruises already darkening her forehead and cheek, wondering how she was going to explain that.Carefully she combed her hair, straightened her blouse and jacket, tried to put herself in some kind of order.

Letting herself into the foyer, she looked into the empty living room, its ivory-toned velvet furniture and pale Oriental carpet pristine and untouched. The cream-colored afghan lay tangled on the couch among the throw pillows as if Sammie might have been napping. Following the scent of hot chocolate she headed past the dining room to the kitchen, pausing just outside the half-closed door.

Sammie was crying, a shaky sniffle; then she blew her nose. Anne?s voice was soft. ?I cried, too, I cried after such a dream. Oh, so many times. But she?s all right, Sammie. Your mother?s all right now.?

?But sheisn?t all right. That man hurt her, that Brad Falon?the man who watches us, who broke into our house. The man who killed my Misto.?

Becky stood dismayed. Had Sammie had a daytime nightmare, had awakened from seeing Falon?s attack? Awakened frightened and crying?and Anne had been there for her, had reached out to her? Something tender in Anne had reached out?

She moved into the kitchen. Anne sat at the big kitchen table, her back to Becky, holding Sammie in her lap, cuddling her close and tenderly in a way Becky would never have guessed.?I cried, too,? Anne repeated softly, ?but your mother?s all right. And you and I are all right.?

Sammie looked up at Anne and reached to touch her face. Around them the airy white kitchen was fresh and welcoming with its mullioned-glass cabinet doors, white tile counters, and the three deep-set windows crowded with pots of green herbs. Mariol stood at the double sink washing vegetables, her back to Anne and the child.

?We?re together now,? Anne said. ?Now, when the nightmares come, you have not only your mother to tell, you have me and Mariol to tell, if you want to.?

When the child glanced across at Mariol, the slim, mulatto woman turned to look kindly at her. Anne said,?Until now I have trusted only Mariol to keep my secret. But you have all three of us, Mariol and me and your mama, to hold you when the ugly dreams come, to hold you and keep you safe.?

?But you can?t change what I see,? Sammie said. ?No one can. He hurt Mama and he?ll try again.?

Shaken, Becky moved on into the kitchen. Sammie leaped from Anne?s lap and flew at her, hugging her. ?Are you all right, Mama? He hurt you.? When Becky knelt, holding her, Sammie gently touched Becky?s bruised forehead and cheek. Pulling out a chair, Becky sat cuddling Sammie as Anne had done, smiling across at her aunt.

?He got away?? Anne said. ?How badly are you hurt??

?Just bruises,? Becky lied, not mentioning the pain where she?d fallen and where he?d hit her. She watched Mariol empty an ice tray, wrap ice in a dish towel, and hand it across to her. As she pressed the coldness to her face, the pain and bruises didn?t matter, only Anne?s words mattered.I cried, too, after such a dream. Oh, so many times. What was this, where had this come from? To hear Anne confess to the same prescience as Sammie?s left her indeed shaken. Did Sammie?s strange talent, then, belong within their family?

Two half-empty mugs of cocoa stood on the table beside Sammie?s open picture book, and a third mug where Mariol had been sitting. That was another strange thing about Anne, Becky thought, that while most Southern households would not permit colored help to sit at the table with their employers, this was not the case here. In this house, even as proper as Anne was in other matters, she and Mariol were equals, were dear friends. Mariol might, Becky thought, be the closest friend Anne had, maybe her only true friend.

Mariol poured fresh cocoa from a pan on the stove, set the mug on the table before Becky, then took her own place again, her dark eyes, when she looked up at Becky, filled with concern.?Youare all right??

Becky nodded, drawn to her kindness.

?She?s a special child,? Mariol said. ?She?s fortunate to have parents who understand.? She looked at Anne companionably. ?And lucky, too, to have an aunt who understands.? And Becky wondered if Anne, in her own childhood, had not been so lucky.

16

LEE PAUSED IN the doorway, watching across the visiting room where Morgan stood hugging his family. The minute Morgan entered, the little girl had flung herself at him, he?d hugged her tight and drawn his wife close. Lee couldn?t see much of the child from the back, her long blond hair, one strand caught on the collar of her blue gingham dress. Her gangly legs with several scratches, tomboy legs. And the eager way she clung to Morgan, the three of them wrapped around one another, their voices soft and caressing. Lee wanted to turn away, this emotional family reunion had nothing to do with him. Painfully out of place, he?d rather head back to his cell and crawl in his bunk.

The room itself seemed out of place, had no relationship to the rest of the prison; even the bars on the wide windows were half disguised by the potted white flowers on the sills. He stood not on hard concrete but on a tan tweed carpet, the walls painted white instead of government green. Soft-looking couches and chairs were set about in little family groupings, the effect cozy and unreal. Taking in the unnatural scene, he turned to leave?but he didn?t leave. He had promised Morgan.

And something else held him, the child held him, her likeness to Mae made him turn to watch her. From the back she looked so like Mae that he felt jerked into the past, returned to their childhood. Her thin body as light-boned as a fledgling bird, just like Mae, her long legs and the way she stood as if she might leap away any instant. He wished she?d turn around, but he was afraid of what he?d see.

Last night he hadn?t slept well, he?d coughed all night, after the cotton mill. Awake and choking, he had tossed restlessly thinking about today, thinking about the child who was so like Mae, who dreamed as Mae dreamed. Periodically he had sat up on his bunk and done his breathing exercises, but it had been impossible to get enough air. He?d skipped breakfast this morning, had drunk some coffee and then sat in the thin winter sun hoping it would warm him. It would be Christmas soon; some wag had tied a red bow on the railing of the stairs that led down from the industries buildings. He had stood looking at it and thinking about this visit, about Sammie and about Mae, feeling curious and uneasy.

Now he sat down in the nearest chair watching the cozy family. Watched Morgan draw his wife and child to a couch where they sat close together. Becky was tall and slim, built like her daughter but with dark hair falling to her shoulders. She wore a plain tan coat over her skirt and white blouse, sheer stockings and flat shoes. He was watching the way Morgan held her so tenderly when the little girl turned, looking across the room at him. The shock sent him weak.

He was looking at Mae. This was Mae, this was his sister. The long-ago memories flooded back. Holding her hand as they waded in the drying stream on a scorching summer day?bundling Mae up in scarves and gloves in the freezing winter, lifting her onto his homemade sled. Mae slipping away from their mother to the saddled horses, scrambling up into the saddle by herself.

Mae crossed the room to him .†.†.But not Mae. This was Sammie. She ran to him reaching for him, same dark brown eyes as Mae, same long blond hair tangled around her ears, Mae?s own elfin smile. She stopped a few feet from him, shy suddenly. But then she flew at him, she was in his lap, her arms around him as if she?d known him forever. How warm she was, like a hound pup, shockingly warm and sweet smelling. Thiswas Mae, this was his little sister, her hug infinitely comforting.

But of course she wasn?t Mae, this was Morgan Blake?s child, this was Sammie Blake who had dreamed of him in the same inexplicable way that Mae dreamed, seeing what she couldn?t know.

Seeing his unease, Sammie lowered her eyes and drew back, her look as coolly shuttered as any grown-up?s, shy and removed suddenly, plucking at the doll she carried. From the couch, Morgan and Becky watched them in silence, Becky?s hands twisting in her lap, the moment as brittle as glass?until Sammie reached to touch his face.

?Where is your horse??

Lee stared at her.

?Where is your gray horse??

No one knew about the gray, Lee had never talked to Morgan about horses, the young mechanic had no interest in horses. Certainly he would never mention the gelding on which he had escaped after the post office robbery; he had never told Morgan about the robbery.?I don?t have a horse. You can?t have a horse in prison.?

?But you do. You have a horse. The gray horse. Where is he??

If she had dreamed of the gray, had she dreamed of the robbery, too??Sorry,? he said. ?No horse. The prison guards won?t let me keep one.?

This child knew secrets she shouldn?t know, she had seen into his life as no normal person could do. He didn?t know what else she might have dreamed, he was sorry he?d come, today. When he looked up, Becky?s face was closed and unreadable, her hands joined with Morgan?s, their fingers gripped together telegraphing their unease.When again Sammie started to speak, Lee rose, lifting her. He needed to get out of there. But when he tried to put her in her father?s lap she clutched him around the neck and wouldn?t let go.

He pried her arms loose.?You have to stay with your daddy, I have to leave now.? He handed her forcibly to Morgan, muttered a weak good-bye, and quickly turned away. Hurrying across the big room he could feel Sammie?s hurt and disappointment. Unfinished business weighed on the child?and weighed on Becky and Morgan. Too much had been left unsaid, urging him to turn back. But he didn?t turn; he pushed on out through the heavy door, nodded to the guard and hurried through the corridors to the safety of his cell. Crawling under the blanket shivering, he didn?t want to deal with this. But at the same time, hewas drawn to Sammie and to the mystery of the Blake family that seemed, that had to be a part of his own life.

LEE WOKE WHEN the Klaxon rang for first shift supper. He had slept for over an hour. He thought of skipping the meal, he didn?t want to sit with Morgan, didn?t want to try to explain how uncomfortable the child made him, he didn?t want to talk. But in the end he decided he?d better eat something. Maybe Morgan would eat later, slip in at second shift. He washed his face, combed his hair, pulled on the wool jacket the prison had issued when the weather turned cool, and headed out along the catwalk. They?d have to talk sometime, he just hoped it wasn?t tonight.

In the mess hall, getting his tray, he chose a table in the farthest corner, hoping Morgan wouldn?t show. But of course when he looked back at the line, there he was. In a few minutes he set his tray down across from Lee.

Lee had invented a number of fake explanations for departing the visiting room so abruptly; but this morning, leaving his cell, something had made him slip Mae?s picture in his pocket. Now, when Morgan began quizzing him, he handed it across the table.

Morgan looked at the picture, frowning. Sammie was dressed as he had never seen her in a white pinafore, shiny black shoes, and white socks. She was standing before a three-rail pasture fence, a couple of steers off in the distance, a place Morgan had never been.

?My sister,? Lee said. ?Taken when we were kids. Mae was about eight.?

Morgan frowned at Sammie?s dark eyes and perky smile, Sammie?s pale hair hanging down her thin shoulders. Except for her old-fashioned clothes, this childwas Sammie. Morgan looked for a very long time, then looked up at Lee.

?Mae had dreams,? Lee said, ?the same as Sammie. Not often, but she would dream of the future. She didn?t talk much about them except to me, they upset our mother. And Pa would pitch a fit. Mae wasn?t very old when she quit telling Pa what she saw, telling him what would happen.?

Morgan handed the picture back, treating it with care.?Where is Mae now??

Lee shook his head.?I didn?t keep in touch, I lost track. I tried to find them in North Carolina, in a town where I thought they might be, but my letters were sent back. Someone wrote on one, ?Try Canada,? but they didn?t say where, in Canada. I had an older brother, and two sisters older than Mae, I knew they?d take care of her.

?I heard from our neighbor when Pa died, there was a saloon where he knew to get in touch. It took a couple months before I rode that way. He said Ma and the kids had moved to North Carolina, that?s when I tried to write to them. He wasn?t certain about the address. I never heard from them, but I wouldn?t have, I was always on the move.? He knew he could have tried harder. He was ashamed about that. Well, hell, he was so caught up in his own life. All that young wildness, always another train to test him, another woman?s smile to entice him.

?I was fourteen when we moved to Arizona. Two years later I went off on my own. I took the best two cow horses we had and I know Pa wasn?t happy about that.? He didn?t know what made him talk so much. Maybe the fact of Mae?s and Sammie?s strange likeness made him ramble on, drew him to confide in Morgan.

IT WAS LONG after supper and lights out, as Lee lay coughing and sleepless, when the tomcat joined him as he liked to do?as if he was tucking his wards in for the night. Landing hard on Lee?s bed, this time the cat was fully visible in the overhead lights. Quickly Lee rose up from the covers, effectively hiding Misto, and turned to scan the cells across the way.

No one seemed to be looking back. He guessed the cat would know. Misto pricked his ears as a train thundered, its small earthquake deafening the cellblock. The ghost cat seemed quite to like the noise and hustle, the excitement. When the train had faded, he sat watching Lee again, alert and waiting.

Lee said,?That child is the spittin? image of Mae. You?re the spirit, you know these things. You tell me what that?s about.?

Misto lashed his tail but said nothing.

?Talk to me.? Lee scratched the cat?s ragged ears.

?I can?t know everything. But I can tell you this. You are meant to be together, you and Morgan and Sammie. A path is taking shape, just as certain as the route of that train. A path that you and I have followed, just as the devil follows.?

Lee looked up again along the tiers of cells. Still no one was looking or seemed to be listening.

?He not only wants your soul,? Misto said, ?he would take Sammie if he could. There is something in the child that he can?t touch, but still she is part of his plan.?

Misto licked his paw.?The child is strong. Her deepest nature is to resist him, so deep an instinct that often she is hardly aware of him. She will help you, just as I will?as best a child and a small ghostcan help,can try to save your scrawny neck.?

17

THE FULL MOON was hidden by clouds, the Morningside neighborhood cast in shadow except where an occasional porch light had been left to burn past midnight. No light illuminated Anne Chesserson?s large Tudor house as Brad Falon approached, his footsteps silent passing broad gardens and luxurious homes. He had sat in his car for some time parked on the hill several doors away, had seen the lights come on in the Chesserson woman?s second-floor bedroom, had seen her come to the window, close it, and pull the shutters across as if the night air had turned too cold. No light reflected from the basement suite where Becky and Sammie were staying. He had watched the house at different hours of the day and night until he felt sure of the layout and the sleeping arrangements. This morning he had surveyed from the backyard, dressed in gray pants and shirt like those worn by the local meter readers.

Now, with the house dark, he headed down the sloping lawn between the Chesserson house and its plantation-style neighbor, descending a cover of pine straw between manicured rhododendron and azalea bushes. In his pocket he carried a roll of masking tape, a glass cutter, a rubber mallet, and a crowbar. His left eye was swollen and black where Becky had hit him, in the parking lot. Even after three days his throat was still torn and bruised where she?d bitten him, the vicious bitch. He?d known, when he attacked her at her car, that she?d fight. He hadn?t thought she?d bite like a wild animal.

Heading for the wide French doors that opened to the spacious downstairs, he stood in the dark garden listening, looking around him. Had something moved in the shadows, had he heard some small, stealthy sound? He waited, puzzled. Something had alerted him, made him uneasy. He waited for some time; when nothing more bothered him he moved on up the three steps to look in through the wide glass panels. The rooms within were dark, the drapes partly open as if Becky might have pulled them back after she turned out the lights. Silently he tried the handle. Of course the door was locked. Fishing the tape from his pocket he tore off four short lengths, stuck them to the glass to form a small square that, when cut and removed, would leave an opening big enough to put his hand through.

When again he felt uneasy he turned to survey the garden. The clouds were shifting, the exposed moon sending more light. He wasn?t armed, wasn?t carrying the new S&W automatic, he didn?t need it to take care of Becky Blake. If something happened to screw him up, he didn?t want to be caught armed. Though of course he wasn?t in possession of the .38 that had killed the bank guard, that gun was where no one would find it.

When the wary feeling subsided he applied the glass cutter in four quick, precise strokes, then used the rubber mallet. One small, sure tap neatly loosened the glass square. He removed it. Nothing stirred now behind him. Within the rooms, all was still. He had seen, this morning, that this door led into a sitting area. Beyond was the sleeping wing, one corner of a bed visible. Beside the bed, the carpeted floor was covered with a sheet spread out to full size and scattered with the child?s drawing books. Reaching through, quietly he turned the knob of the lock. He was easing the door open when the kid screamed. The piercing ululation sent his heart racing, it went on and on, driving him off the terrace into the bushes.

As he crouched among the foliage, his dark clothes blended with the shadows. Had the girl heard that smallest tap when his hammer hit the glass? Or heard the lock turning? Inside, a faint light came on. From this angle he could see most of the bedroom. Sammie sat up rigid in bed, still screaming, her shrill voice jangling his nerves. He watched Becky slip out of her own bed into the child?s and take the girl in her arms. For one moment, as they clung together, Becky?s back was to him, her shoulder blocking Sammie?s view. Quickly he slipped from the bushes, slid the door open enough to enter, silently closed it and eased behind the couch out of sight.

SOMEONE?S THERE,? SAMMIE said softly.?In the other room.?

?It was the dream, it was in the dream,? Becky said, hugging her.

?No. Not this time.?

With the small lamp switched on, Becky looked through to the sitting room, as much as she could see from the bed. No one was there. Thin moonlight slanted in, but picked out only the couch and two chairs. She could see no darker shadow at the French doors as if someone stood looking in.?It was a dream,? she said again, holding Sammie close.

But something had awakened Becky, too. Before Sammie started to scream. She was trying to remember what had jerked her to consciousness when she saw that the drapery hung awry. The bottom corner was folded back as if it had been disturbed. Had she left it that way? She didn?t think so.

Slipping out of bed she grabbed her purse and unholstered the loaded Colt revolver, the .38 that Morgan had so carefully taught her to handle. As she moved toward the sitting room, the scents of the garden and of freshly crushed grass were sharp. As if the night breeze had blown in, though she knew she?d left the door locked. The sitting room was empty?unless someone crouched behind a chair or behind the couch. Cocking the .38, she approached the shadowed furniture, shaky with the pounding of her own heart. She stopped suddenly when, behind her, Sammie screamed. Holding the gun down and away, she whirled toward the bedroom.

Sammie?s cry stopped abruptly, turned into a muffled sound of rage. Falon clutched the child against him, Sammie twisting and kicking. Grunting, he jerked her arm behind her so hard she caught her breath?but suddenly Falon stumbled. He struck out at the air as if someone had hit him. There was no one, he swung at empty air. Becky, holding the weapon low, moved to the bedroom. ?Drop the child. Do it now.?

He swung Sammie down into her line of fire, nearly dropped the fighting child. Clutching her with one hand, again he swatted at empty air then ducked away. Grabbing Sammie to him, he ran straight past Becky, ignoring the gun, racing for the door. Did he think Becky wouldn?t shoot? She lunged, grabbed him by the shirt to pull him off balance, aimed at his legs away from Sammie, and fired.

He jerked and dropped Sammie. She fled. Falon stumbled out the door ducking, swinging his arms, nearly fell down the shallow steps. He beat at his shoulder and chest as if something clung to him. Becky heard Sammie in the bedroom calling the police. Falon struggled up, pushed his unseen attacker away, and ran through the azaleas and up the hill. Becky fired once at his retreating back, but then he was too near the neighbor?s house. She ran chasing him up to the street but didn?t dare fire again among the many houses. His limping footsteps pounded into the shadows beneath the trees; she heard him stumble again then heard a car door slam, heard the engine start. Tires squealed, and the car careened away. Becky turned and ran, burst into the sitting room.

Sammie stood between the two beds pale and silent, the phone still in her hand. Becky, with four rounds still in the chamber, checked the suite for a second assailant, though she doubted Falon had a partner. She pulled on a robe over her gown and dropped the gun in her pocket, then sat on the bed holding Sammie, waiting for the police. If they didn?t find Falon and lock him up, if they didn?tkeep him in jail, he?d be back.

Not tonight, but soon.

Maybe her one sure shot had damaged his leg enough so he?d look for a doctor, someone who would treat him without reporting the shooting. She knew he?d keep coming back, harassing them until he had hurt them both or killed them.

Or until she killed Falon.

Could she have wounded him bad enough to make him stay away? When she looked at the threshold, there was blood on the carpet and on the steps. She was sorry she hadn?t killed him and put an end to it. If she had trained more, she might have been more effective in stopping him without harming Sammie. What training she?d had, Morgan had given her long ago. When the war was over and Morgan was home again, neither of them dreamed that her life and Sammie?s might depend on added training. The world seemed at peace then. They were caught up with being a family again, with being together and being happy. She started when a shadow moved through the bushes toward the French door. She rose, her hand in her pocket on the gun, and stood waiting.

?Police,? a man shouted. His back was to the light, he was only a silhouette, she couldn?t see a uniform. At the same moment she heard Anne call from the top of the stairs, then the figure on the terrace moved into clearer view where the sitting room light struck across his badge and sergeant?sstripes. A tall, thin man with sandy hair.

She told him she was armed, slowly drew the gun, opened the action, and laid it on the dresser.?Come in,? she said dryly.

?Sergeant Krangdon,? he said, entering, glancing at the gun. Anne was coming down the carpeted stairs beside a second officer. The two men searched the suite while two more officers searched for Falon outside, their lights moving among the bushes, circling the garden and the neighbors? gardens and then up the hill. The sergeant took samples of blood and photographed bloodstains, out to where Falon?s trail disappeared among the mulch and bushes. Anne didn?t stay downstairs long. Seeing that Becky and Sammie were safe, she went up again, as Sergeant Krangdon asked her to do, to avoid disturbing any evidence. Sammie stood huddled against Becky, cold with the aftermath of fear. But something else shone in Sammie?s eyes. She looked up at Becky with a deep and secret amazement. Becky looked back at her, shaken with what she?d seen.

Earlier, after Falon attacked Becky in the parking lot, Sammie had said,Misto couldn?t help you, Mama, the dark was too strong.

If the cat couldn?t help her then?if therewas a real ghost cat, Becky thought?why had he been powerful enough tonight to attack Falon? To make Falon pause so shecould get in that one telling shot?

Had the difference to do with Sammie? With the fact thatSammie was in danger?

When Sergeant Krangdon returned she watched him unload her gun and bag it for evidence. He didn?t seem concerned that he was leaving her with no protection from Falon. Quietly she answered his questions. Told him how Sammie had awakened screaming, and that she had grabbed the gun from her purse. She showed him where she had stood when she fired. She didn?t tell him who the man was, she didn?t say she knew him, and Sammie remained silent.

?If you could ID him,? Krangdon said, ?if you would file a complaint, you can take him to court, put a restraining order on him.?

?How can I? I don?t know him. I can?t identify a man I?ve never seen before.?

If Falon were caught, if he learned that she had identified him, and if he were then released, as he likely would be, he would come after them with even more vengeance. And what did the police have, to hold him? They had only her word against Falon?s. They couldn?t hold him long on that. She had heard of women attacked, brutally beaten, where the story proliferated, in gossip, even in the papers, that they had led the man on, had enticed him. Maybe the day would come when women were treated more fairly, but it hadn?t arrived yet and she wasn?t taking chances.

Most damning of all, Falon?s testimony had helped convict Morgan. If she identified Falon for the breakin, what would the police or the court say? That she?d filed the complaint to get back at Falon? That she had enticed Falon, had set him up?

She thought of calling Quaker Lowe, but maybe she didn?t want to know what he would advise. If she called Lowe now, in front of the police, they?d know there was more to the story, that this hadn?t been a random breakin. She was courteous to Krangdon, cooperative in every other way. When he?d finished the interview he assigned young Officer Bishopto stay on the premises so that Becky and Sammie might get some sleep. He suggested they get a carpenter to install a metal barrier over the French doors. ?An open grid,? he said, ?that can be locked but will let in air in hot weather. Make sure he installs it so the drapes can be pulled. And,?he said, ?you could put better locks on some of the solid doors, replace the thumb locks with dead bolts.?

When the thin-faced officer had left them, moving out into the yard, Anne came down again and sat on the bed, holding Sammie.?It?s all right. The police are here, it?s all right now.? But Sammie, like Becky, didn?t have much faith in the police, after Rome PD had abandoned Morgan, had done nothing to uncover the real facts of the Rome murder. When Anne had said good night, Becky turned out the lamp and crawled into bed with Sammie. Not until the next morning did she call Quaker Lowe.

When she told him about the breakin and that she had shot Falon, Lowe was quiet, noncommittal. Did he really understand why she had withheld Falon?s name? He said, ?A complaint against Falon might have been useful in getting the appeal. Did you think of that??

?I did. And it might also have gotten me or Sammie killed.? Had she been wrong in not identifying Falon? She didn?t want to cross Lowe, she couldn?t afford to turn him away. She didn?t want to lose the appeal. She ended the phone call feeling alone and uncertain, more frightened and upsetthan she would have thought, at losing Lowe?s sympathy.

18

LEE SAT ON the metal examining table, his shirt off, waiting for Dr. Floyd to come in and poke the cold stethoscope at him. He?d felt rotten this morning, he?d coughed so bad in the cotton mill that the foreman had fired him and sent him straight here to the infirmary. He wasn?t sorry, he should have known when he started that it was a dumb thing to do. But even now, sitting on the table staring at the orderly who stood in the doorway, what Lee was seeing in his mind wasn?t the cotton mill but Sammie Blake and Mae, their mirror images that had stayed with him ever since visiting day. He was fretting, wondering if Mae was still alive somewhere, when Dr. Floyd came in.

The doctor took one look at Lee and shook his head.?You?re pale as a dead flounder.? He pressed the stethoscope against Lee?s chest, listened, moved it again and again, listening. ?You should have known better. The slip from your counselor said you?d wear a mask. Why didn?t you? Even so, it was iffy. What did you think that lint would do to your lungs? You don?t have much room in those air sacs, at best.?

?I didn?t have any choice if I wanted to work.? Lee didn?t mention that he could have asked for kitchen duty. ?I don?t like just sitting around,? he said crossly.

?You?ll be sitting around now. You?re done with the cotton mill, you?re going to sit in the sun and do nothing until you feel better.?

?You ruling out all jobs? What about the kitchen??

Floyd hesitated.?The kitchen would be all right, if you can work around the steam equipment. Steam would be good for you.? The doctor shook his head. ?You?re a stubborn SOB, Fontana. I?ll talk to Bronski about a job.?

Lee pulled on his shirt and slid down from the table.?I didn?t see Karen Turner when I came in.?

That made Floyd laugh.?You?re as bad as the young bucks. I think she?s down in the lab.?

?Guess you were right,? Lee said, ?it?s nice to see a pretty face, gives a guy a lift.?

Heading out, he was halfway along the corridor when he paused beside a closed door, listening. A series of soft thuds, then a muffled cry. He grabbed the knob and flung the door open.

Karen writhed on the floor beside a desk, fighting Coker. He crouched over her, pinning her down with his knee, blood streaking his dark hair. She hit and struck at him, her white uniform open to her waist and bloodstained, her brassiere torn away. Coker had wrapped a telephone cord around her neck and was pressing a prison-made knife to her throat. Lee lunged, brought the toe of his shoe crashing up under Cocker?s arm, lifting the knife away. Coker came up swinging at him. Lee got in a kick to Coker?s groin and dodged, shouting for help. Coker grabbed him, threw him against the desk, and bolted out the door, his eyes cold with hate and with promise.

Lee knelt over Karen, unwinding the cord from her neck. Long red lines circled her throat. Her forehead was already swelling and turning dark; she was bleeding pretty bad, red stains soaking her uniform. Lee propped her up against the side of the desk and ran for the hall, shouting again, but already Dr. Floyd was there, an orderly behind him. They dropped to their knees beside Karen.

?Who was it?? Floyd said, glancing up at Lee. ?Did you see him??

?Coker,? Lee croaked, coughing hard, then he ran, chasing Coker.

By the time he reached the double doors of the dispensary he was gasping for air. He saw Coker between the buildings, making for the mess hall. Lee slowed, moved across the yard taking deep, slow breaths. Why chase him? There was no place Coker could hide for long. When Coker turned and saw him he quickened his pace and headed for the cellblock. Moving fast across the compound, his crew cut dark against the pale buildings, he swung in through the heavy door. Lee ran, pushing into the cellblock behind him.

From the entry he had a full view of the zigzag metal stair leading up. Hamilton, at his desk, saw Lee looking and followed his gaze. Coker was already scrambling onto the third tier. Ahead of Coker on the catwalk, Bronski was coming along, his eyes down on the book open in his hands, reading as he walked slowly toward the stairs. Lee thought Coker meant to play it innocent, to go on casually by Bronski and into his cell, but when Bronski glanced up at him, then looked over the rail toward Lee, Coker froze.

He stared down at Lee and Hamilton watching him, knew he couldn?t go down again, that he was cornered. Swinging around he charged Bronski, his knife flashing. Bronski crouched, dropped his book, grabbed Coker?s arm, diverting the knife inches from his own face. Bronski clutched Coker?s belt and in one move lifted and rolled Coker up over the rail. Coker hung for an instant over open space, then fell, arms flailing, his body twisting down the three tiers. He hit the concrete headfirst with a sound that sickened Lee.

Behind Lee the big doors burst open and armed guards came running. Shaken, Lee headed for the stairs and his cell. They?d be locked down now, until the guards got it sorted out.

He sat on his bunk hoping Karen Turner would be all right, seeing her blood-smeared uniform, the red marks circling her throat. He?d been right in the first place, the authorities were damn fools bringing a woman in here. He heard the guards? shouted orders, heard the prisoners moving in for the lockdown. He didn?t see Karen Turner again.

The prison staff got the action sifted out in a hurry when Karen told them what had happened. Lee heard that she?d left the prison, that she was working in a civilian hospital. A week later, Dr. Floyd was gone, too. Whether he was fired or took an ?early retirement,? as they called it, Lee never knew. And even though he was glad Karen was out of there, he missed that pretty smile. Two days later he wasworking again, this time in the warm, steamy kitchen.

19

ANNE SAT AT the kitchen table sipping coffee.?Did you and Sammie sleep at all?? Becky and Sammie had just come upstairs, Sammie moving to the stove to watch Mariol flip pancakes. Becky poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

?Surprisingly, we did sleep.? She didn?t say they?d slept with a warm cat between them, Sammie?s arms circling that unseen presence who had comforted Becky, too.

?Last night .†.†.? Anne said, ?I wish you?d killed him.? That shocked Becky, coming from her proper aunt.

?I?ve prayed every night,? Anne told her, ?that Brad Falon was dead.? She seemed amused at Becky?s expression. ?He tried to kill you, he?s made nothing but trouble, he?s doing his best to ruin your lives. What good is he, in the world?? This Aunt Anne whom she was seeing now wasfar different, indeed, from the way Becky had always thought of her.

Beside the stove, Sammie turned.?I dreamed he broke in, I dreamed of a hand reaching through.?

Anne nodded.?That dream may have saved your lives.? And, as if half to herself, ?The same .†.†.affliction .†.†. our mother called it, that our aunt Mae endured. She had the dreams, too,? Anne said softly. ?Mother did tell me that, because of my own dreams, but she told me as if they were shameful.Otherwise she seldom talked about family, I know only a smattering of our history. I know that Mae was the youngest of our great-aunt Nell?s five children.

?Nell and her three girls moved to North Carolina after the children?s father died. He left them with very little, they sold their Arizona land for practically nothing, they had nowhere else to go but to her sister there. Mae?s two older brothers had already left home. Later Mae?s sister Nora married and settled in Georgia, our mother Nora.?

Becky laid her hand over Anne?s. ?Do you know where Mae is now??

Anne shook her head.?I don?t. It?s strange, embarrassing sometimes, shameful knowing so little about our family. Most Southern families are steeped in their history, from before the Civil War. But that?s the way we grew up. No discussion, so Caroline or I weren?t really interested. I didn?t realize then the emptiness that left in me, having no real ties to our past.?

Anne sipped her coffee, looked up at Becky.?I had a sense, too, that there might be more in our past even than the dreams, other ?shameful? things that Mama didn?t want to talk about.?

Becky, too, sometimes felt adrift not knowing their family history. Caroline had kept no letters, no pictures, nothing to define the past. She watched Mariol pour a glass of milk for Sammie and set her breakfast on the table. When Sammie slid into her chair, reaching for the syrup, Mariol kissed the top of her head, then turned away to test the skillet and pour more batter. Interesting, Becky thought, how comfortable Mariol seemed with the mention of prophetic dreams. As if she and Anne might have talked openly about Anne?s dreams. Maybe, in Mariol?s family, such talents were not considered strange. Whatever the case, Mariol?s acceptance comforted Becky, made her feel easier.

THREE DAYS AFTER Fred Coker died on the cellblock floor, Coker?s friend Delone cornered Lee between the buildings, flashing a thin, a prison-made knife. Lee had just left the kitchen after his shift and was heading for the automotive shop, when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He spun around, saw Delone coming on him fast, a blade shining in his palm.

?You cruddy old bastard, it?s your fault he?s dead.?

Lee wanted to reach for the garrote but something told him no, told him to get away. Puzzled, not used to backing off, he swung in through a side door of the masonry shop, a big, cavernous room. He saw no one, heard no sound. Dodging away among the freestanding practice walls and tall piles of stones and bricks, he lost himself in their shadows. He heard Delone behind him, heard him trip, maybe over a wooden support that steadied the masonry barriers. Dodging toward the back of the building where, Lee knew, another door led out again, he didn?t see above him the yellow shadow slipping across the tops of the stone and block walls, a shadow thin as smoke.

The tomcat could not have materialized if he?d wanted to. He was spent, his attack last night on Falon, as he diverted the intruder to protect Sammie, had left him weak as a new kitten. If this was Satan?s influence, he didn?t like it much. This happened sometimes when he sought to function in both worlds; and he had heard, last night as he dropped into sleep, the cold laughter of the dark prince; he didn?t like that much, either. Now he followed Lee along the tops of the freestanding walls until, at the far corner of the dim room, Lee slipped into darkness between the back door and tall piles of blocks.

Lee tried the door and found it locked. There was no knob to turn, no key in the keyhole. He shouldered uselessly against it, was unable to force it open, and, at the scuff of shoes behind him, swung around, waiting. Stood palming the ball of string, his finger in the loop.

It all happened too fast. A chunk of concrete fell and Delone rushed him, the knife-edged ice pick low and lethal. Lee saw too late there was no room to swing his weapon. He dodged but Delone was on him, the knife flashing as Delone rammed him into the wall. Lee felt the knife go in, low in his side.

Delone jerked the blade free, blood spurted. The weapon flashed again. Lee kicked Delone in the knee and kicked the blade from his hand. The effort doubled Lee over, the cat could feel the pain of his wound as if it were his own. He crouched to leap as Delone closed in, but instinctively backed off when Lee swung the garrote. He watched it circle Delone?s leg. Lee jerked the cord hard, the blades cut through cloth and flesh, Delone stumbled, clutching his torn leg. But when Lee jerked the weapon free again, Delone lunged. Lee dodged and swung higher, the cord whistled, light shattered off its arsenal of blades as it snaked around Delone?s throat. Lee grabbed the heavy nut, yanked the cord hard. Delone fell, clutching his torn throat. The ghost cat crouched lower, his yellow eyes burning, his own fear eased, his sense of Satan?s presence fading.

LEE, WATCHINGDELONE die, knewhe could have been dead in Delone?s place. He worked the garrote loose and backed away from the body. He found the lavatory, untied the nut from the cord, washed it off, and tossed it in the corner. He flushed the bladed cord down the toilet, stringing it out long, hoping it wouldn?t get stuck. He washed the blood off his hands and pressed a wad of paper towels under his shirt against the knife wound. The blade had gone through at an angle, piercing the flesh along his side and maybe cracking a rib; it hurt like hell. He prayed it hadn?t reached anything vital.

He stripped off his shirt and pants, soaked and scrubbed the blood out as best he could and dried them with paper towels. Tearing the towels in pieces, he flushed them down a little at a time. He cleaned his shoes and disposed of those towels the same way. He dressed in his wet clothes, securing the wadded towels under his belt. He scrubbed the floor, using the last of the towels; the pain turned him dizzy when he knelt. He walked out slowly, stopping only once on his way to the cellblock, at the back door of the cotton mill.

He got up to his cell all right, keeping his arm over his side against the bleeding. He pushed inside, chilled not only with the pain but with fear. This could blow his release, could put him in prison for the rest of his life. He?d snuffed a few men in his time, every one of them trying to kill him. He?d been lucky so far. This time maybe his luck had run out?

Lying on his bunk keeping pressure against the wound, he must have dozed some. He heard the Klaxon for supper, he?d have to skip that meal. He rose from his cot meaning to clean the wound better. He was standing at the small steel basin, his back to the bars, his shirt open, washing the jagged knife hole with soap and water, when he heard a thump behind him. Turning, he saw no one. On the floor inside the bars lay a little rag bundle.

He retrieved it fast, going sick with pain when he bent over. Inside were adhesive bandages, gauze pads, iodine, and ten aspirin tablets wrapped in a tissue. Thanks, Gimpy. Gimpy hadn?t batted an eye when Lee told him his needs. Lee swallowed three aspirin and, his back to the bars again, smeared on the iodine, working it in deep, clenching his jaw against the pain. He bandaged the wound, listening for the guard?s footsteps on the catwalk. He tore the bloody paper towels intosmall pieces and flushed them. He changed to his other shirt, pulling on the thick, prison-issue T-shirt under it. He hung the wet shirt on the hook to dry, and why would the guard ask questions? He often came in from the kitchen splashed with dishwater. When he stretched out again on his bunk hefelt the cat land on the bed.

?Does it bother you,? Misto said softly, ?that you killed him??

?He tried to kill me,? Lee said gruffly.

?Does it bother you??

?Maybe,? Lee growled. ?What difference? If I hadn?t done him, I?d be dead.?

Misto lashed his tail against the blanket. Lee felt him curl up as if prepared for sleep. Maybe Lee slept, too, he wasn?t sure. The wail of a Klaxon brought them both up rigid, the cat standing hard and alert beside Lee. The body had been found. The cellblocks would be locked down, double security set in place. Fear chilled him at thoughts of the search. Before the guards reached his cell he rose, took three moreaspirin, and lay down again, listening to the clang of barred doors as the search began.

WHEN THE PRISON team reached Lee?s cell, he stood in the middle of the small space, sucking in his gut when the guard patted him down. He willed the man not to feel the bandage under the heavy T-shirt. The guard jerked off his bedcovers, flipped and examined his mattress, inspected his damp shoes and wet shirt. ?You fall in thedishwater, Fontana??

?The guy works beside me,? Lee said, ?sloppy as hell.? He waited, hiding his nervousness until the man finished his nosy prying and left, giving Lee a last appraising look. Alone again, Lee crawled back under the covers. That was when the devil returned, descending as if Delone?s death had kept him near. Again the cat stiffened, the air grew icy, and Lucifer?s grainy voice struck through Lee.

?That guard,? Satan said, ?hecould have made you strip down, Fontana. He would have if I?d nudged him a little. Or,? the devil said, ?think of this. When you killed Delone, Icould have led a guard in there at that moment, led him into the masonry room to find you standing over the body.

?I took pity on you, Fontana. Now, you can return the courtesy.?

?Go to hell.?

?I have a mission for you.?

?I don?t want to hear it. Get someone else for your lackey.? Lee rolled over, turning his back, gritting his teeth against the pain.

The wraith shifted again so it faced Lee.?I want you to gain Morgan Blake?s full confidence, I want him to completely depend on you.?

Lee stared at the heavy shadow.?What do you want with Blake??

?I want him to trust you in all matters, to follow you unquestioningly. In return, I will let up on you, Fontana. I will make your life easier. Blake is already your friend, you are special to him because of his child. Now he must seek your wisdom in whatever he undertakes. It should be easy enough to manipulate him in this way.?

?Why? What do you mean to do??

?Blake thinks you can help him, Fontana. And you can help. When you do so, my pressure on you will ease. The wound will heal, the pain will be gone. So easy to do, to gain Blake?s absolute confidence no matter what you might ask him to do .†.†. A fine bargain,? the devil said. ?Think about it, Fontana .†.†.? And the voice faded, the shadow faded, the dark wraith was gone. Lee was left only with questions.

IN THE NEXT days, as prison authorities investigated Delone?s murder, Lee?s wound continued to throb; everything he did, even eating a meal, left him chilled and weak. He didn?t change his work routine, he took painkillers, went to the kitchen as usual and pulled his shift. The pain came bad when he carried the heavy trays. The third afternoon near the end of shift, as he hoisted a stack of trays, cold sweat beaded his face, and he saw Bronski watching him. Bronski stepped over and took the trays from him. ?Go sit on the steps, Fontana. I?ll take care of these.? It was the only indication he ever had that Bronski knew how Delone died.

By the time security dropped back to normal, Lee?s wound had begun to heal. Gimpy passed by the back door of the kitchen twice, slipping Lee more aspirin, iodine, some sulfa powder, and fresh bandages, turning away quickly as Lee slipped the package under his shirt. Lee and Gimpy went back a long way, and Lee was mighty thankful for his friendship. He had no idea that, within only a few days, he would abandon Gimpy, that the Atlanta pen would be the last time he would ever see the old safecracker.

20

LEE HAD STARTED down toward the big yard, meaning to sit quietly in the thin morning sun and try to ease his hurting side, when he saw something that stirred a shock of challenge?but sent a jolt of fear through him, too. He was heading down the hillside steps when he noticed something different about the thirty-foot wall towering over him. The way the sunlight fell, he glimpsed a hint of shadow running up the concrete, the faintest blemish. Not a cloud shadow, it was toothin and straight. Some imperfection in the wall? He paused to look, leaning casually on the metal rail.

In the yard below, half a dozen younger inmates were jogging the track. Two men were playing handball against the wall itself, and beyond them three convicts were throwing a baseball, the figures dwarfed by the giant wall. He looked carefully at the thin line but when he started down the stairs for a closer view it disappeared, was lost in the way the light fell.

He moved on down, trying to recapture the shadow, but not until he reached the lowest step did he see it again. A thin vertical line running from the ground straight up thirty feet to the top. When Lee moved, the line disappeared. He moved back a step, and there it was. He propped his foot on the lower rail, looking. It must be an interlocking joint, though he couldn?t find another like it. This was the only flaw he could see along the bare expanse between the near tower and the distant one, away at the far corner. Could this be a defect when the forms were up? So faint a blemish that when the forms were removed it was missed, had been left uncorrected with no last-minute touch of the trowel to smooth it away? His gaze was over halfway up, following the line, when he saw something else.

Some six inches on either side of the line he could see a small round indentation, the faintest dimple picked out by the slanting sun. Following the line itself, he found two more dots, and two above those, blemishes so indistinct that his slightest move made them vanish.

He noted where the line struck at the base of the wall in relation to the curve of the jogging track. Taking his time, he moved on down the stairs, across the yard and the jogging track. He sat down against the wall just at the joint, casually watching the joggers and ballplayers. No one paid him any attention. When he ran his hand behind him he could feel the joint. When he felt up and down, he found the lowest small dimple. He scraped it with his thumb, then pressed it hard and felt the heavy paint break away. He pushed his finger into the hole. A snug fit, but so deep he couldn?t touch the end.

If all the dimples were this deep, a man had only to figure out how to use them. He found the chip that had fallen behind him, and took a good look. Layer after layer of dried paint hinted at the venerable age of the wall. He visualized it being built. First, a metal interstructure, then the plywood or metal forms both inside and out to receive the wet cement. The line had to be a joint between two sheets of the form. The forms themselves, angled in from the thicker base, would have had supports to keep the cement from collapsing as it dried.

There had to be other lines and other groups of holes. Or did there? Maybe the other holeshad all been carefully filled, the lines smoothed away and plastered over. How could this one joint have been overlooked? Maybe this was where two workers met at quitting time? Maybe they had applied one coat of spackle, and the next day they moved on, forgetting to finish this joint? Soon it was painted over by other, uncaring workmen? Leaning back against the wall, he looked up its great height to where it rounded at the top.

If a fellow were to push an iron bar into each hole, he could climb this baby, easy as going up spikes in a telephone pole.

Except, the guards in the tower would pick you off like a cockroach on a barn door.

But when he looked up toward the tower, he couldn?t see the windows that circled it, not from where he was sitting. He could see just a little of the room?s base flaring out atop the wall. Frowning, he glanced toward the farther tower down at the end but couldn?t see any more of that one. If he couldn?t see the windows, the guards inside couldn?t see him, unless they leaned dangerously far out.

Maybe they wouldn?t see a climber scaling the wall until he got near the top, and that thought ripped a thrill of challenge through Lee.

When he looked down the full stretch of the wall, sighting in both directions, he could see that it bowed in. The forms had been bowed here, something had gone badly awry. Either no one noticed or no one wanted to take responsibility. No one had wanted to tear out the forms or maybe tear out part of the wall itself and rebuild it. Maybe some foreman thought no one would ever notice, and that it wouldn?t matter anyway. Once the cement was dry and painted over, why would such a tiny flaw matter? Excitement made his hands tremble. Had he stumbled on something that maybe no one else in this entire prison knew or didn?t think important? Sitting there against the wall, Lee had to smile.

You wouldn?t need a bar at each hole. All you needed was three short iron rods to push in and out. One to hold on to, one to stand on, the third to set for the next step. Lean down, pull the lower pin, insert it over the handhold pin. Step higher, pull out the bottom pin, and replace it in the hole above you. At the top where the guards could see you, you?d have to be quick. You?d leave the last pin in, hook the looped end of a rope over it, and slide down the outside. Slide to freedom.

Lee?s own time was so short that he had no need to escape. But Blake, if his appeal was denied, could be looking at the rest of his life in this trap.

If Blake was to get out of here, if he and Blake together left this joint and could find Brad Falon and get new evidence, maybe make Falon tell where he?d hidden the bank money, Blake would have a chance. The chance he?d never had when, before he knew there?dbeen a bank robbery, before he knew anything about the crime, he was handcuffed and hauled off to jail.

If they could get out of there, get their hands on Falon, make him tell where he hid the money .†.†. Maybe it was still in the canvas bank bags where the tellers had stuffed it, bags like the one Falon had planted in Morgan?s car. That was the evidence Morgan needed. Those bank bags, most of them, were edged with leather around the top and had leather handles, and leather should retain fingerprints. If the cops got lucky and found Falon?s prints, that was all Becky?s lawyer would need. He could get a warrant based on new evidence, and the DA would have to indict Falon. There would be a new trial and, if it was a fair trial this time, Blake would be on his way to freedom.

Leaning back against the cool concrete, Lee wondered. Had he stumbled on this by accident? Or had he been led, could this discovery be Satan?s trap? Had he been enticed into this view of the wall? Was he being teased to make an aborted try that could leave them both locked up for the rest of their lives or get them shot and killed?

Picking up a handful of dirt, he crammed it in the hole in the wall and smeared it across the concrete, then he rose and left the big yard. Crossing toward the cellblock he told himself he wasn?t going to think about this, that the idea would never work. That he wasn?t going to screw up his release and mess up what chance Morgan might have for an appeal, he wasn?t going to blow Morgan?s possible new trial all to hell.

But in the next few days it wasn?t easy to leave the idea alone. He thought about the wall at night when he woke with his side hurting. Thought about it when he woke in the morning and all during his shift in the kitchen, thought hard about it when a train rumbled screaming by headed across the country. Thought about it until hewished he?d never seen the damned flaw.

21

TWO DAYS AFTER Becky shot Brad Falon, she and Sammie headed for Rome just for supper and to stay overnight. Despite Anne?s and Mariol?s support she needed to be with her mother, and Sammie needed her grandmother, they needed Caroline to talk with and to soothe them both. She watched the streets as they left Morningside but was sure that no black car followed them. She wondered if Falon might have made it back toRome, to Natalie or to his long-suffering and usually ignored mother. She hoped he was holed up somewhere in Atlanta hurting bad from the wound she?d inflicted. They left directly after work, Becky swinging by Anne?s to pick up Sammie and tuck their overnight bag in the car. The traffic wasn?t heavy once they were out of the business and residential areas and on the two-lane highway heading north. Before they pulled away from the house she had slipped her new revolver from under the seat and belted it to her waist.

The day after the police took her gun for evidence she?d driven out to a gun shop on Decatur Road and bought a .32-caliber snub-nosed revolver and a holster, a gun small enough to wear under her suit jacket or under a two-piece dress. Such a move might seem silly, and even the .32 felt unnatural against her side, but it might save their lives. She?dgiven Sammie strict instructions about not handling the gun, and they had gone over the rules carefully. Becky had also shown her how the revolver worked, in order to fully understand the principles of safety. Maybe she was foolish to be driving to Rome when she didn?t know where Falon was. Maybe he?d found a doctor who wouldn?t report the wound, maybe he?d been properly treated and was up and moving again. She?d read that some psychopathic personalities could ignore a lot of pain. As they moved north between vegetable plots and chicken farms she was sharply aware of any car parked on a side road, as well as those few approaching from behind. Sammie wanted to know when she could start school, she talked about the hamsters they?d had in her classroom in Rome, the playhouse they?d built from cardboard cartons, about the colored Georgia map on the wall and the stories theirteacher had read to them. Sammie didn?t mention Falon?s attack; she sat close to Becky, a favorite book in her lap, was soon buried in the story. Only when she?d turned the last page did she look up, her words startling Becky.

?Are you going to tell Daddy you shot Falon??

?No, I?m not. Daddy has enough on his mind.? Becky pulled Sammie closer, hugging her. ?We don?t need to worry him. I hope, after I shot Falon, he?ll stay away from us.? She looked down at Sammie. ?We?ll be watchful, though?? Sammie nodded. Becky knew the ugliness mustn?t be buried, that they must talk about it. If they shared their fear, discussed what to do about it, tried to understand it, she thought Sammie could deal with it better. They were perhaps an hour north of Atlanta on the narrow, deserted two-lane when she saw a car pulling up fast behind them.

She thought it would pass them quickly, a black car, sleek and low, but there were plenty of black cars in the world. Probably some local farmer who had turned out of his gate behind them. Though few locals drove so fast, knowing there might be loose livestock or a dog on the road. This was all open country, pastures and woods separating the scattered farms. They were east of Kingston, had already left the larger town of Cartersville behind. They would not pass through Kingston, only near it, and then there were no more towns until Rome. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she eased her jacket open to better reach the revolver.

But when the car drew close she saw that it wasn?t black at all, it was dark blue, and was pulling a small trailer. It passed them, a low, dark blue sedan driven by a white-haired woman, pulling a slat-sided trailer with a big yearling calf inside. Becky felt silly, as if she were too wildly dramatic. Falon was probably miles away, laid up fromher gunshot. The next car that approached gained on her quickly, speeding up behind her. She slowed to let it pass, watching in her rearview mirror the lone driver?then staring at him, at the silhouette of his thin head and puffed hair, backlit behind the car?s windshield. As he drew up on hertail, her rearview mirror reflected back to her Falon?s thin, pinched face.

They were nearly ten miles from Rome, there would be no more gas stations, no towns before Rome, only small homeplaces that didn?t have police but depended on the county sheriff, who might be miles away. She scanned the passing farms, praying to see a sheriff?s car parked in one of the yards and wishing she had a more formidable weapon than the small revolver. When Sammie started to turn in the seat, to look back, Beckystopped her. ?Don?t, honey, don?t turn. Don?t let him know you see him.?

Sammie sat very still, looking straight ahead. They were coming to a narrow bridge across a creek that fed the Etowah River. When, starting across, Becky gunned the car, Falon sped up beside her, crowding her against the rail. She floored it, burning rubber. He slammed against her so hard she skidded and careened, thought she?d go through the flimsy rail. She slammed on her brakes, grabbed Sammie to keep her from going into the dashboard. They were in the middle of the bridge, her fender crumpled against the rail. She spun the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and swerved out. Their fenders caught, metal screaming against metal. She leaned on the gas; it took everything her car had to jerk free, bent metal squealing as she surged ahead. She was past him for only an instant, enough to careen off the bridge onto the rough road, and now his car was even with her again. She unholstered and cocked the .32, laid it on the edge of the open window. She fired, hardly taking her eyes from the road.

?Get that box in my purse. The bullets.? She fired again, and a third time as Sammie scrambled to find the box. She wondered if she could reload while driving. But suddenly Falon?s car slowed and fell behind. Had she hit him? Or he was only afraid she would? Wishing she?d killed him this time, she jammed her foot to the floor, took a curve on squealing tires, and headed fast for Rome.

22

THEY PULLED INTO Rome still shaken, Becky still watching behind her though she?d seen no more of Falon?s car. Easing along the familiar streets beneath the bright maples, their red leaves half fallen, past the familiar houses where she had played when she was small, she began to relax. The cold sky was silvering toward darkness, the shadows beneath the wide oaks pooling into night, the lighted windows beckoning. She didn?t head for their own empty house but made straight for Caroline?s. Pulling into the drive behind the bakery van, she gathered Sammie up as if she was still a small child, not a gangling nine-year-old, and hurried inside.

A fire burned on the hearth, in the big living room. Only when they were safe in Caroline?s arms did Becky feel her pounding heart slow. Caroline held them quietly, seeing how upset they were. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, her jeans old and faded, her apron a colorful patchwork. They stood for a long time holding each other, then moved into the big kitchen, the bright room warm from the ovens and filled with the scents of cinnamon and chocolate. The timers ticked away in a rhythm that was part of Becky?s childhood. The bakery racks were filled with trays of brownies and cinnamon rolls, with lemon cakes and sweet potato pies. The aura of home, the rich patterns and scents of Caroline?s kitchen seemed, for a moment, to wipe Brad Falon from their lives.

Becky hadn?t stopped at the police station to file a report that Falon had tried to run her off the road and that she had shot at him. What good? Why face more of their disdain, their chill disbelief?

Not since Morgan was first arrested had she come to terms with the change in the officers of Rome PD, these men who had been his lifelong friends, with their cold disregard for Morgan?s own version of what had happened to him the day of the robbery. All the time Morgan was in the Rome jail, and all through the trial, she couldn?t believe the hard, judgmental testimony from those officers, from the men Morgan had trusted.

Granted, evidence of the robbery had been found in Morgan?s car, the empty canvas bank bag with blood on it, the scattered hundred-dollar bills. But never once did a police witness suggest that those items could have been planted. These were men they had played with as children, men whose weddings they had attended, who went to the same church, the samepicnics and celebrations. Even Morgan?s own attorney, the lawyer Becky had picked herself only to regret it later, had done little to help him; everyone in town, it seemed, had thought him guilty.

Now, sitting at the bakery table as Caroline warmed up homemade soup and made sandwiches, Becky described Falon?s midnight breakin, the shooting and his escape. She described how, this evening on the deserted road, he had forced them against the bridge rail. ?Trying to drive and fire, I most likely missed him,? she said regretfully. ?But your poor car, Mama .†.†. You don?t want to look at your car.?

?It?s only a car, Becky. You can leave it for Albert to work on,? Caroline said, setting supper on the table. ?You can take your own car now, he already knows how to find you. Did you stop by the station to report Falon??

Becky shook her head. Caroline rose, turned to her planning desk, and picked up the phone.

?Don?t, Mama. Don?t call the police. What good will it do??

Caroline turned to look at her.?You can?tnot call them. This is evidence against Falon. As is the breakin at Anne?s,? she said, starting to dial.

?Please, Mama. I didn?t identify him for the breakin, either.? She let her glance linger on Sammie. Caroline nodded but went right on, identifying herself, making the verbal report and discussing a written report. When she hung up, she was smiling. Becky was rigid with anger.

?The desk sergeant said they?d send someone out.? She rose and moved to the table. ?Becky, they?ve already talked with the Atlanta police. Sergeant Trevis is coming, let?s have supper before he gets here.?

Becky looked at her, puzzled.?They know about the breakin at Anne?s? But why .†.†. ?? She picked up half a sandwich. She didn?t feel like eating, but then found herself wolfing the lean roast beef and good homemade bread. ?Atlanta PD knows I live in Rome, it?s on my driver?s license. But why would theycall Rome?? She looked at Caroline. ?To see if Rome knows me? To get a character witness?? she asked angrily.

?Falon lives in Rome,? Caroline said. ?Did Atlanta take fingerprints? Maybe they?ve identified him from those. Maybe they?re interested, for some reason, even if you didn?t file a report.?

It was full dark when they?d finished supper and moved in by the fire to wait for Sergeant Trevis. As Caroline pulled the draperies to shut out prying eyes, Sammie leaned, yawning, against her grandmother. Caroline led her to the window seat, settled her among the cushions, and pulled a warm throw over her. Becky, watchingthem, was filled with nostalgia for when she was small and was sick. Caroline had tucked the same plaid blanket around her, warm and safe. Within minutes, Sammie was asleep. Becky and Caroline stood looking down at her until they heard a car pull up the drive, heard the static of the police radio.

Answering the door, Caroline led Sergeant Trevis through to the kitchen, where they wouldn?t wake Sammie. She set a cup of coffee and a plate of brownies on the table before him, and coffee for her and Becky. Trevis took off his cap, laid it on the table beside his field book. The tall, lean officer had just had a haircut, leaving a pale line against his fading tan.

Becky described Falon?s attack on the bridge and, at Caroline?s insistent look, she told Trevis about the breakin, and that Falon had attacked her earlier behind the drugstore.

?You filed reports in both cases? And identified Falon?? Trevis looked doubtful. He knew she hadn?t given Falon?s name, the department had already talked with Atlanta.

?I filed a report only for the breakin. I said I didn?t know who the man was,? Becky told him.

?Why?? Trevis asked.

?I was afraid. That when they released him, if he knew I?d given his name, he?d be all the more dangerous.?

?Is that the only reason??

?I was afraid for Sammie.? Trevis?s look puzzled her. ?What else would there be??

?There?s nothing between you and Falon??

She stared at Trevis.

?I didn?t tell her,? Caroline said. ?She hasn?t heard the gossip.?

Becky looked from her mother to Trevis.?What gossip??

?There?s a story around town,? Trevis said, ?that you?re seeing Falon. That you and Falon planned the bank robbery, that the two of you set Morgan up, wanted him sent to prison, to get rid of him. Some folks say you?re living with Falon, in Atlanta.?

She looked at him in silence. Her closest friends couldn?t think this. She found it hard to believe that Morgan?s automotive customers, or even the bookkeeping clients who had let her go, would believe it, and certainly not the members of their church.

Yet nearly the whole town seemed to have bought into what the jury believed, to the lies, under oath, on the witness stand. So why wouldn?t they believe this??Does everyone think that?? she said softly

?Where are you living?? Trevis said.

?With my aunt, Mama?s sister. But if you talked with the Atlanta police, you already know that. How long .†.†.? she said, ?how long have people been saying this??

?Not everyone?? Trevis began.

?How long??

?The stories began shortly after the trial.?

She looked at her mother.?Why didn?t you tell me? Is this part of why I lost my accounts, not just Morgan going to prison, but these lies?? She didn?t know much about the rest of the world, but gossip, in a small Southern town, was a cherished commodity, a traditional and beloved pastime.

?For a long time,? Caroline said, ?I didn?t hear the stories, no one said anything to me. I suppose they knew I?d be furious. No one treated me any differently, except maybe for a look or two, as if some people felt sorry for me. I didn?t hear this story until you?d moved to Atlanta.? She put her hand over Becky?s. ?When you had so many other troubles, I couldn?t add one more ugliness, there seemed no point in it.?

Across the table, Sergeant Trevis busied himself with his coffee and brownie. Becky said,?The police, all of you, believed Morgan was guilty. So when you heard this, you believed that, too.?

?We didn?t believe Morgan was guilty,? Trevis said.

?You acted like you did. You were terrible to him.?

?We are not supposed to voice judgment.?

?Youshowed judgment,? she snapped. ?You?re supposed to be fair. The way you treated Morgan, the way you acted, you believed he was guilty from the minute you hauled him out of the car that morning, after he?d been drugged. You thought he was drunk when you know he doesn?t drink. You thought he killed the guard and robbed the bank. Afterward, when Morgan was in jail and Falon broke into my house, the officer who came was unforgivably rude.?

?Sometimes,? Trevis said, ?when we have to keep a professional distance, we seem?gruff, I guess.?

She just looked at him.

?Some of us were wrong,? Trevis said. ?Becky, we want Morgan to get an appeal.? He looked at her evenly. ?To be truthful, I don?t know what made us so surly. We were all caught up in something, some violent feeling that I can?t explain, that was not professional.? Trevis?s face colored. ?Like a bunch of little boys torturing a hurt animal. You?re right, we weren?t fair to Morgan.

?Not until after the trial was over,? he said, ?after Morgan was down in Atlanta, did we seem to come to our senses, realize how ugly we?d been, how grossly we let him down. Becky, I don?t believe the story about you and Falon. I went to school with Falon, I know what he?s like.? He was quiet, then, ?I do have some good news.? Trevis grinned, his tall frame easing back in his chair. ?There?s a warrant out for Falon.?

?What, for the breakin? Not for the bank robbery??

?No. He?s wanted in California. The warrant came in this morning. That?s why I got over here so fast. Seems he was involved in a series of real estate scams out there, and fraud by wire. The bureau traced him from California to Chattanooga, to some large bank accounts there under fictitious names, and then traced him here.?

?Then when you find him, he?ll be in jail? He?ll be locked up where he can?t reach us??

?If you didn?t kill him, on the bridge,? Trevis said with the hint of a smile. ?If we can find him, he?ll be transported by the U.S. marshal?s office to California, he?ll be held in jail there to await arraignment and trial.?

She wanted to hug Trevis. She couldn?t stop smiling.

?The U.S. attorney in L.A. seems hot to move on him,? Trevis said. ?There were five men involved. The other four have been indicted. With any luck, Falon should be in federal court in L.A. fairly soon.?

?And if he?s convicted?? Becky said. ?Oh, he won?t be sent back here, to prison in Atlanta??He won?t be imprisoned with Morgan, she thought,where Falon would hurt or kill him.

?If he?s convicted in California, there?s no reason to return him to Georgia. Terminal Island, maybe, that?s the closest to L.A. where he?d be tried.?

?How long would he be there? How long would he get??

?On those charges, the maximum might be thirty years, the minimum maybe twenty. With parole and good time, maybe half that.?

?Ten years at least,? she said softly. ?Ten years, free of Falon.?

?If he comes out on parole,? Trevis said, ?and is caught doing anything out of line, he?ll be revoked and sent back.? He swallowed the last of his coffee. ?If you file a complaint now and amend the complaint you filed with Atlanta, give them his name, then the probation department will have that information. That means, if he comes out on parole they?ll do their best to keep him away from you. Have you heard anything on the appeal? Quaker Lowe has been up from Atlanta several times, reading the reports, talking with the witnesses.?

?He?s working hard on it, Trevis.?

Trevis rose.?He?s a good man, good reputation.? He came around the table and hugged Becky. That startled her. His closeness was caring and honest, this was the Trevis she knew. In that moment, she felt as soothed as Sammie must have felt when Grandma wrapped the plaid blanket around her.

23

IN THE NIGHT-DIM cellblock, rain beat down on the high clerestory windows, sloughing across their steel mesh. Lightning flashed, bleaching the cells below as pale as bone. Lee paced his own small cubicle fighting the ache in his side. It had eased off some, until a bout of coughing brought the pain stabbing sharp again. Pain and the cold had kept him up most of the night. He thought Georgia was supposed to be hot and humid. He?d asked the guard twice for another blanket. At last, on his third round, the man had brought it, grumbling as he shoved it through the bars.

Back in his bunk, rolled up in the extra warmth, Lee tried to sleep, the thick scratchy wool pulled tight around him. He badly wanted a hot cup of coffee. He tossed restlessly until daylight crept gray and tentative across the high glass, until he heard the guard?s footsteps again, then the harsh clang of the lever as the overhead bars were withdrawn and the cells unlocked. Lee stood for the count, washed and dressed, pulled on his coat, and moved out to the catwalk. Men crowded him, hurrying him along, surging down the metal stairs and outside into the rain, double-timing to the mess hall hungering for coffee.

In the mess hall he poured two cups from the coffeepot and headed for a small, empty table. He sat with his back to the wall shivering. Rain poured against the glass, its cold breath biting to the bone. Not until the hot brew had warmed him did he get in line, pick up a tray of scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, and two more coffees, and return to the table. By the time he finished eating, the worst of the storm had passed. He was on second shift for the kitchen, hours away yet; leaving the mess hall, he headed back for his cell. There were advantages to his illness, that he could rest when he pleased. The rain had stopped but wind whipped water from the eaves down across the walk, wetting Lee?s pant legs. A lone slit of sun slanted down between the heavy clouds, reflecting up from the puddles. Ahead on the walk a flock of cowbirds was splashing, drinking, screeching to wake the dead. They went quiet at his approach, then exploded into the sky and were gone; and a figure was walking beside him. Appearing out of nowhere, a tall man in prison blues, an inmate he had never seen. When Lee looked square at him his bony face seemed to shift and change, Lee couldn?t look for long into those hollow eyes.

Where the man stepped through deep puddles the water didn?t move, no ripple stirred. A flock of sparrows soared in on a gust of wind, paused in the sky hovering, then fell dead on the rain-slick walk. When Lee didn?t alter his stride or look at the wraith again the dark presence grabbed his hand, its fingers cold as death, making Lee jerk away. ?Leaveme alone. Back off and leave me alone.?

?I can offer you one more opportunity, Fontana. One you?d be a fool to refuse.?

?I haven?t done what you wanted yet. And I?m not doing it now.? He headed for the cellblock, shivering. The dark one kept pace with him.

?If the authorities find the post office money, Lee, find any track leading to where it?s buried?perhaps with a little help?they?ll have all the evidence they need. They?ll lift fingerprints you only thought you destroyed. You?ll be in prison until you die. Unless,? he said, ?you are willing to strike this one bargain.? The wraith looked at him so intently that Lee had to look back. One instant and he turned away again, colder than before.

?One small favor, Fontana, and it is not a difficult task. You will gain much, when your dream of Mexico is fulfilled.?

Lee kept walking.

?You are seventy-two years old. You are sick. If I choose, I can cure the emphysema. I can make your lungs whole again, make you strong again. You will breathe as easily as a young man. I can give you new life, Lee, many more years of healthy, vigorous life, a whole new beginning.?

?I?d pay hard for anythingyou offered.?

?You would pay nothing, you would acquire the ultimate prize. Not only renewed health in this life, but a new life when this one ends, a new and unblemished future designed to your own choosing. A new life where you?ll be anything you want to be. Meantime, you finish out this life in perfect health and comfort. All you need to do is help Morgan Blake.?

The tall figure warped and shifted so darkness drifted through him, then he was whole again.?If you agree to help Blake, I will see that you escape from here undetected, free and unharmed.?

Lee was silent as they passed other prisoners, though none took any notice, he didn?t think they saw or heard his companion.

?Without my help, your lungs will quickly grow worse. The short time you have left will be even more miserable. When you can hardly breathe at all, panic will entrap you. You will slowly strangle to death, choked by the emphysema. Wouldn?t you prefer perfect health and a long life? Wouldn?t you prefer to escape this concrete trap and enjoy the benefits I promise??

Coughing hard, Lee clutched at the wound in his side.?There?s no way out of this cage. Even if there were, why would you want to help Blake??

?I will help get Blake out of here, help him find Brad Falon, help him force Falon to confess. That is exactly what you are planning, so, you see, I simply want to assist in your venture.?

Morgan?s escape was what he?d planned, ever since Becky came to visiting day so excited she could hardly get it out fast enough, that there was a warrant for Falon. That as soon as Falon was found he?d be shipped off to L.A. for arraignment and trial, with a good chance he?d go to prison out there.

IN THE VISITING room, Becky had spoken in heated whispers, sitting in the far corner on an isolated couch close between Morgan and Lee. She hadn?t brought Sammie; she said Anne had taken the child to a movie. This was a different kind of visit, she was all business, was strung tight with her news and seemed to want no distraction.

But still she?d left a lot unsaid, questions to which Lee still wanted answers. Who had shot Falon? She said she didn?t know but Lee thought she did know. Maybe, if Becky had shot him herself, she didn?t want to upset Morgan? Maybe that was why she hadn?t brought Sammie, because Sammie would say too much?

But Lee sensed, as well, something more left unrevealed. The way Becky looked at him puzzled and embarrassed him; she was holding something back. Yet how could it affect him, when he hardly knew her? Whatever it was, it left him with questions that, he thought, he might not want to ask.

Morgan had sat stone-faced, saying nothing. Lee hadn?t been able to tell what either one was thinking. But questions or not, with a warrant out for Falon, Lee?s plan had begun to take shape. If Falon was arrested, was out on the West Coast?if Lee and Morgancould get to him, could break out of prison, hightail it out there, get themselves arrestedand locked in the same institution, they?d have Falon where he couldn?t escape. Could force a confession from him, make him reveal where the bank money was hidden. Once the money was found, and maybe the murder weapon, Morgan should have more than enough to clear him.

A lot of ifs and maybes, Lee thought. But that was what life was made of.

But it was not the devil?s plan that they force information from Falon. Now, standing there on the wet walkway, the wraith kept pressing at Lee. ?Once you?ve broken out of here, Fontana, and Blake thinks you?re helping him, you will be in a position to crush him. You will raise his hopes high. Then you will destroy him.?

Lee glanced along the walks again, and now they were alone.

?With my help,? Lucifer said, ?you will arrange that Blake kills Falon. That a number of reliable witnesses are present, and that Blake is arrested. The prosecuting attorney will easily prove that Blake broke out of prison with the intention of killing Falon. This,? Satan said, smiling, ?will put an end to Morgan?s bid for an appeal. When he attacks Falon, he destroys whatever chance he might have had.?

?Why would you want him to kill Falon? Falon?s one of yours.?

?Falon has been useful. Now, when all is finished, he will join my ranks. He will work the game from the other side, and that should please him.?

?And when Blake goes down, I would be arrested as his accomplice.?

?Oh, no,? the devil said. ?I will see that you conveniently vanish, into any kind of life you choose. Healthy again, with wealth, with bawdy women, the finest horses, gold, whatever is your pleasure.?

?If Morgan and I got out of here, if that was even possible?and if I didn?t double-cross him, if I continued to help him and kept him out of trouble, what would you do then??

?I would destroy you both.?

?You haven?t destroyed me so far. What makes you think you can take down Blake, either? The truth is,? Lee said, ?you?re more bluff than substance.?

Though, in fact, he knew better. He knew too well how Lucifer could twist human thought. If he and Morgan did escape, it might be more than they could do to fight off whatever influence Satan brought to bear. It might be more than they could handle, not to follow the dark?s lead.

?Once I?ve helped you escape,if you are capable of that feat, and if then you tried to double-cross me and save Blake, tried to make Falon reveal the evidence, it will be easy enough to twist your plan to my own design.?

?If you?re that powerful, you don?t need my help to destroy Blake.?

?I need you to encourage Blake. He is?not an easy subject,? said the dark spirit. ?Too religious, for one thing, and what a waste that is. It is you who must show him the broader way, who must lay out the plan. But first, you must inflame his desire to break out. Blake would never have the courage on his own.?

Lee looked hard at him.?Why Blake? What the hell do youhave against Blake??

The devil didn?t answer. The tall inmate grew indistinct, blending into the building behind him, and he vanished on the rain-sodden wind. It was in that moment that Lee thought about Becky, about her secrecy in the visiting room and her shuttered looks, and he wondered what had made him think of that.

24

BECKY WOKE TO rain pounding at the windows, and to a residue of fear. In the night she had experienced again Falon?s car careening at hers, had fought the wheel again to avoid going off the bridge. Now, waking fully, she lay listening to the comforting clatter from the kitchen, smelling the aromas of baking bread and pies and, this morning, the scent of bacon as Caroline made their breakfast. Rising, she showered and dressed quickly, then woke Sammie, watched as Sammie sleepily pulled her on clothes and ran a brush through her hair.

In the big kitchen Caroline and her assistant, redheaded Nettie Parks, were lifting pecan pies and fresh bread from the two big ovens. Nettie was a neighbor, a widow whose five children had left the nest. She liked getting up early, she liked the extra money, and most of all, she and Caroline enjoyed working together. Nettie was among the few who had stood by them during the trial. Nettie set their breakfast on a corner of the long, crowded table and hugged Becky.?I hope Brad Falon burns in hell.?

That made Becky smile. Sitting down, she cupped her hands around the warm coffee cup while listening to the rain, watched her mother turn out muffins from their tins and ease them into the familiar bakery boxes stampedCAROLINE?S. They ate quickly this morning and didn?t linger; it would take a while at the police station to file the complaints and go over the details of Falon?s attacks. Their overnight stay with Caroline was too short, but they?d had a cozy visit after Sergeant Trevis left.

She had called Quaker Lowe last night, too, on the after-hours number he?d given her. He said, ?I tried to call you, at your aunt?s, Becky. Good news! There?s a warrant out for Falon, he?s wanted in California.?

She laughed.?I know. I?m in Rome, Sergeant Trevis told me.? She told Lowe about Falon?s attack on the bridge, and that she was on her way to the station.

?But you?re both all right??

?We?re fine. Sammie?s a soldier.?

?I?m glad you changed your mind about naming Falon, glad the police have a record of his attacks. This will be a big help if .†.†. if there are complaints on file against Falon,? Lowe said quietly. His unspoken wordsIf we lose the appeal resonated in silence between them.If we lose the appeal and have to start over .†.†.

Now, rising from the table, promising Caroline she?d call when they were safely home, she hugged her mother, hugged Nettie, and went to get her car from the garage?leaving Caroline to deal with her own poor, damaged vehicle.

Getting Sammie settled in the front seat with her books, they headed along the rain-sloughed streets for the station. Becky missed Caroline already. Sometimes she felt as needful of mothering as was Sammie. That amused and annoyed her.

At the station she filed a complaint for each offense: the highway assault, the breakin at Anne?s, Falon?s attack on her behind the drugstore, and the breakin at her house in Rome when Sergeant Leonard had refused to make a written report.

Detective Palmer, a thin, dark-haired officer of Cherokee background, asked that Caroline bring in her car.?Will you call her? I want to take paint samples. With luck, I can lift chips from it, left by Falon?s car. And if we pick up his car, we should find scrapes there from Caroline?s vehicle. One more piece of evidence,? Palmer said. ?Every small thing counts.?

He stood looking down at her.?The FBI will want to talk with you, as part of the federal investigation on Falon?s land scam. The Atlanta bureau will call you at your aunt?s if you?ll give me the number.?

Becky wrote down both numbers, Anne?s and her private one. She saw no animosity in Palmer, she didn?t think he?d been among the many officers who?d turned against Morgan. She found it comforting that the FBI wanted to question her about Falon; that made her feel more in control. As she and Sammie headed for Atlanta she drovethe narrow, rainy highway filled only with positive thoughts, with new hope. She wasn?t in the habit of saying prayers to ask for special favors; such begging was, in her mind, self-serving. Her prayers were more often of thanks, for the many blessings they did have. But last night and now, this morning, she prayed hard that Falon would be found and sent to L.A., that a California judge or jury would convict him for the land scam, that he would be locked up for the maximum time. And that maybe, in prison, someone would kill him. If her prayers were a sin, so be it, that was what he deserved.

It rained all the way to Atlanta, harsh rain slanting across the road in gusts so sharp they rocked the car. They were home at Anne?s just before noon. Mariol had made hot vegetable soup and a plate of cornbread.

?I?m just going to grab a bite,? Becky said, ?and go on to work, it?s payroll time.?

Mariol nodded.?Go in the dining room first, take a look at what was in the attic.?

Becky found Anne at the dining table leafing carefully through the pages of a black leather album, a thin folder so ancient and ragged that the disintegrating covers had shed bits of rotting leather onto the white runner.

?Mariol found it,? Anne said. ?I?d forgotten about those few boxes we?d stored away. We cleaned out most of the relics a couple of years ago, left a few family papers, this album, and a small trunk of antique clothes. I forgot, but Mariol remembered.?

The faded pictures were all in sepia tones, some of men in coveralls standing by their teams of horses, or women in long dresses over laced-up boots, women with serious, unsmiling faces beneath hand-tucked sunbonnets. Becky touched the old pictures gently, thinking how it would be to live in that time when life was so hard. Raising and canning or curing all your food or going without, doing the laundry over a corrugated washboard, traveling on foot or in a horse-dawn wagon or by horseback, maybe sometimes by train. No telephone to call for the sheriff, if there even was one, only your own firearms and your courage to protect your children.

When Sammie came to stand beside them, Anne said,?This is our family,your family.?

Sammie stood looking as Anne turned the pages, then excitedly she pointed.?Wait. That?s the cowboy. That?s Lee.?

The boy was maybe fourteen. He did look like Lee, the same long bony face, same challenging look in his eyes, even at that young age. Sammie looked up at Becky, her dark eyes deep with pleasure.?I dream of him, Mama, we?re family. Lee?s part of our family.?

Gently Becky touched the picture. All along, was this what Sammie?s dreams had been about?

?Here?s another of the boy,? Anne said, turning the page. ?And that?s your great-aunt Mae.?

The woman in the picture was maybe thirty, but Becky could see the resemblance to Sammie.?Mae .†.†. Mae was Lee?s sister,? she said.

Anne turned back several pages.?Here .†.†. here?s Mae as a child.? She looked from the picture to Sammie, looked at Becky, but said nothing more. The child was about ten. Becky studied her for a long while, as did Sammie. They were looking at Sammie?s twin, except for Mae?s long, old-fashioned skirt and laced boots. Sammie reached out a hesitant hand, gently touching the faded likeness just as Becky had touched the picture of Lee. Mae?s mirror image of Sammie made Becky shiver. How could any child be so like her own little girl?

She left Anne and Sammie at last, numb with putting the pieces together, with accepting the reality of a family she had never known. Sammie was doing a better job of it, seemed to have accepted it all: her great-uncle Lee, stepping out of a formless past; her great-aunt Mae, who had dreamed just as Sammie dreamed.

Returning to the kitchen, Becky ate her lunch quickly, then hurried downstairs to call Caroline, to tell her they?d arrived home safely, that they had seen no more of Falon. Upstairs again she pulled on her coat and was out the door into the rain ducking into her car. But, heading for work, she felt tired and worn out. She told herself she?d be better once she got into the books, began writing checks and adding up bills and charges. The neatness and logic of bookkeeping always eased her. She wished life could be as ordered, its problems as readily untangled and made right.

By five that afternoon she?d finished the payroll and billing for the five stores. Only in the car heading home did the tiredness hit her again, leave her longing for sleep. She found Sammie and Mariol in the kitchen, Mariol ironing, Sammie standing at the table folding and stacking towels. Mariol took one look at Becky and set down her iron. ?Go take a nap. Take a couple of aspirin and cover up, you?re white as these sheets. You don?t want to be sick.?

?I can?t afford to be sick.? She did as Mariol told her, headed obediently downstairs, took the aspirins, and collapsed on the bed, pulling the heavy quilt over her.

She didn?t mean to sleep long. She was deep under when the ringing phone woke her, cutting harshly through the pounding of the rain. Reaching for the phone, she hesitated, frightened suddenly. This was a private line, no one had this number but Caroline and Quaker Lowe. And the prison.

The bedside clock said six-thirty. She could smell supper cooking, the aroma of frying onions and browned beef. She picked up the phone. Lowe?s voice brought her wide awake. ?What?s wrong?? she said, sitting up, her heart pounding.

?Nothing?s wrong. I??

?The appeal .†.†.? Becky said. She didn?t want to hear this, she didn?t want to hear what was coming.

There was a long pause. Lowe said,?I have never found it so hard to give anyone bad news, as I find it now.?

?Denied,? she said woodenly. ?It was denied.?

?Insufficient new evidence. Of course I?ll keep trying. Now, with the federal warrant, and the complaints you filed, we?ll have a better chance. Neither is direct evidence of the robbery and murder, but they are evidence of Falon?s destructive intent toward your family. I?m going up to Rome inthe morning to dig some more, do some more interviewing.?

?You?ve talked to everyone. What good??

?It?s possible, now that Falon is wanted by the feds, that Natalie Hooper will be less inclined to lie for him.?

Becky didn?t think Natalie would ever testify against Falon. The appeal had been denied, they were beaten, everything was over.

?We?re not giving up,? Lowe said.

Mutely she shook her head. Quaker was grasping at straws, they would never get an appeal, his continued effort would only lead Morgan on uselessly. And the added cost would be more than she could ever pay.

?I mean to charge only half the hourly rates,? Lowe said, ?for whatever time it takes to file again. Now, if Falon is picked up, I think Natalie will talk rather than getting crosswise with the bureau. I wish we could find the money or the gun,? he said dryly. ?I?ll pick up copies of the complaints when I get to Rome. I don?t mean to quit on this, Becky.?

Becky ended up crying into the phone. The disappointment of the denial and then Lowe?s kindness undid her. She wept so hard she couldn?t talk and had to hang up. Shutting herself in the bathroom she gave over to painful sobs, she cried until she was limp, all the weeks of worry and stress shaking her. Her whole body felt drained, her eyes red and swollen. Her helplessness enraged her. She wanted to call Lowe back and apologize but what could she say? She didn?t let herself think about visiting day, about telling Morgan tomorrow that they?d have to start over, that the appeal had been shot down.

DRIVING DOWNPEACHTREE headed for the prison, Sammie sitting quietly in the seat beside her, Becky dreaded this visit. She?d wanted to leave Sammie home again, had wanted to tell Morgan alone about the appeal, not force him to deal with his rage in front of Sammie. But Sammie had been so insistent, wanting to see Lee, to show him the album. Becky wished Lee wouldn?t come to visiting day either; she wanted only to bealone with Morgan. But, in the end, it was the album that saved her.

In the sally port, she cautioned the guard that the thin black folder was very old and fragile. She watched him page through it, making only a small show of being careful. When she and Sammie entered the visiting room, Becky handed Lee the album and glanced across to an unoccupied corner.

Lee accepted the disintegrating book, watching her face. Cradling the album, he took Sammie?s hand and moved to the far lounge chair. With Sammie on his lap he sat turning the pages, looking at the pictures as Sammie pointed to various relatives and recited the names and what she could remember of the family relationships as Anne had told her. Becky, sitting quietly with Morgan, watchedLee?s expression change as he pored over the old photos: at first he was startled, then his look turned vulnerable and uncertain. From across the room, Becky gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Lee looked back at her and grinned, shy and embarrassed. She smiled, then turned away, took Morgan?s hand, snuggling against him.

She told him she loved him, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his shoulder. He sat quietly, waiting. When she didn?t speak, he said, ?The appeal was denied.?

?Quaker called last night,? she said softly. When she looked up at Morgan, his eyes were hard and rage sculpted his face. He turned away, didn?t want her to comfort him. She felt that the denial was her fault, felt that again she had chosen the wrong lawyer.

?Lowe is still trying,? she said. ?He?s not a quitter, he?s up in Rome now, seeing what more he can find. He?s dropped his fees to half, he?s been very kind, Morgan. Hewants this appeal, he believes in you. Please give him a chance, don?t lose faith. Somewhere there has to be more evidence.?

He said nothing.

?But here?s the good news,? she said. ?Morgan, please look at me.?

He turned toward her, his face hard and closed.

?There?s a warrant out for Falon. A federal warrant.?

?A warrant for what? Not the robbery??

?The FBI wants him. For some land scams out on the West Coast, and for fraud by wire. The other four men in it have already been indicted. If they?re convicted, if Falon?s convicted, Sergeant Trevis said he could get ten to twenty years.?

?If they find him,? Morgan said. ?If they can get him to trial. If theycan convict him.?

?The FBI will find him. If he?s arrested in Georgia, he?ll be shipped out to the coast. Trevis says he?d be tried out there, that if he?s convicted he?ll most likely be in prison out there?far away from us.?

Morgan took her in his arms, holding her close?but not believing Falon would ever be imprisoned.

?We have to go with this, Morgan. We have to put our faith in this. If Falon?s wanted for another federal crime, the U.S. attorney will look at him differently. He?ll look differently at our new try for an appeal.?

?Maybe,? he said noncommittally.

?Believe it will happen. We have to believe, have to hang on to something.? Holding his hand, she looked across the room again at Lee and Sammie, so engrossed in the frail album. ?Our family pictures,? she said gently. ?Lee as a child. His sister Mae, aunts and uncles, they all belong to us and to Lee.?

Watching Morgan as he considered her words, as he considered the tough old man and Sammie, so comfortable together, she saw his face soften, saw the hint of a smile.

25

BRADFALON, AFTER attempting to run Becky?s car off the bridge, had slipped on into town behind her. He didn?t think she?d go to the police, and the cops wouldn?t listen anyway. They?d been down on Morgan ever since the robbery and they had no more use for Becky. He?d seen to that, had done enough one-on-one talking with selected officers to sour the validity of what either Morgan or Becky said. The rumors he?d spread about Becky and him, through a couple of friends, had further tarnished her credibility. Damn woman. Her gunshot wound in his leg hurt bad, and now, so did the crease in his shoulder where she?d winged him backthere on the bridge. The pain made it hard to drive. Leaving the bridge he?d popped a couple of the Dover?s Powder pills, the same pain pills with which he?d drugged Morgan before the bank robbery?only then, he?d used enough to leave Blake sleeping like a dead flounder.

Washing the pills down with the last of an open Coke, he threw the bottle out the window and, staying well behind Becky out of sight, headed for Natalie?s place. He needed his shoulder bandaged, needed the bandage on his leg changed, needed someone to take care of him, cook for him, needed a place to hole up until he healed. He wouldn?t go to his mother?s, she was too judgmental, he didn?t see her often. The cops would already have been there looking for him; they didn?t waste time when there?d been a shooting no matter who the victim was. They would have searched Natalie?s apartment, too, late last night or maybe this morning. Natalie wouldn?t rat on him, she wouldn?t like the consequences.

He?d moved in, sent her out for a steak and a bottle of bootleg, was settled in just fine. He?d been there three days when the Rome cops found him. It was two A.M., he was asleep in Natalie?s bed tossing with fever from the wound in his leg. Earlier that evening just after supper, the first time the cops showed up, they didn?t have a warrant. Natalie had helped him hide in the attic crawl space. It hurt like hell getting up the folding stairs, his leg burning like fire. Natalie had refused to let the law in without the proper paperwork. When they?d gone, he?d been too sick to leave.He?d gone back to bed, had thought, if the cops came back with a warrant, he could make it out onto the balcony, could handle the five-foot drop to the concrete. The damn cops wouldn?t be looking for him if Becky hadn?t reported the bridge incident. She?d sure as hell sworn out a warrant, why else would they be there?

Natalie had been careful to keep his presence secret, had made no increased purchases of food, had pulled the drapes at dusk as was her habit. She had some antiseptic and an old sheet to tear up, so she needn?t buy anything incriminating; she had nursed him as best she knew how. When, at night, he grew too fevered and restless to lie still she?d brought him cold compresses for his leg; and she?d moved out of the double bed into the living room, and slept on the couch. She was asleep there when, two hours past midnight, the cops pounded on her door again.

When they kept pounding, she shouted at them to shut up and go away. When Falon himself, groggy from the Dover?s Powder, heard the sharp bite of a cop?s voice, he rolled out of bed, shocked to wakefulness, pain jarring through him. He?d pulled on his pants and was sliding the balcony door open when he heard the front door crash open and two cops stormed in. One of them lunged and grabbed him, jerked hisarms behind him, striking pain through him. The other cuffed him, and it was all over. They searched his pockets and found a set of car keys. They looked at his bandaged wounds. Once they were done questioning him and jerking him around, he pulled on his shirt, Natalie tied his shoes for him, crying, and handed him his jacket. She had a talent for crying on cue, she had done that to perfection in the courtroom when she took the stand at Blake?s trial.

Two of the cops escorted him out of the apartment, forced him down the stairs and out the back door to a squad car, hustling him along, making no effort to allow for the pain he was experiencing. A third officer went to try Falon?s keys in the cars that were parked behind the building. Falon?s Ford coupe wasn?t among them; he and Natalie had ditched it outside town behind an empty barn, returning in her car.

Falon was housed in the Rome city jail in a private cell to increase security while Rome police waited for the U.S. marshals to pick him up. His shoulder began bleeding again, soaking through the bandage and through his shirt. He was treated by the doctor who tended the prisoners, his wound was rebandaged, and he was given a shot for the infection. His rage at being arrested was directed equally at Becky Blake, at every bastard cop on the Rome force, and at Natalie for not alerting him soon enough to get him out of the apartment?but most of all at Becky. Somewhere down the line she?d pay for this and for all the snubs and injustices she?d forced on him over the years.

IT WAS FIVE A.M. the next morning that the ringing phone jerked Becky from a heavy sleep. She rolled over, fighting the covers, grabbing for the receiver?afraid it was the prison, that Morgan was hurt.

?It?s Quaker. I?m sorry to wake you.?

She sat up in bed, glancing over at Sammie, who had come wide awake and lay watching her.?Quaker? What is it? What?s happened?? His last call hadn?t been good news. What had happened now?

But there was a smile in Quaker?s voice. ?Becky? The Rome police have picked up Falon. He?s locked down tight. They hauled him out of Natalie?s at two-thirty this morning. He was hurting real bad from your gunshot wounds,? he said cheerfully.

?Can they keep him locked up, now that they have the warrants??

?They can. Do you want me to tell Morgan? I have an early appointment down that way.?

?Oh yes, please. That?s the best news he could have. It?s a pain to try to call. I tried twice in the last weeks; they said I could talk to him on visiting day. But, Quaker, you won?t tell him that Falon attacked us? I?ve told him none of that, I couldn?t bear to worry him, he has enough to deal with.?

?Not a word,? Lowe said. ?Becky, the bureau will be all over Falon. With the crimes out on the coast, and after the bridge incident and the breakin there at your aunt?s, I think we?ll see some action.?

When Lowe had hung up, Becky climbed into bed with Sammie, hugging her and laughing.?He?s in jail, Falon?s in jail, he can?t touch us.? And as Sammie chimed in, ?He?s in jail, he?s in jail,? Misto was suddenly there snuggling close and warm against them, big and golden and ragged-eared, his whole body rumbling with purrs.

26

MORGAN PARTED FROM Quaker Lowe outside the prison office that was used by attorneys and their clients. Shaking hands with Lowe, he wanted to hug the man; they were both smiling as Lowe turned away toward the sally port. Morgan, double-timing to the mess hall, shouldered in among the stragglers looking for Lee. The kitchen staff was cleaning up the last of breakfast, the clanging of metal and crockery, the smell of overcooked food and soapy water. Lee sat at a table across the room where he?d pushed aside his empty plate. Morgan grabbed a plate, served himself from what was left in a few big pans, the eggs and pancakes limp and cold. Heading across among the empty tables, setting down his tray, he gave Lee a thumbs-up, ?Falon?s in jail. Locked up tight.?

Lee let out a whoop that made the men in the kitchen turn and stare.?Hot damn!That?s what Lowe came out here for. To give you the news in person. Becky knows??

?He called her at five this morning, said she laughed like a kid. Rome cops picked him up on the federal warrant. Lowe agrees with them, if Falon?s convicted in L.A., they?ll keep him out there, maybe at Terminal Island.?

Lee smiled. Morgan grinned back at Lee?s pleasure, which seemed to wipe away the years. But Lee?s eyes were bright with challenge, too. And that turned Morgan uneasy.

?He went over parts of the trial transcript again,? Morgan said, watching Lee. ?Wanted to know if there was anything I?d forgotten, that might have seemed unimportant at the time. I couldn?t think of one detail.? Morgan made a face at the cold eggs but shoveled them in. ?This has set him up,Lee. The guy really wants to burn Falon. I like him, he doesn?t act superior like the lawyers I?ve known. They come in the shop to get their car fixed, they want it yesterday and they know exactly what?s wrong with it, they want it done exactly the way they tell me, even when they?redead wrong.?

?You couldn?t think of any new leads.? Lee said. ?Anything he can move on.?

?Nothing.? Morgan stirred sugar into his coffee; at least the coffee was hot. ?It?s the money that would fry him. If we knew where he hid the money.?

Lee was quiet, watching Morgan.

?He was good at hiding things,? Morgan said. ?When we were kids, he knew places to stash car radios and batteries that I never thought of. He?d dig stuff out of the big flour bin in his mother?s kitchen or an old water heater lying in the lot next door, dig out all the stash we?d liftedso we could take it to the fence.?

Still, Lee said nothing. Morgan finished his breakfast; they returned their trays to the counter and moved out into the exercise yard. The morning?s rain had stopped. As they moved down the concrete walk, puddles splashed their shoes. ?The bank money,? Morgan said, ?he wouldn?t trust that to some water heater?or to Natalie, either. She lied for him, but that doesn?t mean he?d trust her with money. Falon?s opinion of women is on a level with hogs in a mud hole.?

?I wonder,? Lee said, ?if he?s already retrieved the stash. He?s had plenty of time to split it up, hide it in half a dozen places or maybe in banks. Maybe the bureau didn?t find all the accounts. Maybe some small deposits, say, over in Kentucky and Alabama, accounts he might have already setup.?

?Lowe?s checking the banks in several states. That takes a while, when they?d be under false names. Harder still if he opened them some time ago, so they wouldn?t show up under new accounts.? Two joggers passed them moving swiftly, glancing at them without interest.

?If the feds haul him out to California,? Morgan said, ?he won?t get his hands on the cash for some long time.? He looked up at the sky, the clouds dark and low above them. ?Or maybe he buried it, maybe thought that was safer than banks. He knows the land around Rome real well.?

?And so do you,? Lee said.

?So? You think I can look for it, locked in this damn prison??

?There might be a way,? Lee said. Over the last days, working in the steamy kitchen, he?d laid out a plan. Even now, with this new turn in Falon?s fate, Lowe?s try for an appeal could fail. If that happened, what Lee had in mind might be Morgan?s only shot at a new trial, his only chance at freedom.

Lee didn?t tell Morgan what he had in mind, he wanted Blake to think of it himself. He?d been working on Blake, planting the notion of escape, describing prison breaks he?d heard about, but then moving on to a colorful crime or a well-known inmate. Whether or not Blake knew what he was doing, the idea of escape was planted. Now, watching Morgan, Lee said, ?What if we could find the money??

?That?s all the proof Lowe would need, he could get him back in court.? Morgan looked hard at Lee. ?If somehow I could get my hands on Falon before they ship him off .†.†. Get him alone and make him spill where he hid it .†.†.?

?How would you do that? Even if you broke out, he?s locked up.? Lee kicked at a pebble. ?And by tomorrow or the next day, he?ll be gone. On his way to the West Coast.? He visualized Falon belly-chained in a DC-3 between a couple of deputy marshals. He hoped they were hard-nosed bastards; he wished Falon a miserable flight.

?If he?s acquitted of the land scam,? Morgan said, ?he?ll come back for the money. If Icould get out of here, I could watch him and follow him.?

?Slim chance he?ll walk, if the feds are this hot to convict him.?

?I want to get the bastard, Lee.Make him talk,make him tell where the money is. If I could get out, get my hands on him .†.†.?

Lee looked hard at Morgan.?You thinkyou could take down Falon??

Morgan looked uncertain. Lee said,?Together we could. We could hurt him bad enough so he?d tell whatever we want.? And, watching Morgan, he knew Blake had grabbed the bait.

But what lay ahead would take all the planning, all the wiliness and strength the two of them had. Lee tried not to think how dangerous it was. His agenda wasn?t only crazy, it was pushing suicide.

?You sure they?d put him in Terminal Island?? Morgan said.

?That?s the closest to L.A. Why go to the expense of bringing him back here??

?If there was a way to get transferred out there, if I could get into T.I. with him, I swear I?d beat the truth out of him.?

?Well, sure, if you could get out there,? Lee said. ?The prison system does that all the time. You just tell your counselor you?re unhappy here, that you?d like the California climate better, he?ll put in for a transfer and you?ll be on your way.?

They moved over as four more joggers surged by, stinking of sweat. Morgan had taken the bait real well.?If he?s sent to T.I.,? he said stubbornly, ?and Icould get out there, I?d have a chance at him. I had no chance after the bank robbery. When I came to, groggy from the drugs, I was already on my way to jail. But now, if I could break out somehow, get out to California .†.†.?

?Then what? You camp on the doorstep of T.I. waiting for Falon to be released? Wait there how many years for him to walk out the prison door, then you nail him??

?I have to do something. Becky and Sammie and I have our whole lives ahead of us. I don?t want to watch from behind this damned wall as Sammie grows up. I want my life back.?

Lee waited.

?If heis convicted, if hedoes do his time out there, there has to be some way I can get into the joint.? Morgan looked helplessly at Lee. ?I know it?s impossible, but .†.†. Maybe I could get out through the train gate, where that guy got crushed. Maybe I could do a better job of it than he did.?

?And what if you screw up? End up crushed, like him??

Morgan slowed, looked at Lee a long time.?In here, I might aswell be dead. In here, I?m nothing to Becky and Sammie. I can?t work to support them, can?t hold them and love them except in public at the exact place and time of day the prison says I can.?

They had circled the exercise yard, had started around again when Morgan said,?If I did find a way to break out, if I got all the way out there, they wouldn?t ship me back right away? Iam a federal prisoner, wouldn?t they hold me, maybe right there in T.I. for a few days, while they did the paperwork??

Lee looked hard at Morgan.?They might not ship you back at all. It would be cheaper to keep you there.? He shrugged. ?Maybe T.I. Why not??

?Then how do I do it? How do I get out, avoid the feds long enough to hop a freight or hitchhike, get on out to L.A.??

Lee glanced up at the wall.

?I sure can?t go over that baby,? Morgan said, laughing sourly. ?Thirty, forty feet. And the guards. Even if there was a way over, I wouldn?t last two seconds, with those rifles trained on me.?

?Maybe,? Lee said. ?Maybe there?s a way. Come on,? he said, heading across the big yard.

Sitting with their backs to the concrete barrier, Lee laid out the plan. He showed Morgan the dimples in the concrete. He watched Morgan glance up, as Lee himself had done, looking toward the towers that couldn?t be seen from that position. He watched Morgan?s expression change to disbelief and then to excitement, and Lee?s own blood surged. They could do this. They could get out of there, in a way that no one had ever done, before.

Maybe something was pushing him, maybe not. This was what he meant to do and to hell with his short sentence. Beside him, Morgan began to smile.?Sammie was right,? he said.

?Right about what??

?That you?d come here to Atlanta and save me,? Morgan said. ?That you?d get me out of this cage.?

27

LEE SAT ACROSS the visiting room as far away from Morgan and Becky as he could get, holding Sammie on his lap hoping she couldn?t hear Morgan?s pitch as he laid out their escape plan to Becky. Though the child would know soon enough, he thought wryly. If she hadn?t already dreamed of what they meant to do. Dreamed it, but had kept it from her mother?

Or had she dreamed of the outcome of their venture? But if she?d done that, now she?d be either tearful and grieving for Morgan or wildly excited that they would soon be free. She wouldn?t be the quiet little girl sitting snuggled and uncertain in his lap, leaning against him, her small hand in his.

There were only a few other visitors in the room. Lee watched a lean young prisoner and his pillow-shaped wife, their smear-faced toddler fussing and crying as they passed him back and forth between them. Neither they nor the other three couples seemed to be listening to Morgan?s soft, urgent voice.

Lee knew Becky would try to stop them, try to tear their plan apart. He watched her scowl grow deeper until suddenly she lit into Morgan, her whisper, even from across the room, as virulent as a snake?s hiss.

He didn?t like to see the two of them at odds but, more to the point, they needed Becky?s help, needed help on the outside to make this work. As the two battled it out, their angry whispers drowned by the fussy baby, Lee hoped no one could hear. If any rumor of a planned escape was passed on to a guard,he and Morgan would be separated, confined to their cells, maybe one of them sent to another prison, and that would end their plan.

Now, though Sammie still sat quietly turning the pages of her book, her whole being was focused on her parents? whispered battle. Soon she laid down her book, pressed closer against Lee, her body rigid and still. Across the room, Becky grabbed Morgan by the shoulders, her fingers digging in. Lee rose, setting Sammie back in the chair. ?Stay there, stay quiet.? But before he could cross the room Beckywasup, moving toward him, backing him away from the others into a corner. Her whisper was like a wasp sting.

?What have you been telling him? What crazy ideas have you been feeding Morgan? No one can do what you?re planning.? Her dark eyes flashed, her anger a force that made Lee step back. ?This will get him killed. Morgan was a patsy once. I won?t let him do this, this isn?t going to happen.?

Lee was shocked by the degree of her rage.?You won?tlet him do this?? he whispered. ?What right have you tolet him do anything! Morgan is the one who?s in prison, not you.He?s the one who was framed, not you. He wants a new trial. There?s no chance without new, solid evidence.? He wanted to shake her, he had drawn close, the otherswere looking now; without the bawling baby they?d hear every word. ?This is the only wayI know to get new evidence,? he breathed.

He leaned over, racked by a fit of coughing, then faced her again.?Maybe Natalie Hooper will talk to your lawyer the way he thinks. And maybe she won?t.? He glanced across at Sammie, sitting rigid in the chair, her fists clenched.

?The best way to get real evidence,? Lee said softly, ?is from Falon himself. Find out where he hid the money. Tell the bureau so they can retrieve it.? He swallowed back another cough. ?The best way is to make him talk. And you won?tlet Morgan do this??

?He?ll get himself killed trying to escape. What good is that? You might not care if the guards shoot him, but I do. And even if you did get out,? she breathed, ?even if you made it all the way to California without being picked up, which isn?t likely?even if you did turn yourselves in at Terminal Island and they kept you a few days, the minute you try to hustle Falon, he?ll kill Morgan. Don?t you understand how vicious Falon is?? Her jaw was clenched, her lips a thin line, her dark eyes huge with anger and pain. ?What kind of scam is this, Fontana? What do you care if Morgan gets anew trial? Just because we?re related doesn?t mean I can trust you or that Morgan can. Leave him alone. Keep your nose out of our business.?

?I can do that,? Lee said quietly. ?I can tell him the plan?s no good, that we?ll have to scratch it, and he?ll back off. He knows he can?t get out of here alone without help, without a partner. We trash the plan, and you?ll go right on visiting him here until he?s an old man. Youtwo can sit on the couch holding hands, you can watch him grow bitter, watch him turn into an empty shell with nothing inside but rage. And watch yourself do the same. And Sammie will grow up seeing her father for an hour at a time, a few days a week at best, right here in this visiting room with iron bars at the windows. If you stop him from trying,? Lee said, ?you?ll never sleep well again. You?ll never sleep with Morgan again, never hold him close at night.?

Beneath the anger, Becky?s look had gone naked and still.

?This is a pretty visiting room, isn?t it, Becky? The nice furniture and clean walls, the expensive carpeting, the plants along the window. And the rest of the prison is just as pretty and clean, it smells just as nice, and is just as comfortable and safe. We?re all just loving brothers in here,behind these bars and walls.?

She wiped at her eyes.?I know it?s hard, that it?s ugly, but??

?You don?t know anything, you don?t have a clue. You wouldn?t last five minutes behind those doors.? Lee looked at her coldly. ?That world in there peels away all the layers, lady. Right down to the worst ugliness you can think of, and worse than you can think of.? He choked and swallowed. ?You don?t know anything about what it?s like in there, about what Morgan?s life is like. But that doesn?t matter,? he whispered. ?You want Morgan to stay locked in here, maybe until he dies. He?s only a young man, but you want him to stay here until he rots to nothing for a crime he didn?t commit.?

She turned away, her head bowed. He put a hand on her shoulder. She was still for a long time. When she turned back, she faced him squarely, pale and quiet, her look so vulnerable that he wanted to hold her just as he had held Sammie. She stood silent looking at him until he started to turn away. Quietly she pulled him down on the nearest couch, sat facing him.

?What about the second appeal?? she said softly. ?Why would you do this before we know if it?s granted??

?There won?t be a second appeal without new evidence, no matter how hard Lowe works at it. The complaints you filed are supporting evidence, but not enough, not the kind of evidence you need for a sure win. Lowe knows that, that?s why he?s still digging.

?So far he has nothing. Morgan doesn?t think he?ll get it from Natalie and neither do you. Not the solid, irrefutable evidence he needs. Maybe he?ll find flaws in her story, inconsistencies, but that?s far from solid.?

She was silent again, looking down at her lap. As he rose to leave she looked up.?Tell me what to do,? she said. ?Tell me how I can help.?

He hugged her and then settled back, his shoulder against hers, his voice so low she had to lean close.?We?ll need clothes, old jeans. Old shirts, nothing fancy or new. Old, warm jackets. Good heavy boots, waterproof if you can find them.? He found a scrap of paper in his pocket and wrote down his shoe size. ?And money,? he said, ?all the money you can lay your hands on.? He read her alarm atthat. ?At some point,? Lee said, ?once we?re out on the coast, we?ll need to hire a lawyer.?

He watched Morgan rise to join them, sitting down close on Becky?s other side. ?Get the clothes at some charity shop,? Morgan said. ?Wash them in lye soap, we don?t want lice.?

?The other thing,? Lee said, ?we need to know what?s on the other side of the wall. The train track has to be close, the whistles damn near take your head off, but we need to know the layout, what?s on beyond.?

?There?s a General Motors plant,? Morgan said, ?a car distribution center. On behind that, unless things have changed, there?s an open field. But check it all out, see if it?s still the same, see how the field lies in relation to the wall and the track.?

Lee told her where to leave the clothes and money.?We?ll let you know later when to drop it. Once we?re out of here, there?ll be no contact. Morgan won?t be making any calls from some pay phone, the bureau boys would pick it up in a minute.

?Once we?re gone,? Lee said, ?you won?t be finished with it, Becky. Make no mistake, the feds will be all over you, they?ll question you and question Sammie. Doesn?t matter that she?s just a child, they?ll try to drag information out of her, try for anything they think they can use.?

?Why do you want to go with Morgan?? Becky said. ?If you stay here, you?ll be getting out soon.?

?I don?t know why,? Lee snapped. ?Because I?m crazy. Because he can?t do it alone, he doesn?t know anything about hopping the trains, about avoiding the law. He doesn?t know anything much that will help him.? He took her hand. ?Don?t tell Sammie any more than she?s overheardor guessed. Whatever she knows will put her on the spot. If she dreams this you?ll have to make her understand, make her swear to keep silent.

?You?d better start teaching her now,? Lee said. ?Not to talk to anyone about this, not to your aunt, not to the maid, not to your mother. Sure as hell not to a bureau agent. Anything she says, even if it?s only a dream, an agent might run with it.? Lee glanced up past Becky toward the half-open door, at the shadow of the guard standing in the hall. ?Morgan will let you know the rest, let you know the timing. We?ve been talking too long, I need to get out of here.? He rose and left them, and didn?t look back.

Telling Becky about the plan scared him, that she wouldn?t keep their secret, but they needed her. The idea of Sammie?s dreams disturbed him all the more, the thought that she might innocently let a hint drop, meaning no harm. But Sammie was a wise child. He told himself that with Becky?s help she?d learn to be still, would learn to lie for her daddy.

28

THAT?S NOT A wall, it?s a mountain,? Morgan said. ?There?s no way we can get over that baby.? They stood on the steps leaning against the rail where Lee had first seen the flaw in the concrete. It was two days after they?d told Becky their plan. Below them the big yard gleamed with puddles, bouts of rain had swept through all day.

?People climb mountains,? Lee said dryly. ?You?ve already made the rods. What?s the matter with you, what did Becky say?? Morgan had just come from visiting hour. Lee had skipped this one; it was the last time the two would be together. ?She?s not angry again?? Lee said warily. ?Did she get the clothes, the money? Or did she .†.†. ??

?She got everything we asked for,? Morgan said, pulling his coat tighter against the chill. ?She?s not mad. She?s .†.†. quiet. Trying to hold it in. This is hard on her, Lee. What if .†.†. ?? Morgan shook his head. ?I?m not sure I can do this to her.?

?It?ll be harder on her if you don?t. If you never get out of here, never get an appeal.?

Morgan stared up at the guard tower, his hands clutched white on the rail.?She drove the roads behind the wall, she?s done everything you asked. She?s just .†.†. She said there were still open fields back there, the weeds waist-high from the rain. She thought the distance from the wall to the train track was about five hundred yards. Said there?s a signal pole beside the track, she?ll leave the bundle of clothes in the weeds near its base. Said she?d stuff them in a greasy gunnysack the way you said, smear it with mud and lay some dead weeds over it.?

Lee had to smile at Becky crouched in the weeds, messing around in the mud like a kid herself.

?She went to the city library, found a map of the railway lines, drew a rough copy. She took half a day off from work to get everything together, buy the used clothes, draw out the money. That?s all the money we have, Lee. She has nothing to pay Quaker Lowe, she .†.†.? Morgan shook his head.?She said that from Atlanta the freight will go either to Birmingham or Chattanooga depending on the timing, she couldn?t find a schedule for that. Then on to Memphis, Little Rock, across Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to Albuquerque.?

?Then Arizona,? Lee said, ?and into California.? He wanted to stop in Blythe, draw out the prison-earned money he?d deposited. Money he?d carried with him when he was paroled from McNeil, plus what he?d earned in Blythe; he thought they?d need every penny.

Right. Stop in Blythe, and what if he were spotted approaching the bank or inside, when he tried to close his account? Who could say how much more the feds knew by now about the post office robbery? What other details might they have picked up? If they had anything more pointing to him, they?d have put an alert on his account. If they had and he showed up to draw his cash, the clerk would call the local cops. He and Morgan would end their journey right there, in the Blythe slammer.

Don?t borrow trouble, Lee told himself.Quit worrying.Wait until we reach Blythe, then play it the way it falls.

?Becky followed the track as best she could in the car,? Morgan said. ?There?s a switching yard to the left about three miles. She couldn?t tell how much security they have, she saw only one guard moving among the workmen. But the cars were crowded close, so maybe we can keep out of sight. We?ll have to watch it, not ride out of town in the wrong direction.?

?Doesn?t matter,? Lee said. ?Either way, Chattanooga or Birmingham, we?ll be all right, we?ll take whichever we draw.? They had already timed the sweep of the spotlight beams, where they crossed each other. There was some two hundred feet of open yard to cross to reach the flaw and the blindspot. They had ten seconds between sweeps, to cover the distance, and Lee was no track star. He didn?t know if he was fast enough or if he?d blow it right there.

?I?ll work my regular supper shift,? he said. ?Then we haul out. Hope to hell the storm passes.? He didn?t like to think about climbing those metal rods if they were slick with rain. But maybe it would clear by tomorrow. He was having trouble breathing. He told himself it was from the pain ofthe healing wound, but he knew it was from worry?worry over the moves to come, worry over Morgan?s sudden reluctance. He?d like to know what more Becky had said to make him pull back. When the rain came hard again, driving down at them, they hurried under the nearest overhang.

Misto followed them floating close to Lee and reaching out a paw to softly touch Lee?s ear. Lee glanced his way, scowling, but then with a crooked smile. The ghost cat?his coat perfectly dry in the downpour?having listened to their plans and to Morgan?s hesitance, now shadowed them as they headed away to supper.

But at the door to the crowded mess hall with its smell of overcooked vegetables and limp sauerkraut, he left them again, returning to his dance in the rain. Leaping through the pelting onslaught dry and untouched, he rolled and tumbled thirty feet above the exercise yard, landed atop the prison wall and crouched a few feet from the guard tower, looking in.

The room atop the tower extended out over the wall on both sides, a round dome with windows circling it, the windows open, the glass angled up like awnings keeping out the rain and affording the guards a better view through the storm. Within, the two uniformed guards paced or paused to look out, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Both looked sour, as if they?d rather be anywhere else. Bored men, Misto thought, who might easily be distracted. Leaping in through the nearest window, he narrowly missed the taller man, brushing past his shoulder and rifle. The man shivered, looked around, and buttoned his jacket higher.

Dropping onto the small table that stood in the center of the crowded space, the ghost cat patted idly at a plate of ham sandwiches and enjoyed a few bites from one. Invisible, he prowled between a thermos bottle, two empty cups reeking of stale coffee, a tall black telephone, a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle, six clips for the rifles, and five boxes of ammunition marked Winchester .30-06. He listened to the short, barrel-chested guard grouse that his wife wanted to have another child and that three kids were all he wanted. When the man?s tall, half-bald partner started telling dirty jokes, Misto lost interest and left them.

Drifting out a window and back along the wall listening to the thunder roll, the tomcat looked down at the fault in the wall and, for only an instant, he hoped Lee and Morgan would make it over. For that one instant the tomcat knew uncertainty.

But his dismay, he thought, was most likely born of Morgan Blake?s own doubt, just as was Lee?s hesitation. The escape tomorrow night was destined for success, Misto told himself. It would come off just fine. Among Misto?s earlier lives, and often between lives, he?d witnessed the escapes of other imprisoned men. Some escapees were good men, others wereblood-hungry rebels bent on destruction. Once, in Africa, Misto was carried in the arms of a small slave boy, both of them hoping that somewhere there was a safe haven for them and knowing there was not. He had watched the terror of peasants fleeing from medieval slave makers, and once he had died in the confusion of battle as free men were snatched away on the bloody streets of Rome. This world of humans was not a kind place. Joy was a rare treasure; compassion and joy and a clear assessment of life were gifts too often lost beneath the hand of the dark spirit.

Now, diving from the wall and spinning through the rain, Misto thought to join Lee and Morgan at supper despite the unappealing scents in the mess hall. Drifting into the crowded room, dropping down to the steam table, he padded along between the big pans sniffing, then delicately picking out morsels to his liking: a bit of hot dog, half a biscuit. He skipped whatever was disgusting, but lingered over the spaghetti.

Quickly the pan?s contents disappeared, vanished behind men?s backs or while heads were turned. When the tomcat was replete he drifted away to join his friends, dropping unseen onto the table between Lee?s and Morgan?s trays. His tail twitching, he watched them wolf down sauerkraut, hot dogs, and biscuitsas, in low voices, they went over again their moves of the next night. Misto thought they had honed the plan as well as they could, except for Morgan?s nerves; he only hoped the rain would move on away. But even a talented ghost can?t do much about weather; that was an act of power beyond the most stubborn spirit.

Watching the two men, Misto knew Lee was worn out, was cold, that his healing wound hurt him, that he wanted his bunk and warm blankets. He watched Lee rise stiffly, leaving Morgan to finish his pie; he followed Lee, hovering close, moving through driving rain for the cellblock.

TOMORROW NIGHT, LEE thought as he crossed the wet grounds, rain soaking into his coat and pants.Tomorrow night we?ll be out of here, headed for California, we?re as ready as we can be. He slowly climbed the three flights of metal stairs and moved down the catwalk to his cell. He tried to sense the ghost cat near. He had no hint of Misto, though the company would be welcome. Pulling off his wet clothes, he crawled in his bunk and pulled the covers around him. He smiled when he felt the ghost cat land on the bed. The tomcat stretched out against Lee?s side as warm as an oversized heating pad. With the added warmth and the hypnotic rumble of Misto?s purrs, Lee soon drifted into sleep, deep and dreamless. No whispers tonight from the dark spirit, no nightmare that he was falling from the wall or from a moving freight car, just peaceful sleep.

He woke to continued rain, the cellblock dark and silent. The ghost cat was gone, the blankets awry, the space the cat had occupied was cold to the touch. Rain sluiced across the clerestory windows like buckets of water dumped from the sky. Lightning whitened the high glass, too, nearly blinding him. He hadn?tdreamed of climbing the wall, but now his mind was filled with the effort. He lay wondering if they?d make it over or be shot down, crippled like a pair of clumsy pigeons.

Twenty years ago he would have found the challenge a lark. Two weeks ago when he?d first thought of the plan, he?d been hot to get on with it. Now he felt only tired, daunted by the moves ahead, discouraged by Morgan?s loss of nerve and by the failure of his own strength, the debilitation of his aging body.

Well, they weren?t backing off. He might feel like hell some days, but other times he was pretty good. No one said it would be easy. No one had ever gone over that wall. He and Morgan would be the first, and he meant to do it right.

Half asleep, he didn?t let himself think that his powerful urge to conquer the wall was encouraged by the dark spirit. He wasn?t being led. This wasn?t Satan?s pushing. He and Morgan were beholden to no one. He was nearly asleep again when he felt the ghost cat return. Misto was fully visible now, bold and ragged,clearly seen in the glow of the cellblock lights, sharply outlined when lightning flashed. The yellow tomcat didn?t want petting now. He stood stiff-legged, staring at the back of the cell. His snarl keened so loud that Lee stared across to the other cells. No one seemed to be looking, maybe no one else heard the cat?s yowl, no one but the shadow that stood against the cell wall, the wraith?s voice pounding heavy against the beating rain.

?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 foryou??

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 shadowstwisting 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 notorietyor 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.

29

LEE 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 thenight; 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 atthe 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.

RUN!? SAMMIE 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.

AT 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.

GO ON,? LEE 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?tgo 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.

They changed clothes inside the boxcar, checking first behind half a dozen big crates, but there was no one else aboard. They rolled their prison blues into a ball and threw them into the weeds along the track. The soft, worn jeans and dark wool shirts felt good. Becky had put in heavy, lined jackets, thick gloves, and wool socks. The worn boots she had found fit just fine. They kept their prison shoes for spares, shoving them in the bag. The money was in their left-hand jeans pockets, she had split it half and half, three hundred dollars each and change. A little over six hundred dollars to get them across the country and pay the lawyer?if some slime didn?t catch them off guard and take them down. The train rolled around the edge of the city past office buildings with softly lit windows, past a church spire whose bell tolled nine o?clock, striking counterpoint to the slow clacking of the train. ?Evening count?s been taken,?Lee said. ?They know we?re gone.?

Morgan stepped to the door, stood in the shadows looking back. The train bucked and slowed again, its couplings groaning; they were moving into the switching yard. Lee pulled the door nearly shut, stood looking out the crack as the long line of cars ground to a halt and yardmen began walking its length, lanterns swinging.?They?re going to drop some cars. If they slide the door open,? Lee said, ?dive for the crates, stay in the shadows.?

But the workmen passed without incident. They waited in silence. Only when the train jerked hard did Lee lean out for a quick look toward the tail.?They?ve dropped a dozen cars.? The train lurched again, traveled forward a distance, stopped, and backed onto another siding. There was a jolt as the end car was coupled with another car. Leaning out again Lee could see they?d taken on a stand of flatcars. ?We?re good,? he said, ?we?re onour way.? They picked up speed again, heading out from the switching yard moving south, passing another set of tracks that likely ran north. ?We?re headed for Birmingham,? Lee said, grinning, and he settled down on the moldy straw that covered the bed of the boxcar.

?I can?t believe we did it,? Morgan said. ?Can?t believe we?re out of there. It feels? Hey, Fontana, it feels pretty good.?

Lee smiled.?I told you we?d make it,? and he forgot his earlier uncertainty.

Now that they were clear of the yard he rolled the door open and sat with his back against its edge looking out at the city slipping by, at the little stores, their windows softly lit, many with Christmas decorations, at the little box houses with Christmas trees in their windows. But then soon they were in open country, gathering speed, the mournful cries of the whistle echoing across the night, a siren call that eased and comforted Lee. They were moving on, fast and free, heading toward a different kind of job than he?d ever pulled. Not a robbery but an adventure that would, if all went well, set straight the lives of those he cared about. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the boxcar, thinking about Sammie, when he felt the ghost cat walk across his legs. Unseen, the big tom settled down in thestraw, his head on Lee?s outstretched knee. Had the tomcat been with them all along? Was Lee more aware of him when he paused to rest, when he was not distracted, his senses more alert to the ghost cat?

And, he wondered, did Misto like the trains, too? Did the ghost cat like their galloping rattle and screaming whistle as they ate up the miles? Sure as hell the spirit cat seemed mighty pleased with himself.

Maybe he, too, was happy they were out of there, that they were on their way?

Their bold and chancy plan might be infinitesimal, Lee thought, in the vast scheme of the universe.

Or, in that eternally unwinding tangle, did even the smallest blow for good matter? Was the very effort to right a wrong, in fact, theheart of mortal life? Was this the secret that made life real?

30

THE TRAIN?S SPEED altered, jerking Lee awake as they passed through a switch. He?d slept cold, and the ghost cat had left him. When he eased the door open, the icy night chilled his bones. As the train slowed to a creep he cracked the door wider and looked ahead.

They were approaching a freight yard, he could see the edge of the dark platform, a lighted tower marked Birmingham. He shook Morgan awake. There?d been a couple of stops during the night when Morgan had risen to keep watch, but then they?d moved on again. Now as Lee reached for the canvas bag, out of the blackness half a dozen men swarmed off the platform running in both directions, fanning out along the train.

?They?re searching,? Lee hissed, grabbing the canvas bag. ?Move it.?

They dropped to the track bed running, ducked under a line of standing cars, ran dodging across the freight yard behind and under boxcars, Morgan still half asleep. Beyond a row of freight cars the beams of powerful flashlights swung toward them. Four lights, five, leaping up the sides of the boxcars, searching along their tops, then down among the train?s wheels. They followed behind the lights? wake, but were stopped by a six-foot wall.

They scaled the brick barrier fast, helping each other over. Were the cops checking every train heading out of Atlanta? If they searched this yard, would they hitevery yard, every station, one town to the next? That meant they?d have to drop off each train before they reached the station, keep away from the freight yards, stay to the outlying fields until they were past each town, catch another train on beyond, and that would sure slow them.

On the other side of the wall they lay flat, listening, until the reflection of lights stopped roaming above and the sound of running feet faded. Rising, double-timing away from the walled yard, they moved on past a metal plant, a junked-car lot, a pipe yard. In the dark, the rough, weed-tangled ground slowed them. They made their way through the industrial section of Birmingham, avoiding occasional security lights mounted on rooftops or cyclone fences, but trying to stay near the tracks.

But soon the sky lightened toward dawn and the rough industries gave way to run-down houses. In another half hour of shabby streets they were beyond the city in another industrial area. They could see a railroad signal ahead, then an overhead crane lifting sheets of metal, maybe a steel fabrication plant. They were both hungry, and Lee?s back ached from the hard jolting floor of the boxcar. ?Men working down there,? he said, ?there should be a food wagon.?

Moving on fast, they soon stood on a low hill above the steel plant, the top of the crane just at eye level. The yard below was surrounded by a six-foot wire fence, its gate open. A snack truck stood just inside, surrounded by men swilling coffee, eating doughnuts.

Leaving Morgan, Lee angled down the embankment and in through the open gate to mingle with the crowd of workmen. At the truck?s coffee urn he drew two paper cups of brew, then gathered up a dozen doughnuts and a couple of sandwiches, dropping them in a paper bag from a little rack. The vendor, watching him, took his five-dollar bill, punched out some coins from his belt and added three ones. ?Haven?t seen you before. Just start on the job??

Lee nodded, and dropped the change in his pocket.?Just this morning.?

The vendor raised an eyebrow.?Big appetite.?

?My buddy missed breakfast.? Turning away, he eased back through the crowd toward the nearest metal building, and glanced around. When he thought no one was watching he doubled back between two sheds, behind some parked cars, and up the hill again to where Morgan waited. They ate as they walked, devouring half the doughnuts, sucking in air to cool the coffee. They tucked the rest of the doughnuts and the sandwiches in their jacket pockets, ground the empty cups down into the weeds and kicked dirt over them.

?We need blanket rolls,? Lee said, glancing at the meager canvas bundle Morgan carried. ?Some food staples, couple of cook pans. Too risky to eat in restaurants. The less we?re seen the better.?

Morgan had stopped and was listening. Then Lee heard it too, the wailing whistle of an approaching train, and across a winter-brown field they could see the raised track bed. They left the road, crossed the field running, crouched low beside the track. They had no way to know if the train would slow, but here on the industrial outskirts it was likely. They could hear the rumble in the tracks now, they watched the black speck grow nearer.?It?ll be different this time,? Lee said. ?If it only slows some, we?ll have to run like hell.?

Approaching the steel plant the train dropped its speed, its whistle screaming short, hard blasts. They could see it didn?t mean to stop. As the engine sped by, Lee picked a car and ran, gave it all he had. He grabbed the iron rung and jumped. The forward momentum slammed his body against the ladder knocking the wind out. He held tight, gasping for breath. When he looked back, Morgan was still running, losing groundtrying to make the next car, a flatcar with a row of heavy crates down the center covered by a canvas tarp. Lee was about to drop off again, keep from getting separated, when a man appeared from under the canvas, knelt, grabbed Morgan?s hand, and lofted him up onto the flatcar.

The hobo and Morgan stood beside the canvas tarp looking up along the cars at Lee. Carefully he worked his way along the side of the car to the back, clinging to the metal handholds, sucking air, trying to get his breath. He was sweating hard when he?d crossed the swaying coupling to the flatcar. As he scrambled onto it, Morgan and the hobo grabbed his hands to steady him. The hobo was maybe twenty-some, his stubble of beard grizzled brown and gray over thin, caved-in cheeks. He wore loose jeans with threadbare knees, a rusty leather coat, and, on his head, a war surplus helmet liner. ?Name?s Beanie.? He looked Lee over, took another good look at Morgan, seemed comfortable with what he saw. ?Come on in, it?s nice and warm inside.?

They followed him in under the tarp to a small, cozy space between the crates, as snug as a little house. Blanket folded lengthwise to form a sitting pad, a Sterno burner snuffling away under a blackened coffeepot, a second Sterno rig burning under a stewpot that bubbled with meat and vegetables. Lee and Morgan held their hands near the little flames as Beanie dug tin cups, tin plates, and half a loaf of French bread from a canvas duffel.

?Mighty fine camp,? Lee said, accepting a plate of hot stew, sitting cross-legged at one end of the pad.

Beanie grinned.?Latched onto this out of Waycross. A fellow learns to make do. Had to roll up camp twice before that, once going through Atlanta?railroad dicks all over the place. Don?t know what they were after.? He gave Lee a long look. ?I dropped off, waited until they checked the cars, slipped back on asshe was pulling out.? His accent was as Southern as Morgan?s, but his diction was not that of most hobos.

Lee was quiet, mopping up gravy with the good French bread. When they were finished he passed Beanie the bag of doughnuts and settled back against the vibrating crate.?Feels mighty good to have something warm in the belly and a warm, fine shelter.?

?It?s all woods along here,? Beanie said. ?The trees in those woods? They?re full of Civil War shot. I found an old musket along here once, buried in a trench, nearly all rusted away. I used to make camp along in these woods. There are several old Confederate trenches in there.? He looked at Lee. ?Guess they fought that war different out in the West where you come from.?

Lee nodded.?Most Westerners were for the Union, but a lot of the Western Indian nations, they sent men to fight for the South.?

?A terrible war, the Civil War?those old single-shot powder rifles and the cold,? Beanie said. ?Men froze to death, starved to death, died of infection and every kind of sickness.?

?You were in the military,? Lee said.

?Career army, starting in World War I. But that?s all behind me.? He dumped some water from his canteen onto his plate and put it to heat, to wash their dishes. ?I?m heading for Memphis, the riverbank south of the bridge, real nice camp there. You?re welcome to join me.?

Lee smiled.?Not many good camps left anymore. But I guess we?ll keep moving.?

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they hit the outskirts of Memphis. They said their good-byes to Beanie, knowing they?d likely never meet again. One of those chance encounters you?d carry with you for the rest of your life, a nostalgic and lasting memory that saddened Lee. Dropping off as the train slowed, they hit the ground running.

Cutting away from the track they were soon in a quiet neighborhood of neatly kept houses. Lighted Christmas trees shone in the windows, and beyond the cozy houses were several blocks of small businesses decorated up with candles, holly, red and green lights. Morgan said,?It?s nearly Christmas, and they?ll be alone .†.†. except for Becky?s family. But not the three of us together.? He turned to look at Lee, trying to shake off the loneliness. Up ahead stood a small brick church, its brass cross cutting the low skyline, and on the lawn, racks of used clothing and a small hand-painted sign: THRIFT SHOP.

?Tacky,? Morgan said, ?old used stuff cluttering up a church yard.? But the door of the church basement was framed with Christmas lights, and when they?d moved down the steps and inside, Lee began to grin. The shop had everything they wanted. From the crowded tables they selected four thick blankets, a coffeepot, a saucepan, two tin plates, tin cups, and some soft cotton rope. Lee found a good canteen and a couple of switchblade knives, which surprised him. He picked up a can of heavy grease to coat their aging waterproof boots, and a couple of burlap feed bags. The two old women who ranthe shop sat side by side behind the counter, knitting colored squares for an afghan. Lee remembered his mother making afghan squares, as well as quilt squares to be stuffed with goose and duck down, to keep them warm in the harsh Dakota winters.

He paid for the gear, shoved the small stuff in the two gunnysacks except for the knives, which they pocketed. He laid the folded blankets on top, cut the rope in half, and tied the bags closed. Two blocks down the street at a dark little grocery they bought coffee, bacon, bread, a slab of cheese, and four cans of beans. It was dark by the time they?d crossed Memphis and set up camp in a little woods. They cleared a space of brush, made a small campfire, heated up the beans, and made coffee. Morgan said, ?Think I?ll get to a phone tomorrow, some little store maybe, and call Becky. Let her know we?re all right.?

?The hell you will.?

?The hell I won?t. She?s got to be worried.?

?I told you, no phone calls. The bureau boys have questioned her by now. They sure have her place staked out and her telephone tapped. You phone her, not only will the feds trace the call and find us, pick us up, Becky will be charged with aiding our escape.?

?I didn?t think,? Morgan said, picking up a stick and poking at the coals. ?I just?I know she?s worried.?

?Better worried than getting us caught.? Lee doused the fire with the last of the coffee and rolled up in his blankets. ?We?ve got a long pull ahead, important things to do. Let?s concentrate on that.? He shivered even in the thick blankets. And before they reached warm country again, the weather would get colder. The newspaper Morgan had picked from the trash, in the last town, said the Midwest was having the coldest winter in twenty years. Lee thought about Christmas when he was a kid, snow piled high against the house and barn, great chunks of snow sliding off the steep roofs. A spindly little Christmas tree with homemade paper ornaments. A wild turkey for their Christmas dinner, or one of the pheasants his mother canned, the prairie was overrun with pheasants. That always amused him. Back then, on the prairie, pheasants might be all a starving family had to live on. The exact same delicacy which, not many miles away in some fancy city restaurant, would cost them a small fortune.

From that night on, moving west, they were always cold, slogging through snow in boots that took up water in spite of the aging waterproofing and the grease they applied. They continued to avoid the cities, dropping off the train to circle through farms and open country or through slums. Most of the farms had Christmas lights, as did some of the slum houses. It was in such an area that they faced a surly, mean-tempered drunk and Lee saw in the man?s eyes not drunken bleariness but the dark?s cold presence, eyes hard with promise as the man crouched, his knife flashing. They dodged, circling him. Lee received a slice across his arm before Morgan had the guy down; and now the man?s eyes went dull again, reflecting only the bleary look of acommon drunk.

?Why would a bum be interested in us?? Morgan said when they?d turned away. ?Do we look like we have money??

Lee laughed, but he was sickened by what he?d seen in that brief moment. They moved on fast, leaving the drunk sitting against a building, his head in his hands, trying to recover from Morgan?s blows. This time the devil?s invasion had netted only a cut on Lee?s arm. But what about the next time? Good luck they hadn?t had to kill the man, Lee thought as he swabbed the wound with the iodine Becky had put in their pack. Sure, drunks got killed in brawls. But he?d rather not leave a dead body marking their trail. That kind of sloppiness annoyed him.

31

CIRCLING THE SMALL towns with their Christmas lights, avoiding the switching yards and then racing to grab a train as it pulled out, they missed more than one ride. Often on the ramshackle edge of a town they dodged away from a patrolling cop car, or one slowed, pacing them, watching them.?Plenty of hobos around,? Lee said, ?they?re just checking us out.? But the law?s scrutiny made him some nervous. In Oklahoma a hard blizzard caught them. The temperature dropped steadily, the chill cut through them like knives. Lee was sick of cold weather, and even Texas was icy. Why did they have to pick the coldest winter of the century? Out of Fort Worth when they missed a westbound, a semi driver picked them up, a slack-faced man with wide-set eyes. He didn?t talk much, he just drove, and that was fine with Lee.

But then, after maybe thirty miles he began to ask questions. Lee answered him in one-syllable lies, then started with questions of his own. Were did he hail from? What was he hauling? That shut the man up. Lee pulled his hat over his face and went to sleep. It was some hours later that Morgan nudged him. The trucker had slowed, they were in a little cow town, two blocks of dusty wooden buildings and a small old caf? marked with a wooden sign: TRAIN STATION. The train track ran behind it, parallel to the highway. The trucker dropped them at the caf?, drove another eighth of a mile, and turned west on a dirt road that looked like it led to nowhere; maybe he was headed home.

Stepping into the wooden building, sitting on stools at the counter, they treated themselves to fried eggs, fried potatoes, and hot apple pie. The waitress, a pillow-fat blonde in her sixties with an understanding smile, looked them over as she poured their coffee.?The eastbound?s due in half an hour,? she said. ?The westbound, an hour after that.? And Lee guessed they weren?t the only hobos traveling this route. Finishing their pie and coffee, Lee thanked her for the information, made sure he tipped her, and they hiked out along the train track to a stand of pale trees. Sitting down with their backs against the thick trunk of a giant cottonwood, they made themselves comfortable, listening for the far-off rumble, for a lone and distant whistle.

?It?s nearly Christmas Eve,? Morgan said. ?A few more days. Will they go home to Caroline?s or stay at Anne?s? Maybe Caroline will drive down from Rome. I hope Sammie will be happy Christmas morning, excited to open a few presents?? he said doubtfully. ?What?s she seeing in her dreams? Maybe only the good times? Maybe she dreamed of Beanie?s warm little house on the flatcar and the good hot stew??

Lee only looked at him. They both knew Sammie would dream of the bad times, the brutal cold, the man with the knife and evil eyes.

?I can?t hold her and comfort her,? Morgan said. ?I can?t help her.? He was in a dour mood when they left the cottonwoods running, swinging aboard a boxcar as the approaching train slowed for the small rural station.

Settling back to watch the land roll by, they managed to stay with this freight several days, slipping behind shipping crates when they made a stop. The nights grew warmer, the wind didn?t cut like ice, Lee?s cough subsided. New Mexico was cool but not freezing. Lee liked seeing sheep grazing, and the herds of antelope that hardly stirred as the train sped past them. Approaching Phoenix, they dropped off the car onto bare red land among the red bluffs and raw canyons. The Arizona sky was blue and clear, buzzards cruising the wind searching for the stink of anything dead. Walking through Phoenix, they replenished their supplies at a small, side-street grocery. Moving on past the freight yards, they saw no sign of cops. On the far side when they slipped aboard, the boxcar was crowded with men settled in small groups. They nodded at Lee and Morgan and didn?t seem threatening. Most of them werebraceros, keeping to themselves. West of Phoenix, Lee began to get nervous.

Maybe he was a fool, wanting to drop off in Blythe, take the chance of being seen. Would the feds figure, once they broke out, he?d head straight there, wanting the money from his savings account? Seemed likely, the way a federal agent?s mind worked. He knew he shouldn?t risk it, but once they found a lawyer they?d need every penny they could lay hands on, might need that eight hundred real bad to add to the six hundred Becky had scraped together.

He worried about the feds until they reached the desert north of Blythe. As they rolled up their blankets and tied up their packs, the smell of Blythe hit him, the salty tamarisk trees and the damp breath of the irrigation canals. When the train topped a rise, the Colorado River ran below them dark and turgid. They dropped off just outside town when the cars bucked and the train slowed, Lee hit the ground rolling. It was late afternoon.?Christmas Eve,? Morgan said. ?At least they?re together, and with family.?

They moved through a willow thicket to an irrigation ditch flowing with dark, fast water. Ragged cotton fields stretched away on both sides. They were past Delgado Ranch, three fourths of the way to town. It had been nearly a year since Lee pulled into Blythe straight out of the federal pen at McNeil, ready to go to work for Jake Ellson, thinking even that first day how he could cheat Ellson. In the end, he hadn?t had the stomach for that.

On the bank of the irrigation ditch Lee dug the bar of soap from the burlap bag, the razor and the little mirror Becky had packed. Stripping off their clothes they bathed and shaved in the swift cold water. With the last of the soap they scrubbed their shirts, socks, and shorts, hung them on willow branches, and sat on a blanket letting the sun dry their wet bodies. Not a soul out there, only the lizards to see their white nakedness. Twice, jackrabbits leaped out in the fields and went racing away, stirring a cloud of dust. Both times, a second dust cloud followed, dodging and doubling close on the rabbit?s tail?but they could see no second beast chasing. Nothing, just the detached swirl of dust pursuing the rabbit. Morgan turned to Lee, puzzled. Lee frowned and shrugged. ?The wind, I guess.? Did the ghost cat have to be such a show-off?

When their clothes were nearly dry they smoothed out the wrinkles and dressed again. The winter sun was setting as they made camp beneath the scruffy willows. The small clearing reminded Lee of the meadow where he?d kept the gray for a few days, the gelding that had helped him pull off the bank robbery. The good horse he?d used to get the stolen money away, to where he could bury it. He thought about riding the gray along the riverbank in the evenings, peaceful and serene, and that had been a good time.

They cooked a meal of Spam and potatoes, and made coffee, Morgan missing Becky and Sammie, Lee edgy with the prospect of entering the bank.?We?ll have to lay over tomorrow,? he said nervously. He?d prefer to get it over with. ?Everything closed, Christmas Day.?

?A day to give thanks,? Morgan said. ?To go to church with your family.?

Lee looked at him and said nothing. When he was small they seldom went to church; it was half a day?s ride away. His mother had read the Bible. His father didn?t want to listen. Lee wasn?t sure just what his pa thought about such matters. But Lee knew?he?d better know, after his own encounters?that there was more in the universe than a person saw. That amazements waited beyond this life, which a mortal might not want to consider.

?Early the morning after Christmas,? Lee said, ?we head into Blythe. We?ll leave our gear here. If luck?s with us, we won?t need it anymore.? Rolling into his blanket, he tried not to think about lying idle for a whole day. Tried not to think about entering Blythe, about what might happen, tried not to borrow trouble.

32

THECHRISTMAS TREE shone bright in the Chesserson living room with its many-colored lights, its red and golden balls, silver ropes and bright tinsel. Sammie seemed hardly to notice the tree, nor did she gently rattle the colorful packages. This wasn?t Christmas Eve. Christmas would be when Daddy came home. For days her stubborn spirit had remained with Morgan and Lee aboard a speeding train or walking cold beside the highway, two lone men crossing the vast, empty land.

When Anne put a Christmas record on to play softly, Sammie didn?t want to hear the music. Rolling over on the couch she pulled the afghan over her face, pretending to sleep. In the dark beneath the cover she lay thinking of Christmas when she was little, when Daddy was there. When they were together in their own house decorating their own tree or having supper at Caroline?s among the scents of Christmas baking. The music, then, had been wonderful, the boys? choir Sammie loved, the church music, but now music only brought tears. This Christmas week, her mother had gone to church several times, but Sammie didn?t want to go, she didn?t want to seethe life-sized cr?che or hear the story of the Christ child, they only made her sad.

Caroline drove down on Christmas Eve after making her last deliveries. They had arranged the dining table so they could see not only the living room fire but the Christmas tree. Though they sat down to a supper of Mariol?s good shrimp gumbo, a fresh salad, and Caroline?s pecan pie, Sammie was quiet and unresponsive. Only later, when she was given no choice but to share her bed with Grandma, had she snuggled down against Caroline.

Sammie was equally quiet Christmas morning, was slow getting up and dressing. Upstairs, even Mariol?s baked eggs and cheese grits failed to cheer her. She was far away with her daddy and Lee, the night still dark on the desert, the low moon brightening the pale sand.

Mariol had laid a fire on the hearth, its flames reflecting rainbows among the bright decorations. Sammie tried to be cheerful. She looked up into the tree, touched a few boxes, and smiled at the adults, but she was only pretending. The joy they had hoped would blossom this morning was a thin parody. They could only be there for her, love her, could only try to ease her worry.

When she opened her presents, the Little House books Becky had bought for her, and the new winter coat in a soft, cozy red that was Sammie?s favorite color, she pretended excitement. She tried the coat on and twirled around, smiling. She read the first pages of the first book, but her preoccupation and distress filled the room. Caroline had brought her a new bike, as Sammie had outgrown her small one. Anne and Mariol had chosen a small, carved chest from Anne?s attic that had been in the family since Anne was a child, and had filled it with new drawing pads, crayons, colored pencils, and a watercolor set. Sammie tore off the wrappings, pretending excitement. She straddled the bike with its red ribbon tied to the handlebars.But her spirit walked the lonely roads, slept cold on the rumbling trains. It was not until later that morning when all the gifts had been unwrapped that suddenly Sammie brightened.

Mariol was putting another log on the fire. The living room was a comfortable shambles of torn Christmas paper, scattered boxes and ribbon. As Mariol rose from the hearth, turning toward the tree, she went hushed and still.

At the base of the tree among tangles of paper the lower branches were moving, branches shifted and sprang back, though there was nothing there to disturb them. A shiny red bell began to swing but nothing had touched it. A golden ball twirled, the tinsel shivered, another branch bowed down as if with a heavy weight.

Mariol didn?t move, no one moved or spoke. Becky and Caroline remained intently watching as Sammie slipped toward the tree, reaching.

Anne, not moving from her chair, reached out involuntarily, just as Sammie was reaching; something within her was sharply stirred.

They watched Sammie kneel, holding out her arms, cuddling some invisible presence. The sleeve and collar of Sammie?s robe were pulled and stretched as if something unseen scrambled up, to push against her face.

?Christmas ghost,? Anne said softly.

They could see only joy in Sammie, bright pleasure as she stroked her invisible visitor. They watched for a long time, the four women silent and unmoving, Sammie hardly aware of them.

When she did look up, her face colored, she didn?t know how to explain what was happening, she didn?t want to explain.

Mariol said,?There were stories in my family, Cajun stories that ghosts will return on Christmas to be with their family, to share in the joy of the day. Ghosts of children usually, though often of family pets.? Mariol looked over at Anne, and they shared a comfortable smile. When Mariol turned away, Anne rose too; soon they all four left the room, left Sammie and her friend to themselves. Only then did the ghost cat make himself seen.

Dropping heavily into Sammie?s lap he reached a paw to her cheek. She held him tight and they sat for a long time beneath the bright tree, Sammie stroking, Misto snuggling and purring. And Sammie knew, wherever Daddy and Lee were, that this Christmas morning, for this moment, they were safe, they were all right.

TAKING THE THREE hundred dollars from his pocket, Lee handed it to Morgan. They were walking the dusty road, headed into Blythe.?If the feds spot me,? Lee said, ?you beat it out of there fast. Hop a ride to L.A. and go on with the plan. Find a lawyer you think you can trust, get settled with him, then turn yourself in to T.I. the way we laid it out.? He knew it would be easier for Morgan if they stayed together. LeeknewL.A. a bit, he could find his way around the city. If they made it out of Blythe together, maybe their luck would hold.

It was a long walk into Blythe, they?d left well before the sun was up, eating cold Spam and stale crackers as they strode along. By the time they entered town the sun was up, there was traffic on the street, the stores were opening. Lee pulled his hat brim low and scanned the street for anyone he knew, for Jake Ellson?s red truck or for Jake himself. When they neared the new bank, Morgan waited in a shop across the street, keeping watch for the law, for a cop or anyone in a suit who looked like a federal agent. The new bank, built after Lee had left Blythe, stood on the cleared site of the old, burned bank, next to the post office he had robbed. Entering the high-ceilinged lobby, Lee tailed onto the shortest line.

They had, before approaching the bank, turned down a side street where they could see several trucks parked behind the shops loaded with crated vegetables, and two refrigerator trucks.?Drivers are stoking up on breakfast,? Lee had said, ?before they head out.? Within ten minutes they had lined up a ride to L.A. Now, in line, he stood tense, ready to move out fast if Morgan slipped in to alert him. Sure as hell, the feds had talked with Lee?s PO and knew about his savings account.

Jake Ellson, his friend and boss, would have told them nothing. But his PO would be more than cooperative. Lee could see no back or side door leading out of the lobby, only the front, glass entry. As the man ahead of him finished and turned away counting a handful of bills, the heavy-jowled clerk watched Lee impatiently.?Next??

Lee pushed his bankbook across the counter.?Like to draw out my savings, close my account.?

The clerk looked Lee over, then thumbed open the savings book.?It?s been almost a year since the last entry.?

?Something wrong with that??

?No. Just that most folks have more activity in their accounts.?

?I?ve been traveling. Alaska. I?m in kind of a hurry, the wife?s waiting.?

The clerk started to say something more but changed his mind.?Excuse me for a moment.? When he left his window, disappearing into the back, Lee was ready to bolt, to get the hell out of there.

But his quick departure could blow it, if there was nothing wrong. He didn?t need a suspicious bank clerk nosing around. Waiting for the man to return, Lee began to fidget, glancing out the front window. When the clerk didn?t return, the patrons behind Lee pressed closer, annoyed at the delay. Beyond the big windows, a slowing movement caught Lee?s eye, and a police car slid into view, stopping at the curb. Lee forced himself to stay steady, but he was ready to move as one of the two officers got out.

When the officer headed away, down the street, Lee relaxed. The clerk was gone a long time. Some of the men behind Lee moved to another line. He watched the absent cop return carrying a paper bag and two paper cups sealed with paper lids. The cops were pulling away when the clerk did return.

?Sorry for the delay, Mr. Fontana. We?ve had a bookkeeping change, and what with the move and all .†.†. It took me a while to find your account and figure up the interest. The total is eight hundred and forty-two dollars. How would you like it??

?Seven hundreds, the rest in small bills.? Lee waited, still strung tight, while the clerk counted out the money. Stuffing it in his pocket he headed for the street. From the far curb, Morgan crossed over to join him.

They moved along the side street to the refrigerator truck parked behind the bank beside the half-dozen other rigs. There were storage sheds and a small warehouse back there, and the rear doors to the post office and small businesses. The driver stood wiping his mouth from breakfast: a young, ruddy-faced fellow with a short beard neatly trimmed, and clear blue eyes. He nodded to Lee, looked Morgan over, nodded again, and they stepped up into the cab.

THE RIDE INTO L.A. was quiet, the driver uncommunicative. He drove the long rig like he was on a close schedule and didn?t need any small talk. Morgan, sitting in the middle, looked white and tense, whether from their companion?s aggressive driving or from thinking about turning themselves in, Lee didn?t know. They hadn?t talked much about that part of the plan, about being back inside prison walls. Morgan hadn?t talked too much about facing Falon, but Lee knew he was scared.

Well, hell, they were both nervous. If you weren?t nervous, you weren?t on your toes. Traveling north, Morgan seemed diverted only by the desert. The flat, pale, treeless land fascinated the Georgia boy, who was used to miles of dense pine woods. The endless flat sand stretching away was foreign and strange. The sudden patches of crops laid onthe sand as bright as green carpets were even more unnatural. The groves of tall palms flicking by, their precise rows fanning past at dizzying speed like cards shuffled too fast, all was new and exotic.

Lee dozed over Banning Pass and down into San Bernardino. The big diesel ate up the miles until, in east L.A., they parted from the driver at a wholesale warehouse. They found a bus stop and, jolted in their seats and breathing gas fumes, they arrived at last in downtown L.A. Fog softened the low commercial buildings, and it, too, smelled of gas or of some industrial residue. At the first phone booth they came to, Lee flipped through the yellow pages to the attorneys.

It was all instinct now. Jabbing his finger at a name he liked, he dropped a nickel in the slot. It might take a dozen calls or more before he found a lawyer who sounded right, but he had nothing else to go on.

The first five calls, he couldn?t get past cold, officious secretaries. He gave the same story each time: they needed a lawyer to save a man?s life, they could pay up front, and the details of the problem were confidential. On the sixth call the secretary, maybe taking pity on the older man?s stumbling voice, put him through to Reginald Storm.

Storm sounded calm and direct. Lee remained devious, as circumspect as he could be. He laid out only enough of Morgan?s story to stir Storm?s interest. Storm asked a number of questions, as if he might be filling in more blanks than Lee liked. He had to convince Storm to see them, had to hint at their escape without telling him much; he couldn?t let Storm blow the whistle on them. If the feds grabbed them before they turned themselves in at T.I., there was a chance they?d ship them straight back to Georgia. They talked for maybe twenty minutes, and Storm seemed to really listen. But when he said he?d make time right then, that they could come on up, his willingness put Lee off, left Lee nervous again.

Hanging up, he looked at Morgan.?I think he knows more than I told him, he makes me edgy.? He shook his head. ?But even so, I like the sound of him. He seems direct and no-nonsense. What do you think, you want to take a chance or forget him, try someone else??

Morgan thought for only a minute.?We?re taking a chance, no matter who we choose. Let?s go for it.?

Storm had given Lee directions. They walked the seven blocks at double time, Lee praying they weren?t walking into trouble, that they?d made the right decision.

Reginald Storm?s office was one flight up, in a plain redbrick building that looked clean and well kept. A narrow strip of lawn separated it from the street, bisected by a short walk of pale stone. The four name plaques mounted beside the glassed entry were those of Storm himself, a doctor, an accountant, and an estate attorney?all one might need when contemplating the end of life, except for spiritual attention.

?Come on,? Morgan said, heading for the stairs, ?before I lose my nerve.?

33

CLIMBING THE INNER stairs, Lee and Morgan pushed through a second glass door into an office paneled in whitewashed oak. A blond secretary looked up from her desk, frowning at the hobo look of them. At the same moment, Storm appeared through an inner door waving them on past her to his office.

Storm was shorter than Lee, a solid man who looked to be more muscle than fat. Square face, creases at the corners of his gray eyes, the top of his head as bald as a mirror above a thick fringe of brown hair. His gray suit coat was off, hung neatly over the back of his desk chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his sinewy arms tanned, his pale blue tie loosened crookedly.

This room, too, was paneled in white-stained oak, with shelves of law books along one wall behind the plain oak desk. Two walls were hung with black-and-white photographs of rugged mountains, snow-covered peaks, and close-ups of rocky escarpments. A U.S. flag and a California State flag stood together in one corner. The windows of the fourth wall were open to the yellow-tinged fog. Storm nodded toward four easy chairs grouped around a conference table, and took a chair himself rather than retreat behind his desk. He sat quietly waiting, looking them over, taking stock of them.

Lee had not given his name on the phone; he?d said that Storm would understand why when they met. Now as he introduced themselves, the lawyer?s eyes hardened with recognition.

?Our names were in the L.A. papers?? Lee asked.

?They were. You haven?t seen the papers??

?We?ve been traveling,? Lee said.

Storm waited, quietly watching Lee.

?I don?t know how we can convince you of this,? Lee said. ?In Atlanta, Morgan was doing life plus twenty-five for a robbery and murder he didn?t commit. We went over the wall in order to correct that injustice. It would be pretty stupid for us to break out, come clear across the country, and then make ourselves known to a lawyer without a good reason?an honest reason. We?d be crazy to pull a stunt like that unless we?re straight.?

?And unless you have a plan laid out,? Storm said. His hands were relaxed on the chair arms, but Lee could feel his tension. ?As I recall,? he said, looking at Morgan, ?you were convicted for the bank robbery, killing a guard, and badly wounding one of the tellers.?

?Wrongly convicted,? Morgan said. ?I know who robbed the bank and killed the guard. He?s now in Terminal Island on an older, land-scam charge committed in San Diego. The other four men had already been indicted when they picked Falon up.?

?I know the case,? Storm said. He rose and stepped to his desk. When he touched the intercom, they both jerked to attention. They eased back when he said, ?Nancy, try to reschedule my next appointment, and hold my calls.? He picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen and returned to the table. He watched them carefully as Morgan told his story. Only when Morgan finished did Storm speak again.

?So Falon, who committed the murder, is now a short-termer at T.I. on another charge. You plan to turn yourselves in, where you can get at him before he goes into court on the land scam charge. You think you can make him talk, make him provide new evidence.?

Lee nodded.?We mean to try.?

?You understand how risky that is. And that, ethically, I should not be a party to your plan,? Storm said. ?Also, Falon may not be kept at T.I. for long. He could be shipped off somewhere else. T.I. is still mainly a naval discipline barracks, has been for about three years. The Bureau of Prisons has a small section they use for civilian prisoners, men with federal convictions waiting to be transferred to a permanent facility. And they do keep a few short-termers. They might possibly keep Falon, depending on how crowded that part of the facility is. But you two .†.†. It isn?t likelyyou?ll be there long.?

He looked at Lee.?They might keep you, Fontana, to finish out your sentence, or they might send you back to McNeil. But you, Blake .†.†. That?s a medium-security institution, they won?t want a man with a brutal murder conviction. I?d say they?ll ship you right on out, maybe back to Atlanta or maybe Leavenworth.?

?We?ve got to do this,? Morgan said. ?Even if we?re in T.I. only a few days. It?s my only chance, the only chance I?ve had to get close to Falon. I was locked up before I knew there was a robbery and murder, I?ve been behind bars ever since.?

Storm shook his head.?You know that?s coercion. You understand I shouldn?t be a party to this. You think in that short time you can corner him, make him tell you where he hid the money? Those are pretty long odds. Slim chance you can even get near him.?

?Slim, maybe,? Lee said. ?But it?s what we mean to do. This is our only chance to get to him, where he can?t get away.?

?Why are you in this, Fontana??

?It?s something that needs doing,? Lee said. ?The only real evidence will be the money and maybe the gun. The money has to be stashed somewhere, and the most likely place is Georgia. We?re guessing he hid it right after the robbery. If he knew, then, that the feds were getting close on the SanDiego case, he?d want to ditch it fast before they came nosing around.?

?And,? Storm said, ?there were no witnesses who could identify Falon at the bank? They saw only a man in a stocking mask?? The way Storm was looking at them, Lee thought the lawyer was going to refuse them. ?You know the matter of coercion itself could tilt things the wrong way.?

?If he bangsus up,? Lee said, ?how can he claim coercion? He could have attacked us, who?s to say? If we can find where the money is?hopefully with his prints on it?that?s hard evidence. That?s what we?re after.?

Storm sat back, watching them. Lee, despite his own wariness, saw a keen challenge in Storm?s gray eyes. ?You know,? Storm said, ?you?re putting me in a compromising position. What if you kill him? That makes me an accessory.?

?We won?t kill him,? Lee said. ?A dead man can?t tell us anything, and he can?t confess later. We just plan to scare him real bad.?

?You?re very confident,? Storm said. ?You turn yourselves in, Warden Iverson calls Atlanta, tells them he has their escapees, what do you think will happen? They?ll make the connection to Falon, even if it takes a couple of days. As soon as Iverson puts it together he?ll lock you down and ship you out of there, before he has a mess on his hands.?

Storm moved to his desk again and dropped the pad on the blotter.?There?s also the matter of your escape. You?ll be charged and tried separately for that. I?m sure the brass in Atlanta didn?t like you climbing their wall.?

Lee grinned and shrugged.?If we can make Falon talk, maybe we won?t be charged with escape. Anyway, with the time Morgan?s looking at, what are a few years tacked on? He won?t be any worse off than he is now. As for me, I?ll take my chances.?

Storm stood looking at them, his square face solemn.?You walk into T.I., what are you going to tell them? Iverson asks you why you turned yourselves in, what are you going to say?? Lee and Morgan just looked at him. Storm sighed. ?You better have a story ready that doesn?t involve Falon. And you?re not to mention me. Iverson and I are on good terms. Let?s keep that relationship, we?re going to need it.?

?Then you?ll take us on,? Lee said.

Storm shifted his weight, put his hands in his pockets.?I?ve never committed to anything quite like this.? He watched them rise. ?How are you going to pay me??

Morgan pulled the six hundred dollars from his pocket. Lee said,?Is that enough to get started, get the trial transcript, make some inquiries, talk to Morgan?s Atlanta attorney??

Storm nodded. He laid the money neatly on the yellow pad.

?Here?s Quaker Lowe?s phone number and address,? Morgan said, handing Storm a battered slip of paper. ?When you call him, he?ll let Becky know we?re safe. She?s had a long wait, not hearing from us, a long time to worry. I?d like to know,? he said softly, ?if my wife and our little girl are all right. Can you get a message to me??

Storm smiled.?I?ll be in touch.? They shook hands. ?Once you?re inside,? he said, ?you?ll each be allowed two calls a week if you?re in good standing. They?ll keep a record of the numbers.?

Lee smiled.?We?ll let you know as soon as Falon talks.?

Storm walked them out, through the outer office past the blond secretary. She watched them with curiosity, turning away only when Storm glanced at her.

Out on the hot L.A. street again, at the covered bus stop, they read the schedule tacked inside. They had half an hour before the bus arrived that would circle out past T.I. They settled down on the wooden bench to wait, not talking, not looking forward to the next step. They were both edgy, afraid they?d be shipped out again before they had a chance at Falon, a chance to get him alone.

The bus ride toward the ocean was hot, the humidity worse inside than on the street, the sky hazy and yellowish. Hot, sulfurous air blew in through the open bus windows. Smog, a passenger said. The result, the thin-looking woman told them, frowning, of too many cars and too many factories. They rolled through Florence sweating, passing row after row of little box houses, then some shops and billiard rooms along Gardena?s main street, then more box houses crowded together. They listened to the other passengers complain about the heat, telling each other this wasn?t a typical California winter and that they wished they?d get some rain. Not until they crossed a bridge leading to the main gate of Terminal Island did they feel the cool breath of the Pacific. They drank in the smell of the sea, but then came the ripe stink of the commercial fishing boats that nosed farther along the shore. The bus jolted to a stop in front of the federal penitentiary, jerking them hard.

Lee stumbled up and led the way down the steps. They alighted directly in front of the broad gray prison, on the walk that led to the main entrance. Here on the ocean the sky was clear and blue, the smog blown inland behind them. Overhead, wheeling gulls screamed, flaunting their winged freedom. Behind them the bus departed with a motorized fart. This was the first time Lee, in all his long life, had ever asked to be locked behind bars. First time he?d ever entered a federal prison out of choice. ?Come on,? he said. ?We either hike on in or run like hell.?

34

MISTO DRIFTED OUT of the bus beside Lee and Morgan just as he had floated into the vehicle and, during their ride through L.A., had snooped among the passengers? belongings and looked out the dirty windows at the city rolling by, at the green hills rising to the east with a glimpse of tile-roofed mansions. Lee?s and Morgan?s destination of another federal prison didn?t thrill the ghost cat. Even though, of the three of them, only he could come andgo as he pleased from the regimented environ. He alone could float out from the prison rooftops over the adjacent harbor where sailboats and fishing boats were moored, bristling with masts and sails, and great ships lay at anchor. As Lee and Morgan descended the bus, three young trusties looked up from where they mowed the green lawn; the smell of freshly cut grass was sharp, mixed with the tang of the sea. Only one guard tower was visible, placed to view the front entry.

At the foot of the concrete steps Lee stood with Morgan before an open metal booth. Inside hung a microphone, with a speaker attached. As Lee reached for the mike, a voice from the speaker barked,?Identify yourselves. State your business.?

?Lee Fontana,? Lee said, looking up at the tower where the guard held a second mike. ?And Morgan Blake. Escapees from the federal pen in Atlanta, come to turn ourselves in.?

There was a long silence while the guard looked them over. Lee knew he had sounded an alarm inside the building. No surprise when suddenly the front doors were flung open and four guards burst out crouching, covering them with riot guns.

Their response was so dramatic they made the ghost cat laugh. Lee and Morgan had their hands up and, at the guards? orders, moved on into the prison. Misto floated beside them, protective and amused. He watched as they were searched. Still surrounded by armed guards, they were directed to sit in wooden chairs in front of the warden?s office. Misto drifted on in through the warden?s closed door, to have alook.

He floated beneath the ceiling of a typical prison office. Dark oak floors, government-green walls, prison-made oak desk and swivel chair, oak bookcases stacked with untidy pamphlets and file folders. Venetian blinds crossed at right angles to the vertical bars that secured the windows. Warden Iverson sat at his desk holding the earpiece of a black telephone as if waiting for his call to be answered. He was a tall, bony man, maybe sixty, pale skin wrinkled over prominent, bony cheeks, a military-short haircut emphasizing his large ears and prominent nose. He wore a brown, lightweight suit, crisp white shirt, and plain brown tie. As soon as he was connected he picked up the tall phone itself, leaned back in his chair, holding the mouthpiece close. Misto lay down atop a stack of reports, careful to disturb nothing, to make no sound. Iverson frowned a little, but had no idea anyone watched him and listened.

?Paulson? John Iverson. We?ve got your two escapees out here at T.I., they just turned themselves in.?

Misto knew Paulson; the Atlanta warden was a slight, quick-tempered man about Iverson?s age, a man he?d found was generally respected among Atlanta?s prison population.

?What kind of a plant you running,? Iverson said dryly, ?to let those two go over your wall? I thought you were maximum security back there. You expect me to keep them corralled here? We don?t evenhave a wall.?

Misto padded up the desk beside Iverson where he could hear Paulson, as well. The Atlanta warden?s voice at the other end sounded tinny. ?What did they tell you?? he asked. ?What crazy reason did they think up for turning themselves in? That old man, Fontana??

Iverson said,?They told the guard they got tired of your place, said they wanted an ocean view.?

Misto was suppressing a cat laugh when he carelessly brushed a pencil from the desk, sent it rolling to the floor. At Iverson?s puzzled frown he retreated to the door, sat on the floor as decorous as a trained poodle. Iverson was saying, ?You bet I will. When this business of escape has been handled, we?ll give Blake an ocean view. Maybe from Alcatraz, they?re not real crowded up there.? He listened, then, ?You?llsend me copies of Fontana?s record? And Blake?s trial transcripts?? He nodded at the phone. ?We?ll keep Blake locked down until this is sorted out. They?ll be confined to the civilian compound.?

Again he listened, then,?No, we have plenty of room. The navy?s winding down on its detention numbers, we?re losing population every day.?

He made no mention of Brad Falon. Neither had Paulson. Maybe, Misto thought, they wouldn?t discover the relationship right away. Even if, in Atlanta, Paulson had read Morgan?s transcript and come across Falon?s name as a witness, why would that mean anything to him? He?d had no contact with Falon, Brad Falon had never been in the Atlanta pen.

But somehow, Misto knew, the two wardens would make the connection, it was only a matter of time.

Misto thought, when Iverson hung up, that he?d signal the guards to bring Lee and Morgan in so he could interrogate them, that maybe he?d pick up on the connection right then. He?d have Falon?s file, and Falon was from Rome. When he questioned Morgan, he?d learn that Morgan was from Rome, and that was all he?d need. Two Georgia convicts showing up in California, in the same prison, one of them by choice?

Hanging up the receiver, Iverson set the phone down on the desk and looked at his watch. Switching on the intercom, he told the guard to go ahead and process the two escapees.?Let them eat lunch, whatever?s left. Get their medical checks, then lock them in their cells.? He rose, picked up his briefcase from the desk and added a few papers. Once Iverson had left the building, Misto returned to Lee and Morgan.

WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES Lee and Morgan were body searched, had showered, and had dressed in prison blues. Their personal effects were locked in storage. They were marched away for the noon meal before the medical staff checked them over. The civilian unit of the naval disciplinary facility was small, isolated by a locked gate. It had its own small dining room, several rows of single cells and one dormitory. Misto followed them to the cafeteria, where only a few wrapped sandwiches and some desserts were visible, this long after the noon meal. Leaving his charges to partake of the lean pickings, Misto drifted away.

He hovered above groups of inmates, into rows of dull prison offices, through the larger, navy mess hall and the steamy kitchen. Out over the exercise yard, through the auto shop, machine shop, furniture and clothing workrooms, none much different from the other prisons Misto had prowled invisible and often amused. When he returned to the small civilian dining room he found Lee and Morgan alone at a table eating roast beef sandwiches. A guard stood against the wall watching them?and across the room sat Brad Falon at a table with two other inmates, his small eyes narrowed as he, too, watched Lee and Morgan. It had been easier to find Falon than they?d thought. Under the eyes of the guard, they couldn?t approach Falon, but Misto had no such restraint.

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.

IT WAS AFTER lunch 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 practicallyin 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

IT WAS THE next 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 thatyour 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 bymist. 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.

Every time he was locked up he grew nostalgic for the old times, for the open prairie. No locks, no bars, no one telling him what to do. Every time he was incarcerated he had to get used, all over again, to confinement and too many people and nowhere to get away.

Well, he could have stayed in Atlanta. Could have been out and free in a few months. Now, unless Storm came through not only for Morgan but for Lee himself, a whole new sentence could be tacked on. At his age, no matter how he dreamed of a new life in Mexico, he might never live to see the buried money.

Yet he wouldn?t do it any differently, he?d climb that wall again in a damn minute. Coming after Falon was the right thing to do; he felt it in his gut that they were going to free Morgan. That this was what they were meant to do. He lay sleepless a long time listening to the foghorns, assessing just how muchpressure it might take to unwind Brad Falon, to force from him the information they needed

36

LEE DIDN?T EXPECT, when he reported for work at the metal plant, to be paired with Falon. He?d only thought to position himself nearby, where he could get at Falon?not where Falon had the split-second upper hand.

The factory was a big, well-lit room with plenty of space between the equipment, but still, it was a dangerous workplace. There was a layout table, and near it a metal shear, a metal break, spot welders, pipe benders, and saws. Falon was working the metal break, pulling a lever that dropped the blade, lethal as a guillotine, onto a sheet of steel. At the far end of the room were paint vats and spraying equipment, and a bake room for drying painted items. The men were making machine parts for the military. As Lee cut across the room toward the glassed-in office at the back, the plant foreman, a broad-hipped man dressed in khaki, came out chewing on an unlit pipe. When he stopped to light up, Lee introduced himself and handed him the note from his counselor. Mr. Randolph glanced at the note, his square cheeks sucking in to get the pipe going. He stuck the paper in his pocket and motioned Lee to follow him, skirting past the layout table to the metal break, where Falon stood watching them.

?Falon will give you instructions,? Randolph said, handing Lee a pair of leather gloves. ?You?ll operate this unit, Falon will work the machine next to you, see that you?re doing the job right.? He nodded to Lee, turned to leave, then glanced back. ?Pay attention, Fontana. That machine?s not a toy.? He left them, moving on down the room.

As Lee stepped up to the machine Falon smiled, coiled tight as a rattlesnake.?Any retard could run it, old man. Stand in front of the machine. Take a square sheet of metal off that stack. Place the chalk line that runs down the metal directly under the blade, lined up with the line on the table.? Falon stared at Lee. ?You understand so far? You just step back, old man, reach over your head, and give the lever a hard pull. Don?t ever forget to step back,? Falon said. ?You think you can reach up over your head and pull the lever??

Lee pulled on the gloves, picked up a square of sheet metal and slid it onto the break table. He lined it up, stepped back, pulled the lever hard, watched the blade strike down powerfully, bending the metal to a neat, ninety-degree angle.

?Try it again.?

Lee looked at Falon and reached for another sheet. But when he swung it onto the table it slipped, sliding beyond the raised break. Alarm touched him as he reached to retrieve it, darting his hand beyond the break line. He swung away fast when Falon grabbed the lever. The blade fell, catching the tip of Lee?s glove as he jerked his hand out.

Swinging around, he grabbed Falon?s collar, threw him against the break, and rammed Falon?s arm under the blade, grabbing for the lever. Falon fought him, his face drained white, staring at Lee?s hand on the lever. Beyond Falon at the other side of the room, Randolph had his back to them. Lee let Falon lie frozen against theblade until Randolph started to turn, only then did he release Falon. ?I see how this thing works, Falon. And I see how you work. I don?t think,? he said softly, ?that I?ll have trouble with either one.?

The next two days, working with Falon, Lee was mighty careful. He learned some of the other machines under Falon?s supervision, learned them all with a wary respect for the man. He didn?t like having Falon in a superior position, he hadn?t planned on that. As short a time as Falon had been there, he must have sold the foreman a bill of goods?though he did know the equipment. It was the second eveningafter work that Lee got Falon alone between the buildings and goaded him, told him the feds were still working the case, that they?d picked up new information in Rome, had lined up new witnesses. Told Falon he could soon be arraigned for murder. Falon laughed at him, but Lee could see doubt in his eyes. The third evening, Lee went into the dormitory to locate Falon?s cubicle.

The room was a typical military layout, freestanding partitions around the individual bunks, low enough so a guard could look over, high enough to give a man some sense of privacy. Falon was in his cubicle, Lee could see his narrow head and shoulders where he sat on his bunk, his back to Lee, talking with two other inmates. Two sleazy types slouched in the small space, half sitting against the low wall. Lee didn?t pause long, but moved on past, smiling now that he knew where he might corner Falon.

But then before Lee could make a move, Morgan got Falon alone. He told Falon that Natalie Hooper was dating several men, said she?d talked pretty freely about the robbery. Told Falon that, with the feds still working the case, if he opened up to the law now, revealed where the money was hidden, they?d go easier on him, maybe he could go for a plea bargain and minimum time.

Of course Falon laughed at him; and with every passing hour the arrival of the court documents drew nearer, the time when Iverson would see their connection to Falon and move them where they couldn?t get to him at all. Lee was growing edgy when, the fourth day on the job, Morgan joined him in the lunch line tense with excitement.

?He admitted it,? Morgan said softly.

?Keep your voice down,? Lee snapped. ?Wait until we find a table.? He thought Morgan would explode before they got settled. Morgan set down his tray next to Lee?s and scooted his chair close, as bright faced as a kid. ?I got him alone in the shower room, told him a lot of lies, got him so angry he lost it.? Morgan smiled.

?I?ve seen him do that before, his temper flares, he didn?t even hit at me, didn?t try to fight, he just went kind of?glazed. Hissed right in my face, ?Damn right I robbed that bank, damn right I shot that guard. What was I supposed to do, old geezer couldn?t even get his gun out of the holster.? He admitted it, Lee. Admitted the murder, stealing the money, admitted everything.?

?But then,? Morgan said, ?then he laughed at me. He said, ?What are you going to do about it? You?re the one got convicted.??

?He didn?t tell you where the money?s hidden,? Lee said quietly.

?No, he said he?d never admit anything in court. But it?s .†.†.?

?It?s what?? Lee said tiredly.

?It has to be proof. Hetold me. He??

?But youhave no proof. It doesn?t matter what he tells either of us if we can?t come up with the money or the gun. That?s the proof. Nothing?s any good until we have solid evidence.?

?I did the best I could,? Morgan said glumly. ?I told him if the law could retrieve the money, if he told them where it is, he?d get a lighter sentence.?

?You know that?s a lot of bull and so does he. The charge for murder, they?re not going to plea-bargain that. What did he say then??

?He said, ?You?re the one doing time. I?ll be out in a few days.?? Morgan laid down his fork. ?I won?t let that happen, Lee. I have to make him talk. I tried naming places around Rome where he might have hidden the money, thought maybe he?d give himself away but he didn?t. He?s too good a liar,? Morgan said glumly.

LEE?S HALF-DAYS IN the metal shop grew agonizingly long; he was always tense and on guard. Trying to do his job while protecting himself from Falon, he was more bushed after each succeeding shift. He remembered wryly Dr. Floyd?s advice to pace himself, to pick jobs that didn?t stress him. And then suddenly Falon was taken off the job, he wasn?t there when Lee checked in for work.

The foreman said he was being transferred, that Falon would be out of there in a couple of days, and Lee knew the court transcripts had come through. They were moving Falon out fast, before there was trouble. He wondered if they would move Morgan, too.

He finished his shift and then quit his job, forcing his cough, telling the foreman his emphysema was worse, that his chest hurt and he needed to see the doc. When he went on into the medical office he did have a ragged cough and did feel pale and cold, it wasn?t hard to feign exhaustion. The examining doctor told him to quit his shift. Lee said he already had. The doc gave him a form with a note on it and sent him to his counselor.

He?d seen John Taylor only once since he and Morgan were checked in. Taylor was a short, tight-knit man, well tanned, who?d seemed fair enough with Lee. He nodded, signed and filed the form, and didn?t suggest that Lee look for another job. It was that afternoon that Lee returned to the metal plant one last time.

The shift changed at four, men were leaving the industry shops. He hoped the metal shop wasn?t locked. Earlier, while at work, he had hidden a piece of thin cable under a stack of metal. When he left, there had been too many men around, he couldn?t retrieve it. Now he found a guard standing inside the door and gave him a sheepish smile. ?I think I left the safety latch off on my machine?I?d like to go back and check it.?

The guard looked wary.?Make it quick. The paint crew?s cleaning up, I?m about to lock the door.?

Lee hurried the length of the plant, past the break. Glancing in the guard?s direction, he reached under the stack of metal sheets, scooped up the coiled cable, and slid it under his shirt. He pretended to check his machine, reaching as if to flip a safety latch, then moved on out of the building, nodding to the guard. He was strung tight, hot to get at Falon before hewas gone. He told himself to slow down, to work out the moves, don?t go off half-cocked. He?d already failed once, earlier in the day when he found Falon alone in the yard and came onto him. Falon had lunged viciously at Lee; he thought Falon had him until three inmates appeared from among the buildings, talking and laughing, and Falon had to back off.

They had little time to make Falon talk before the paperwork arrived from Atlanta. Lee didn?t sleep well that night, and the next day he overheard from a guard that Falon?s transfer to L.A. county jail was being processed in connection with the land-scam trial. Blake was so wild to get at Falon that Lee knew he should have kept his mouth shut, knew this could blow up in their faces?and the next afternoon, it did blow. Blew sky high, shutting down the entire prison, leaving Lee shocked, panicked, unable to do anything to help Morgan.

He was cutting across the yard when a small scuffing behind him made him pause, the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two guards came racing between the buildings, and behind them two white-coated medics moving fast carrying a stretcher with a body strapped to it. Lee saw blood, got a glimpse of Morgan?s face, a gash across his forehead spurting blood. Lee ran, caught up with them just outside the medical ward. Morgan?s head was drenched with blood, his face gray and still. Lee bent over him searching for a spark of life. The guards shoved him away hard, double-timed in through the ward door, and slammed it in his face. Lee heard the lock slide home.

37

LEE WAITED A long time by the infirmary door before the two guards came out again. When he tried to question them they would say nothing, they turned away, ignoring him. When a medic came out hurrying past, he wouldn?t talk to Lee, either. No one would tell him anything, he didn?t know whether Morgan was dead or alive. He was scared as hell and boiling with rage when he headed for Falon?s dorm; he had a hunch the little scum would go to ground right there lounging on his bunk as if he?d been idling about for hours. Even as Lee entered the building he could hear Falon?s laugh.

Telling himself to take it easy, cool down and not blow this, he moved silently along the hall past a short turn to the showers, past the doors to a janitor?s room and a supply closet. He tried both doors, silently turning the knobs knowing they?d be locked. Janitor?s room was locked, all right, but Lee paused, startled, when the door to the supply closet swung in. Shelves of sheets, blankets, towels pale in the dim light from the hall. He located the light switch but left it off, left the door barely cracked open. Moving on, he stood against the wall outside the open door to the dormitory, glancing in.

Above the low barriers he could just see just the top of Falon?s head, and again his two friends stood leaning against the wall. Was that Falon?s mode when he was in prison, to collect two or three sleazy sidekicks to play lackey for him? The pudgy kid was crossing his eyes and staggering around with his tongue out, grinning evilly.

?Knock it off,? Falon snapped. He rose and pulled off his prison shirt, dark with bloodstains. ?Now,? he said softly, ?I can?t wait to bust theold son of a bitch. Hand me that towel and the soap?no, the big bar.? Carrying the soiled shirt under his towel, he headed for the door. Lee drew back, stepped into the supply closet, and eased the door closed.

When Falon had passed, Lee followed, his bridled anger making his heart pound. Followed Falon down the short corridor to the showers. Just before Falon entered the tiled room, Lee grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Falon lunged for Lee?s throat. Stepping back fast, Lee judged his distance, brought his foot crashing into Falon?s crotch. Falon doubled over holding himself, groaning, rocking back and forth.

It took all Lee?s strength to drag him to the supply room and shove him inside; Falon sprawled on the floor, still holding himself. Lee pulled the door closed, switched on the light, and straddled Falon, whipping the cable around his neck. The man was hurting too bad to fight much, his blows were weak and off center. Lee locked his knees, pinning Falon?s arms, tightening the cable around his throat. Writhing, Falon began to choke.

?I?ve killed men like this before, Falon. It isn?t hard to do.?

When he saw Falon was strangling he loosened the cable a little, let him gulp a breath, then tightened it again.?Tell me where you hid the money.?

Falon slammed his body against Lee?s imprisoning legs. Lee tightened the cable until Falon?s face grew red, sucking for breath.

?What?s the matter, Falon? You can?t talk? Well, that?s all right, just tap with your hand when you?re ready to tell me and I?ll loosen your tie.?

Falon didn?t respond. Lee increased the pressure, sinking the cable deeper. ?Talk to me. Tell me where you hid the money.? He pulled again, carefully. If he killed Falon, it would be all over. Nervous sweat ran down Lee?s face. ?Tell me or you?re finished. Where?s the bank money?? As he tightened thecable again a hot desire surged through Lee, to see Falon die, a viciousness that was not part of his plan. He fought to hold himself in check, tightening the cable only slowly. ?Where?? he hissed. ?Where did you hide it?? He felt himself losing control, filled with a hunger that was not his own, suddenly wild to kill, drawing the cable too tight. Falon?s eyes began to bulge; fear made Lee loosen the cable, he watched Falon suck in air. Would Falon die before he talked? Tighter, gently tighter .†.†.

Falon gave a weak tap on his arm, staring up blearily at him. Lee released the pressure and leaned close, straining to hear.

?Georgia,? Falon rasped. ?North of Rome.?

?Where north of Rome? Tell me where, or you?re dead.?

Falon?s look became pleading. ?You?ll be getting out soon. I can?t get at the money, but I know someone who can. I?ll split it with you, I?ll have them put it in a bank, send you the deposit book. Half of all the money, Fontana.?

?That?s hogwash.? But even so, a hot greed hit Lee, his blood quickened at easy money. Shaking off the dark hunger, he pulled the cable and twisted and felt Falon?s body jerk. ?Tell me where. I don?t want your deal.?

Watching Lee, Falon grabbed at the cable.?North .†.†. North of Rome. Tur .†.†. Turkey Mountain Ridge,? he whispered, gasping.

?Where is that? Where on the ridge??

?Morgan will know,? Falon said, choking. ?East side?old homeplace.?

?Where on the homeplace??

Silence. Lee shoved his knee in Falon?s belly, pulling .†.†.

?The bot .†.†. bottom of the well .†.†. abandoned well.?

?Does anyone else know?

?No.?

?Natalie Hooper?? Lee said, easing off a little.

?Not her, she?d have gone for it.? Falon?s eyes were begging. ?Half the money if you let me live. We?ll go together when I get out, I?ll show you where.?

?I don?t need you to show me anything. If you?re telling the truth,? Lee said, shifting his weight but still holding Falon pinned. ?You nearly killed Morgan. Now you?re going to talk to the law, tell them where to find the money. You?re going to do it now, tonight. You?re going to swear to me, Falon, that you?ll tell the law the whole story.? He tightened the cable again. ?If it?s there, it should take only a few hours to find it. If you?re lying, if they don?t find anything, I?ll kill you before you?re out of here.?

?I?I?ll tell them,? Falon wheezed.

There was little more Lee could do. He removed the cable, revealing angry red lines circling Falon?s throat. ?You go back on me, Falon, you refuse to talk, you?re dead.?

He knew Falon would sing a different tune as soon as he felt secure.?Once I talk to the warden, they won?t release you until you tell what you know. And it better be straight talk.? Lee stood up, coiled the cable, and dropped it in his pocket. Falon didn?t rise, he rolled over, avoiding pressure on his tender crotch and one hand caressing his throat. Lee flipped off the light, casting the storeroom in blackness, peered out to check the hall, then left, shutting the door behind him. It must be nearly an hour since Morgan was taken to the infirmary. He wanted to go back there, wanted to see Morgan, but instead he headed for the administration building, before his counselor left for the day.

There had been no lockdown, no Klaxon, though he saw guards everywhere. He found John Taylor still at his desk, putting away files. Lee approached the desk, his adrenaline pumping hard.?I know it?s late in the day, but it?s important.?

Taylor gestured for him to sit down.

Reaching in his pocket, Lee dropped Reginald Storm?s business card on the desk. ?Storm is my attorney and Morgan?s. We need him bad, tonight. Could you call him, ask if he could come on out??

Taylor studied Lee.?Why the hurry? I know Blake was taken to the infirmary. Tell me what?s going on. Why suddenly an attorney??

?Because Blake?s hurt,? Lee said. ?I need to talk with Storm. In person, not on the phone. Afterward, Storm will fill you in.?

Taylor sat watching him. Lee could read nothing in his expression.?How bad is he?? Lee said warily. ?He?s not .†.†. They wouldn?t tell me a damn thing.?

?He has a concussion. He?s conscious only some of the time. They?re doing their best to keep him awake, there?s an orderly with him.? He looked again at the attorney?s card. ?Tell me what?s going on, and I?ll see about calling Storm.?

?I?ll tell you after you call him. I promise you that. This could mean Morgan?s life, if he makes it, there in the infirmary. This could mean the rest of his life.?

Taylor was silent again. Lee wondered how straight the young man would be, how much he could trust him.?I can tell you this,? Lee said, ?it was Brad Falon who attacked Blake.? He was taking a chance on this. If they locked Falon down, and they sure as hell would, and if Falon had lied to him, Lee couldn?t get at him again.

On the other hand, Falon couldn?t get at Morgan, either.

Still Taylor said nothing.

?New information has come to light,? Lee said.?Evidence that could clear Morgan of all charges, that could free him .†.†. If he lives,? he said softly.

Taylor looked tired suddenly, looked knowing and weary. Lee thought he was going to refuse. But prisonerswere allowed two phone calls a week, and so far he hadn?t made any calls. He looked steadily at Taylor until, sighing, Taylor ran a hand through his crew cut hair, set Storm?s card before him and picked up the phone.

LEE ANDSTORM sat in the prison interviewing room. Two folding metal chairs and a scarred oak table, on which Storm had dropped his briefcase. A guard was stationed outside the door. Storm looked like he?d already put in a hard day. His rumpled suit coat hung crookedly over the back of his chair, his tie hung loose, his shirtsleeves were rolled up. When Lee told him Falon had spilled, had revealed where the bank money was hidden, a grin transformed Storm?s tired, rugged face.

It had taken the attorney only twenty minutes to get out to the prison from downtown. In that time, Lee had returned to the infirmary hoping to see Morgan, but he wasn?t allowed in. He did get one of the medics to talk to him. The freckled, towheaded medic told him, ?Blake?s alive. In and out of consciousness. We?re doing our best to keep him awake, he sure has a concussion.?

But no one would let Lee see him. Did they think Lee himself might have bashed Morgan? All Lee could think was, Morganhad to recover. They?d come this far, they were so close. Morgan wouldn?t give up, Lee couldn?t let him give up.

Now, across the table, Storm said,?If the money?s there, if the feds and Georgia Bureau of Investigation can find it, can identify it as the bank money, we?ll have enough for a new trial. With an honest jury, we?ll have enough to hang Falon.?

?They?ll fly Morgan back to Rome, for a new trial??

?Let?s find the money. If it?s there, if we can put together a solid case, I?d rather transfer jurisdiction out here to L.A. I think Lowe would, too.? Storm leaned back in the hard, folding chair. ?I?ve talked with Lowe. The picture I get, Rome is a small town with a mind-set dead against Morgan. That can happen, you get that kind of thinking started, it?s hard to reverse. Lowe doubted that with the lies and trumped-up evidence, they couldfind an impartial jury. And the federal court in Atlanta is booked six months ahead.

?Another thing,? Storm said, ?as violent as Falon seems to be, it would be safer to keep him locked down here than to transport him back to Georgia.? Storm glanced at his watch. ?Nearly midnight in Atlanta, but I?ll call Quaker. Once he?s contacted the FBI and GBI, I?m hoping they?ll head right on up to Turkey Mountain Ridge. Meantime,? he said, ?I?ll call the bureau here, I know a couple of the agents. See if I can get them out here tonight to meet me, to talk with Falon.

?And,? he said, ?I?d like to know the details of what Falon did to Morgan, I?d like to file a charge.?

?As soon as Morgan?s conscious long enough to talk,? Lee said. ?As soon as hecan tell us. I knew nothing until I saw him on the stretcher, headed for the infirmary. They wouldn?t let me near him.?

?As for whatyou did toFalon,? Storm said, his gray eyes amused, ?I don?t know anything about that.?

?While they search for the money,? Lee said, ?will Falon?s transfer be postponed??

?I?d guess it would. In the morning I?ll talk with Warden Iverson.? Rising, Storm picked up his briefcase.

?And you?ll call Becky?? Lee said, pushing back his chair. ?Tell her Morgan?s hurt? You can break it to her more gently than when the prison calls. Tell her I?m .†.†.? He winced at the inadequacy of saying he was sorry. There were no words to undo what had happened. Lee had talked Morganinto this trip, into harassing Falon. He might have talked Morgan into his last trip. Sure as hell, Becky would see it that way.

Leaving the interviewing room, Lee shook Storm?s hand, mighty thankful for the day he?d flipped through the L.A. phone book and, with luck and the grace of God, had gotten through to Reginald Storm.

But, stepping out into the hall where the guard stood waiting, Lee wondered if he?d had other help as well. Wondered, as crazy as it seemed, if the yellow tomcat had guided his hand as he ran his finger down the page of that battered phone book and stopped at the name Storm.

Then he wondered if Sammie already knew about her daddy. Had she waked seeing Morgan on the stretcher, awakened from her dream crying out for him?

Returning to his cell, lying back listening to the foghorns, all he could do now was wait?wait until the bureau interrogated Falon, wait until the feds had found the money?hope to hell they?d find it. Wait until he could see Morgan. Wait, and try not to think how this would all end.

38

ASINGLE LIGHT BURNED behind the hospital bed, illuminating the white bandage that circled Morgan?s scalp. Light caught across his stubble of beard and picked out the IV tube that ran down his arm, draining through a needle into the vein of his wrist. Lee couldn?t see Morgan breathing, couldn?t see the blanket move, but each time he laid his fingers along Morgan?s free wrist he found afaint pulse. Morgan had been unconscious all night and it was now nearly noon, the high sun slanting down through the half-closed Venetian blinds of the small hospital room. Lee sat in a wooden chair beside the bed, his knees pressed against the metal rail, talking; he?d been talking most of the night.Except for a short break to eat the breakfast an orderly had brought him, and for a brief nap on the other bed. A few minutes? sleep, then he?d risen to groggily feel Morgan?s pulse and to start talking again.

He had no idea if Morgan could hear him. The constant effort wearied him, but Dr. McClure had said to keep talking; he said the sound of Lee?s voice could be a lifeline for Morgan. Said the contact between Lee?s voice and whatever within Morgan was alert enough to listen might keep him from sinking deeper into an oblivion from which he could not return.

Lee had no idea if that was so. He had no idea how much the medical profession really knew, and how much they could only guess. Dr. McClure was a strange man. You?d think a prison doc would be hardened, that after the twenty years he said he?d spent at T.I., he wouldn?t give a damn who lived and who died. But McClure?s sad, dark eyes under those bushy brows had shown Lee a whole world of caring inside that middle-aged, pudgy man. ?Talk to him, Fontana.If you?re his friend and you want to help him live, talk to him and keep talking.?

?But he can?t??

?You don?t know what he can hear. There?s a lot in this world we don?t know, maybe a lot we?ll never know. I say he can hear you and that talking to him might keep him alive. Sit here and talk, as long as you can, no matter how foolish that seems.?

So Lee talked. McClure had gotten permission for him to stay with Morgan. The orderlies and male nurses moved around Lee doing their work, silently accepting his presence. Lee told Morgan over and over that Falon had spilled, had confessed where the money was hidden. He just hoped Falon wasn?t lying. He told Morgan that FBI and GBI agents were already on their way up Turkey Mountain Ridge to look for the evidence, for the proof that could clear Morgan?that could put Falon on trial for the robbery and murder. In between telling him about Falon, Lee talked about anything he could think of just to keep going; he dredged up memories that, after several hours, turned his voice rough and straining.

He told Morgan about life in South Dakota when he was a kid, how he broke his first colt when he was eight. How he?d hobbled the youngster, dragged an old jacket over his neck and back and legs until the colt no longer snorted and bolted, how the colt finally settled down to lead. He told Morgan about spring roundup, how the steers and cows would hide among the mesquite or down in a draw and you had to rout them out. How the ranchers all helped each other rounding up the cattle, separating out their own stock during branding. The scenes of roundup came back so clearly, he recalled scanning the far hills where you could barely pick out a few head of steers, watching them slip away among the brush as a rider or two eased after them. He could still hear the calves bawling during the sorting and branding, could still smell the burning hair and skin under the smoking iron, though it didn?t hurt them but for a minute or two.

Sometimes, as Lee talked, he was aware of another presence, a warmth between the comatose man and himself, the touch of rough fur against his hand, and he could hear soft purring as the ghost cat pressed against Morgan. It seemed to Lee then that he could see the faintest of color in Morgan?s white, cold cheeks. Lee knew as well when the ghost cat had gone and wondered if he was with Sammie. He remembered Morgan?s description of Sammie?s sickness when Morgan, after the bank robbery, had been left drugged and unconscious in the backseat of his car, and Sammie herself was unable to stay awake. Now, with Morgan in a coma, was the child again lost in darkness? As Lee kept talking, hoping to reach Morgan, was he reaching out to Sammie, too?

He told Morgan about his first train jobs, when he was barely seventeen, described how his chestnut mare would race alongside the engine keeping close to it as he dove off her back onto a moving car, how he?d taught her to follow the train, waiting for him. He tried to explain the fascination of the old steam trains, to describe his excitement when he, just a kid, was able to stop a whole train and haul away its riches. He told Morgan that was the life he?d always wanted, that he?d had no choice?but he knew that wasn?t true. No matter what you longed for, you always had a choice.

Late on the second afternoon as dusk crept into the hospital room, Morgan stirred. His free hand moved on the covers, but then went still again. His eyes slit open for an instant unfocused, but then closed. At the same moment the shadows grew heavy around them. Suddenly Lee?s rambling voice sounded hollow, sucked into emptiness. The walls had vanished into shadows, the floor had dissolved except for the one ragged section that held Morgan?s bed and Lee?s chair. They drifted in dark and shifting space.

And Morgan woke, staring at something behind Lee.

Lee turned to face the dark presence looming over them, its cold seeping into Lee?s bones. Morgan?s hand, then his whole body, grew so cold that Lee scrambled to reach for the call button.

?They won?t hear it,? said the dark spirit.

?What do you want? Get out of here. What do you want with Morgan, what does he have to do with your vendetta against me? He?s not of Dobbs?s blood.? Lee wanted to lunge at the figure but knew he would grapple empty air.

?Morgan?s little girl is of Dobbs?s blood. She is descended from Dobbs just as you are. There is no finer prize,? Satan said, ?than a child. Now, through her father, I will destroy the girl. Through her father and soon through you as well.

?Oh, she dreams of you, Fontana. Youare her kin. She saw you kill Luke Zigler, she saw his smashed face. She saw you and Morgan scale the wall; she was with you on your journey, suffering every misery you endured; she felt cold fear at the sight of the tramp?s switchblade, fear not as an adult would experience but as a child knows terror. Her pain, as she watched, is most satisfying.

?She saw you pull the cable around Falon?s throat, she felt your urge to kill him, she watched you smile and pull the cable tighter.?

Lee?s helplessness, his inability to drive back the dark spirit, enraged him. Nothing could be so evil as to fill a child with such visions, to torment a little girl with an adult?s lust.

But at Lee?s thought, the invader shifted. ?I do not give the child her nightmares,? Satan snapped. ?I have no control over her dreams.?

?How could she see such things if the dreams don?t come from you??

The shadow faded, then darkened again.?I do not shape her dreams,? he repeated testily.?I do not control her fantasies.?

But then he laughed.?Soon I will control them, soon Iwill break the force that gives her such visions, and then,? he said, ?then Iwill shape the images she sees, Iwill shape her fears until, at long last, I use that terror to break her. To own her,? Lucifer said with satisfaction.

?In the end,? he said, ?the child will belong to me. My retribution will be complete. You might resist my challenges, Fontana. You might have won a bargain, as you put it. But Sammie Blake won?t win anything. She will soon be my property. As I destroy her father, so I will destroy her. She is my retribution, the final answer to my betrayal by Russell Dobbs.?

39

IT WAS EARLY morning in Georgia, the sun just fingering up through dense growths of maples and sourwoods. A Floyd County truck stood parked in the woods at the foot of Turkey Mountain Ridge, its tires leaving a fresh trail along the narrow dirt road. Agents Hillerman and Clark of the FBI and GBI respectively, and Deputy Riker of the Floyd County Sheriff?s Department, had already climbed halfway up the steep slope. Sweating in heavy khaki clothing and high, laced boots, they shouldered through thorny tangles and dense, second-growth saplings. Hillerman was perhaps the most uncomfortable in the hot protective clothing, with his thirty pounds of extra weight. Clark, the youngest, was fit and tanned, blond crew cut covered by a sturdy cap, his ruddy face clear and sunny. Each man wore a backpack fitted out with water, snacks, and the tools they would need if they found the hidden well.

Though the three men wielded machetes, cutting away the briars that tripped and clawed at them, still the thorny tangles ripped through their clothing, tearing into their skin leaving their pants and shirts dotted with blood, their hands and legs throbbing. They had driven up the old rutted logging road as far as the truck would go. When the incline grew too steep they had left the vehicle to climb the eastern slope on foot. Riker was in the lead, a rail-thin, leathery man as dry and wrinkled as if the cigarettes he smoked, two packs a day, were surely embalming him. Breathing hard, he led the two men back and forth, tacking across the steep hill searching carefully, stopping often to study the ground, the surrounding growth, and the mountain that rose above them. He was looking for signs of old, rotted fences, abandoned farm tools. He did not smoke while in the woods, he chewed.

Years ago Riker had hunted deer on this mountain. He didn?t remember any old homeplace up here, but often all that was left would be a few bramble-covered artifacts or, higher up the hill, fragments of an old rock foundation and the old well, both long ago covered by heavy growth. As they neared the crest he glanced back at the bureau men, cautioned them again to take care. ?You step in a hidden well, you fall a hundred feet straight down.? They?d climbed in silence for another five minutes when Riker stopped suddenly, stood looking above them where a dozen huge oak trees came into view, towering above small, scrubby saplings.

?There. That?ll be it.? He moved on quickly, straight up the ridge until it leveled off to flat ground. There was no sign of a house or of fences or foundation, but Riker nodded with satisfaction, stood wiping his forehead with his bandana. ?I?d forgotten this place. Watch your step, the well?s somewhere close.?

Hillerman, the FBI agent, stared around him searching for signs of a homeplace.

?These big old trees,? Riker said, ?crowding all together in a half circle? That?s where the house stood, in their shade. And the brushy land that drops on down? That would have been cleared, that?s the garden spot.? The other two looked at him, questioning, but Riker knew these woods. And for the past hundred yards they?d been walking over old, worn terraces.

?There would have been crops here, too,? Riker said, ?corn, beans, more tomatoes, collards. Off to your right,? he said, pointing, ?those old pear trees gone wild? Someone planted those.? He paused beside a low-branched sourwood, took a small folding saw from his pack, and cut three long straight branches so they could feel ahead through the scrub and grass.

?The well won?t likely be near the bigger trees,? Riker said, ?where the roots would grow in.? They moved on slowly, poking ahead, doubling back and forth watching the ground. Near the old homeplace, Hillerman shouted.

Riker and Clark joined him. Kneeling, Riker pulled aside a tangle of honeysuckle, revealing the remains of a crumbled stone curb. Carefully they pulled out long, tangled vines, clearing the stone circle beneath. It was some five feet across, the hole in the center yawning black and deep.

The sides of the well were lined with stone, too, the carefully laid rocks gray with moss where Riker shone the beam of his torch down inside. Tying a rope around his waist, handing the ends to Clark and Hillerman, he leaned down in until his light picked out the far, muddy bottom. He moved the beam slowly, looking.

?It?s there,? Riker said. ?The ammo box.?

Hillerman fished a coiled rope from his backpack, a treble hook tied at one end, and handed it to Clark. Kneeling beside Riker, the younger man let the coil play out easy, down and down, the swinging steel claw catching torchlight as it bounced against the well?s stone and earth sides. When it reached bottom he let it settle, then eased it toward the dark metal box lying deep in the mud against the earthen wall.

It took seven passes, Clark gently finessing the hook, before he snagged one of the two handles. Slowly he pulled the box up, afraid at every move that he?d lose it or it would pop open and spill its contents. Keeping it clear of the edges, he at last lifted the dirt-encrusted ammo box above the well and out over solid ground.

Hillerman had to use the beer opener on his pocketknife to pry up the two heavy, rusty latches. When he had pulled the lid open the three men, kneeling around the box, looked at each other grinning.

Within lay the bundles of greenbacks, moldy smelling, each secured with a brown paper collar. They touched nothing. Tucked in beside the money was a tightly rolled canvas bag and a dark blue stocking cap. Hillerman picked this up carefully with the point of his knife, held it high, revealing its length, which would easily cover a man?s face. Two ragged eyeholes had been cut in one side. Underneath, where he?d removed the cap and bag, lay a .38-caliber revolver.

Pulling on clean cotton gloves, Hillerman dropped the cap, bank bag, and revolver into clean paper bags. Carefully he checked the serial numbers on several of the bills, lifting their edges with the point of his knife.?Now,? the overweight agent said, grinning, ?let?s see what the lab makes of this.?

?The lab and the U.S. attorney,? said Riker.

Latching the lid, they placed the box in a larger evidence bag. The agents fitted the bags into their backpacks and, all three smiling, they headed back down the mountain. Ever since Quaker Lowe had filled them in fully on Falon?s long record, on Blake?s murder trial, and on comments made by prison authorities, and knowing Lowe?s honest reputation as a straight shooter, they wanted to see Falon fry. Descending the ridge on the trail they?d partially cleared, Riker said, ?That old parolee, the old train robber? Whatever his reasons, if it was Fontana who made Falon talk, I?d say he?s earned the court?s blessing.?

?And maybe the Lord?s blessing,? said Hillerman, smiling.

40

THE GHOST CAT, lingering unseen on Morgan?s bed, was well aware of the search in Georgia and of the morning?s find in the old well. He was as pleased as the three lawmen as they moved down the wooded hill packing out the bank money. The cat, lying close to Morgan listening to Lee?s verbal marathon, reached out a soft paw whenever Lee started to drift off. He alerted Lee more sharply to any slightest movement as their patient began slowly to return to the living, his spirit reaching up again from the darkness beyond all dark. The yellow cat, lying close to Morgan, knew that Lee?s and Morgan?s lives had begun to brighten into theshape of hope.

The two men might not yet sense it, but from the time they scaled the wall, all across country and then into T.I., even to Morgan?s present battle, the cat knew that hope touched them. He started suddenly, hissing, when an orderly bolted into the room.

The man reached for Lee, his meaty hand on Lee?s shoulder. ?Phone call, Fontana. It?s your lawyer, he said it was urgent.?

Rising, Lee headed for the door not knowing whether the man meant Quaker Lowe in Georgia or Reginald Storm, and not wanting to stop and ask. He followed the orderly to an empty office, the young man staying behind Lee, where he was in control. Stepping into the small space, Lee picked up the receiver that lay on the blotter next to the tall black phone.

?Sorry to wake you,? Storm said, ?I know it?s early. Quaker just called. They?ve got the bank money. A sheriff?s deputy went up Turkey Mountain Ridge this morning with two agents. They found the old homeplace, the old dry well, the ammo box there at the bottom. The money, the canvas bags. They found the gun, Lee.?

Lee stood grinning, clutching the receiver tight, as if it and Storm?s words might vanish.

?The bank has records of some of the packs of bills,? Storm said. ?The bureau has lifted a number of Falon?s prints, that match those from the L.A. files. And ballistics is working on the gun. They even found the mask he wore, that wool cap with the eyeholes.?

?I can?t believe it, I can?t believe our good luck.?

Storm laughed.?We?re on our way, Lee. We have something to work on, you?re on your way to court.?

?If anything can rouse Morgan,? Lee said, sitting down at the desk to steady himself, ?this will wake him.?

?This,? Storm said, ?and the sight of Becky and Sammie, in the morning. They?re flying out today, the first flight they could get. Lowe said Becky?s been really down, worrying about Morgan. Said with this news, she?s not so furious anymore, at the two of you.?

That made Lee smile wryly, almost tenderly.

?They have a number of layovers, they?ll be in around midnight. I?ll pick them up, get them settled in a motel over there near the prison. Becky?s aunt paid for the flight,? Storm said. ?I guess Becky argued, but she didn?t have much choice.? There was a smile in Storm?s voice. ?Lowe saysher aunt Anne?s a pretty stubborn woman.?

That made Lee smile. Storm said,?I?ll be over later this morning to talk with Iverson, make sure Falon?s .†.†. satisfactorily detained,? he said with amusement. ?How?s Morgan doing??

?Some better,? Lee said. ?He wakes a little sometimes, and his sleep seems more normal. Maybe this news will bring him around. The wound?s beginning to heal, the swelling?s going down, they can?t detect any inner bleeding. I want to thank you,? Lee said, ?for getting Iverson to let me stay with him.?

?That was Dr. McClure?s doing. Maybe by the time we get this on the docket Morgan will be raring to get into the courtroom. I just hope we can transfer jurisdiction. Lowe?s working with the U.S. attorneys on that. If Falon?s arraigned and tried out here, and if he doesn?t ask for a jury, that?s our best bet. Our L.A. judges are a pretty good bunch.?

Returning to Morgan?s room Lee stood looking down at him; laying his hand on Morgan?s arm, he told Morgan the news, that the law in Georgia had found the money and gun, told him everything Storm had said. He thought a little color came into Morgan?s face, a brief spark of awareness. As Lee talked, the yellow cat suddenly appeared beside Morgan, looking up at Lee, flicking his tail, twitching his whiskers, gazing deep into Lee?s eyes. They looked at each other for a long time, the cat filled with triumph and goodness; but when Lee reached to touch him he vanished again. Disappeared flashing Lee a cattishsmile, was gone as suddenly as he?d appeared.

SAMMIE?S EXCITED CRY jerked Becky upright from napping among the plane?s pillows. On the hard seat, Sammie no longer huddled dozing against her. ?Wake up!? Sammie demanded again, shaking Becky so hard she knocked their pillows to the floor. ?Daddy?s awake, he?s waking up.?

?Shhh,? Becky said, hugging the child against her, glancing around at awakened and annoyed passengers. Curious faces rose up from the seats ahead, looking back staring at them. Becky turned away, cuddling Sammie to quiet her. They had left Atlanta in midmorning, had already changed planes in Dallas, with two more stops ahead before they reached L.A., and every moment of the journey excruciating as they worried over Morgan

?He?s awake,? Sammie repeated, then, ?He knows. Daddy knows they found the money. He?s waking up and he knows. Oh, Mama .†.†.? The child?s face was alight, she hugged Becky hard.

?Shhh,? Becky said again, ?tell me quietly.?

?This is what it?s about,? Sammie whispered, sounding very grown-up, ?this is why they climbed the wall.?

Every night since Morgan and Lee escaped, Sammie had cried out in her dreams, afraid and often defiant; she had traveled with them all that long journey, not sleeping much, not eating well. But now, tonight, she seemed stronger. Now it was Becky herself who was shaken and clinging, who needed Sammie to hold her.

Around them passengers continued to stare and some to grumble. Mother and daughter were silent, their tears mingling against each other?s faces. When Misto pressed suddenly between them warm and comforting, Sammie put her arms around the ghost cat, too, and smiled contentedly at Becky. Everything was all right now, everything wouldbe all right. She hugged Misto. Whatshould be would be. Their life, despite the bumps and hurts yet to come, was moving on in the right direction, just as her good cat knew it should.

LEE WOKE AT dawn from a short nap on the empty bed, his wrinkled clothes binding him. He swung to the floor?and there was Becky sitting beside Morgan?s bed on the straight wooden chair.

The room was barely light. Morgan had turned on his side, Lee could see the rise and fall of his chest, see the IV tube swing when Morgan shifted his arm. He watched Morgan reach up and tenderly touch Becky?s face. Lee wanted to shout and do a little dance. Morgan was awake. He sat silently on the bed, looking.

Becky?s navy suit was rumpled from traveling, her eyes red from either crying or fatigue, her dark hair limp around her face. He saw no suitcase, then remembered that Storm had put them in a motel last night. Sammie lay curled up at the foot of Morgan?s bed, her head on a pillow so she could see Morgan, her blond hair tumbled across the prison blanket. He remembered how warm she had been the times he had held her, infinitely warm and alive. Sammie?s gaze didn?t leave Morgan. But slowly Becky looked up at Lee.

It was all there in her face, her pain from the long weeks when she didn?t know where they were or what was happening to Morgan, didn?t know whether he was alive or dead. Her relief when at last Storm called to say they had turned themselves in, relief that Morgan was alive?and then the phone call that he was injured, that the doctors couldn?t wake him. She looked at Lee for a long time in silence, then, ?Lee? How did you make him talk??

Lee smiled.?I had a piece of steel cable. After he hurt Morgan, I showed him how to tie a necktie.?

Becky thought about that. She didn?t ask any more questions. Lee knew the guards would have found cable marks on Falon?s throat. So far no one had hauled him into Iverson about it; he wasn?t looking forward to that confrontation.

Maybe Storm?s friendship with Warden Iverson had stifled such inquiries. He could only hope so. When he looked again at Becky, there was amusement in her eyes. He grinned back at her, rose, grabbed the clean clothes the orderly had laid out for him, and went down the hall to the shower.

When he returned, Sammie lay snuggled in her daddy?s arms, Morgan?s face buried against her shoulder. Becky still sat in the chair, her hand lying against Morgan?s face, below the bandage. Lee looked at Morgan. ?What did Falon hit you with, a brick??

?A sock full of something hard as hell,? Morgan said. ?Before I woke, you were talking to me. I kept reaching for your voice, trying to come awake, trying to make sense of what you were saying. Something about horses, about cattle. I kept trying to reach up to you, like swimming up through heavymolasses.?

?I figured you?d come awake when you got tired of hearing me.?

?You made Falon talk,? Morgan said. ?The money .†.†. they have the money? His prints .†.†. ?? He eased up against the pillows, lifting Sammie with him, holding her close. ?When do we go to court??

?Storm?s hoping for a transfer of jurisdiction,? Lee said. ?An arraignment out here, get it on the L.A. docket. You?ll have to be strong enough,? he said, ?so you don?t go to sleep in the courtroom.?

41

THREE HOURS BEFORE Brad Falon?s scheduled move from Terminal Island to L.A. county jail on the land scam charges, the federal grand jury in Los Angeles charged him with bank robbery, murder, assault, and attempted murder. He was taken into L.A. for a preliminary hearing, bail was set at twenty-five thousand dollars, and he was incarcerated, as planned, in the L.A. jail but on the new and more serious offenses. The land matter case was set over until the murder trial was resolved. While the L.A. docket wasn?t crowded, it took most of one week to select a jury. Falon felt he had a better chance conning a jury than a federal judge; he?d heard nothing good about this group of judges. Some called them hanging judges, hard-nosed and righteous men who would not understand the finer points of his character.

On the day of the trial Morgan and Lee were seated at the attorney?s long mahogany table below the judge?s bench. Morgan was a prime witness. He approached the table with the thick, heavy bandage covering the side of his head, walking unsteadily with his hand on the arm of an orderly, and with a deputy marshal following. Even riding in the official car from Terminal Island to L.A. had left him shaky, he was glad Lee was there beside him. Storm wanted Lee at the witness table to back up small incidents in the prison and to corroborate what Morgan might have told him. ?You both escaped from Atlanta to bring about this trial,? Storm said. ?Before this is over you?ll both be charged for that escape. You?ve put a lot on the line, Fontana, you have a right to be here.?

Two armed deputy marshals were stationed near the bench, three more behind the jury box. Lee watched Falon ushered in, his ankles and hands shackled. His hair was carefully combed, bushy at the sides, which accentuated his narrow face and close-set eyes. He was seated at the next table with his own attorney, facing the jury box. He had buttoned his prison shirt high at the throat so the angry red wounds didn?t show. Turning in his chair he looked smugly at Lee until his attorney, James Ballard, nudged him. Then Falon turned away. Ballard was a portly man with a shaggy fringe of brown hair edging a shiny bald head. He continued to whisper to Falon until Falon looked up at the jury, a bland and gentleexpression in his muddy eyes. He had pleaded not guilty on all charges: murder, bank robbery, assault, and the intent of murder.

The mahogany walls of the courtroom were hung with portraits of federal judges, some of whom, by their fancy attire, had lived in the last century. Some looked so tough they made Lee smile. Above the paintings, through the high windows, Lee could see snatches of overcast sky. He half expected to see a feline silhouette padding along the sill. But if Misto was present, Lee guessed he?d be comforting Sammie. In the visitors? gallery, she and Becky sat near the front. Becky sat very straight, one hand fisted tightly in her lap, her other arm around Sammie; Sammie pressed close, watching Lee and her daddy, her face white and still. Her dress was pale blue, smocked down the front as Lee?s mother would smock his sisters? dresses. The section was half empty. Looked like a few reporters, with their notepads, and a handful of old folks who might have gathered for the free entertainment.

Lee studied the jury: three women and seven men, one of whom would be an alternate. All looked like good steady citizens, neatly dressed, their expressions heavy with civic responsibility. The bailiff ordered everyone to stand. Judge Crane entered the courtroom from a private door behind the raised bench, a big man with a square, sunburned face, looked like he?d be happier on a sailing ship than confined in the courtroom. But there was something haughty about him, too, something withdrawn that made Lee watch him uneasily.

The judge would not decide Falon?s innocence or guilt, the jury would do that. But Judge Crane would decide and pronounce sentence. And even if Falon were found guilty, thus overturning Morgan?s conviction, both Lee and Morgan still had to face the judge on charges of escaping from Atlanta. When Lee looked again at Sammie, she sat straighter in her seat; she was not so white, and her arms were akimbo as if she held an imaginary doll. Lee could almost feel the warmth himself as her unseen companion eased the child?s fears?fear of what lay ahead, fear of this roomful of strangers who held Morgan?s life in their hands.

The trial took three days. The U.S. attorneys in Georgia and in L.A. had agreed that the depositions from the bank employees were sufficient evidence, on top of the bank money, the bank bag, and the gun with Falon?s prints. They had not required that the witnesses be flown out from Atlanta. None of the witnesses could have clearly identified Falon, whose face had been hidden beneath the navy blue stocking cap with its two eyeholes. Betty Holmes?s deposition stated clearly that she had seen the robber shoot and kill the bank guard. The written statements were long and detailed. There was a deposition, as well, from the shopkeeper across the street from the bank who had seen the getaway car and recorded the license number. It was this, the identification of Morgan?s car, that had first led police to increase their hunt for Morgan on the night he disappeared, and that had helped convict him.

Lee didn?t take to the U.S. attorney, didn?t like his offhand manner. James Heller was a slim man with delicately small hands, pale skin, a high forehead beneath soot-black hair. A fragile-looking fellow who seemed too self-centered when he presented the new evidence, though he was thorough enough. He showed photographs of the gun, the ammo box, the stocking cap, the wrapped packets of money. He passed a set of the photos among the jury, along with copies of the fingerprints found on those items, pointing out that copies of all pertinent material had been furnished, earlier, to both the jury and judge. Only one item lay on the evidence table, near where a deputy marshal was stationed: a small, closed shipping box, securely sealed.

Heller read the report from ballistics that matched riflings from the .38 revolver with the bullet removed from the body of the bank guard. He read into the record statements from the Georgia FBI and GBI agents and deputy sheriff who had recovered the evidence from the old well. He presented Becky?s formal complaints and police reports on Falon?s harassment, the breakin at her aunt?s, and the incident on the bridge outside Rome; all to bring into question Falon?s original testimony as a key witness against Morgan. When Heller had finished, the bailiff called FBI agent Karl Hamrick of San Bernardino, and that brought Lee alert, staring. What was this? What was Hamrick doing there?

Hamrick was the agent who had interrogated Lee after he was arrested in Vegas for drunk and disorderly, he had no connection to this case. Lee grew chilled thinking about the grilling Hamrick had laid on him. As the agent entered the courtroom from behind the jury stand Lee wanted to run, to get the hell out of there.

But in a moment Lee relaxed, limp with relief. Hamrick had been stationed in Georgia on a temporary assignment at the time of the bank robbery; he was one of the agents who had originally investigated the case. He could have had no notion, then, that Lee would become involved. In Georgia, he had interviewed Falon after the robbery, as the last person who saw Morgan before the bank went down. And he had run the background check on Falon. Now he presented that to the jury: Falon?s past arrests and convictions, his incarcerations back to his Juvenile Hall days, the present indictment against him. When Falon?s attorney, Ballard, tried to confuse Hamrick?s testimony, Hamrick was calm, collected, and certain in his statements. As Hamrick finished up and left the courtroom he glanced at Lee with only mild interest.

When all evidence had been presented, Falon?s portly attorney, wiping a handkerchief over his bald head, impressed on the jury that Morgan?s prints, too, were on the revolver. He suggested that Morgan had been an accomplice, that the two had planned the robbery together, that Morgan had waited outside in his car so they could make a quickgetaway.

Storm pointed out that Falon could easily have put Morgan?s prints on the gun while Morgan was drugged. And that, in the deposition from the store owner across the street from the bank, only one man had entered the car, plunging into the driver?s seat and taking off fast. The store owner had not been able to identify the man, it all happened in an instant. It was then that Storm asked the Court if he could perform a demonstration. When the judge gave permission, Storm asked Brad Falon to stand.

Moving to the evidence table, Storm opened the small shipping box, removed the navy blue stocking cap, and nodded to a deputy. When the deputy walked Falon forward to face the jury, Storm stepped up beside him.

?Would you put on the cap, Mr. Falon??

Falon just looked at Storm. He had to be instructed three times before he sullenly pulled the cap on, adjusting it just low enough to cover his bushy hair.

?Pull it down over your face, please.?

Falon didn?t want to do that. The deputy stepped forward and adjusted the cap himself. The holes fit exactly over Falon?s close-set eyes.

?If the court please,? Storm said, ?I would like Morgan Blake, who was originally convicted on this charge, to try on the cap.?

The judge nodded. His expression didn?t change but, Lee thought, was there a smile in his eyes? Storm motioned Morgan forward to face the jury and gently unwound the bandage from Morgan?s head. A large, flat rectangle of tape underneath ran from low on Morgan?s forehead up over his shaved crown. Storm reached up, Morgan being taller, and pulled the wool cap gently over Morgan?s head. Even with his head shaved, with only a flat layer of tape over his healing wound, it was a difficult fit. Storm had to twist and stretch the cap. When at last he managed to pull the mask down, a ripple of laughter swept the jury.

Morgan could peer out one eyehole, but the other eye was covered. When Storm shifted the cap, only the other eye was visible.

Falon?s attorney asked permission to approach. He tried to stretch the cap to fit Morgan; he pulled and tugged but was unable to stretch it sufficiently. Morgan could not see out both eyeholes at once, not without ripping the cap. The jurors continued to smile. When Lee glanced around at Becky, she wassmiling, too. Sammie?s fist was pressed to her mouth, her eyes dancing, her other arm hugging the unseen cat in a frenzy of triumph.

Falon?s attorney, in his closing statement, tried again to implicate Morgan, but now the jury gazed through him. Lee watched with interest as the game played out.

The jury?s deliberations took less than an hour. Lee and Morgan waited under guard in a small chamber from which they were returned to the courtroom when the jurors had filed in. Becky and Sammie had gotten a drink of water and returned to their seats. Lee thought, from the way Sammie leaned close againstBecky, that the ghost cat had left them. Why would Misto abandon the child at this crucial moment?

UNSEEN ON THE judge?s bench, Misto sat licking his paw. There beside Judge Crane he had a clear view of the jury, of their faces as they filed in to their seats. A clear view of Brad Falon and his attorney as they rose at the judge?s direction, Falon flanked by two deputy marshals. Misto shivered with nerves as theforeman approached the bench, as the short, round man began to read aloud from the paper on which the jury?s verdict was written:

?In the case of thePeople versus Bradford C. Falon, on the first count, murder in the first degree, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the second and third counts, attempted murder, the jury finds the defendant guilty. On the fourth count, felony armed robbery, the jury finds the defendant guilty.?

In the gallery a wave of murmurs ran through the spectators; they smiled and whispered to each other. Becky hugged Sammie, crying, their arms tight around each other. At the attorney?s table, Morgan wiped away tears. The judge?s gavel pounded until he had order; silence filled the chamber. Above the judge?s bench where Misto drifted unseen, the tomcat found it hard not to yowl his pleasure in the judge?s ear.

But suddenly Falon spun around, dodging the deputies, lunging at Morgan. Morgan swung away, overturning his chair. The deputies moved fast but Lee was closer, he caught Falon around the neck, jerked him backward over the table, held him struggling as the deputies pinned him. Judge Crane had risen, tensed to move, as if the big man burned to deck Falon. Misto, drifting higher, watched the drama with pleasure. The devil had lost this one. He?d lost the court battle. He?d lost whatever use he might make of Brad Falon. Misto watched Falon marched from the courtroom, a deputy on either side gripping his shoulder and arm.

The judge waited until everyone had calmed. He thanked the jurors and dismissed them. He set the next day for sentencing and for the nonjury trial of Lee Fontana and Morgan Blake on the charges of escape. As he rose, those in the courtroom rose. The judge turned away behind the bench heading for his chambers. Only then, with his back turned, did Judge Crane let himself smile. He entered his chambers with a sense of well-being, as entertained as the small and ghostly cat was.

42

AS LEE AND Morgan entered the U.S. marshal?s limo for the drive back to Terminal Island, Becky and Sammie headed for the little motel near the prison, to the room Reginald Storm had reserved for them. Storm had loaned them a car, in a concern for them that extended far beyond that of most lawyers. He had picked them up at the airport in the little green coupe, said he?d just bought a new car and hadn?t yet sold the Chevy. His new Buick had been waiting for him, parked at the motel, and he?d handed her the keys to the Chevy. The car was comfortable and clean and was mighty welcome, to get around the streets of L.A., where she?d never been. Now it purred right along to the little restaurant beside their motel, where they?d have an early supper. Becky couldn?t stop worrying over what sentence Falon would get, and how much time Lee and Morgan would have to serve for breaking out of Atlanta. As they pushed into the steamy caf?, into the smell of fried meat and coffee, Sammie said, ?I can?t eat, Mama. I?m not hungry.?

The restaurant was plain, the pine paneling shiny with varnish, the gray linoleum dark where traffic was heaviest. The wooden booths were nearly all empty, only a few early diners: a family with three small noisy children smearing catsup on each other, an old man in a canvas jacket with a torn sleeve, leafing through a stack of newspapers.

?Maybe some warm milk,? Becky said, sliding into a booth. Sammie sat across from her huddled into herself, pushing away the menu the thin waitress brought.

Becky looked at Sammie a long time.?Your daddy?s free. This should be a celebration.?

?But tomorrow .†.†.?

?They won?t get a long sentence on the escape charge.?

?But that Falon .†.†. Now, tonight, they?re all back in prison together. He already tried to kill Daddy, there in the courtroom. What will happen tonight??

Becky reached to take her hand.?He?ll be in jail tonight, not in T.I. He?ll be away from Daddy and Lee. And maybe, when he?s sentenced .†.†. Maybe Falon will be in prison for the rest of his life,? she said hopefully. She hated that Sammie had to suffer the long day of testimony, the fear, the waiting not knowing what would happen. She started, then laughed when Misto appeared on the back of the booth behind Sammie. He was visible for only a moment, lying along the wooden backrest nuzzling Sammie?s neck. When the tomcat vanished again, Becky knew he was still there, the way Sammie was grinning, the way Misto?s unseen paw rumpled the collar of her blue dress.

?He wants me to eat, but I?m not hungry.? Misto appeared again, hardly a smear of color along the top of the booth, his tail lashing as he pestered at Sammie, his invisible paw teasing a long strand of her hair and tangling it. He didn?t leave her alone until she picked up the menu. ?I?ll have the fries,? she told Becky. ?And orange juice.?

Becky shrugged. Watching Sammie stroke what appeared to be thin air, she was so thankful for Misto; the little spirit loved Sammie, he cheered Sammie in a way neither she nor Morgan could offer: a playful little haunt, concerned and possessive, driving back the darkness that pursued and terrified Sammie.

When their orders came, Becky wasn?t sureshe could eat, her stomach twisting with nerves. She felt such dread that Falon would be released in only a few years, would be free again to come after Morgan. That didn?t make sense. Why would Falon get a shorter sentence than Morgan had received? But still, she worried. Adding sugar to her tea, watching Sammie pick at her fries, she wanted to get Sammie into a warm bath and then bed, to have a hot shower herself and crawl in beside her. She?d like to sleep forever and knew she wouldn?t sleep, wouldn?t stop thinking about tomorrow, couldn?t stop her restless mind from demandinganswers that wouldn?t come any sooner by lying wakeful.

Strangely, she did sleep, and so did Sammie, a deep sleep huddled together, Misto pressed warm against Sammie?s shoulder. Morning came too soon, Becky didn?t want to get up, didn?t want to return to the courtroom, yet she was anxious to be there, to get it over with.

In the plain little restaurant they managed to get down some cereal and milk, then headed for L.A. When they entered the courtroom everyone was standing. Becky, watching Judge Crane emerge from his chambers, tried to put her confidence in the big, sunburned man. But when Brad Falon was led in, handcuffed between two deputy marshals, fear again turned her cold. The fact that Falon had lost, the fact that he?d been convicted of the murder and all charges, didn?t ease her fear of him.

Falon?s attorney, James Ballard, approached the bench neatly dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie, his bald head reflecting the courtroom lights. Presenting his closing statement he nodded seriously to Judge Crane. ?Your Honor, my client begs your compassion. He has already enduredthreats and severe emotional stress in prison, at the hands of other inmates,? he said, glancing around at Morgan. ?Surely the court will agree that with the trauma he has endured at this time in his life, he should receive only a minimum sentence, that he would not be helped by a longer term. That when he did become eligible for parole, the few years remaining would be meaningless to him, he would be a broken man without purpose.?

Judge Crane waited patently for Ballard to finish, then let silence fill the courtroom. At last his look cold as stone, he leaned forward to better observe Ballard.

?How much trauma, Mr. Ballard, did Morgan Blake experience when he was imprisoned for a robbery and murder that he did not commit? How much hope for justice did Morgan Blake have??

Judge Crane leaned back, watching Ballard.?How much hope did the bank guard have when he was murdered in cold blood?? The judge looked so intently at Ballard that Ballard backed away. The judge said no more. He looked around the courtroom, then dismissed Ballard, and summoned Falon to the stand.

Shackled, Falon faced the bench, trying to look mild and submissive. Twice he moved in a strange sidestep and, with his cuffed hands, scratched at his puffy hair. Each time the deputy marshals crowded nearer. The judge watched Falon, puzzled, as Falon fidgeted and tried to be still; it was some time before Judge Crane spoke.

?It is the judgment of this court that defendant Brad Falon be sentenced to twenty-five years on the charge of armed bank robbery. To life imprisonment without parole on the count of first-degree murder, and twenty-five years for assault and attempted murder. These sentences shall run consecutively, not concurrently.?

A ripple of voices; a catch of breath from Becky as she looked across at Morgan and half rose, wanting to go to him. Above them Misto drifted unseen over the heads of the deputies and the judge to crouch high on the windowsill watching the drama play out, watching this one perfect moment, in the endless human tangle, play out the way it should.

In the gallery Becky held herself back from running through the gate and throwing her arms around Morgan; Sammie?s small hand squeezed her fingers so hard Becky flinched.Life plus fifty years. Falon would never be out again to harm them. Barring some change in the law, he would die in prison just as he had meant Morgan to die, behind prison bars.

As Falon was led from the courtroom he looked back belligerently, straight at Becky, arrogant and threatening. Becky watched him coldly. But when Judge Crane looked over at Lee and Morgan, her heart started to pound again.

Morgan took the stand first, and then Lee. The questioning didn?t take long. Both men admitted they had escaped from Atlanta. When, at the judge?s question, Lee explained in detail how they had gone over the wall, again there was amusement or perhaps challenge in Judge Crane?s eyes. When Reginald Storm made his final statement, his voice was soft and in control.

?Your Honor, Mr. Blake and Mr. Fontana did escape. For the express purpose of coming across the country to turn themselves in at Terminal Island, where they knew Brad Falon was incarcerated, where they knew he wouldn?t be able to evade them.

?Morgan Blake wanted the truth from Falon, he wanted to see Falon duly tried for the crimes that he committed, for which Morgan had been convicted.

?That has now been accomplished. Blake and Fontana committed no new crimes coming across the country. They lived on the money Mrs. Blake earned and borrowed. They had a destination and a goal. Their efforts, against all odds, have corrected a grave injustice.?

Becky?s arm was around Sammie, squeezing her close. Judge Crane asked both Morgan and Lee if they had anything further to add. Neither did. When the judge leaned forward, looking down from the bench directly at Lee, Becky couldn?t breathe.

?Mr. Fontana, can you tell me why, at Terminal Island, all of a sudden after so long a time, Brad Falon decided to reveal where the stolen money was hidden??

Becky saw Lee swallow.?At first,? Lee said, ?we tried to talk with Falon, tried to reason with him. But reasoning didn?t work very well. It made Falon so mad that he went after Morgan, he hurt Morgan bad, I didn?t know whether he?d live or die. After Morgan was taken to emergency, I found Falon,? Lee said,?and Iused a little force on him.?

?How much force, Mr. Fontana??

?Enough to scare him,? Lee said quietly.

The judge nodded. He didn?t press the question. When he glanced up at the defense attorney, Ballard was blank faced and quiet. Becky expected him to pull open Falon?s collar and reveal the red marks Lee?s cable had made. Ballard didn?t, nor did Falon attempt to exhibit the injury. Maybe they knew it wouldn?t makeany difference, that this judge wouldn?t go soft over Falon?s pain.

Judge Crane looked back at Lee and Morgan, ready to sentence them. Becky couldn?t breathe. She took both Sammie?s hands in hers; they were ice-cold.

?Escape is a serious charge, gentlemen. It is not dealt with lightly by this court. However, the statement that Mr. Storm has made on your behalf, and the circumstances of the situation, must be taken into account.?

U.S. Attorney Heller approached the bench. The thin, pale man made Becky uncertain. He was not prosecuting Falon now, he was concerned with Lee and Morgan, with their escape from prison. When she looked at Morgan she could see sweat beading his forehead around the white tape.

Heller?s narrow back was rigid, where he faced the bench.?Your Honor, Mr. Fontana and Mr. Blake have confessed to breaking out of Atlanta Federal Prison. Their attorney has stated that this was for an admirable cause.? The thin, dark-haired man stood silent for a moment, then, in a reedy voice, ?The United States Attorney, Your Honor, declines to press charges. We will not seek prosecution in this case.?

Becky felt limp. At the witness table Morgan and Lee were very still, watching Heller. As if they couldn?t believe his words, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the downside.

?I move, Your Honor, that in light of the present trial of Brad Falon and the jury?s verdict of guilty, Morgan Blake?s conviction for murder, robbery, and attempted murder be overturned in its entirety. That it be wiped from the books. With the perpetrator in custody and duly sentenced, Mr. Blake should be left with a clean record. I move that he be released from all charges. That, as of this hearing, Morgan Blake be divested of any criminal record.?

Morgan put his face in his hands. Lee?s arm went around Morgan?s shoulders, hugging him. Judge Crane looked down at them.

?Mr. Blake, Mr. Fontana, it has been only a matter of days since you turned yourselves in at Terminal Island. Since that time, you have been waiting, hoping for this hearing. I sentence each of you only to the time you have already been held in custody awaiting trial. As of this moment, Morgan Blake, you are a free man.? He nodded to Heller, dismissing him from the bench.

?As for you, Mr. Fontana,? Judge Crane said, ?you are a riddle. I have your record. I see what you have done in the past, and I can guess there are many crimes for which you were never apprehended. But there is another side to you. You took a grave personal risk to help Morgan Blake. As far as Iknow, you had nothing to gain by that risk. Now you have a little time left on the term you are serving. And time will be added on for your escape from Atlanta. I rule that both be added to your parole, that you finish your sentence on the outside. With the hope, Mr. Fontana, that this time you will stay out of trouble.

?You will both be returned to the prison long enough to get whatever personal belongings you left there and attend to the paperwork to transfer you out. Mr. Blake, you will have to be released by the medical staff. And Mr. Fontana, you will be interviewed by a probation officer before you leave. Then you?re free to go, you?ll be on your own.? Judge Crane looked them over. ?Mr. Blake, your wife and child are waiting for you.?

Morgan and Lee thanked Judge Crane. He smiled and nodded and shook hands with them. The look in his eyes was satisfied, a look that said justice had been done despite the bizarre and questionable manner. Lee would always wonder, even years later, what had gone on between Judge Crane, Reginald Storm, and Falon?s attorney, that Lee?s use of force on Falon had not been further pursued.

When Morgan turned away, Becky and Sammie ran through the gate, they were in his arms, Becky crying against him. Lee thanked Reginald Storm and, stepping aside with him where they could talk in private, he removed the Blythe money from his pocket, counting out the bills. Storm pushed them back at him.

?When you first came to my office, Lee, you gave me a six-hundred-dollar retainer.? He took the folded bills from his pocket. ?Every year I do a couple of cases pro bono, cases that I find particularly interesting or rewarding, that move me in some way.? Storm grinned. ?Looks like I?m starting early, this year. This money is yours and the Blakes?. This one?s on me, Fontana.?

Lee stared at him.?We can?t take this. You did a fine job for us, you saved Morgan?s life. You can?t??

Storm shook his head.?Ican. This is my decision. I enjoyed every minute. As to the six hundred,? he said, ?I can sell you the Chevy for that, if you want it. Save you looking for transport, and save me the bother of advertising and selling it, now that I have the Buick.?

Lee didn?t know what to say. He?d need transportation, at least until he could pick up a good saddle horse and a packhorse. But more important than the car or the money, Lee truly liked this man. Reginald Storm was one of the few people who?d touched his life in a way he wouldn?t forget. ?There?s no way in hell to thank you,? Lee said, handing back the six hundred. ?And I sure could use the car.? He watched Storm remove a slip of paper from his pocket, lean over a table, and sign it.

?You can fill out the rest,? Storm said, handing it to Lee. Turning, he nodded to the deputy marshals. He shook Lee?s hand, stepped over to say good-bye to Morgan and to give Becky and Sammie a hug. Then he moved away out of the courtroom, not looking back.

Lee and Morgan were escorted out to a marshal?s car heading for T.I., for their final processing and release. And where Lee would spend a tedious hour with one more federal probation officer no different, no more amiable than any of the others he?d dealt with. But by five that evening they had jumped through all the hoops. They moved out the sally port of T.I. for the last time, to where Becky and Sammie waited.

Crowding into the green Chevy, they headed for their motel, where Becky had gotten a second room for Lee. Soon they sat in the small restaurant for what should be a happy, celebratory dinner. But even approaching the little caf?, already Lee hung back, distancing himself from the Blakes, feeling heavy and sad and not liking the feeling. Not liking that they would soon be parted. For maybe the first time in his life he didn?t relish the fact that he would soon again be alone. It was only when Sammie took his hand and pulled him along faster that he hurried to catch up with Morgan and Becky.

?Can Uncle Lee come home with us? And live with us in Georgia??

Becky turned, laughing.?Of course you can, Lee. We were hoping that?s what you?d want. Come back to Rome, live with us, get acquainted with your family?the family you didn?t know you had.?

Lee felt a sudden sharp longing, imagining that kind of life. As they entered the caf? Becky tucked her hand under his arm, looking up at him. But, watching him, she saw it in his eyes. Saw that he wouldn?t come with them, that he would soon leave them. She felt hurt and disappointed, but she?d known this was how it would be. Lee had a different agenda. Something urgent guidedhim. Whatever pulled him in the opposite direction, it was too private for her to ask. What could be so urgent that he would abandon Sammie? Where would Lee?s life take him? She so wanted him to remain part of their family and she knew he never would. Nor could she and Morgan and Sammie follow into that other world, the one Lee longed for.

Except, she thought, Sammie might follow. In her dreams Sammie might still reach out to Lee. Becky prayed that would happen, prayed Sammie could know something of Lee as his life played out.

43

AS THEY HEADED for the Blakes? motel room after a quiet supper, Becky handed the car keys to Lee, but he hesitated to take them. ?You could drive it home to Georgia.?

?The Chevy?s yours,? Morgan said. ?If we drove home we?d be forever getting across country. This time,? he said, grinning, ?I?m in a hurry.?

Lee dropped the keys in his pocket, fished out the money he?d drawn from his savings account in Blythe and counted out six hundred dollars. Morgan tried to push it back.

?I?ve still got a couple hundred,? Lee said. ?Soon enough, I?ll be rolling in cash, I?ll be fixed up just fine.? They both looked at him, but said nothing. He hoped he was right, hoped the stolen money was still where he?d buried it. ?I?ll take you to the airport in the morning,then I?m on my way.?

In the Blakes? small room, Lee and Morgan sat in the two faded armchairs, Becky and Sammie on the bed leaning against the limp pillows. This last night together they were all uncomfortable, reluctant to say good-bye, knowing they might never see each other again. Lee hated partings, hated to string things out.With their long ordeal ended, parting was harder than he?d imagined. He itched to move on, and at the same time he wanted badly to stay with them, to head for Georgia, to be with his family and with Sammie, see Sammie grow up. He couldn?t explain that if he stayed in the U.S. he might soon be back in the joint. When Sammie slid down from the bed and crawled in his lap, he wondered for one unrealistic moment if he could go back to Rome and never get caught for the post office heist. Sammie leaned against him, wanting him to stay. When he could no longer stand her sadness he stood up, huggingthe child to him, and set her on her daddy?s lap. ?We need to be up early, need to head for the airport by six. Maybe we can grab a bite of breakfast near there.? Not looking at Sammie again, quickly saying good night, he headed for his own room.

Crawling into the lumpy bed, he slept fitfully. He dreamed of crossing the desert on horseback, choking on dust, dreamed of thirst, of fighting rank and unbroke horses. He woke wondering why he?d dreamed that. At five-thirty, he showered and dressed and headed for the Blakes? room.

They left the motel in darkness, the air cold and damp with mist. As they hurried through a greasy breakfast in a tiny caf? near the airport the sky began to grow light, to brighten the dirty windows. In the airport, checking Becky?s bag and the canvas duffel Morgan carried, they moved out to the tarmac behind the terminal where the DC-3 sat waiting, the metal stairway being rolled into place by four sleepy Hispanic men.

In the cold dawn they endured a last, tearful good-bye. Lee watched them ascend the metal stairway among a dozen passengers. He waited, shivering in the cold morning, until the plane backed around, revved up a little, and headed for the runway. Watched it taxi away to the far end of the strip, thinking how the manmade birds had helped to shape his life. Planes not yet invented when he was a boy: helped him steal, helped him escape, carried him to prison, and now carried away the child he loved. Far down the field the engine roared, the plane turned in a tight circle, came back nearly straight at him, lifted over him into the sky. He watched until it had vanished among the clouds, then turned away, a heavy knot in his belly.

He gassed up the Chevy near the airport and headed south out of L.A., taking the inland route against the green hills, direct for San Bernardino and on toward Blythe. All the while, part of him longed to turn around and follow the Blakes back to Rome, to live among his own family. The pain of parting was wicked, of learning to care for someone and then turning his back on them. Walking away as if he didn?t give a damn, when in fact it took all he had to do that. The distress of leaving Sammie, just as he had abandoned Mae, was nearly unbearable.

Passing through the little towns separated by stretches of orange and avocado groves, he thought about Sammie?s smile, so like Mae?s. Such vital little girls, Sammie so filled with joy after the trial when he and Morgan had been freed?but then, at the airport, Sammie smearing angrily at the tears she couldn?t stop.

But in Sammie?s dark eyes he had seen something else as well. He?d seen a power that startled and then cheered him. In that moment, something in Sammie had shone out as strong as steel?she was born of Russell Dobbs?s blood. No matter what turns her life took, no matter what occurred in the years ahead, Sammie would prevail. And maybe he would see her again, maybe somehow he would manage that. The ties that had begun with his memories of Mae and that had led to Sammie, those ties could not be broken.

Moving on past San Bernardino, he pulled up at a little cluster of houses and stores, parked the Chevy before a pawnshop. How many pawnshops over the years, all with the same black iron bars protecting their tangles of old watches, dusty cameras, tarnished jewelry, and used guns. At the counter he chose a .357 Magnum with a shoulder holster that fit nicely beneath his heavy jacket, and ten boxes of ammunition. He picked up a frying pan, a used sleeping bag, a good knife, all the necessities for a meager kit, then he stopped in a little grocery for canned beans and staples.

Leaving the store with his box of groceries he spotted, on down the street, a tiny Mexican caf?. Stowing his purchases in the car, he stepped on in. He bought four burritos and four tacos, which the accommodating waiter wrapped in a red-and-white-checked napkin and dropped into a brown paper bag with two cold beers.

Driving south again munching on a taco, heading for Blythe, Lee?s thoughts turned to the moves he?d have to make slipping in and out of the area, easing up the hills unseen to where he?d buried the cash. That got him thinking about the gray gelding he?d ridden up the mountain when he buried the money, had ridden back down to connect with the crop duster that lifted him fast over into Nevada. Not until the plane had appeared had he turned the gray loose, watched him gallop away over the desert bucking and kicking. Lee knew when the horse got thirsty and hungry he?d head for the isolated ranch that stood below on the empty desert.

The gray had been a good and willing companion; Lee missed him. He didn?t like this sadness of being alone, this was new to him, this hollow loneliness.

What he?d planned to do was buy the gray back, if hehad been taken in by that ranch, buy him if they?d sell him, and take off on horseback for Mexico. But a little thought, a few questions asked, and he knew the land along the Colorado, down into Baja, would be way too hard on a horse. Little if any grass for miles across the desert, little if any water, and much of the Colorado River inaccessible where it ran deep between ragged stone cliffs. Even if he bought a trailer, maybe traded the Chevy for a pickup, it would still be a hard journey, hard to care for a saddle horse. He didn?t have any real destination, didn?t know where, in Mexico, he?d end up. Somewhere along the gulf, but how much feed could he buy there, how much water could he count on? He?d be smarter to wait, to buy some Mexican cayuse later on.

Well, hell, the first thing was to get the money. If it was gone, he couldn?t buy a flea-bitten hound dog.

Parking beside an orange grove he unwrapped a burrito and opened a beer. It was then, as he ate the rest of his lunch, that Misto was suddenly beside him, grinning up at him, yellow shaggy coat, ragged ears, ragged, switching tail. How often had it been this way over their long friendship, Misto abruptly appearing pressing against him, loud with rumbling purrs. Lee stroked his rough fur and offered him a bite of burrito, but Misto sniffed and turned his nose away. Too much hot sauce.

He stopped once more before he reached Blythe, to gas up the Chevy again and use the restroom. The attendant was young and shy, he looked at his feet when Lee addressed him.?Can you tell me the name of that ranch out on the old road to Amboy??

The young man glanced up at him, turned, and headed for the office. Lee could see him ringing up the sale. Bringing Lee his change, still he didn?t look at him. ?That would be the Emerson place,? he mumbled. ?It sets just beyond the little airstrip.?

Lee nodded.?That?s the only ranch out there??

?The only one,? the young fellow said shyly, studying his boots. But he stood watching as Lee pulled away. The ghost cat had disappeared. The car seemed filled with emptiness as Lee headed for the road to Amboy.

Approaching the old abandoned barn on the Amboy road, he parked behind it and, at the base of a boulder, he dug with a rock until he?d uncovered the little folding shovel he?d buried there, and then the saddle and bridle. There wasn?t much left of the rotted blanket. He wiped the leather off as best he could, laid the saddle and bridle in the trunk beside his meager kit. Somewhere down the line, he?d need them. As he headedthe Chevy up the shallow mountain the scene came back too vividly, the robbery, returning here in the truck with the dead convict sitting in the seat beside him, the man he had killed to save his own life and who, it turned out, had come in real handy. That day, he had driven up the hills as far ashe could, leading the gray with a rope through the open window, the dead man propped in the cab beside him. Picking his spot along the canyon, he?d gotten out, tied the gray at a safe distance, and sent the truck and dead man, with the gun and a few scattered post office bills, over the edge of the ravine, a no-good convict taking the rap for the robbery.

The truck and his companion disposed of, he had moved on up the hills on horseback, buried the money, and ridden back down to the old barn. Had buried the saddle and, when the duster plane came into view, had turned the gray loose, then buried the bridle and shovel. Stepping up into the cockpit, he?d headed for Vegas. No commercial plane to fly him from the empty desert, and the small duster plane left no record. For all intents and purposes, when the post office robbery went down, Lee was already drunk and raising hell in Vegas, cursing and assaulting the Vegas cops, and was thrown in thecan there. So far, his alibi had held firm.

Now, heading the Chevy up the shallow desert mountain, he thought he could make it maybe halfway before boulders made the trail impassable and he?d have to walk. Already he could see, high up to the east, the rock formation where the money was hidden.

Before he left the car he backed it around so it was headed down again, the parking brake set, the front bumper secure against a boulder. Moving on up, on foot, the sand hushed beneath his boots with an occasional soft scrape. Lizards scurried away, and once he startled a rabbit that went bounding off. Nothing chased it. Was Misto with Sammie? Would Sammie, in a dream, see him walking up the mountain, watch as he approached the tall rock and began to dig, see him bring up the stolen post office bags? What would she think, how would she judge him? That thought bothered him.

?It?s all I have,? he told her, wondering if his words would enter her dreams. ?All I have, for whatever years are left.? A little cottage in Mexico, good hot Mexican food, soak up the hot sun. The money he was about to dig up, that?s all there was against an empty future.

44

IN THEDC-3, as Sammie yawned in Becky?s arms, already Morgan had drifted off, his head on Becky?s shoulder. Becky couldn?t have slept again; her stomach felt queasy from breakfast or maybe from the plane taking off, banking over the city, then lifting fast above the mountains. Below them clouds hung low between the highest peaks, then soon the plane?s shadow raced ahead over mountains mottled with snow. Snowcapped ridges tinted gold by the rising sun surrounded a deep blue lake; far ahead, long white ridges marched, jagged, primitive, stroked with gold.

Last night in the motel room Sammie, sleeping peacefully, had stirred suddenly and sat up, her rigid body silhouetted against the motel lights beyond the window. Becky couldn?t tell if she was awake or still asleep; but a darkness stood across the room slicing fear through her?a dark consciousness more alive than if they faced a human intruder.

?Leave us alone!? Sammie shouted. ?Leave my daddy alone. You tried with Uncle Lee, too. You failed with both of them. Now go away. Go away from us. Go bother someone whowants to follow you.?

The authority in the child?s voice held Becky. Morgan was awake and took Becky?s hand. They didn?t speak to Sammie. This was not the kind of dream they were used to. Sammie didn?t reach out to them, frightened. She seemed quite in control, there was a new power in the child. Her strength seemed to press at the dark presence as if driving it back; it smeared and grew thin. ?You couldn?t hurt Russell Dobbs,? Sammie said boldly. ?You couldn?t hurt Lee or my daddy. Youcan?t hurt us any longer.?

Her fists gripped the covers.?Youcan?t direct my dreams. You never could, they never came from you! Go away from us, we are done with you!? She was not a child now, something within her seemed ageless, they could only watch as she faced down the dark that stifled the small room. The child waited silent and rigid as the spirit receded. When it vanished, she turned away?she was a child again, soft and pliant, leaning into her daddy, pulling Becky close, pressing between them until soon she slept, curled up and at peace.

They exchanged looks, but didn?t speak. At last Morgan slept, too. Only Becky lay awake, thinking about the strength they?d seen in Sammie?and then about the days to come. Home again in their own house. Morgan back in the shop he loved. Caroline with her comforting support. Anne a real part of the family now, Anne and Mariol.

With Morgan exonerated, all charges wiped from the books, would time turn back to what life was before? Would the town?s anger be wiped from the books? As cleanly as the legal charges were expunged? Would they be a real part of their community again?

She didn?t think so.

Their true friends, who had stood by them, would embrace them. But the rest of the town, that had turned so cruel, why would they be different now? She couldn?t be friends again with people who hadn?t trusted or believed in Morgan, peoplethey could never trust again. And that was most of the town.

What kind of life would they have among people they could never again feel close to, could never respect? She and Morgan had no reason to embrace their onetime enemies. And what about Morgan?s customers? Would they return to him or would they remain distant, so business continued to falter? Caroline was doing her best to oversee the work, to make appointments, pay the bills, take care of the books on top of managing the bakery. Even bakery sales had fallen off some. And Becky?s own work? The clients she?d lost were, in her view, gone for good. She couldn?t hope there?d be new work for her. Now, this morning, heading through the sky to Georgia, were they returning not to their regained freedom, but to a new and different kind of confinement?

As if, though Brad Falon was locked away, his shadow still followed them.

She thought about California, the miles of orange groves below as they?d left the city. The open green hills, the small communities lying snugly along the sea. She thought about the way Lee had talked, over supper last night, about watching the ocean surge so close outside his cell window. Thought about the friendliness of the few people she had met, the waitressesand manager at the little motel, and about the kindness of Reginald Storm?her thoughts filled with the bright mosaic of that world, so very different from what they might find at home.

But then, looking down from the DC-3 at the dry desert of Arizona and then soon at the snow-patterned prairies of the Midwest, her thoughts turned to Lee and to where he might be headed in his mysterious odyssey. Already she missed him, she said a silent prayer for him. Give him peace, give him what he longs for in his last years. And then she thought about Misto.

Would the ghost cat know new earthly lives yet to come? But meantime, would he stay with Sammie yet for a while?

And where would he go when he must return to a new life? Into what place and what time? Must the little cat spirit start over each time as a small and ignorant kitten with only his own strong will to guide him? That seemed so cruel.

But how could she understand the patterns that guided the soul of animal or human? She could only guess. Yawning, she looked at Morgan sleeping against her and prayed that life would be good to him now, would be good to all of them as she and Morgan tried, as best they knew how, to protect Sammie and nurture her.

45

LEE?S SHOVEL, STRIKING stone, echoed louder than he liked. Though the desert stretched away empty below him, only scattered mesquite and boulders to conceal anyone observing him. And who would be out there on the empty land alone? But he kept watch as he dug at the base of the tall rock formation, shale falling back again and again so he had to scoop out the hole with his hands. There: his hand stroked hard leather. Quickly he uncovered the saddlebags, hauled them out and dug feverishly into the two pockets.

The stash was there, the packets of money, solidly wrapped as he?d left them. Pulling out several packs of hundred-dollar bills, he found none of them crumbled or torn as if rodents had been at them, no corners chewed by marauding ground squirrels. He tucked a thousand dollars in his left boot, folded a thousand more in his pants pocket, left the rest in the saddlebags, and tied them shut. He covered the hole, scattered sand and debris across so the ground looked untouched.

Carrying the saddlebags, he headed down the mountain, sliding on his heels in a couple of steep places. At the Chevy he shoved them under the front seat, slid into the warm car, and drove on down, thinking again about the gray gelding.

He knew he couldn?t take the gray with him, that was kidding himself. But he?d like one last look, like to know the gray had found a good home, know he was all right. Easing the Chevy on past the old barn, he turned in the direction of the lone ranch, the old Emerson place.

It wasn?t far, a couple of miles. A pair of stone pillars supported a wrought-iron sign: J. J. EMERSON. Parking the Chevy across the road, he slipped in through the gate, shutting it behind him, and headed on foot up the long, rutted drive. Strange, even with all the hill-climbing and digging, his lungsweren?t bothering him too bad. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of having the money safe. Rocky hills rose behind the ranch house, sparse with brown winter grass. A herd of Hereford cattle was being moved, worked slowly down toward the corrals that surrounded the faded ranch house. He saw the gray, a kid was riding him, likely one of the rancher?s boys, a slight youngster of twelve or so. The three riders pushed the herd in between board fences that funneled them into a catch pen. Lee watched the kid spin the gray to turn back a reluctant steer, hustling the steer on through the gate but never tightening the reins. He watched the way the gelding moved, loose reined and easy, and the sight put a grin on Lee?s face. He hungered to have the gray back, to have him for his own.

The two older riders began to separate the cattle, moving the younger steers into a long chute. The gray?s rider moved away as if their part of the job was done, eased the gray into a small corral without lifting the reins, dismounted, pulled off the heavy saddle and slung it on the fence. Reaching up, the rider took off the wide-brimmed hat that provided shade from the desert sun, releasing a cascade of long blond hair, bright and clean looking. Lee watched the girl pull off her Levi?s coat, revealing a slim female form beneath her Western shirt. A child of maybe thirteen, a little older than Sammie. A child living the life Mae had wanted to live, the life Sammie had never been exposed to,and that was a pity. Lee watched this young girl doing what she loved, doing what she was meant to do. He watched her remove the gray?s bridle, slip a rope halter on him, and tie him to the fence.

She left the corral, returned with a bucket and carrying a sponge and rags. Lee watched her fill the bucket from a tap and hose next to the fencepost, watched her sponge the gray, starting with the sweaty saddle mark, sloshing the sweat off real good, the gray flicking his tail and tossing his head with pleasure. He liked it even better when she turned the hose on him, sloshed him all over, washed his face and wiped out his eyes, the good gelding snorting and shaking himself and asking for more. Lee looked him over, the good shape he was in, well fed but not fat, his hooves neatly trimmed and shod. The girl knew he was watching, but she gave no sign. She swiped the excess water off the gray?s back and rump and neck with a rounded metal tool. She hugged the gray, soaking the front of her shirt, hugged him again, removed his halter, slapped him on the rump, and laughed as he spun away, running the length of the corral.

At the far end he lay down and rolled, twisting this way and that, making a muddy mess of himself. When the girl turned to look at Lee, her gaze was wary, questioning. Lee knew what she was thinking: This horse had appeared at the ranch running loose, no brand, no mark of an owner. They?d taken him in, a nice horse like this. Maybe they?d looked for the owner, maybe not.

Did she think Lee was the owner, that he?d found the gelding at last, after all this time, and had come to claim him?

It was strange they didn?t know where the gray came from. Lee had bought him not that far away, out on the other side of Blythe. Ranchers, horsemen, they knew every horse for miles.

Or maybe these folks did know who?d owned him? Had old bowlegged Rod Kendall, who?d sold him the gray, had he for some reason not wanted the gelding back? Didn?t have the money, or the man?s health was failing? The girl watched Lee, assessing him, her look far older than her youth.

?Rod Kendall died last fall,? she said. ?You the fellow who bought the gray from him? Smoke. I call him Smoke.? Lee was silent, watching her. ?He?s not for sale,? she said. ?I don?t know how you lost him or why it took you so long to come for him. I figure, you abandon a horse like that for over a year, it?s finders keepers. He?s not for sale.?

Lee laughed.?I didn?t come to buy him. Where I?m headed, the way I?m traveling, I couldn?t take him with me. I just wanted a last look, see what kind of shape he?s in.?

Her look eased. The gray trotted back across the corral to shake mud over her, but when he saw Lee he nickered and trotted over, leaned over the fence nuzzling at him, stirring a pain in Lee?s heart. Lee scratched his neck, scratched under his forelock and behind his ears, then gave him a little push, moving him back toward the girl. The gray laid his head on her shoulder, pushing mud into her pale hair. She scratched his ears absently.

?Just came for a last look,? Lee repeated. ?Have to be on my way.? He looked the gray over good, filling up on the sight of him. He looked hard at the girl, wishing Sammie could live like this, with a good horse to love, free of the hard times, free of the haunts that plagued her.

?Means a lot to me,? Lee said, ?that you love him, that he?s with you and cared for.? He reached through the fence and they shook hands solemnly. Then Lee turned away, walked back up the road, got in his car feeling old and alone, and headed for Mexico.

He wasn?t alone long when the ghost cat settled beside him, warm and purring, and Lee knew, hoped he knew, that the spirit cat would stay with him for a while, maybe continue to move between Lee himself and Sammie for as long as he remained in ghost form. Who knew how long that would be, until Misto mustreturn to the world of the living? However long, Lee was glad for his company.

So it was that Lee and Misto worked their way south until they crossed the border to travel along the Mexican side; skirting Arizona, moving down into Sonora, Lee looked south across sage and mesquite to the distant gulf, imagining a small village right on the shore, a little empty hacienda waiting for him.

Each night he slept in the locked car, gun at hand. On a night when he?d parked beneath a grove of tamarisk trees, as he lay dozing, the moon filtering light down through the lacy branches, the ghost cat brought him awake, rubbing against Lee?s face. ?Just for a little while,? Misto whispered. And he disappeared, gone into another element. Only his last wordslingered. ?Sammie?s lonely, too, she needs a snuggle, too.?

MISTO WOULD RETURN to ride with Lee, watching over the old train robber as Lee headed at last where he longed to be. And though sadness filled the ghost cat that the old man traveled alone, he knew that could change. This night as Misto departed, willing himself back to Rome, slipping beneath the covers into Sammie?s arms, she woke and hugged him. ?Lee?s all right?? she whispered. ?You?ll keep him safe, you won?t leave him for long??

He pressed his nose against her warm cheek.?I will return to him, I will travel with him, just as I will be with you.?

?I saw him dig up money,? she whispered. ?Lots of money. Will that put him in danger?Will he be all right? Oh, Misto, will he be safe? And happy??

?The gods willing,? Misto said, ?I will tell you how he fares, and I can bring him messages. Will that please you??

?Oh, yes,? she whispered, hugging him tighter. ?But what happens when you must be born again? Then what will happen to Lee??

?My life on earth is but an instant, in the eternal warp of time. But always, as spirit, I am with you and with Lee, I can move anywhere, into any time. Always I will be with you, we belong together. Wherever I am, my spirit self is near.?

Yawning, Sammie kissed Misto?s nose. Holding him close, she drifted into dreams where for a few moments she felt herself a part of eternity, was lifted up into an incomprehensible freedom that buoyed and strengthened her. ?Wherever I am in endless time,? Misto repeated, purring, ?I will be with you, forever I am with you.?