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 were blood-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 biscuits as, 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’t dreamed 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 for you?”
Beside Lee the ghost cat paced, his eyes blazing, his claws flexing above the blanket.
“This is what I want, only this one small favor. In return I will guarantee the success of your long journey. When you reach Terminal Island,” Satan said, “or perhaps before you reach the coast, you will turn Morgan Blake in to the authorities.”
Lee wanted to smash the shadow. He knew he couldn’t touch it, that nothing alive could invade that dark and shifting power.
“You will both be arrested for the escape,” Lucifer said. “You, Lee, will swear that Blake forced you to help him. I will see that the arresting officers believe you, I am adept at that. You will go free, Fontana, while Morgan Blake remains behind bars.” The devil smiled, a shadow within shadows twisting up eerie and tall. “You will receive a reward for Blake’s capture, for the apprehension of a cold-blooded murderer. The amount will be considerable. You alone, Lee, will leave California, loaded with cash and enjoying great notoriety for the capture.”