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.?