“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.
IN SAMMIE’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 cot with 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’t that 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.”