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 skiffs in high 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 said he 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. And you 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’d been 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.