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 and steady 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 use the 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 the sea. 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 are you 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 than any 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 own home, 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.