The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (26 page)

They changed clothes inside the boxcar, checking first behind half a dozen big crates, but there was no one else aboard. They rolled their prison blues into a ball and threw them into the weeds along the track. The soft, worn jeans and dark wool shirts felt good. Becky had put in heavy, lined jackets, thick gloves, and wool socks. The worn boots she had found fit just fine. They kept their prison shoes for spares, shoving them in the bag. The money was in their left-hand jeans pockets, she had split it half and half, three hundred dollars each and change. A little over six hundred dollars to get them across the country and pay the lawyer—if some slime didn't catch them off guard and take them down. The train rolled around the edge of the city past office buildings with softly lit windows, past a church spire whose bell tolled nine o'clock, striking counterpoint to the slow clacking of the train. “Evening count's been taken,” Lee said. “They know we're gone.”

Morgan stepped to the door, stood in the shadows
looking back. The train bucked and slowed again, its couplings groaning; they were moving into the switching yard. Lee pulled the door nearly shut, stood looking out the crack as the long line of cars ground to a halt and yardmen began walking its length, lanterns swinging. “They're going to drop some cars. If they slide the door open,” Lee said, “dive for the crates, stay in the shadows.”

But the workmen passed without incident. They waited in silence. Only when the train jerked hard did Lee lean out for a quick look toward the tail. “They've dropped a dozen cars.” The train lurched again, traveled forward a distance, stopped, and backed onto another siding. There was a jolt as the end car was coupled with another car. Leaning out again Lee could see they'd taken on a stand of flatcars. “We're good,” he said, “we're on our way.” They picked up speed again, heading out from the switching yard moving south, passing another set of tracks that likely ran north. “We're headed for Birmingham,” Lee said, grinning, and he settled down on the moldy straw that covered the bed of the boxcar.

“I can't believe we did it,” Morgan said. “Can't believe we're out of there. It feels— Hey, Fontana, it feels pretty good.”

Lee smiled. “I told you we'd make it,” and he forgot his earlier uncertainty.

Now that they were clear of the yard he rolled the door open and sat with his back against its edge looking out at the city slipping by, at the little stores, their windows softly lit, many with Christmas decorations, at the little box houses with Christmas trees in their windows. But then soon they were in open country, gathering speed, the mournful cries of the whistle echoing across the night, a siren call that eased and comforted Lee. They were moving on, fast and free, heading toward a different kind of job than he'd ever pulled. Not a robbery but an adventure that would, if all went well, set straight the lives of those he cared about. He was
sitting with his back against the wall of the boxcar, thinking about Sammie, when he felt the ghost cat walk across his legs. Unseen, the big tom settled down in the straw, his head on Lee's outstretched knee. Had the tomcat been with them all along? Was Lee more aware of him when he paused to rest, when he was not distracted, his senses more alert to the ghost cat?

And, he wondered, did Misto like the trains, too? Did the ghost cat like their galloping rattle and screaming whistle as they ate up the miles? Sure as hell the spirit cat seemed mighty pleased with himself.

Maybe he, too, was happy they were out of there, that they were on their way?

Their bold and chancy plan might be infinitesimal, Lee thought, in the vast scheme of the universe.

Or, in that eternally unwinding tangle, did even the smallest blow for good matter? Was the very effort to right a wrong, in fact, the
heart
of mortal life? Was this the secret that made life real?

T
HE TRAIN
'
S SPEED
altered, jerking Lee awake as they passed through a switch. He'd slept cold, and the ghost cat had left him. When he eased the door open, the icy night chilled his bones. As the train slowed to a creep he cracked the door wider and looked ahead.

They were approaching a freight yard, he could see the edge of the dark platform, a lighted tower marked Birmingham. He shook Morgan awake. There'd been a couple of stops during the night when Morgan had risen to keep watch, but then they'd moved on again. Now as Lee reached for the canvas bag, out of the blackness half a dozen men swarmed off the platform running in both directions, fanning out along the train.

“They're searching,” Lee hissed, grabbing the canvas bag. “Move it.”

They dropped to the track bed running, ducked under a line of standing cars, ran dodging across the freight yard behind and under boxcars, Morgan still half asleep. Beyond a row of freight cars the beams of powerful flashlights swung toward them. Four lights, five, leaping up the sides of the
boxcars, searching along their tops, then down among the train's wheels. They followed behind the lights' wake, but were stopped by a six-foot wall.

They scaled the brick barrier fast, helping each other over. Were the cops checking every train heading out of Atlanta? If they searched this yard, would they hit
every
yard, every station, one town to the next? That meant they'd have to drop off each train before they reached the station, keep away from the freight yards, stay to the outlying fields until they were past each town, catch another train on beyond, and that would sure slow them.

On the other side of the wall they lay flat, listening, until the reflection of lights stopped roaming above and the sound of running feet faded. Rising, double-timing away from the walled yard, they moved on past a metal plant, a junked-car lot, a pipe yard. In the dark, the rough, weed-tangled ground slowed them. They made their way through the industrial section of Birmingham, avoiding occasional security lights mounted on rooftops or cyclone fences, but trying to stay near the tracks.

But soon the sky lightened toward dawn and the rough industries gave way to run-down houses. In another half hour of shabby streets they were beyond the city in another industrial area. They could see a railroad signal ahead, then an overhead crane lifting sheets of metal, maybe a steel fabrication plant. They were both hungry, and Lee's back ached from the hard jolting floor of the boxcar. “Men working down there,” he said, “there should be a food wagon.”

Moving on fast, they soon stood on a low hill above the steel plant, the top of the crane just at eye level. The yard below was surrounded by a six-foot wire fence, its gate open. A snack truck stood just inside, surrounded by men swilling coffee, eating doughnuts.

Leaving Morgan, Lee angled down the embankment and in through the open gate to mingle with the crowd of
workmen. At the truck's coffee urn he drew two paper cups of brew, then gathered up a dozen doughnuts and a couple of sandwiches, dropping them in a paper bag from a little rack. The vendor, watching him, took his five-dollar bill, punched out some coins from his belt and added three ones. “Haven't seen you before. Just start on the job?”

Lee nodded, and dropped the change in his pocket. “Just this morning.”

The vendor raised an eyebrow. “Big appetite.”

“My buddy missed breakfast.” Turning away, he eased back through the crowd toward the nearest metal building, and glanced around. When he thought no one was watching he doubled back between two sheds, behind some parked cars, and up the hill again to where Morgan waited. They ate as they walked, devouring half the doughnuts, sucking in air to cool the coffee. They tucked the rest of the doughnuts and the sandwiches in their jacket pockets, ground the empty cups down into the weeds and kicked dirt over them.

“We need blanket rolls,” Lee said, glancing at the meager canvas bundle Morgan carried. “Some food staples, couple of cook pans. Too risky to eat in restaurants. The less we're seen the better.”

Morgan had stopped and was listening. Then Lee heard it too, the wailing whistle of an approaching train, and across a winter-brown field they could see the raised track bed. They left the road, crossed the field running, crouched low beside the track. They had no way to know if the train would slow, but here on the industrial outskirts it was likely. They could hear the rumble in the tracks now, they watched the black speck grow nearer. “It'll be different this time,” Lee said. “If it only slows some, we'll have to run like hell.”

Approaching the steel plant the train dropped its speed, its whistle screaming short, hard blasts. They could see it didn't mean to stop. As the engine sped by, Lee picked a car and ran, gave it all he had. He grabbed the iron rung and
jumped. The forward momentum slammed his body against the ladder knocking the wind out. He held tight, gasping for breath. When he looked back, Morgan was still running, losing ground trying to make the next car, a flatcar with a row of heavy crates down the center covered by a canvas tarp. Lee was about to drop off again, keep from getting separated, when a man appeared from under the canvas, knelt, grabbed Morgan's hand, and lofted him up onto the flatcar.

The hobo and Morgan stood beside the canvas tarp looking up along the cars at Lee. Carefully he worked his way along the side of the car to the back, clinging to the metal handholds, sucking air, trying to get his breath. He was sweating hard when he'd crossed the swaying coupling to the flatcar. As he scrambled onto it, Morgan and the hobo grabbed his hands to steady him. The hobo was maybe twenty-some, his stubble of beard grizzled brown and gray over thin, caved-in cheeks. He wore loose jeans with threadbare knees, a rusty leather coat, and, on his head, a war surplus helmet liner. “Name's Beanie.” He looked Lee over, took another good look at Morgan, seemed comfortable with what he saw. “Come on in, it's nice and warm inside.”

They followed him in under the tarp to a small, cozy space between the crates, as snug as a little house. Blanket folded lengthwise to form a sitting pad, a Sterno burner snuffling away under a blackened coffeepot, a second Sterno rig burning under a stewpot that bubbled with meat and vegetables. Lee and Morgan held their hands near the little flames as Beanie dug tin cups, tin plates, and half a loaf of French bread from a canvas duffel.

“Mighty fine camp,” Lee said, accepting a plate of hot stew, sitting cross-legged at one end of the pad.

Beanie grinned. “Latched onto this out of Waycross. A fellow learns to make do. Had to roll up camp twice before that, once going through Atlanta—railroad dicks all over the place. Don't know what they were after.” He gave Lee
a long look. “I dropped off, waited until they checked the cars, slipped back on as she was pulling out.” His accent was as Southern as Morgan's, but his diction was not that of most hobos.

Lee was quiet, mopping up gravy with the good French bread. When they were finished he passed Beanie the bag of doughnuts and settled back against the vibrating crate. “Feels mighty good to have something warm in the belly and a warm, fine shelter.”

“It's all woods along here,” Beanie said. “The trees in those woods? They're full of Civil War shot. I found an old musket along here once, buried in a trench, nearly all rusted away. I used to make camp along in these woods. There are several old Confederate trenches in there.” He looked at Lee. “Guess they fought that war different out in the West where you come from.”

Lee nodded. “Most Westerners were for the Union, but a lot of the Western Indian nations, they sent men to fight for the South.”

“A terrible war, the Civil War—those old single-shot powder rifles and the cold,” Beanie said. “Men froze to death, starved to death, died of infection and every kind of sickness.”

“You were in the military,” Lee said.

“Career army, starting in World War I. But that's all behind me.” He dumped some water from his canteen onto his plate and put it to heat, to wash their dishes. “I'm heading for Memphis, the riverbank south of the bridge, real nice camp there. You're welcome to join me.”

Lee smiled. “Not many good camps left anymore. But I guess we'll keep moving.”

I
T WAS MID-AFTERNOON
when they hit the outskirts of Memphis. They said their good-byes to Beanie, knowing
they'd likely never meet again. One of those chance encounters you'd carry with you for the rest of your life, a nostalgic and lasting memory that saddened Lee. Dropping off as the train slowed, they hit the ground running.

Cutting away from the track they were soon in a quiet neighborhood of neatly kept houses. Lighted Christmas trees shone in the windows, and beyond the cozy houses were several blocks of small businesses decorated up with candles, holly, red and green lights. Morgan said, “It's nearly Christmas, and they'll be alone . . . except for Becky's family. But not the three of us together.” He turned to look at Lee, trying to shake off the loneliness. Up ahead stood a small brick church, its brass cross cutting the low skyline, and on the lawn, racks of used clothing and a small hand-painted sign:
THRIFT SHOP.

“Tacky,” Morgan said, “old used stuff cluttering up a church yard.” But the door of the church basement was framed with Christmas lights, and when they'd moved down the steps and inside, Lee began to grin. The shop had everything they wanted. From the crowded tables they selected four thick blankets, a coffeepot, a saucepan, two tin plates, tin cups, and some soft cotton rope. Lee found a good canteen and a couple of switchblade knives, which surprised him. He picked up a can of heavy grease to coat their aging waterproof boots, and a couple of burlap feed bags. The two old women who ran the shop sat side by side behind the counter, knitting colored squares for an afghan. Lee remembered his mother making afghan squares, as well as quilt squares to be stuffed with goose and duck down, to keep them warm in the harsh Dakota winters.