But her tears continued to fall. Below the short sleeves of her blouse, her bare arms shivered, more from fear, it seemed, than cold.
“Go on,” he prodded. He was grimly aware he didn’t have much time. “You can tell me.”
“I just . . .” She stifled a sob in her chest. “I want my mommy.”
The desperation in her tone made his chest ache, a reverberating pain in the empty space his own mam had left behind. “I know, Sadie. And you’ll be with her again, one day in heaven.”
She shook her head and blurted, “She’s alive.”
Shan stared, bewildered. “I thought you said—”
“Daddy told me to say that, if people asked. To tell them she died. He said they’d say bad things if I didn’t.”
“So . . . where is your mother?”
“He would hurt her sometimes, when he was drinking. Not me, just her. When it got real bad, she went to find a new home in Kentucky, so we could live there. Just the two of us. She came to see me at school, on the playground. She said she got a job on a switchboard in a nice town, where there’s a big river for picnics and swimming. I wanted to go with her, but she told me to be strong, that it would just be a little longer . . .” The memory played across Sadie’s face and again her chin trembled.
“Then what happened?” Shan asked, still stunned.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Instead of walking to school one day, I was supposed to meet her. But Daddy heard us on the phone and pulled it out of the wall. Then he put all our things in the car and just kept driving.” Her voice started to escalate. “I was crying, begging him to go back, till he got mad. Then he hit me. He said that if Mommy ever found us, he’d tell lies about her and she’d be locked up.”
Shan swallowed his rising emotions, to an extent feeling just as helpless as Sadie. He wished he could say the truth would prevail. But he knew better. Even if a cop meant well, the lone fact that a wife had left her family would surely negate any reason behind her actions, no matter how justified.
“She doesn’t know where I am,” Sadie pressed on. “But I can find her. I know I can. That’s why, if you’re gonna go . . .”
Her voice broke, and suddenly Shan realized: “You want to go too.”
He’d completely misunderstood. She wasn’t scared he would leave; she was scared he would leave without her.
“Please,” she begged, “take me with you.”
What could he possibly say to that?
At his silence, she reached out and gripped his sleeve. “I can help us get away. Just tell me what you need. Please.”
Only then did he notice the mark on the underside of her forearm. It was red and raw, as round as a pea. A burn he had seen before. From the end of a cigarette.
“Sadie,” he said in a rasp. “Did your father do that?”
From the nearness of his fingers, she retracted her arm. Her eyes misted with more tears.
The answer was clear.
A rush of fury surged through Shan, a flood he could barely contain. His mind spun with memories of her past injuries—the ones he had seen. How many others had she hidden?
“So all those times you said you’d fallen down, or that you’d gotten hurt climbing, that’s not what happened, is it?” He said this more to himself, already knowing the truth.
Hesitant, she shook her head, lowering her eyes in shame.
How had he missed it? All these months, the clues were there. He of all people should have noticed them. Perhaps, for many reasons, he hadn’t wanted to.
The sound of distant voices jarred him. Ranger Roy could come looking any minute. And Shan still had to hide the raft.
“I have to get back. Can you go somewhere tonight? Until your father cools down.”
Sadie wiped her cheeks. After a pause, she nodded. “The Leonards’—next door.”
“Good. Go there now, and we’ll talk again.”
She looked reluctant to leave, understandably.
“You’ll be all right. I promise.”
The second the words left his mouth he wished he could take them back. Just look at his godforsaken life. Who the hell was he to promise anything?
49
Shan dreamt that night he’d been cast in a film. He arrived at the studio and recognized the set, a replica of his old street in Brooklyn. The director, Cecil B. DeMille, expressed relief at Shan’s presence, referring to him as “Chinaman.” This confused Shan until he realized he was dressed as an Oriental monk.
“Let’s get rolling,” DeMille said, and hollered through a megaphone, “Places, everyone!” As the crew hustled about, Shan panicked, as he couldn’t recall his lines. “Action,” he heard. Then a young actress entered the scene, pushing a squeaky flower cart over the fake cobblestones. She hit her mark, a lightly chalked X on the ground, and raised her sullen eyes. It was Sadie. Arms trembling, she handed him a white lily.
“Cut!” DeMille yelled.
Shan assumed he had made an error, that he was supposed to decline the offering, and waited for a scolding.
“Where’s his prop? Why can’t anyone get Chinaman the right prop?”
“Got it, Mr. DeMille,” said Carl, the stage manager from the burlesque circuit. It was a surprise to see him there, but before Shan could say as much, Carl shoved a stick into Shan’s hand. The spotlight suddenly became blinding. When it dimmed, he discovered the setting had changed into a closet. In the corner, Sadie was balled up on the floor, covering her head, screaming for help. And the stick in Shan’s hand was an axe.
“Now, strike her!” DeMille ordered—then Shan woke up.
Short of breath, he was covered in sweat and back in his cell. He lay awake the rest of the night, the disturbing image looping in his mind. He knew the original scene, from a film he’d watched as a kid at the Cohan Theatre. Broken Blossoms was the title, one he would never forget.
He didn’t have to question why it now invaded his dreams. The link was crudely obvious. In the story, rage consumed a drunken man until he slaughtered his own daughter; even a monk seeking redemption couldn’t save her. Though Shan told himself it was only make-believe, that they were actors on a screen, he knew the truth. Tragedies of the like happened all the time in various forms.
If Uncle Will hadn’t died on that ship, Shan’s fate could have been the same. Not just physically, but mentally, too, and over a stretch of years. A gradual chipping away, a beating down until there was nothing left to salvage.
Maybe it was meant to be, his meeting Sadie. Maybe it was his chance to do what the Capellos had done for him as a kid. All at once, he could make right what had gone so very wrong with Nick.
That was assuming, of course, the scheme could work. Getting down to the water was only half the challenge. From fishing outings as a child, he was well acquainted with rowing a boat, but could he do it fast enough? Tower guards were permitted to shoot anything within two hundred yards of the island. A raft would be a nice target. One, actually, that could sink Shan before it was even inflated.
At any moment, the burlap bag he’d tucked into Sadie’s corner could be discovered, and every privilege he had earned would end. His warm-up acts and special shows, the hours in the greenhouse, his freedom outdoors. It would all be gone. And should he get caught in the act of escape? Even worse, with a guard’s daughter in tow? He could add kidnapping to his record and another decade to his sentence.
But first would come the dungeon. Or segregation at best, where he would remain in a cell but for one hour a week. Once returned to his old block, he could face the barest existence for years to come.
Then there was Sadie. Imagine the punishment awaiting her at home—if she even survived the attempt.
Such prospects gnawed at his thoughts as he rose at the morning bell. The intensity notably grew during his trek to the chapel, where Father Anthony delivered another droning Mass. Shan managed to go through the motions: standing, sitting, standing, kneeling, mumbling the psalms. But he absorbed nothing of the service
.
If only he could doubt Sadie’s tale. Or if he’d never seen the extent of her father’s temper. Then he could wash his hands of the whole damn thing. He could even give the bag to Ralph and Ted to use at their own peril.
Back during Shan’s years on the road, he would have simply walked away. But now, unknowingly, Sadie had forced him to think of who he was before then: a boy on a ship determined to bring a lost little girl to her mother, whose tears of relief had overflowed. It made him debate which fellow he wanted to be.
A swell of voices alerted him the service was over. Inmates were standing and gabbing—for how long, Shan didn’t know. Finley ordered those not staying for confession to line up at the door.
From the front of the chapel, Father Anthony sent Shan a pressing look.
Shan geared up while rising, and gave a nod. The priest smiled tightly before suppressing a cough. Clutching his Bible and rosary with knobby hands, he shuffled to his corner booth, forged from a privacy screen.
As guys lined up to exit—including Ted, fortunately—Shan sat down in the first row. The rookie guard hovered nearby. He ordered the con on the end to start. They totaled six in all.
One by one they visited the confessional, returning to their seats to do penance through prayers. A radiator clanked and hummed.
Shan was the last to enter.
Behind the screen, he took his seat across from the priest, their knees nearly touching. “Good morning, Father.”
“Welcome, my son.” Father Anthony coughed into his fist.
Shan waited to follow the man’s lead.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“It’s been . . . many years.”
“I see.” Father Anthony coughed with more force, further straining his voice. “And which sins do you wish to confess?”
Shan fumbled for an answer, suddenly questioning the priest’s involvement. Before he could find any words, the man broke into a coughing fit. When he caught his breath, he rasped to the rookie guard, “Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”
Rookie easily agreed and strode toward the door.
In an instant, the priest recovered. He leaned toward Shan, whispering clearly but rushed. “Did you find the bag?”
“Yes, I—I did—”
“Then listen close and remember what I say. Behind the Model Industries Building, get past the gate and barbwire to reach the caves at the water. From the northern tip, it’s a straight shot. Just follow the tide to Fort Point.” Rookie was calling to another guard to help fetch some water as the priest charged on. “There’s a beach landing. It’s right under the south end of the Golden Gate. You’ll be driven to a safe place. Can you get away near nightfall?”
“I-I think so.” Shan struggled to process the barrage of instructions. “It would . . . have to be before the final work count. I’d have thirty minutes.”
The model building wasn’t especially far from the lower greenhouse, but beyond Shan’s usual area, and in view of at least two tower guards.
The priest cast a furtive glance past the screen before going on. “The tide will carry you, but stay on course and use the compass. If you stray too far, you’ll be swept off to sea. Now, how soon?”
Shan had so many questions—of how the plan came about, how the priest was connected to all of this—but they would have to wait. “I’m not sure. I’ll need a few days . . .” He thought of the coming week, leading to Halloween.
Rookie’s footsteps were approaching.
Just then, it dawned on Shan how the festivities could help. “Saturday,” he decided. Though circumstances obviously could change that.
With no time to respond, Father Anthony switched into his warbled voice. “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” He made the sign of the cross, which Shan mirrored. “God bless you, my son. Go in peace.”
50
Aperpetual stream of nerves and second-guessing stretched the week interminably. Friday night was the longest of all. Shan tossed restlessly in his bunk as bouts of rain and wind alternated over the island. The foghorn moaned through the dark. For the hundredth time, the plan replayed in his head.
At the morning bell, he rose and followed the routine. He dressed and tidied his cell, ate and showered, and traded in his weekly laundry. All while hoping each step would be his last within the gray walls of Alcatraz.
Finally he was escorted through the thin afternoon fog, his cap lowered in the rain. When he entered the warden’s greenhouse, his gaze went straight to the potato barrel, a habit now. On Monday, he’d added two tires from the rubber mat shop, where cons converted used tires into mats for the Navy. The expanded stack still held potatoes and dirt, but with the burlap bag at its core.
Though the barrel looked untouched since the prior day, he reached down into the soil regardless. He breathed easier at the ridged outline of the raft.
Now for the last component.
In Sadie’s corner, he slid away the pots. There it was, just as she had promised. The large bundle was wrapped in brown paper. With hands dampened from rain, he moved it to the counter and untied the string. The hard-billed cap sat atop a small pile of folded garments: a uniform jacket with shirt and tie, finely pressed trousers, and a hooded raincoat.
“I know he won’t notice,” Sadie had said of her father’s spare uniform. “He’s got more.” She’d volunteered the idea after confirming her conclusions ultimately were right: Shan was going to flee. He had wavered on the admission when she’d pressed the issue again, unrelenting, desperate, too wise not to know. In the end, torn by the girl’s sufferings, Shan didn’t have the heart to lie.
For days he scoured his brain for any other way to help her. After all, there was no guarantee they could find her mother. Or that her father would rest until Sadie was found.
But the fact remained: the girl didn’t deserve to spend her life like an animal in a cage. Nor did Shan really, though he had forgotten for a time. Still, including her in the plan was ludicrous. The increased risks they would be taking. Maybe reporters were right about Alcatraz turning cons insane.
The faint giggles of children turned him.
Outside, excitement was brewing. The annual Halloween party drew every family on the island to an evening at the Officers’ Club. In just hours, festive sounds were sure to distract the handful of guards on duty; the weekends always reduced a need for security. And who at the party, amid the chaos and cloaks of costumes, would notice one missing child?
Between regular counts, Shan made the few preparations he could, always mindful of the clock on the counter. Absently he cared for the plants. Yesterday in the warden’s house, he had peeked at the San Francisco Chronicle. For an escape, the weekend projection of light rain and fog meant additional cover without obscuring the landing. Ideal conditions.
But as the hours eked by, he noted a warning in the clouds. The air smelled of electricity. Wind gusts rattled the walls. A storm was looming.
On the cusp of evening, he parked the pushcart just outside the door. An early darkness was setting in, accelerated by a dome of fog. The moon had vanished. Vessels would stay docked in these conditions, reducing his odds of being spotted in the bay. But would Fort Point be entirely shrouded by the time he shoved off? There was no way to know.
He loaded the cart with baskets of dangling bougainvillea. Unless searched, they would effectively hide the canvas tarp. He had obtained the material from the model shop, an aid for passage over the barbwire. Hopefully it would be enough.
Back inside, he returned to the stacked tires, garden trowel in hand. Sweat moistened his grip. This was it. Once he scooped out the dirt and retrieved the bag, there would be no going back. Already he felt perched on the edge of a cliff.
Suddenly a man shouted orders outside. “You two check the docks. We’ll take the lighthouse.” It was the voice of Warden Johnston, competing with rainfall and howling wind. “The rest of you spread
out.”
Shan strained to see through the water-streaked panes. He made out figures of off-duty guards and teenage sons. They were divvying up territory, organizing a hunt.
The white beam of a searchlight swept past the greenhouse. Over and over Shan had envisioned this happening—but only after he was gone. His pulse quickened and his lungs cinched. It all felt surreal; he was a fugitive on the run, the bandit in Mark of Zorro.
But then logic took hold. The search wasn’t for him. He hadn’t even left his detail, and they would certainly know where to find him. Could it be for another con? Had Ralph and Ted managed to break out of the cell house? The absence of a siren discounted the notion.
Raindrops pelted the ceiling, growing insistent. Tapping, tapping.
“Eh! Capello!”
His heart jumped. Leavenworth had taught him to stay keenly alert, a vital skill for survival, but somehow he’d missed the creak of the door.
He tightened his hold on the trowel before turning around. It was Finley, staring with his ferret-like eyes.
“Yeah, boss?”
“You seen a little girl pass by? Ten years old, light brown hair. About so high?”
Shan’s stomach knotted. The reply had to sound natural, as steady as letting out fishing line. “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”
From the entry step, Finley scanned the area with an edge of discomfort. He wasn’t a fan of the rare freedoms enjoyed by passmen. “Aren’t you about done here?”
“Sure am. Then I’ll be heading to the lower greenhouse to finish up.”
Finley lingered a bit—gauging, questioning—before he gave a small nod and turned to leave. When the door slammed, Shan’s fingers tingled from adrenaline, tinged by fear. They weren’t supposed to know she was missing—not yet. He hadn’t figured on a search until his own absence triggered the alarm.
Once more, the potential consequences flickered through his mind. The dungeons, a beating, a bullet to the head. It wasn’t too late to turn back. He could serve out his sentence by sticking to the grind, and one distant day walk out a free man.
The Edge of Lost Page 27