The Alcatraz Escape

by Jennifer Chambliss Bertman

  Jack stepped over the coupling that joined the passenger cars and said to Errol in a low voice, “The driver is fine, although embarrassed. He’ll have a case of whiplash, I’m sure.” He pointed to one of the park rangers, who held a wooden post with nails sticking from it. “He swerved to miss driving over that.”

  Hollister shook his head. “Where did something like that come from, anyway?”

  Jack pointed up the sheer hillside to a chain-link fence covered in a green tarp. A sign posted on the side of the tarp read: DANGER! HARD HAT AREA. “A ranger said there’s a reconstruction project under way on the island, so maybe a cart was trucking debris down the hill and that post fell off the back, or it somehow rolled down the hillside.”

  “I’m glad nobody’s hurt,” Hollister said.

  Errol kept quiet. He was deep in thought about the note in his pocket. Had it been meant for him? How had it been delivered in that moment? Had someone placed it on his person and then it fell out in the crash?

  Soon everyone had reboarded the tram, and they continued the drive to the cell house. Neither Mr. Griswold, Jack, nor Hollister seemed to consider that what happened might be anything other than an accident. But because of the note, Errol couldn’t help wondering if someone was sending him a message.

  Could somebody on this island know who he was and what he was really here to do?

  CHAPTER

  17

  EMILY COULDN’T STOP replaying the visual of Mr. Griswold falling and the paralyzing fear that he’d be crushed. Fortunately, nobody had been seriously hurt in the accident, but the scare had unnerved her, even after everyone was back in their seats and they had resumed their uphill trek.

  Their tram bumped extra high, and Emily gripped the pole next to her before realizing there had only been a rut in the path. She tried to distract herself from this gloomy anxiousness settling over her by concentrating on her friends’ conversation. James was speculating about how Errol Roy might be involved in the game.

  “What if Errol Roy is a she?” Maddie asked James.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You said nobody knows what he looks like, right? He’s a big mystery?”

  “But … he’s a man,” James insisted. “Probably a man in his sixties, since he’s been publishing books for the last forty or so years. It’s a known fact.”

  “It’s an assumed fact,” Maddie said. “She could be using a pen name.”

  Nisha nodded, mulling over Maddie’s theory. “It would be a clever way to stay hidden in public.”

  James plucked at Steve distractedly as he considered this idea.

  “Does it matter?” Emily asked. “It doesn’t change the books.”

  “No, it doesn’t matter. It’s just … I mean, I always pictured him a certain way. Like a secret agent, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses.”

  “He might still look like that,” Nisha said encouragingly. “But a girl version.”

  “None of you have even read his books,” James muttered. “It’s like I’m imagining dragons and you’re all telling me how mine should look, but you don’t even care about the dragons in the first place.”

  Matthew placed a hand on James’s shoulder. “We’ll let you have your dragons, man,” he said in mock seriousness.

  Listening to her friends’ banter helped ease Emily’s gloomy feeling. The tram came to a stop outside the prison, and the contestants stepped off. Emily hugged her arms to herself and ducked her head to brace against the chilly wind that had kicked up. An American flag raised in front of the cell house flapped back and forth. Far across the water, through breaks in the fog, she could see the San Francisco skyline, which looked miniature from so far away. It occurred to her that without the ferry they would be totally stranded. There was no bus or cab or BART or walking route she could take home at her convenience.

  Maddie picked up her backpack from their pile, then gave it a second look.

  “Wait, this is yours, Emily.” She lifted the other backpacks from the bench and handed them out. Matthew accepted the last one and Maddie looked at the empty bench. “Where’s mine?”

  They made a show of looking for the backpack, even though the tramcar was clearly empty.

  “My backpack is missing!” Maddie said.

  “It probably fell off in the tram accident,” James pointed out.

  “Everything was picked up from the ground. I’m sure of it,” Maddie insisted. “Somebody stole it!”

  “You had something stolen, too?” Fiona walked up, her eyes wide with concern.

  “Mr. Griswold!” Maddie called to the book publisher, who was walking toward the prison with the men from his tram. Emily and the rest of their group followed behind as she ran over to him. “Mr. Griswold, my backpack is missing!”

  “Missing?” Mr. Griswold repeated.

  “We put our backpacks on the back of your tramcar, but hers isn’t there,” Emily explained.

  “It has to be somewhere. How would a whole backpack go missing?” James asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Maddie said.

  “Someone stole it, that’s how,” Fiona piped up. She’d tagged along, much to Emily’s annoyance.

  Maddie—who hadn’t seemed to care much for Fiona the first time around on the ferry—now gave a perfunctory nod of agreement. Emily felt bad that Maddie couldn’t find her backpack, but they’d been with their bags the whole time they’d been on the island. James was right; it had to be somewhere.

  “Why don’t I go back down and take a look while you get the game under way?” Jack offered to Mr. Griswold. “See if it fell off the tram or maybe was left at the dock.”

  “I know exactly where I left it,” Maddie said. “It was right between Emily’s and Nisha’s backpacks, and it’s not there. Her bracelet was stolen on the ferry”—she jabbed a finger at Fiona—“and now my backpack. There’s a thief playing your game, Mr. Griswold.”

  “Well, I certainly hope not,” he replied. “Don’t worry, Maddie. Jack will find it.”

  Maddie pursed her lips, clearly skeptical, but there was nothing else to be done.

  “Thank you, Jack!” James called after the publisher’s assistant as he walked away, and he nudged Maddie to do the same.

  She nudged him back but also called out, “Thank you!”

  They walked to the main entrance of the cell house, passing another burnt shell of a building and the old lighthouse tower. The sun glowed in the fog like a flashlight shining through a sheet, casting an orange aura in the sky as it inched behind the immense prison building. Beige paint peeled off the exterior in chunks, revealing gray patches of concrete. The entry doors were propped open in a way that might have been welcoming on another day, in another setting, but not today. Instead of walking into Alcatraz feeling giddy and excited to play Mr. Griswold’s game, Emily felt wary, guarded, and unsure of what might happen next.

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE CELL HOUSE was frigid, even chillier than being outside, although maybe it was the cold gray cement and cinder block that made Emily feel that way. She tucked her fists inside the sleeves of her fleece jacket and stared down an aisle of metal bars with jail cells stacked three stories high to the ceiling. Even the skylights on the ceiling had bars covering them. The cells were stark: concrete walls painted hospital green and cream, barely big enough to hold a cot, sink, toilet, and small tabletop that folded down from the wall. A yellow bulb glowed in each cell, and in any other setting it might have struck Emily as cozy, but here it felt—

  “Creeeeeeepy,” Nisha whispered, as though reading Emily’s mind.

  Some cells were completely empty. Others had props inside, like a stack of folded sheets on the mattress or an open booklet on the table. Emily was startled to realize that a few cells even contained real live men dressed in prison garb. One lay on his cot reading a book. Another worked on a painting. A third strummed a guitar. Emily had heard the tranquil melody when they’d first entered the
cell house, but she’d assumed it came from speakers. It was disconcerting to see people inside these cells, even though Emily knew they must be actors hired for Mr. Griswold’s game. Footsteps overhead prompted her to look up. A man dressed as a guard strolled along the walkway that ran in front of the cells on the second level.

  Emily shivered, squeezing her shoulders up. As the long stream of contestants filed past the cells, none of the actors called out or gave any sign that they’d even noticed the sixty-some people traipsing down the corridor. Mr. Griswold didn’t interact with the actors, either. He simply led the crowd toward a large room with a sign over the door that read DINING HALL, the taps of his cane echoing in the cavernous space.

  Matthew stopped walking just outside the entrance to the dining hall, staring at the round clock that hung above the door with a placard that read TIMES SQUARE.

  “Is that really the time?” Matthew asked.

  The Roman numerals showed it was 2:40.

  “No, it couldn’t be,” Emily answered. They’d started the puzzle on the pier around four thirty. There was no way that was the correct time. “It must be broken.”

  From inside the dining hall there was the dum-dum of another microphone being tapped. They hurried inside with the rest of the contestants.

  The dining hall was a large expanse of space, with tall windows lining the right and left sides of the room. The windows were dirty and covered with bars, which diffused the light coming through. All the way in the back was a kitchen, also behind bars, from which warm smells drifted forward to greet them. A menu board hung above the kitchen, but Emily was too far away to read it.

  Mr. Griswold stood on a raised platform and waited for people to assemble. His colorful outfit seemed wildly out of place here, like doing the hokey-pokey in a graveyard. More “prisoners” were seated at some of the round tables set up around the room. Other tables were empty or had items set out on top.

  Just like those in the cell house, these prisoners didn’t appear to notice anything outside of the game of dominoes they played or the meal they poked at. Men and women wearing bright yellow vests that read SECURITY stood around the edges of the room. Emily wasn’t sure if they were also actors in the game or real security, but either way, their presence made her feel even more anxious, like they were a reminder that things could go wrong.

  Mr. Griswold leaned both hands on his cane and spoke into a microphone. “Shall we get started?”

  Murmurs of enthusiasm rippled through the crowd, and in his booming, theatrical voice Mr. Griswold said, “Welcome to Unlock the Rock!”

  Emily joined her friends in clapping, but looked around the crowd with a bit of wonder that being in a former prison didn’t seem to be getting to other contestants the way it was for her. She reminded herself: This is just a game.

  Mr. Griswold spoke again. “Thank you all for joining us for what I’m certain will be a memorable, challenging, and fun evening. We have exciting surprises for you—”

  “Errol Roy!” someone shouted, maybe the same person as earlier at the pier.

  Mr. Griswold smiled, his bristly mustache lifting like a happy broom, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Regardless of how you fare today, everyone is invited to the grand reopening of Hollister’s bookstore next Sunday. Bring your entry ticket and Book Scavenger badge from today and you will receive a ten-dollar gift certificate for purchase of anything in the store. And, of course, the winner—or winners—today will receive a year’s subscription to Hollister’s Book of the Month club, as well as having the honor of naming a shelf in the store that will be stocked with their book recommendations.”

  One lady shouted, “Hollister!” which was followed by people whistling, applauding, and cheering. The bookseller tipped a finger from his temple to the air in a thank-you salute.

  “You may have noticed there are others with us here on Alcatraz.” Mr. Griswold gestured toward the actors scattered around the room. An inmate seated at a table nearby mugged a glowering expression for the crowd, and Mr. Griswold hurried to add, “I assure you these people are here to help you in your quest, whether or not they seem, uh…” He looked nervously at the still-scowling prisoner. People in the audience laughed. “Whether or not they seem helpful,” Mr. Griswold continued.

  “The park rangers, guards, and prisoners have important information to share with you. Seek them out and you might make quicker progress through the game. But be forewarned.…”

  Mr. Griswold held up a finger and scanned the room, making sure everyone was listening. “There are often tricks involved in accessing the information these helpers have to give, and it’s up to you to figure out what those tricks are. It’s also worth noting that not all of the clues you uncover tonight—whether through speaking with the helpful prisoners and guards and rangers, or through puzzles you uncover on your own—will lead you toward the solution of tonight’s game.

  “Also, very important, if a room has a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign posted, that is not a prop for the game. Heed the sign and do not enter! These signs are there for your safety and for preserving and respecting the historical integrity of this island. We tried to make it fairly obvious what can be handled and what should be observed, but if you have any questions, please ask. There are one or two puzzles that might lead you to an outside location, but for the most part everything for the game will be found inside this cell house building.

  “And, of course, there should be no disrupting of the puzzles. Leave everything as you found it for other players to discover and solve in their own time.

  “Now, I am sure you are most interested in hearing what your task will be tonight. Not only will you be solving an original Errol Roy mystery, as you already know, but the author himself is here to explain your mission. It’s my pleasure to welcome … Errol Roy!”

  If a room full of people could collectively gasp, that’s exactly what they did. Voices began to whisper, “He’s really here?” and “I knew it!”

  The man who’d sat next to Mr. Griswold on the tram stepped onto the stage. He held up an envelope in greeting, only a slight smile on his face. He waited for the confused and excited chatter to die down.

  “That’s him?”

  “Errol Roy?”

  “Is that an actor?”

  The man held the microphone to his lips. His voice was a little shaky when he said, “Yes, it’s me.”

  The room went crazy with cheers and jumping. Errol Roy’s eyes widened at the response and he took a step backward. Emily expected James to flip out, but he simply stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at Errol Roy.

  Emily nudged him. “He’s here!”

  “I imagined him a lot younger,” he finally said.

  Nisha flipped to a clean sheet in her sketchbook and started drawing a portrait of the author.

  “Well, you were right that he’s a dude,” Matthew said.

  Maddie snorted a laugh.

  “Aren’t you excited?” Emily asked James. “You get to meet him!”

  James continued to stare at the author. “Yeah … I just … I need to do some mental reprogramming.” He blinked repeatedly like his eyes were the shutter on a camera.

  Taking in the shaggy-haired, bearded elderly man with loose pants and a sweatshirt with cable cars on it covering a protruding belly, Emily could see how this person might not match the slick secret agent that James had had in mind.

  Errol Roy cleared his throat. “Thank you.” Instead of looking at the crowd, he looked up to the water-stained ceiling. “I want to make it clear from the start that Garrison Griswold and his team did the bulk of work to arrange this for you. Any gratitude you feel for this event should be directed to them. I can only take credit for one small part: the story I’ve prepared to share with you. I also want to make it clear that I, and I alone, am responsible for that. I proposed this collaboration with Mr. Griswold on the one condition that nobody see a preview of this story in advance of you all.”

  “
It’s true!” Mr. Griswold chimed in. “I am in as much suspense as you! I love an Errol Roy mystery, and I’m confident we’re in for a treat.”

  Fiona’s mother called out from where she stood in the front row, “You all deserve a round of applause!” She raised her hands above her head to model clapping, and everyone politely joined in. Mr. Griswold extended his hands first to Errol Roy and then to Hollister, standing off to the side, to indicate his appreciation for them.

  Errol Roy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against his forehead. When the noise died down he said, “I’d like to begin my story.”

  James’s shock had worn off, and he advised their group, “Pay attention. I’ve read all his books, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the clues are often hidden in plain sight. You don’t want to miss anything.”

  Everyone stilled to listen, even the people standing all the way back in the kitchen, waiting to serve food. On the other side of the room, Emily spotted Mr. Quisling and Miss Linden on the edges of the crowd. The librarian leaned her back against the teacher, her head tucking under his chin. The faint melody of the strumming guitar drifted in, and a plane rumbled by outside, but otherwise the prison was filled with an anticipatory quiet.

  “The format a story is told in makes a difference—anyone who has both read a book and seen its movie adaptation knows this. Your experience of a story is not the same reading it versus watching it unfold cinematically.” When Errol Roy spoke, he rocked ever so slightly and didn’t seem to know where to look. He addressed first the lights hanging from the ceiling, then the chipped concrete floor. “The opportunity to tell you a story using the unusual format today’s event offers, with an interactive reader experience, was one I couldn’t resist.”

  He looked at the audience now, but his gaze jumped from face to face, almost as if he were searching for someone among the crowd. He looked down to his feet and stayed like that, not moving and not talking, for a beat, then another, then another. He was silent so long, people shifted and exchanged looks with one another. Finally Errol Roy spoke again.