The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  Only the worst offenses, however, would land a guy in the dungeon.

  Like trying to escape.

  Shan looked at his tray, having lost his appetite. He did his best to force the bites down until interrupted by an announcement. Inmates were to return to their cells as scheduled, where they would remain until supper.

  All work details were suspended.

  46

  “Our plans are in the air, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Johnston informed the passmen, worrying the pearls around her neck. It was the day after the mess hall attack. “Rescheduling the party might be difficult for the guests. But with my husband feeling under the weather, I do think it’s best. We’ll keep you all updated, so you can plan accordingly.”

  By “under the weather,” she meant the warden preferred not to parade the success of his standing until his cuts and bruises had faded from the neck up. Shan surmised this even before Lefty and Bert expressed the thought once she had left the room.

  In connection to the priest’s note, assuming any link did exist, Shan didn’t know whether he should feel disappointment or relief over the delay—unlike Sadie’s absence, about which he felt both.

  For the first Wednesday in months, she didn’t make it to the greenhouse. Same for Thursday. On Friday afternoon, in the warden’s garden he heard schoolchildren pouring off the McDowell. He’d thought to offer a small wave, a peacemaking gesture to Sadie, but the residential apartments hindered his view, and he never saw her arrive.

  Come Saturday she would be at home, her father typically off duty. Regardless, Shan left a note in her hiding spot. I’m sorry, it read. The only words fit to scribe.

  After finishing at the second greenhouse, he headed out to be counted and escorted back to the cell house. In the distance, Ted and a line of other cons were returning from work in the Model Industries Building, three stories of various shops. The guy looked at Shan and sent a two-finger salute, his lips in a solid line. Less a greeting than a reminder.

  And that reminder clenched Shan’s jaw.

  They’d leave her be, he assured himself. Even Ralph and Ted wouldn’t dare harm the daughter of a guard. Certainly not after seeing what her father did to cons who stepped gravely out of line.

  Then again, their pasts exemplified disregard for any obstacle in their way. Shan needed to convince them he had no plan in the works. Which, in fact, was the truth.

  If there was any plan at all, it surely wasn’t his.

  On the rec yard the next afternoon, it took time to locate the duo. Cold wind and sprinkling rain turned every inmate into a twin: matching coats, collars up, caps low.

  Ted and Ralph often loafed on the concrete steps with their Okie pals, like the notorious “Doc” Barker. But not today. When Shan recognized their profiles, he was thankful they were alone. Ted was leaning back against the concrete wall with Ralph standing nearby, both puffing on their cigarettes.

  No guards within earshot.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Shan made his way over. Ted appeared to announce the visitor to Ralph, who angled back with a look of intrigue.

  By way of greeting, Shan said, “I want you to know I’m being square. If I was cooking something up, I’d tell you.” When neither of them answered, Shan added, “So keep your hands off the girl, all right?”

  Ted shook his head and spurted a dry laugh.

  Shan straightened. He took a step closer. “I said, all right?”

  Ted pushed off the wall and threw down his cigarette. “Getting awfully protective over the kid of a goddamn screw, if you ask me.”

  Only a few feet separated them.

  Shan glanced at Ted’s hands. If the guy went to pull a weapon, would Shan have time to grab his own?

  “Fellas.” Ralph tugged on Ted’s arm. A signal to stand down. “Let’s not get riled up, huh? We’re on the same team here.” He sent a look toward the catwalk. The guard named Chandler was encroaching on their area, his beady eyes darting. A cleft in his chin emphasized his solid jaw.

  Begrudgingly Ted backed away, prompting Shan to do the same. Ralph waited until Chandler was at a safe distance before continuing in a near whisper. “Here’s the thing. Ted found a way down to the water, clean out of sight.”

  Ted gave Ralph a quizzical look at what he was divulging. But after a moment, he conceded with his silence. It was a trade of information.

  “You got a plan up your sleeve,” Ralph said, “you let us know. It’s better if we all work together, see?” He took a drag off his cigarette, blew out the smoke. “On the other hand, we find out you’re lying? We can make life hard for you, Capello. I don’t think you’d want that. Do you?”

  There was no real call for a reply. Ralph proved that by flicking away his cigarette and accompanying Ted toward the cell house. They joined the other cons retreating from the weather.

  Craving a hefty distance, Shan waited a minute before trekking back inside. He didn’t need guards, or anyone else, to think he was in cahoots with those creeps.

  He was almost at his cell when the back of an officer winked through the bars.

  Periodic shakedowns were standard in prison, but Shan’s first thoughts were of Ralph and Ted. Planting contraband would be one way to make a con’s life harder. Tipping off a guard, to ensure it was found, was another.

  “Remain standing there,” Yappy ordered upon noticing Shan. Not that he would have dared enter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  This was the first time Yappy had tossed Shan’s cell—which made him wonder if someone else was involved. Someone like Sadie.

  As determined as a bloodhound, the guard examined every inch. He sifted through each rag, towel, and piece of folded clothing. He fingered through the shaving brush and pile of censored letters. There was nothing that warranted a write-up. Depending on the guard.

  Circling the space, he eyed the few items posted on the walls: some photographs of the Capellos and a single postcard—from Kitty Lovely of all people, surely scrawled between shows and fresh companions on her tour. Then Yappy inspected the mattress, and Shan remembered. He’d stored a Bit-O-Honey bar through a small opening; though he had finished it the night before, he’d forgotten to discard the wrapper.

  Appearing to miss it, Yappy moved on. He picked up a book from the shelf, giving the pages a hearty shake.

  And the missal came fluttering down.

  All sense of time vanished as Shan watched him flip it over. And back. Then Yappy opened the program and his eyes found the handwritten note.

  Shan’s pulse soared to an impossible speed, thundering in his ears. He had saved the thing in search of a second clue, a message in the typeset verses; as of yet he’d deciphered nothing. He should have ripped off the note and swallowed it, or flushed it down the toilet, buried it on the grounds.

  But Yappy flung the paper aside. A lucky break, though he wasn’t done.

  Using a pen from his pocket, he leafed through the wastebasket, checked around the sink, the toilet. He paused, appearing satisfied, until noting an item he’d missed. A raincoat had slipped from a garment hook. He snatched it up, patted it down. Even before he pulled the item out, Shan’s heart rose to his throat.

  Yappy studied the craft made of shells, surprised, confounded. He pinned Shan with a hard gaze. “What’s this?” His voice was low and rough, like metal scraping gravel.

  Shan shook his head, stalling to collect the air he needed to speak. He forced a swallow while feigning an equally perplexed look. “Not sure, Mr. Martin. A butterfly, I’d guess. Might be a dragonfly.”

  It was a gift from Sadie that he’d once made disappear by sneaking it into his pocket. He had kept it in his cell for a time, envious of any creature with the freedom of flight. But he’d put it back in his coat with plans to store it in the greenhouse, in a jelly jar with the other shells . . .

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Shan’s expression, of needing to give this some thought, was not a façade. “On the ground by the warden’s house,
I think. Figured Mrs. Johnston might like it. Just forgot to leave it with her.”

  For an infinite moment Yappy stared at Shan, as if seeking proof in the creases of his face. Shan implored his features not to tighten or twitch. He battled back memories of the officer beating Whitey to a pulp.

  Once more Yappy regarded the shells. Enclosing them in a firm grip, he exited the cell in silence.

  47

  The announcement came Monday: the warden’s party was back on. Postponed by a week, the event would take place in five days’ time.

  Until Shan knew more, he refused to obsess over something out of his control. He would stick to his routine, look out for only himself. What he should have done all along.

  Since the cell shakedown, Yappy had said nothing more. A relief to Shan, but also a reminder of how careless he had been. Risking his privileges for magic tricks and trivial talks with a child. If he were punished for his actions, he alone would be to blame.

  Sadie still remained out of sight, and he was grateful for it. To be safe, he buried his jar of shells along with any guilt at doing so. He had enough in his life to fret about, and she was no responsibility of his. She had a father who’d proven fully capable of protecting his own. If she roamed about the island, breaking more rules, that wasn’t Shan’s concern.

  Besides, it was refreshing to complete his tasks in quiet for a change. More peaceful, more efficient.

  He told himself this as the week rolled on, despite suspecting it was a lie.

  Then Saturday arrived.

  All day he trained his focus on his performance. Yet that evening, as he waited in the kitchen for his cue, he found it impossible to resist peeking past the swinging door. Men and women in their finery were transitioning from the dining room to the parlor, where a classical jazz trio continued to play. Shan caught whiffs of perfume and cologne. Their sweet and earthy scents competed with lingering spices from roasted pigeon and herbed potatoes.

  Behind him, stewards followed Bert’s orders by scrubbing counters and pans, cleaning dishes and glassware. Finally came a break in the music. Shan could hear someone making an announcement, and he visualized the guests taking their seats.

  Seconds later Lefty swept in with a tray of dirty glassware. In passing, he flicked a nod at Shan. “You’re on.”

  Shan shook out his hands. He confirmed the placement of his toothbrush mustache, a tiny square black cloth adhered with corn syrup, and proceeded toward the parlor. The tuxedoed musicians strode past him without interest, just as they had during their last shared event. Their care lay only with their promised meals in the kitchen.

  At Shan’s appearance, the two dozen guests politely clapped from their chairs, aligned in tidy rows. Vases and paintings set a scene of grandeur, with elegant drapes meeting the polished hardwood floor.

  As the applause waned, some whispered and shifted in their seats. Such discomfort was expected, even from the gentlemen. For they well understood—much like tenants in Dublin averse to seeing the homeless in their alley—often sheer luck alone prevented a reversal of roles. No doubt, more than a few here had achieved their powerful positions by bending some rules: through “grease money” or special favors or looking the other way.

  Arguably one who appeared immune to the notion was the jolly man in the front row. Presumed to be the congressman, he had a beard and robustness resembling St. Nick’s, his mood likely benefiting from the petite blonde at his right, a bit too young to be his wife. To his left sat the warden, who raised his chin, a signal for Shan to start. Mrs. Johnston gave an encouraging smile.

  Showtime.

  Shan straightened his bow tie in exaggerated form. At the flip of a switch, he transformed into the Tramp. The group was tentative to start, but with each gag the laughter grew and any discomfort crumbled away. He eventually moved on to singing and tapping. All the while, he couldn’t help eyeing the crowd for an expression or demeanor out of the ordinary.

  By the time his comical impressions were through, ending with that of a German beer vendor, nothing odd had alerted his senses.

  The guests applauded and came to their feet, and Shan took his standard bows. The congressman was the first to approach. His face still flushed from his big-belly laughter, he shook hands with Shan, commending the performance. His companion shot Shan a timid smile before toddling away on her strappy heels, clinging to the arm of her date.

  Warden Johnston followed. “Well done,” he said, rewarding Shan with a pat to his upper arm. Other guests offered similar kind words. All within the norm. Nothing to raise a brow. Not even an intriguing wink.

  And certainly no passage of a note.

  When they had all dispersed to mingle before the ride to Van Ness Pier, Shan returned to the kitchen. He stood there, at a loss.

  Bert was still directing traffic, storing leftover food. But overall, the chaos had calmed.

  “Nice chops you got,” said one of the musicians from the kitchen table. The trio was smoking and eating, their meals the same as the guests’ but lacking presentation.

  “Thanks,” Shan said.

  Just then, Lefty poked his head in. He informed the trio it was time to pack up, then disappeared to finish in the dining room. The performers, unlike Shan, would not be staying.

  The musician who’d spoken to Shan was the first to rise. He wiped his chin with a linen napkin and tossed it aside. Lean and clean shaven, the fellow wore his hair as slick as his bearing. While the others gobbled their final bites, he grabbed an ashtray from the counter beside Shan and stubbed out his cigarette. “I hear you’re real handy. Even take care of the greenhouse out there.”

  Shan went to answer but hesitated, struck by a sense of familiarity. “That’s right.”

  “Hope you don’t mind, but I took a peek. Geraniums aren’t looking so good. You ought to go down and check on ’em.” The guy exhaled the last of the smoke in his lungs, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “Tonight.”

  The intensity in the word matched the gleam in his eyes. An unmistakable order.

  Shan edged out a nod.

  The other musicians were collecting their coats and instrument cases, stored in a pile by the table. They thanked Bert for the food.

  “Anytime, fellas,” he called back, slinging a soiled dishcloth over his shoulder.

  Before Shan could digest the scene, the trio had left in a flurry.

  The greenhouse. Tonight.

  Shan feared what other message he might find there, the events it could set in motion, the consequences he could face. But of course he had to go. He just wished he knew where he’d seen the musician before.

  “Capello!”

  He spun to find Bert staring with a curious look. “Is your hearing goin’, or what?”

  Shan forced a laugh. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “You were looking kind of lost there. Making sure you’re okay.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking . . .” Shan stole a glance at the pendulum wall clock. Eight forty-two. Eighteen minutes before he’d be escorted back. “I’m worried I left the drip hose on. If Ranger Roy gets here early, tell him I’ll be back in a few.”

  48

  In the greenhouse, Shan resorted to using a flashlight. He’d rigged a dangling light bulb for darker, foggier days, but its use tonight would project his every move to anyone outside.

  Hunched low as a precaution, he went straight to the potted geraniums and examined them for a note. There was nothing. He riffled through the shriveled leaves that had fallen, dug through the soil, with the same result.

  The message replayed in his ears. The geraniums weren’t looking good, the guy had said; Shan ought to go down and check on them...

  Go down.

  He angled the light below the counter and discovered a large burlap bag he didn’t recognize. After a glance over his shoulder, on the lookout for Ranger Roy’s silhouette, he crouched and untied the bag. Inside was a foot-long tank. Silver and unmarked, it resembled a fire extinguisher, b
ut with a dial-like valve and no hose. He had seen these before at drugstores, used by soda jerks to add bubbles and fizz to the drinks—but never with a compass on a long string looping its neck.

  He opened the bag wider to reveal a pile of dark gray rubber. Layers of it. Beneath a thin, attached rope appeared a worn stamp barely legible: U.S. Navy. Tucked beside it were a short pole and paddle. The makings of an oar.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph . . .”

  A raft. An actual raft, and the means to inflate it. But how did the guy smuggle it here? In a cello case, maybe.

  Shan ran a hand over his face, trying to grasp the choice before him. A choice that would have to wait. He directed his light to the twin-bell alarm clock on the counter, which he relied upon for counts, and noted that fifteen minutes remained.

  Scanning the room, he sought a safer place for the bag, at least until tomorrow.

  Sadie’s spot. It would have to do.

  He fastened the burlap closed. Then he lugged it over to the corner and slid the pots out of the way. Two shimmering eyes made him jump back.

  He snapped the flashlight forward and found Sadie, squinting against the beam, arms hugging her knees.

  “My God,” he exclaimed, “what are you—” He stopped, noting the tears streaking her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy, lips quivering. He lowered the light from her face.

  “Sadie,” he said gently. He reached for her, but she jerked away, clutching her hands to her chest. “Okay. It’s okay.” He displayed his palm, a show of reassurance.

  Had his outburst caused her to feel this threatened, or was there something more?

  Remembering the shelled butterfly confiscated by her father, Shan hoped she hadn’t been punished for her wanderings.

  He knelt down slowly, giving her space. “Honey, what happened?”

  She inhaled a shaky breath. Her gaze remained on the floor. “I was only trying to help . . .”

  Did she mean about his escape? About what she had overheard? He regretted having ever raised his voice. “I believe you,” he said.