Free The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape by Shirley Rousseau Murphy and Pat J.J. Murphy

man with a full mustache. Down at the end of the corridor he could see open double doors and could smell greasy dishwater and boiled cabbage, could hear pans clanging and male voices. The corridor was hung with inmates’ paintings, some crazy paranoid, some nostalgic. An oil painting of a cowhand riding across open prairie struck him hard.
    When he had showered and been issued prison clothes he was led into a cellblock five tiers high. He had stuffed his savings book and Mae’s picture, which he was allowed to keep, into the pocket of his loose cotton shirt. He followed the officer up the metal stairs that zigzagged back and forth between metal catwalks. Some fifty feet above the main floor were barred clerestory windows, their glass arching up another thirty feet. He craned his neck to look up, the height dizzying him. “Some hotel, Lieutenant.”
    â€œSorry, no elevator,” the officer said in his soft Southern speech. “You’ll be on the third tier.” They climbed in silence as the rumble of a train broke the night from behind the prison, its scream shrill and demanding. By the time Lee reached his tier he was breathing so hard he had to stop twice to get enough air. “Long drop,” he said when the train had passed and he could talk again. “Anyone ever cash it in and jump?”
    â€œIt’s happened,” the guard said. “Not often.”
    At midpoint of the catwalk he was ushered into a single cell.
    â€œYou’ll see Mr. Hamilton, the section custodian, in the morning. Then the classification officer. After that you’ll be able to move around the prison.”
    His cell was no different than the others he’d lived in: stainless steel washbowl, stained metal toilet. A cot bolted to the wall, with a cotton pad, a worn-out pillow, and a gray prison blanket. He didn’t bother to undress. He pulled offhis shoes, lay down and drew the blanket up around him, listening to the familiar prison noises, men snoring, metal clanging, the crinkle of paper as a candy bar was unwrapped. Maybe life was just one long cellblock after another until they planted you outside the wall.
    But this thought brought a flurry of hissing. The cat leaped heavily onto the cot, right in Lee’s face, as solid as any living beast. Solid and very visible, shocking Lee. Quickly he looked up and down the corridor at the cells on the other side.
    He saw no one looking back, and saw no guard near. Misto grinned, flicked his tail, and vanished again—but when Lee lifted the blanket the invisible cat crawled underneath, warm against Lee’s shoulder, the comfort of his purr easing Lee into sleep.

8
    T HE CLANG OF metal and the echo of men’s voices woke Lee. Morning light flooded the cellblock, striking down from the high clerestory windows. He staggered out of his bunk in automatic response to the wake-up call, stood at his barred door in his wrinkled prison clothes and stocking feet while the count was taken, then turned to the metal basin. He splashed water on his face, used the toothbrush and toothpaste he’d been issued. He was sitting on his bunk putting on his prison-issued shoes when a big-bellied custodian in blue pants and white shirt slid the barred door open. His nametag read HAMILTON . He stood looking Lee over.
    â€œYou sleep in those clothes?’
    Lee pulled the shirt straight, tried to brush out the wrinkles.
    â€œOnce you’ve made up your bunk, Fontana, you can go from here to the mess hall. Then to classifications, then return to your cell. You’ll stay here until you’re notified, until you’re allowed to move around the prison and exercise yard.”
    Lee listened to Hamilton’s directions to the various buildings, then followed him out, moving away along the metal catwalk among straggling inmates and down the iron stairs.
    The prison cafeteria smelled of powdered eggs, bacon fat, and overcooked coffee. Inmates pushed in around