Amy's favorite walk was through the meadow, rainbowed with colorful wildflowers. The huge artificial lake was nearby, surrounded by a low concrete wall with a long drop to the deep water.

“Let's go swimming,” Amy pleaded. “Please, let's, Tracy?”

“It's not for swimming,” Tracy said. “They use the water for irrigation.” The sight of the cold, forbidding-looking lake made her shiver.

Her father was carrying her into the ocean on his shoulders, and when she cried out, her father said, Don't be a baby, Tracy, and he dropped her into the cold water, and when the water closed over her head she panicked and began to choke….

When the news came, it was a shock, even though Tracy had expected it.

“I'm gettin' outta here a week from Sattiday,” Ernestine said.

The words sent a cold chill through Tracy. She had not told Ernestine about her conversation with Big Bertha. Ernestine would not be here to help her. Big Bertha probably had enough influence to have Tracy transferred to her cell. The only way Tracy could avoid it would be to talk to the warden, and she knew that if she did that, she was as good as dead. Every convict in the prison would turn on her. You gotta fight, fuck; or hit the fence. Well, she was going to hit the fence.

She and Ernestine went over the escape possibilities again. None of them was satisfactory.

“You ain't got no car, and you ain't got no one on the outside to he'p you. You're gonna get caught, sure as hell, and then you'll be worse off. You'd be better doin' cool time and flnishin' out your gig.”

But Tracy knew there would be no cool time. Not with Big Bertha after her. The thought of what the giant bull-dyke had in mind for her made her physically ill.

It was Saturday morning, seven days before Ernestine's release. Sue Ellen Brannigan had taken Amy into New Orleans for the weekend, and Tracy was at work in the prison kitchen.

“How's the nursemaid job goin'?” Ernestine asked.

“All right.”

“I seen that little girl. She seems real sweet.”

“She's okay.” Her tone was indifferent.

“I'll sure be glad to get outta here. I'll tell you one thing, I ain't never comin' back to this joint. If there's anythin' Al or me kin do for you on the outside —”

“Coming through,” a male voice called out.

Tracy turned. A laundryman was pushing a huge cart piled to the top with soiled uniforms and linens. Tracy watched, puzzled, as he headed for the exit.

“What I was sayin' was if me and Al can do anythin' for you — you know — send you things or —”

“Ernie, what's a laundry truck doing here? The prison has its own laundry.”

“Oh, that's for the guards,” Ernestine laughed. “They used to send their uniforms to the prison laundry, but all the buttons managed to get ripped off, sleeves were torn, obscene notes were sewn inside, shirts were shrunk, and the material got mysteriously slashed. Ain't that a fuckin' shame, Miss Scarlett? Now the guards gotta send their stuff to an outside laundry.” Ernestine laughed her Butterfly McQueen imitation.

Tracy was no longer listening. She knew how she was going to escape.

Chapter 11

“George, I don't think we should keep Tracy on.”

Warden Brannigan looked up from his newspaper. “What? What's the problem?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. I have the feeling that Tracy doesn't like Amy. Maybe she just doesn't like children.”

“She hasn't been mean to Amy, has she? Hit her, yelled at her?”

“No…”

“What, then?”

“Yesterday Amy ran over and put her arms around Tracy, and Tracy pushed her away. It bothered me because Amy's so crazy about her. To tell you the truth, I might be a little jealous. Could that be it?”

Warden Brannigan laughed. “That could explain a lot, Sue Ellen. I think Tracy Whitney is just right for the job. Now, if she gives you any real problems, let me know, and I'll do something about it.”

“All right, dear.” Sue Ellen was still not satisfied. She picked up her needlepoint and began stabbing at it. The subject was not closed yet.

“Why can't it work?”

“I tol' you, girl. The guards search every truck going through the gate.”

“But a truck carrying a basket of laundry — they're not going to dump out the laundry to check it.”

“They don' have to. The basket is taken to the utility room, where a guard watches it bein' filled.”

Tracy stood there thinking. “Ernie… could someone distract that guard for five minutes?”

“What the hell good would —?” She broke off, a slow grin lighting her face. “While someone pumps him full of sunshine, you get into the bottom of the hamper and get covered up with laundry!” She nodded. “You know, I think the damned thing might work.”

“Then you'll help me?”

Ernestine was thoughtful for a moment. Then she said softly, “Yeah. I'll he'p you. It's my last chance to give Big Bertha a kick in the ass.”

The prison grapevine buzzed with the news of Tracy Whitney's impending escape. A breakout was an event that affected all prisoners. The inmates lived vicariously through each attempt, wishing they had the courage to try it themselves. But there were the guards and the dogs and the helicopters, and, in the end, the bodies of the prisoners who had been brought back.

With Ernestine's help, the escape plan moved ahead swiftly. Ernestine took Tracy's measurements, Lola boosted the material for a dress from the millinery shop, and Paulita had a seamstress in another cell block make it. A pair of prison shoes was stolen from the wardrobe department and dyed to match the dress. A hat, gloves, and purse appeared, as if by magic.

“Now we gotta get you some ID,” Ernestine informed Tracy “You'll need a couple a credit cards and a driver's license.”

“How can I —?”

Ernestine grinned. “You jest leave it to old Ernie Littlechap.”

The following evening Ernestine handed Tracy three major credit cards in the name of Jane Smith.

“Next, you need a driver's license.”

Sometime after midnight Tracy heard the door of her cell being opened. Someone had sneaked into the cell. Tracy sat up in her bunk, instantly on guard.

A voice whispered, “Whitney? Let's go.”

Tracy recognized the voice of Lillian, a trusty. “What do you want?” Tracy asked.

Ernestine's voice shot out of the darkness. “What kind of idiot child did your mother raise? Shut up and don't ask questions.”

Lillian said softly, “We got to do this fast. If we get caught, they'll have my ass. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Tracy asked, as she followed Lillian down the dark corridor to a stairway. They went up to the landing above and, after making sure there were no guards about, hurried down a hallway until they came to the room where Tracy had been fingerprinted and photographed. Lillian pushed the door open. “In here,” she whispered.

Tracy followed her into the room. Another inmate was waiting inside.

“Step up against the wall.” She sounded nervous.

Tracy moved against the wall, her stomach in knots.

“Look into the camera. Come on. Try and took relaxed.”

Very funny, Tracy thought. She had never been so nervous in her life. The camera clicked.

“The picture will be delivered in the morning,” the inmate said. “It's for your driver's license. Now get out of here — fast.”

Tracy and Lillian retraced their steps. On the way, Lillian said, “I hear you're changin' cells.”

Tracy froze. “What?”

“Didn't you know? You're movin' in with Big Bertha.”

Ernestine, Lola, and Paulita were waiting up for Tracy when she returned. “How'd it go?”

“Fine.”

Didn't you know? You're movin' in with Big Bertha.

“The dress'll be ready for you Sattiday,” Paulita said.