I turned back to Ice who was smiling that cockeyed grin at me. Believe me when I tell you that particular expression did nothing to damper my ardor.

"Angel . . . ."

"Alright! Alright. God." I had to tell my muscles what to do and was gratified that my legs retained enough strength to bear my weight up and off the bed. It was a close call, really, but they managed to get the job done. "Remember what I said, Ice. This is not over."

Her grin grew a touch smug. "I'll remember," she replied softly. "Night, Angel."

PART 8.

BUT IT WAS over. At least for the time being. True to her nature, Ice closed up once again, as if our evening together had bared too much of her innermost self to me. I won't say I wasn't disappointed, because I was. But I also tried my best to understand things from her point of view. Each delving into that battered soul gave me more insight into the woman that I was able to confess freely, if only to myself, I had fallen in love with.

But each baring of that soul came with a price to her and to myself. I suppose it's akin to a leeching out of toxins in the body. You always need a recovery period just to regain the balance you'd lost.

In the meantime, I kept myself busy with my library work, my teaching, and even managed to allow myself to get roped into playing on the so-called "Inmate All-Stars" softball team that was set to go up against the guards during the first week of summer.

My status as an Amazon allowed me to speak to people I wouldn't have dreamed of speaking with before. I listened to their concerns and questions and tried my best to help in any way I could. As I've said before, most of the Bog's inmates weren't hard core lifers. Most were young women serving short sentences for stupid mistakes. Though I helped as much as I could with their continuing education scholastically, I wanted to do more to help prepare these women for their eventual lives outside these prison walls. With the help of the guards, several non-profit organizations, and the local universities, I was able to set up various classes for the inmates. Classes such as "Anger Management", "Parenting", "Household Budgeting" and "Career Paths" were, surprisingly, very well attended. It made me feel good to be able to have a positive effect on the lives of my fellow inmates, if only to do my best to make sure that once they left the Bog, they'd never return.

My second spring in the Bog also saw the first time I was able to intervene in a fight without assistance. And, in fact, I didn't even need to resort to violence.

I was on my way to the laundry room to pick up some clean uniforms (and if you've managed to stay with me this long, you'll no doubt remember my warning about prisons and laundry rooms) when I stepped into the outer antechamber and saw two inmates, both rather new themselves, standing over another prisoner who'd just gotten out of segregation. All three wore bruises of beatings past, the kneeling woman's fresher and more vivid against the pale tone of her flesh.

I came fully into the room, letting my presence be known by the force of my stride. The kneeling woman looked up at me with a plea in her eyes; the others, anger. "What's going on here?"

"I don't see as it's any of your business," one of the standing ones replied.

"How about if I say I'm making it my business. Does that help?"

The second woman released her grip on the front of her captive's jumpsuit and started toward me.

"I wouldn't if I were you. Those bruises can get a whole lot worse real fast."

Catching the tone in my voice, she trailed to a stop, looking at me questioningly, assessing.

"Well?"

She looked over her shoulder at her compatriot, who shrugged. Then she turned back to me and raised her hands in front of her chest. "Didn't mean nothin' by it."

"I see." I smiled. "Well then, I'm sure you won't mind letting this woman get what she came for and leave, right?"

"Sure," said the first after a moment. "No problem."

"Good." I nodded encouragingly to the kneeling woman, who nodded back and struggled to her feet, her eyes still wide with fright. A further nod from me and she turned and walked into the laundry proper, reappearing a moment later with a stack of clean jumpsuits. Taking one last look at us, she bolted for the door. I could see the second woman, the one who had aborted her advance on me, shooting daggers with her eyes in the direction of the door.

"You know," I continued conversationally, "it wouldn't be the wisest move to go after her once I'm gone. Do yourselves a favor and leave it alone. You'll both be a lot happier, believe me."

"Who are you?" the first asked.

I could feel my grin widen. "My name's Angel."

"Angel, huh?" said the second, appraising me once again. She was a medium-sized woman with lank brown hair which hung down over her eyes, which were currently squinting myopically at me.

"That's what they call me, yeah."

"You don't look so tough."

"Looks can be deceiving. You're welcome to try and find out, though I'd rather go about this in a more adult fashion."

The second woman walked over to her companion and I took the time to study them both carefully. "Looks like someone came down on the both of you pretty hard," I observed. When they both turned angry looks my way, I held up a hand. "It's alright. Happened to me too. More than once."

"Nothin' happened to us," the first protested. "We just got . . . clumsy."

Though I wanted to laugh, I managed to keep it inside. "Yeah, I've been known to have a sudden attack of 'clumsiness' myself a time or two. Hurts, doesn't it. Kinda makes you want to make others feel as 'clumsy' as you, huh?"

Now I had both of them squinting at me. "What in the hell are you talking about?" the second asked finally.

"I'm talking about beating up on someone because you've just gotten beaten up yourselves. I'm talking about how you think that'll make you feel better about what happened to you. But I'm here to tell you that it won't. The only thing that will even begin to make you feel better is to learn how to stand up to the people who hurt you. Not to become bullies yourselves. Because let me tell you something about bullies, ladies. There's always someone a whole lot bigger, a whole lot stronger and a whole lot meaner than you around."

"You?" the first asked, snorting in disbelief.

"I'll do for a start. But I'd really rather give you lessons on how to defend yourself rather than defend myself against you. Whadda ya say?"

They looked at one another, then back at me, obviously beyond knowing what to make of me. "Alright," they finally said, in unison.

My smile brightened. "Great! I'm out in the yard every day at eleven. A lot of my time is taken up by softball right now, but if I can't help, I've got a bunch of friends who will. Meet me out by the free-weight area tomorrow and I'll introduce you to them, alright?"

"The free-weight area? But that's where the Amazons hang out."

"Exactly."

"You're an Amazon?"

"Sure am." I'm afraid my smile grew a trifle smug, but, really, wouldn't yours? Their expressions were tinged with a new emotion: respect, and it made me proud to be who I was. "So, do we have a deal? No more beating up on anyone?"

"Uh . . .yeah. Deal."

"Great! See you both tomorrow then." Brushing by them, I continued on into the laundry and picked up the uniforms I'd originally come for. When I came back out, they were both still standing there, staring at me. Giving them a final wave and a bright grin, I left on my way.

The prison grapevine was in perfect working order, as I found out when I walked into the library later that afternoon. Half a dozen Amazons and one elderly librarian converged upon me in an orgy of congratulations and back-slapping. I looked around in disbelief as they applauded me for the success of my first 'solo'.

Raucous laughter and talk of 'busted cherries' accompanied the good natured teasing and had me blushing to the roots of my hair. Pony almost did me in when she pushed forward bearing a cupcake she'd scrounged from the commissary vending-machine, complete with lit candle. I was serenaded with "For She's a Jolly Good Amazon", and the wish I made when I blew out the candle is mine alone to know.

As the warmth of spring gave way to the heat and humidity of summer, Ice began to come out of her shell once again, as if drawn out by the steamy days and balmy nights. We'd often sit outside near dusk, after I'd been given leave by the guards, and just talk, generally about nothing. It was obvious that the wound of Josephina's death was still sore, but it appeared to be getting better, little by little.

Many times I found myself telling her little stories of me as a young girl. I hoped these would open her up enough to tell me some stories in kind, but that was a horse of a different color. Still, storytelling was something I'd enjoyed since I was young, even if I didn't usually have any audience but my hated dolls..

Most of my stories centered around our summer cabin in the Canadian wilderness. I told her about the time that my mother's parents had come to visit for a week and my grandfather had dumped all the dirty plastic eating utensils in the fire, stinking the house up for days. Or about the one and only time I'd gone fishing with my father.

My father didn't think it was a girl's place to fish, but lacking any other, more suitable, companionship one day, he grunted at me to join him in the small boat we kept tied to the dock. Fancying himself a master fisherman, he had a beautiful rod and reel and an expensive tackle-box with all sorts of fascinating lures, none of which I was able to touch lest they be tainted by girl-cooties or something. I was presented, with great pomp and circumstance, a simple bamboo rod with a length of wire and a small hook dangling from the end. I was also given a styrofoam cup of nightcrawlers and the admonition that I'd better not ask him to bait my hook for me. Apparently, my father's notions of femininity didn't extend to getting one's hands dirty impaling worms on pointy hooks.

He took us out to a tiny island in the middle of the lake, where he dropped anchor and fixed his rod and tackle. He cast out into the clear blue water as I was still trying to figure out the best way to bait my own hook without getting worm guts all over me. I imagined I could hear the poor creatures cry out as I stuck the sharp point through their tough flesh and watched the blood ooze out of the hole I'd created.

Swallowing back the bile, I completed my task, determined not to give my father yet another reason to be disappointed in me. The very second I swung my line out, I felt a sharp tug and pulled up on the pole to find a nice-sized perch struggling on my hook.

That's pretty much how the day went. Every time I dropped my hook, a fish seemed to latch itself onto it. My father, on the other hand, even with all his fancy equipment, managed to snare himself two bluegill and a perch too tiny to bother keeping.

To say that my father was in a bad mood two hours into the venture would be understating the fact. Without saying a word, he abruptly stowed his gear, pulled up anchor, and turned us back toward land.

That evening's fish dinner was the best I'd ever eaten though my father looked like he was choking down every bite.

I even managed to get a rare, full-throated laugh out of Ice when I told her the story of the week we had some friends of the family up to stay with us. It had been raining all day and my mother and her friend had placed their shoes by the stone fireplace to dry out. Apparently, a chipmunk had chosen the fireplace as it's summer nesting place. Even more apparently, it found my mother's friend's shoes a perfect retreat from the drudgery of its rock home.

The next morning, my mother's friend slipped her foot into her shoe, then let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead. By the time I made it to the ground floor, my mom and her friend were screaming, had brooms in their hands, and were running around the house chasing after a tiny, terrified chipmunk who'd picked the wrong shoe to sleep in.

Ice was always a wonderful listener and seemed always keen on having me tell her of my childhood summers in our cabin by the lake. By the faraway look in her eyes, I think I'd finally managed to get her to at least try and visualize the place that brought me such a sense of peace and serenity.

She always seemed calmer and more open after listening to my tales; softer, somehow. Her pale eyes would take on a deeper, more vibrant hue and the sharp angles and planes of her face would smooth out some as she looked tenderly in my direction; that child I'd seen in the photograph not far under the surface of the woman grown. It was a part of her I so much wanted to know. But like a clear pool whose depths aren't fully known until you find yourself up to your neck in them, there would be layers upon layers of mystery and emotional armor I'd have to patiently pry my way through to get to the soul underneath.

There were other times that she'd come and watch me play softball, her eyes raking over the field and its players, that blasted enigmatic smile painting her lips. I learned quickly to force my attention onto the game or risk fat lips, black eyes, and the unmerciful razzing of my teammates. There were times when I could almost feel the heat of her gaze upon me and I had to actively resist shifting out of my stance to turn and meet that smoldering gaze with my own, knowing it would be my undoing if I did.

The kisses we'd shared in her cell woke an animal I hadn't even known was hidden inside me. My nights were filled with images both erotic and tender. My days weren't all that much better, truth be known. There were times I thought I'd explode from the pressure, the pieces of me left to flutter down in ribbons of frustration.

But, if there's one lesson I learned well in the Bog, it's that patience is a virtue. And when I put my mind to it, I can be truly virtuous. My name is Angel, after all.

Too, there were times when the smile on her face would gauge the lightness of her mood and I'd try to draw out her feelings and plans for the retribution she promised for the warden and her betrayer. Try as I might, I could never get any hints from her and knew well enough to back off or risk retribution of my own. Still, I couldn't help but worry about the drastic measures she might see fit to bring forth in her quest for what she considered to be justice, albeit of the most base sort.

In reality, there was nothing to keep her from going directly after Morrison. She was, after all, a lifer with no hope, at least in her own mind, of ever seeing freedom again. I think that thought must have been tempting in the extreme for her at times, especially on Sundays when we would all be forced to sit through three hours of his pious preachings, knowing all the while the vile creature which lay beneath the vestments. Why she didn't take that road, I have no idea. It doubtless would have been easy for her and, really, what more punishment could she possibly receive?

Another avenue I considered was the one that comes most easily to the mind of almost any prisoner, whether it be in the Bog or elsewhere. Escape. Talk to any ten inmates of any prison around the world and nine will admit to having thoughts of escape. And the tenth will be lying. It was the thing you talked about over meals and thought about when the darkness of the prison night came home to roost in your cell.

Almost every inmate could tell you at least a dozen ways to leave the Bog without benefit of parole. And, truth be known, some of these ways even stood a good chance of success. This was the Bog, after all, and not Alcatraz. Corinne, who was the most in the know about such things, stated with authority that there were twenty one successful escapes from the Bog in the years since it had been turned into a women's prison. Of those, fifteen were eventually recaptured, two were killed outright and the remaining five were never heard from again.

The most popular and successful escape route, though horribly cliched, was the old 'slip out in the clean-laundry basket' maneuver. Two of the five inmates who weren't killed or recaptured chose this route for their dash to freedom. In 1966, however, the prison lost its State laundry contract and that closed off the laundry avenue for good.

Tunneling was out as a means for escape. The Bog is aptly named, as it sits on many acres of swamp land. Tunnels crumble and fall apart, filling with water almost as soon as they were dug. To date, again according to Corinne, twelve inmates have drowned attempting to tunnel out of the prison.

The award for the most idiotic escape attempt, and one which was very nearly successful despite its stupidity, goes to a woman named Slick. Unlike the Bog, she was not aptly named, for she was anything but. Slick worked in the auto shop and by all accounts, she was a good mechanic. She was also a crazed and dangerous killer who would stop at nothing for the chance to escape. One evening, as she was putting the finishing touches on a State Police cruiser, she decided to hide beneath the tarp covering the flooring of the back seat and leave the Bog in style. The guards rarely inspected the police cruisers, figuring the patrolmen who drove in them would be in the best position to know if anything was out of place in their own vehicles.

What Slick forgot, however, in her zealous, if not overly bright, planning, was that the backseats of police cruisers don't have door-handles. Nor does the thick plexiglass shielding the front seats from the back allow for easy passage from one compartment to the other. When the officer who drove the car got back from his briefing at the station, he found, to his great and amused surprise, an escaped inmate all boxed up and awaiting her return trip to the Bog.

Guard dogs specially trained to sniff out the human scent and the advent of electronic garage door openers ended the chances of escape through the auto bays once and for all. Each car was inspected as if it were waiting at a boarder crossing and anything seen out of place was immediately attended to.

Corinne told me that in the ten years since that incident, there had never been a successful escape attempt. Some women still tried to climb over the fence or slip out with the visitors, but no one ever made it off the grounds.

Even if that hadn't been the case, I had my doubts that escape was something that Ice would ever seriously consider. She was the rare inmate who truly believed that she belonged where she was. And even if she was incarcerated for a murder she didn't commit, her sense of guilt over crimes she had gotten away with continued to weigh on her heavily. She believed justice had been well and truly served in her case and seemed content to stay where she felt she belonged.

But I also knew that however long it took, somehow, some way, Cavallo and Morrison would also have justice served to them on a platter no doubt stained red with blood. And that was what worried me.

Another worry, though one more annoying than frightening, was the continued intrusive presence of my own little shadow named Digger. It seemed that no matter where I was or when I was there, Digger was always somewhere in the near vicinity. To be honest, my routine of library, softball, library, meals, library, cell wasn't that difficult to figure out, but it was still disconcerting nonetheless.

I tried talking to her. I had Corinne try talking to her. I had the Amazons try talking to her. Nothing worked. She seemed to be one of those people who couldn't see the facts in front of their face. It got so bad at times that I seriously considered asking Ice to intimidate the ever loving hell out of her, but my more polite side kept that tucked down deep to be used only as a last resort.

Still, Digger did manage to have some use for me and so I put up with the constant frustration of having a living shadow and kept telling myself that at least she wasn't Psycho. Or so I hoped.

Digger was, not to put too fine a point on it, a neat freak. The inside of her cell was clean and sparse as a monk's and her uniforms were always just so; wrinkle-free with perfect creases. It often amused me how she would spend several minutes during a softball game brushing the resilient fabric after sliding into a base to avoid a tag.

As a cleanliness nut, she was a natural in the janitorial jobs so abundant in the Bog. Let's face it. It's a rare woman who enjoys swamping out toilets for a living, but Digger did it with a smile. Other inmates had taken to calling her "June Cleaver" behind her back and it was the cause of much teasing in our own little corner of Hell.

Her tidy tendencies didn't escape the notice of our warden, who also seemed to ascribe to the notion that cleanliness was indeed next to godliness. When it came to pressed suits and swept floors, that is. The man's soul was as dirty as the bottom of a New York taxi.

In any event, never one to pass over an easily used and abused resource, the warden appointed Digger his personal housekeeper, which meant, of course, that she was in the perfect position to pick up and deliver juicy little tidbits that Morrison let slip during the course of his daily business. And believe me when I tell you that Digger was very good at her job. Suffice it to say, William Morrison had the cleanest brass doorknob in all prisondom. Of course, Digger kept it well polished with her ears and eyes, but he didn't need to know that.

The morning of the first inaugural Inmate/Guard softball game dawned with the proverbial "three H's" in attendance. Hazy, hot and humid. The sky was a flat, monochrome gray and the air was thick enough to be cut through with one of Psycho's knives. At nine in the morning, the temperature was already eighty-two and climbing. I had decided, spur of the moment, to come out a couple hours early to get in some extra batting practice, knowing our pitchers would be out practicing as well.

As I stepped out into the sauna the yard had become with the rising of the sun, I silently thanked our team captain for lobbying for the uniform I now wore. Instead of the thick, heavy polyester of my prison jumpsuit, I had on a simple cotton T and loose-fitting cotton shorts. Sweat immediately beaded between my breasts and at my hairline. I had pulled my hair into a loose tail for the game and vowed once again to get it chopped off at the next opportunity.

A body brushed by my side and I almost soiled my new shorts as I whirled, hands up in a defensive posture. Digger jumped back, a chagrined smile on her face, her hands also raised. "Sorry, Angel. It's just me. Musta been thinking about the game, huh?"

I returned the smile, though weakly. "Uh . . .yeah, Digger. You just startled me." I fought hard to keep the annoyance from sounding in my voice. "What are you doing out here so early?"

"I figured you'd want to get in some last-minute practice, so here I am." Her grin widened as her eyes roamed over my body. "You look real nice, Angel."