Sanctuary (14 page)

“Deviance, on the other hand, can be measured by man. That’s why we have the law. To monitor and control behavior, not morality. Does that clear things up for you?”

“And should a member of society be punished if he deviates from that law to protest or prevent a grave injustice?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Danny? No? Then I’ll repeat myself. It is for a higher authority to decide what injustice to punish, and at Basal I am he. If a man doesn’t want his eye plucked out, he shouldn’t pluck out someone else’s eye. If your boy didn’t want to be hurt, he shouldn’t have hurt whoever he hurt to land himself in this hellhole.”

“He hurt no one. He is innocent.”

“Again, please pay close attention so that I don’t have to keep repeating myself.
No one
is innocent.
Everyone
is guilty. Injustice is in the heart of
every
man. Truth be told, the whole world belongs in here, where justice is true. It’s quite simple, really: you do wrong and you pay the price. The members of this institution should consider themselves fortunate enough to be given the privilege of learning this here, before they face much worse, wouldn’t you agree?”

No. But already Danny saw the futility of this exercise. No good could come of it. His only hope now was to make his position clearer for the members, irrespective of the warden.

“I’ve found that grace and love, which come from the highest authority, are better teachers than punishment,” Danny said. “But I’m sure you know that all too well. I suppose it’s why you have the privileged wing. I only wonder what grace can be shown to the guilty who live among the commons.”

The warden stared at him for a moment, then faced the rest, smiling. “You see, this is why I brought a priest here. His fancy words, his big heart—you would think you’re in
his
sanctuary. Such comfort for the masses. But he’s as guilty as the rest. A murderer like so many of you. And as for grace…”

He faced Danny, mouth flat now. “Grace is a sham. It’s only another word for obedience. As the good book says, if you only believe and accept you will be saved. What they don’t tell you is that belief and following are the hardest work. There is no free ride. Even your faith teaches that you must do something to be saved. And that belief is pronounced dead if not accompanied by good works. So you see, grace is no grace at all. All that matters is reward for obedience and punishment for deviance. And that, dear murderer, is what my sanctuary is all about.”

A slight but crooked grin twisted the warden’s face. “You do believe in punishment, don’t you, Danny?”

“I’m trying to understand it. The God I love
is
love. How punishment works within the context of that love is a mystery known only to him. My part is to love, not judge or punish. Morality
is
love. As such I try to be a moral being, finding love and grace in my heart.”

“Oh? And here I thought you believed that the end result of your actions is what determined your morality. Isn’t that how you justified your numerous vigilante murders as a priest? Killing evil men to free the oppressed under their thumb? Ring any bells?”

Danny’s heart stalled.
Numerous…

He was certain in that moment that the warden knew far more about his own unconfessed crimes than he had any business knowing. There was more to the man’s decision to bring him to Basal than Danny had first known.

And if Pape knew more about his guilt, he might also know about Renee’s. Concern swelled in his mind. He could not allow anything or anyone to compromise Renee.

“I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were,” the warden said. “And frankly, you’re still that same man, willing to unleash your wrath. Which is why you are here. I intend to show you that much.”

“By unleashing your own wrath on a boy like Peter? On the rest of us? We are both men trying to understand love and serve God.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Danny. In here,
I
am God. And you must be taught obedience, which begins with the understanding that you’re still rotten to the core. My punishment will help you see that.”

“By extending punishment, rather than grace?”

“Punishment wasn’t my idea, it was your God’s. I am only subjecting you to your own God’s way of correction.” He cocked his head, brandishing a daring grin. “You think my punishment for not following the prescribed way is harsh? I’m an angel, Danny. Far too softhearted, really. As the holy book says, ‘He that curseth his father or his mother shall surely be put to death.’ Do you see me stoning twelve-year-old girls? I’m not so harsh as your Jesus, who, according to Christian doctrine, was the same God who made that law.”

Pape’s eyes flitted to the other tables. “And if there’s one law that all of you should be eternally grateful I don’t borrow from the priest’s God, it’s that anyone who shows contempt for a judge should be put to death. So you see, relatively speaking, I’m a merciful man filled with grace.”

Danny held his tongue. Here then was the core of the dilemma that had haunted him for too many years. The great mystery that only elaborate theological arguments could attempt to unravel, finally acquiescing to blind belief.

“You’ve failed to make your case, Danny. The fact is, I think God was on to something. Punishment works. Everyone is guilty. And, clearly, as I’ve shown, his so-called free gift of grace isn’t free at all. You now live in the big house where I am your God. How you do your time depends on how well you follow the rules. And those rules include not crying out in the middle of the night as Peter did. He did the crime and now he will do the time, it’s simply the law. He should have known better.”

Pape looked at the captain. “Take the boy down.”

Bostich nodded at the facilitators, and two of them began to cross the room. Peter shifted behind Danny and grabbed his pant leg.

“Excuse me, sir, but I have one final request.”

The warden held up his hand and stopped the guards.

“Oh?”

“If not for my need to learn your ways, you wouldn’t have put Slane with the boy last night, and he wouldn’t have been in a position to cry out. I was the one who objected. Send me down instead of the boy. I’m the one who stands to gain more from learning your ways.”

The room could not have been more still. But by the look in the warden’s eyes, Danny wondered if Pape had anticipated this, wanted this. He was a master chess player, one step ahead at every turn.

“The boy paid his price last night,” Danny said. “I haven’t.”

“The boy wasn’t hurt.”

“Not his body, but you’ve crushed his spirit.”

The warden nodded. “The next time it’ll be more than his spirit. But since you insist…” The warden nodded at Bostich. “Take the priest deep.”

I SPENT TWO
more hours with Keith before he ducked out to run some errands. I’d shown him my kit, and, unless I’d completely misread him, he was impressed. Not with what I had, but with my knowledge of knives and guns. Naturally, I felt obligated to show him how each should be used. Sure, I didn’t look as natural as Danny or Keith, but, to use Keith’s words, I would get the job done.

He asked why I thought I needed all of it. The gun, he understood. The knives, sure, although the Bowie was a behemoth in my hands. The pepper spray, even the handcuffs—who doesn’t have a pair of handcuffs, right?

But the wire was a different matter. I told him it had come as part of a detective kit I’d ordered online. Truth be told, I don’t know why I thought I needed a wire. It’s not like I had any plans to run up behind a robber and strangle him until he dropped what was in his hands.

When I told Keith this, he smiled and shook his head. “No, but you’d be surprised how effective it can be in a tight spot. I’d say you take the folding knife, and the wire, nothing else.”

“The wire?”

“You can’t pack a gun, they’ll just take it from you. If they search you, they may find the knife, but the wire, they’ll never find. Not unless they strip search you.”

“Hide it where?”

“Around your hips. Under your jeans. If everything else fails and you still have use of your arms, you get to it and you get it around their neck from behind. Then you hang on for your life.”

Made sense. The knife went in my right pocket—I had to give them at least something to find.

The plan was simple: I would play the naïve damsel in distress, willing to do anything to save her man behind bars. Keith would approach from a side street and park his Ford Ranger in an alley one block away. If things went wrong, I would push the small reset button on a black wristwatch he’d given me. A page would be sent to his iPhone, which was tracking mine through its GPS. If things went terribly wrong, I had the wire and the knife.

I had a pair of short black leather Harley boots with inch-thick soles that I’d bought two years earlier, thinking they looked cute. After wearing them for a week whenever I went out, I decided they were too heavy and I hadn’t worn them since. I also had a black leather Harley vest I’d bought with the boots. Over a cropped red tank top I looked quite the biker chick. A skinny one with a white belly.

The Rough Riders bar was located on the Pacific Coast Highway in Long Beach. It was a fairly typical bar from what I could tell by its website, trying hard to appear inviting to nonbikers without alienating bikers.

I parked my Toyota in the small parking lot on the north side of Rough Riders at 9:55 and called Keith.

“I’m here.”

“Good. You’re sure you’re up for this?”

“Does it matter? My palms are slimy, what does that tell you?”

“It’s not too late to—”

“Of course it is. We both know I don’t have a choice.”

He said nothing.

“I can handle myself, right? I’ve been in worse situations, believe me. Just be ready to bail me out.”

“I’m right here, Renee. Anything happens, you page me.”

“What if they take my watch?”

“We don’t even know there will be a they. You just go straight to the phones and find whatever he’s left for you. Then get out. I’ll meet you at Brady’s Diner as planned. That’s all that’s going to happen.”

“What if they want me to do something crazy?”

“We’ve been over this. Anything illegal and you get to the bathroom and get me on the phone.”

“What if they’re listening to my phone right now?”

“Renee…”

“I know, too many what-ifs.”

“We
don’t
know. But this guy used a letter, not an e-mail, to deliver his demands. He doesn’t strike me as a tech-head.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know. But it’s a comforting thought. Just get in and get out. If I haven’t heard from you in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in.”

My questions were only my way of coping. We’d gone over all the details a dozen times already.

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Renee…”

“Yeah?”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No. I think you’re probably smarter than me. But the kind of people who would be connected to Randell are scum. Resist the temptation to set them straight. They also tend to have hair triggers.”

“Okay. I gotta go now.”

“Be careful.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” I said, then disconnected.

It was 9:59 when I stepped up to the door with the large red and blue neon sign that said Rough Riders. Seven bikes were parked out front, at least a few of them Harleys. The sidewalk was empty except for an older man with a cane who hobbled away with his back to me.

Okay, Renee…okay, just any biker chick in on a Thursday night, looking for her old man
.

I pushed the door open to the sound of Guns N’ Roses playing “Sweet Child of Mine” and stepped into the dimly lit establishment. The bar was to my left. Two bartenders served six or seven meaty guys and one woman seated on bar stools. A dozen tables with oak chairs sat on a well-worn wooden floor that ran up to a small dance floor. A railing separated the main bar from a brown-carpeted lounge that had two pool tables and a couple couches. The walls were lined with beer lights and biker paraphernalia.

All of this I saw at a glance.

That and the fact that the floor needed to be scrubbed and swept, that the poor lighting failed to hide stains on the walls from one too many thrown beer bottles, that a bad shampoo had failed to remove all the spill spots on the carpet. I was walking into bacteria heaven.

Two things I didn’t immediately see: One was the public phone. It was probably by the bathrooms around the bar. The second was the people, because I hadn’t come to meet the people, only get to the phone as quickly and quietly as possible.

But then my eyes took in the patrons and I found myself returning stares. Not one or two, but a dozen of the thirty or forty people in the bar, looking at the skinny white biker chick with the black leather vest who’d just entered their sacred realm. Ripe for the pickings.

From what I could see the room was seventy percent men, thirty percent women, half of them bikers, half wanting to be. Many of them had beards and even more had tattoos on their arms. They were mostly dressed the way you would expect biker chicks and dudes to dress, in jeans, T-shirts, and jackets or vests. A thin fellow with a silver chain looping from his pocket was slow-dancing with a girl who had a big bottom, but he was looking over her shoulder at me, not at her.

I avoided all their stares and walked along the bar, feeling their eyes on me. I headed to the left, where I saw the two prehistoric pay phones on the wall between the men’s and women’s bathrooms. It was even darker in the hall than in the bar.

So far so good.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, and my heart was beating like a jackhammer. There was no package on the ledge under the phones, no folders or envelopes on top of either, nothing but two phones long ago stripped of their phone books.

Relieved that the hallway was clear, I stepped up and frantically searched the first phone, ducking around it to get a better view of what might be under, above, or behind it. Nothing but years of crud. I grabbed the phone and tugged, half expecting it to tear free, but it didn’t budge.

So I hopped over to the second phone and bobbed around again. This time I saw the small folded note tucked underneath the metal box, and my heart missed a beat.

“Can I help you?”

One of the bartenders, drying a glass, had stuck his head into the hall—a tall guy with curly hair and long sideburns. He weighed at least three of me.

“No thanks.”

“You need change for the phone?”

“No. I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Well that’s a phone, honey, not a door opener. Bathroom’s to your left.”

“Not a door opener, huh?” Keith’s warning not to help people see the errors of their ways whispered warning in my mind. I took the three steps to the bathroom door and turned back. He was still looking.

“I collect old phones,” I said, offering him a dumb smile. “Someday they’ll be worth a mint.”

“Huh. Never thought about it that way.”

I ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Took a few calming breaths. Okay, I had to look more natural, not like some junkie searching for loose change and making strange comments about collecting phones. But at least I’d found the note.

“Wow, those boots are adorable.”

I jerked my head to the side. There was an open toilet stall facing me, and on the pot sat a woman. She was peeing. Her eyes were adoring my boots in a way that made me wonder if she wanted to confess a fetish.

“I always liked those kind of boots,” she said. “You get them at the Harley shop?”

The place smelled like fake pine-tree spray and urine, and it occurred to me that with every sharp inhalation I was breathing in thousands, maybe millions, of bathroom bugs.

“I got them online,” I said. “Same with the vest.”

She said something about her birthday, but I was already halfway out the door, relieved to see that the bartender was gone. Using my thumb and finger, I pinch-plucked the note out from under the phone and unfolded it. The sheet was one of those tiny pages ripped out of a spiral-bound notebook. It was too dark to read the words, but I immediately recognized the handwriting.

Sicko.

I edged down the hall into better light and read the four words written in red ink.

Dance with the bear.

I turned the note over. Nothing. That was it.

Dance with the bear.

My mind raced, considering a retreat to the bathroom to think through the meaning of the instructions. But there was a woman who adored my boots peeing in there. Dance with the bear—what was the bear? Wasn’t that Russia? Dance with a Russian bear? I imagined myself doing a Russian folk dance, but no, that couldn’t be what Sicko wanted. He wanted me to steal a million dollars.

Was
bear
another term for prison? A judge? A powerful woman with a beard? Or was it a who? If so, the note would have said just bear.
Dance with Bear
with a capital B. Not
Dance with
the
bear
with a small B.

I had the note. I should go back out to the street and call Keith, who at least would have an opinion on what Sicko could possibly mean. If he wanted me to rob a bank, why didn’t he just say that? But then I knew, didn’t I? Sicko was more interested in unraveling Danny and me than in getting the million dollars. That was Randell’s interest, not Sicko’s.

I shoved the note into my left jeans pocket and made a beeline for the main room. Head down, eager to get out and breathe some fresh air, I passed by the patrons seated at the bar. But halfway to the door I glanced up. In that single glimpse, I saw the four men gathered around the table closest to the dance floor. They all had tattoos and beards. Three of them wore vests with patches. Two of them were staring at me.

One of them wore a black T-shirt with the words Don’t Screw with the Bear written above an image of a roaring bear head.

The man’s eyes held mine and he winked.

I made it to the street in five seconds flat and had Keith on the phone in another five.

“You good?”

“No, not really. He says ‘dance with the bear.’”

Keith paused. “The note said ‘dance with a bear’?”

My hands were shaking. “There’s a man in there with a T-shirt that says Don’t Screw with the Bear.”

“And the note just reads ‘dance with the bear’?”

“The man winked at me.”

“He winked?”

“Sicko wants me to dance with the fat, bearded man in the T-shirt. The bear-man is working with him.”

“Hold on, we don’t know that. You sure there was nothing else on the note?”

I turned and looked back at the red and blue neon Rough Riders sign. “He wants me to dance with the bear. It’s the man with the shirt.”

“Maybe, but we have to be certain.”

“He winked at me, Keith! What else do you need?”

I could hear Keith’s silence and it only reinforced my conviction.

“If I don’t—”

“It’s a test,” Keith interrupted.

I headed back, walking on feet that seemed to move on their own now. The letter in my apartment claimed I would find my next test at the phone in the Rough Riders. I had found that test. It was to dance with the bear. The man in the T-shirt was that bear. If I was wrong, I would find out soon enough, but if the man
was
the bear and I didn’t dance with him, Sicko would make Danny pay.

“I have to find out,” I said.

“You’re going to dance with him?”

“I have to. Right?”

A beat.

“Just don’t get yourself in any trouble, Renee. Don’t do anything rash. Stay calm.”

“I have to go.”

“Call me as soon as you get out. Please, just be careful.”

“I’m a very careful person, Keith. You’ll get to know that about me.” I hung up the phone, shoved it into my pocket, and turned into the Rough Riders bar.

For the second time in ten minutes the skinny white girl with the black leather vest and the heavy but adorable Harley boots stepped into the realm of bikers and wannabe bikers. But this time she did not stop at the entrance and take note of how dirty the place was.

This time she walked straight toward the table with the four men closest to the dance floor and looked directly into the eyes of the man wearing the Don’t Screw with the Bear T-shirt.

I was halfway to the table, determined to deal with the bearded man, when another man stepped away from the bar and looked down at me with smiling brown eyes.

“How ’bout I buy you a drink?”

I almost pushed past him but then thought better of it. He looked like a regular here, sidled up to the bar as he’d been, and it occurred to me that he might be able to help me.

“A drink?”

“Sure. Just a friendly drink. You look like you could use one, darling.”