Sanctuary (18 page)

I saw the bloodied hand. Three fingers. The index digit was missing, cut off at the base. An image of the shoe box filled my mind and I swallowed against the nausea rising from my gut.

The boy stared up at me with the wildest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. Tears trailed through dust on his face.

“He…he cut off my finger.”

I lowered myself to both knees next to him and rested my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. We’re here to help you. What’s your name?”

But the boy was too overwhelmed to answer. It occurred to me that nearly a week had passed since I received the shoe box. If the finger sent to me belonged to this boy…

“He was moved here,” Keith said. “There’s no blood on the floor. The wound was cauterized. Did they hurt you anywhere else?”

The boy began to cry. He shook his head.

“Do you have a name?” I asked again. I had to know. I had to know because in my mind’s eye, this was Danny. And he was me. At the very least, the boy was here
because
of me.

“Jeremy,” the boy said.

My hand on his shoulder was shaking.

“Why can’t we take the restraints off, Jeremy?” Keith asked.

“He…he said the letter first. You…” The boy was so distraught that his words came out jumbled. “It’s under here; you have to read it first.”

Keith glanced at me, then pulled the blanket off the boy. His jeans were stained where he’d wet himself. In his lap lay yellow paper folded down to a two-inch square.

There was no food or water around that I could see. Keith picked up the note, shoved the flashlight under his chin, and quickly unfolded the paper.

I took a calming breath and gently rubbed the boy’s shoulder. “Okay, listen to me, Jeremy. I need you to tell me how long you’ve been here.”

“I don’t know.” And then, “A long time.” His face was wet with tears, flowing freely now.

“When did they take you? Do you remember what day it was?”

He stared up at me again, eyes pleading. “Sunday.”

“From where?”

“Pasadena,” he said.

“You live in Pasadena?”

But he only lowered his head and began to cry silently. Something in my mind began to break. Not because Pasadena meant anything to me, but because Jeremy was an innocent boy who lived in Pasadena and was abducted on Sunday so that Sicko could use his finger to make sure I got the message. Jeremy would suffer the rest of his life on my account.

I felt faint. He needed water, and I had water in the car, but for a few moments I couldn’t move. And then I was up and running for the door. Slipping on the gravel outside, dust flying. Lunging into the car for the water.

When I burst back into the warehouse, Keith was standing with both arms at his sides like a zombie, staring down at Jeremy, Sicko’s note in one hand, flashlight in the other, pointed at the ground. The sound of the car’s engine faded behind me, replaced by the pounding of my feet on the concrete.

“What is it?”

Keith didn’t respond.

“Why can’t we get him out of those things?” I demanded. “The poor kid’s been in here for a week!”

“You should read this,” Keith said. His voice didn’t sound right.

The boy’s chin was on his chest again, passed out again. Poor boy…I dropped to my knee and tilted his chin up. “Wake up, Jeremy.” His eyes slowly opened as I pressed the water bottle to his mouth. He drank thirstily, gulping like a bird. Water spilled down his chin, soaking his shirt. When he finally shifted his mouth from the bottle, he was already fading.

I set the bottle down. “We’ll get you out of here, I promise. You’re going home, Jeremy, okay? You’ll be home soon, I promise.”

Keith took my elbow and led me to the side. “Just read it.”

So I did, taking the flashlight from Keith to illuminate the note myself.

My hands began to tremble.

DANNY WAS ESCORTED
from the warden’s office clean, dressed in the blue slacks and tan shirt of the general population, bearing no mark or sign that he’d just spent two days in hell. The hub was half full of convicts playing checkers, watching television, wasting time an hour before lockdown.

Hustles were going down, bets were being made, arguments unfolding, scores settled, gossip passed, all with the warden’s approval. And only with it. Evidently, if a member proved his loyalty, he was allowed certain lenience. It would take some time to understand what limits could be pushed without reprisal. Danny had no intention of exploring those boundaries.

Mitchell led him past the cafeteria, past a door that led to the infirmary, to a short hall that opened to a gymnasium.

“Stay out of trouble,” the CO said, giving Danny a gentle shove through the double doors. He turned on his heels and left him standing alone.

The room was roughly half the size of a typical gym, all concrete. Gray walls, cement floor, open to the night sky above except for a wire mesh. Bright lights hung from metal beams overhead.

Some members were engaged in a game of pickup basketball around a netless hoop that jutted from the far wall. Pull-up bars were fastened to the adjacent walls, most in use by other members going through typical prison yard exercise routines.

The hard yard. No lines on the floor to mark courts, no nets for tennis or volleyball, no bins full of balls or stacks of weights. Just one hoop, the pull-up bars, and eighteen or twenty inmates. Among them: Randell, Slane, and two other knuckleheads he’d seen with them in the dining hall.

He was briefly tempted to turn around and walk out, but the warden had specifically sent him to the hard yard, clearly for a reason.

“You okay?”

Danny turned and saw that Godfrey and Peter had entered behind him, the old man wearing concern, Peter oblivious to anything but his own delight.

“The warden put me in the privileged wing.” Peter beamed. “You like my jeans?”

Indeed, he was dressed in a pair of jeans at least three sizes too large. He’d neatly tucked a bright red T-shirt, also oversized, into the waistband.

“You’re looking pretty snappy there, Peter. Where’d you get them?”

“From the warden. He gave me my own room in the privileged wing. It’s a big room and it has a pillow.”

“It does, does it? Well, I’m sure you deserve at least three pillows.”

The boy laughed, snorting once in his exuberance. “I can eat anytime I want, and they have chocolate milk. The warden is being nice to me.”

“Good.”

“He said that if I’m good, he won’t hurt you, Danny.”

Danny exchanged a quick glance with Godfrey, who forced a grin. The older man rubbed Peter’s shoulder. “The Pete’s living large, my friend. He’s finally made it. Isn’t that right, Peter?”

“Yup. And I’m going to be good. I promise.”

“Did the doctor check you?” Danny asked.

“He said I wasn’t raped. I was just scared, that’s all. Did…did the warden hurt you?”

“Not too much, no.”

“We’ll be good, and everything will be good. I promise, Danny. You can come live with me if you want.”

The exchange could hardly have been more surreal, standing in the hard yard, talking about being good so the warden wouldn’t hurt them. Such was Peter’s simple understanding of Basal. It broke Danny’s heart.

“I would like that.”

The boy’s eyes looked past Danny and went wide. Danny turned around to see Randell, Slane, and the two other cronies headed their way.

“We’d better go,” Godfrey said.

Slane’s hair was slicked back, his lips twisted.

“I need to stay. Peter…” When Danny turned back, the boy was gone.

Godfrey stepped up next to him. “You don’t need to do this, Priest.”

“Stop calling me that. And you’re wrong. I do.”

“I’ve seen him put a man in the hospital with one hit. You should leave.”

Randell was halfway to them, basketball under one arm, face drawn and red, whether from the heat or from anger, Danny didn’t know. Likely both.

“No one’s fighting. The warden set this up.”

“Like I said, you should leave,” Godfrey said.

There were three ways to handle Randell. The first and most obvious was to leave, as Godfrey suggested, but doing so would only postpone the inevitable confrontation, one which Danny was sure the warden intended.

The second was to stand up to the man. Even in Danny’s condition he was confident he could hurt Randell enough to plant permanent doubts in his thick head. But that choice would place Peter in terrible danger. It would also land Danny back in deep meditation.

The third option was the only course that made any sense to him.

“Go get the others,” he said to Godfrey.

“Say what?”

“The other members. As many as you can, get them in here. Be quiet about it.”

Godfrey hesitated only a moment, then spun and hurried out.

Danny walked forward, arms limp at his sides. He wouldn’t hurt Randell, but he could make the man second-guess himself. There were no guards that he could see. The other members had turned their collective focus on Randell marching across the concrete floor.

Such an obvious schoolyard confrontation would never have gone down at a prison like Ironwood, where inmates and gangbangers tended to be more calculating, waiting for the right moment to slip a shank out of their sock and shove it into a victim’s side before the guards could stop them.

But this was Basal, where each member was hardly more than a piece on the warden’s chessboard. Randell was approaching Danny only as intended by Marshall Pape, who was undoubtedly watching via one of the security cameras at this very moment.

Danny stopped when they were ten feet apart. “Good evening, Bruce.”

The man shoved the basketball at him and Danny caught it easily, then dropped it behind him.

“I realize we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Shut up, you FNG.”

Danny was tempted to smile but didn’t, out of respect. Instead he attempted respectful reason.

“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, my friend. Why don’t you just talk to me the way you would in any other prison? I’ve been called many things, never an FNG. But you can’t use common language in here because the warden finds it offensive. And we don’t want to upset the warden, do we? We’re not free men, you and I. We follow someone else’s rules to avoid terrible punishment.”

The patter of feet announced the arrival of other members through the door behind Danny.

“And so we should. As I recall, one of those rules is that we respect each other. To that end, I’ve given my word to the warden not to disrespect you in any way. All I want is to do my time in peace.”

Randell stood like a thick tree. His didn’t glare or crouch with fists clenched, he only watched Danny, expressionless. Suddenly composed. And in that unexpected calm, Danny saw Randell for what he really was, stripped of a role given to him by the warden.

A more dangerous man than he’d estimated.

Twenty or thirty members had made their way into the hard yard and fanned out now, all watching, wary and focused. There was no taunting, no agreement or disagreement. Vocal support or outrage would undoubtedly be noted and punished. They all seemed to know that what happened here was meant to happen. It was all part of the warden’s program.

Danny spread his hands. “Really, Bruce, you and I are on the same side. I respect you, you respect me, we both respect the warden, no one gets hurt, we all go home early. Those are the rules.”

“You’re missing something,” Randell said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re a priest.”

With that the man calmly walked up to Danny, balled his hand into a fist, and slugged him in the gut with enough force to shove him off his heels and back a foot.

The blow didn’t take his wind—he’d anticipated it—but his time on the wall had weakened him, and pain flared through his abdominal muscles.

“I’m not going to fight you, Bruce,” Danny said. “I only mean to show and earn respect. You should know that I’m not a priest.”

Randell blinked, perhaps caught off guard by Danny’s unflinching resolve. He stepped up and struck Danny on his chin, a bone-crunching blow that snapped Danny’s head around and dropped him to one knee.

Danny’s world spun, darkened for a moment, then slowly came back into view. The concrete was there, only two feet from his head, and he wanted to lie down. But that would only compromise his standing before them all.

The confrontation would have to end as he’d expected it must.

Danny slowly pushed himself to his feet. Blood trailed down his chin and dripped on smooth concrete.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said. His jaw ached and he wondered if it was broken. “I’m not your enemy. We’re all in this together.”

Randell’s calm broke then. His face darkened and his lips pulled back in a snarl. He came at Danny like a prizefighter, thundering his rage. And Danny let him come, knowing he would have to bear only a little more pain before it was over.

The man’s next blow glanced off his ear, inflicting a sharp pain like a knife to the side of his head. But it didn’t knock him down, so Randell threw his left fist in a wicked uppercut that landed squarely on the bottom of Danny’s chin.

He staggered back and felt his legs start to go.

“This is insane,” someone muttered.

It was the last thing Danny heard before Randell knocked him down with an elbow to the right side of his face. A boot smashed into his ribs. Another struck his neck.

Danny lay still, bleeding on the floor, only dimly aware of his surroundings now. If Randell killed him, then he would die and the warden would have no further reason to punish Peter, he managed to think.

And maybe then Renee would be safe.

“Break it up!” Mitchell, the skinny guard who’d wanted to Taser him in the basement, was yelling above the ringing in his head. “Get out, all of you!”

Hot breath whispered into his good ear. “The next time I’m going to break every bone in your face, Priest.”