who'd made him feel the way Abby had. Kelly's sanctuary had proved anything but, and his relationship with her had died in its ashes. Mason hoped the past was not prologue.
He was surprised that it took less than forty-five minutes to reach Sanctuary from the urban comforts of his office. It was set on the ridge of a broad gentle rise, and Mason immediately understood why Centurion Johnson had chosen the location. The road he'd been on emerged from the woods into a freshly cut meadow of several acres that surrounded a large white three-story plantation-style house, complete with a widow's walk around the roof. The natural elevation gave the house an imposing setting, making it appear larger than it was while giving its occupants a commanding view of the countryside. Mason guessed that Centurion could see the downtown skyline twenty miles to the west from the widow's walk.
He parked his car in the wide circle drive, walking onto the veranda that wrapped around three sides of the house. A continuous message engraved on the railing in platinum paint read The New Century Investment Fund Veranda. A freshly painted red barn was emblazoned with the logo of the Commercial Bank Group. Next to it was a machine shed, according to the boldly painted billboard on one wall naming it the USA Telecom Machine Shed. The Mid-America Business Network had paid to have its name embossed on the tractor that was parked next to the shed.
The kaleidoscope of advertising reminded Mason of Centurion Johnson's successful fund-raising campaign for Sanctuary. Pronouncing himself a survivor of the streets, not a victim, Centurion sold Sanctuary with the fervor of a Sunday morning television evangelist. The land was donated, the buildings erected and furnished, and the doors opened to the miscast and maladjusted. Sanctuary provided refuge for young people fleeing abuse, both parental and substance, and a haven for the emotionally brittle. The permanent ads for the contributing sponsors were a constant reminder of the harsh reality of the real world. Follow the money.
Centurion told his sponsors that Sanctuary was no kick-back-meditate-blame-the-old-folks hideout for troubled kids. Not on his watch, he told them. It was a working farmstead. These kids work, clear the land, plant the crops, care for the livestock. Sure, he promised, they would get professional counseling. But they'd also get blisters and backaches from a hard day's work. Nothing like sweat and strain to clear your brain, he told one cheering audience of businessmen who responded by throwing money at him like it was confetti.
Sanctuary was the model for successful partnerships between the business and social service communities, a not-for-profit that made a return on its sponsors' investment by giving them a visible stake in its success. When Mason saw a Mercedes 500 SL parked in the open garage with a vanity plate that read Centurion, he recognized another harsh reality. If crime doesn't pay, good works surely do.
'You must be Lou Mason,' a voice said from behind him.
'That I am,' Mason said, turning around to a man dressed in denim and tie-dye, his graying hair pulled back in a short ponytail held in place by a leather strap. His round face was sun-lined, open, and friendly. His body was soft, and shaking his hand felt like squeezing a small feather pillow.
'I'm Terry Nix. We spoke yesterday.'
Sanctuary did not allow visitors without an appointment cleared in advance by the Executive Director. That was Nix. The policy prevented disruption of the work and therapy schedule, according to the web site. Mason had jumped through the hoops to meet Jordan Hackett, but he didn't like someone else controlling access to his client.
'Mr. Nix,' Mason said, 'I never know when I'm going to need to see Jordan. I assume you'll waive your appointment policy under these circumstances.'
'Call me Terry,' Nix said, giving Mason a pat on the back. 'We're in the problem-solving business here. I think we can handle that one. Let's go inside.'
Nix ushered Mason through the Phillips Pharmaceutical front hall, where a young woman, heavily pregnant, asked Mason to sign in and clip a guest badge to his shirt. They continued past the Kilbridge Foundation family room, down the S amp;J Railroad stairs, to the Hammond Industries Executive Director's Office. A secretary, also young and pregnant, sat at a desk outside the office, struggling with a word processing manual.
Nix's name was on the door too, though on an easily replaced magnetic strip. Nix sat on the edge of his desk, Mason standing, looking over Nix's shoulder at the framed diploma awarding Nix a master's degree in social work and family counseling from St. Louis University.
Plaques and certificates from grateful donors professing their admiration for Sanctuary's noble work flanked Nix's diploma. The one on the end caught Mason's eye. The certificate read For Outstanding Service. The donor was Emily's Fund, a name unfamiliar to Mason until he saw the signature at the bottom-Gina Davenport.
Mason gave up believing in coincidences when he gave up believing in the tooth fairy. He decided to save this one for later. 'Where's Jordan?' Mason asked.
Nix looked at his watch. 'She's digging postholes for a new stretch of fence. She should be back in about ten minutes.'
The Hacketts had shown Mason a recent picture of their daughter. She had long, straight, light brown hair and an angular, unremarkable face. She looked past the camera like she wasn't listening when the photographer told her to say cheese. Her lips were closed in a flat seam. The camera overlooked the anger that forced her from her parents' home, giving no sense that she was a woman who could dig postholes.
Nix asked, 'Why does Jordan need a lawyer?'
'Terry,' Mason answered, 'you know that's confidential.'
'Hey, man. I'm her counselor. I need to know these things to do my job.'
'Then you ask her. If she wants you to know, she'll tell you,' he said, echoing Claire's admonition about Abby. 'I thought Gina Davenport was Jordan's therapist.'
'All of our residents are assigned an on-site counselor. I'm Jordan's. Some of our residents also see a private therapist, but most can't afford it.'
'Her parents say that she lives here because she's too violent to stay at home. Are they right?' Mason asked.
'Lou,' Nix answered, 'you know that's confidential.'
Mason smiled. 'And if I tell you that I need to know so I can represent her, I'll bet you'll tell me to ask her.'
It was Nix's turn to smile. 'Same drill, man.'
Mason suspected that Nix was one of those touchyfeely types who made every roadblock, turndown, and obstacle feel like a damn shame he couldn't do anything about and wouldn't if he could. It was a soft-soap style of aggression that was too slippery to get a grip on.
'Are you and I going to get along on this, Terry?' Mason asked.
'Absolutely, man,' Nix answered with a grin that said 'not likely.'
'Any reason we won't?'
'Depends on what you're after. We do a good job here. Messed-up kids get a safe place to work, live, and get better. Most of them can't handle more of the real world than a hard day's work. Lawyers jack up the karma. That's a bad thing, Lou. Nothing personal.'
'Maybe I should talk to Centurion about the karma,' Mason said.
'Talk to me, baby,' Centurion Johnson said with a deep laugh from behind Mason. 'I love karma.'
Centurion stood just inside Nix's office, his shoulders blocking the frame, his head barely clearing the top of the door. His father was African-American, his mother East Asian, giving him a dark-skinned mix of racial features that defied easy characterization. Life on the street and time in the prison yard had given him a powerful, heavily muscled build that combined with his natural salesmanship to make him a force of nature.
Mason shook hands with Centurion, watching his own hand disappear in the process. Centurion's grip was solid and reassuring. His oversized grin was comforting. He looked like he was ready for the back nine, wearing bone-colored chinos and a washed-out pink polo shirt that strained against his chest and biceps. Mason tried to picture him selling dope and busting heads, but couldn't summon the image.
'Lou Mason,' he said as Centurion released his grip on his hand.
'Centurion Johnson,' the big man replied, drawing out his name like a ring announcer, making fun of himself. 'If you was my lawyer back in the day, I might never have done time. But if I never done time, I might never have straightened myself out. I woulda kept on dealin' and stealin' till some stone-cold motherfucker capped me with a nine. Then old Terry here be out of a job 'cause nobody gonna hire his sorry ass. Terry, I tell him, this ain't Haight Ashbury. It's fuckin' Missouri, man. Get over it. But these kids relate to him, you know what I'm sayin'? And without
