Sanctuary

“Why wouldn’t it be? The warden handpicks his prisoners.”

“True. He’s even got the knuckleheads by the gonads. It’s not just the carrot, my friend. There’s more down in that basement than a cold hole. You buck the system and you pay a price.”

Godfrey glanced at the bars and lowered his voice. “In my time I’ve seen three men commit suicide, all of them knuckleheads, and I swear not one of them did it to themselves. That’s just the way it is. He’s got a little heaven and a little hell laid out like a smorgasbord, and he makes the choice pretty easy. Just like on the outside.”

“Hustlers?”

“Sure, we got all kinds, everybody has their thing, but it’s all pretty much either aboveboard or immediately exposed and punished. Nothing happens the warden doesn’t know about, trust me. If there’s a hustle going on, it’s only because he allows it. There’s no freedom here. Pape controls every syllable uttered in this prison. Sometimes I think half the staff doesn’t even know what’s really happening.”

“So it’s not all aboveboard.”

“I’m not talking about the hustles and tattoos or what not. I’m talking about what’s really going on. And visitation? Forget it.”

It was the first thing Godfrey said that struck a raw nerve.

“Unless you’re in the east wing, and then only if he can trust you. ‘Come out from among them and be separate,’ as the book says. Keeps you safe from what destroyed you, he says.”

“I’m surprised his policy isn’t challenged.”

“By who? You have an attorney?”

“No need for one.”

“Exactly. Like you said, he handpicks his prisoners. The ones who don’t have a case or the resources to bring a case. You have anyone on the outside who would help you?”

His mind filled with an image of Renee marching up to the gate upon learning that she was barred from visiting him. She would go ballistic if she learned that contact with him was being cut off indefinitely.

Danny stood and ran his fingers through his hair. On the other hand, if he could manage his way into the east wing and earn both visitation rights and an early release, he would be able to tend to her needs.

Dear God, he missed her. It was difficult to reveal the true nature of his longing to be with her without causing her more anxiousness. If she knew the extent of the suffering their separation caused him, she would never consider moving on to build a new life without him. And yet, considering her nature, he was sure she needed constant companionship. His own need for her loyalty and love was superseded by his need to see her at peace and comfortable, even if the transition proved to be difficult.

But now…what if there was a way to get out early? A legal way.

“How long does it take to get into the east wing? Assuming you play by the warden’s rules.”

Godfrey shrugged. “I’ve seen it done in six months. But he cycles them out as fast as they go in. Any deviant behavior, and I mean crossing-the-road-on-the-wrong-day kind of deviant behavior, and you’re back where you started from. Welcome to the sanctuary, Priest.”

“Please, don’t call me that.”

“No? Might as well get used to it, they’re already calling you that.” The older man stood. “If I was you—and this is just me, understand—I would learn the rules, follow his laws to the letter, and take your abuse. Let them think they’re breaking you. It’s in their blood. In the Pape’s universe, everyone is guilty and deserves punishment. Heck, he’d put the whole world in here if he could. Follow the Godfrey and you won’t go wrong.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And so that you know, the only people who will talk to you during your so-called indoctrination are those the warden’s determined fit to speak to you. You’ll feel like a leper out there, but it’s by design. The good news is, you get me. If you let me, I’ll talk your ear off.”

“Speak all you like. Although I’d prefer it if you didn’t snore too loudly.”

“Then we’re good. I’ll sleep with my blanket over my head.”

Danny chuckled. “No need, my friend.”

Godfrey gave him a whimsical look. “You may insist, my priest.”

“What do you know about an inmate named Peter Manning?”

“Members, not inmates. Remember that. And the guards are facilitators. They’re just here to help us see the light. The warden’s very particular about words. And whatever you do, don’t swear. It took me three months to learn how to speak right.” He walked to the bars and peered down the tier. “Why do you ask about Peter?”

“The warden asked me to help him out.”

Godfrey looked away, frowning. “Pete’s in for statutory rape. He’s twenty years old and his story’s going to break your heart and get you in trouble, mark my words. He moves like clockwork—he’ll be in the dining room in half an hour. You can hear the story from him if you can get him to talk. But I’m warning you, tread carefully. You can’t save him.”

“I’m not here to save anyone.”

The man didn’t respond, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts clearly enough. We’ll just see about that. You never knew what kind of cell mate you would find in prison. Danny couldn’t imagine a better one than this old character who spoke what was on his mind.

“Just curious,” Danny said, “since you asked me, what’s your story?”

“Me? I was once a philosophy professor at UCLA. That was sixteen years ago. I’ve been serving Father Time ever since for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“And what crime was that?”

“I was framed for the tsunami that killed all those people in Indonesia. Unfortunately, I no longer have the resources to appeal the verdict.” He said it without the slightest hint of humor. “But don’t you worry about that, Priest. You have bigger worries.”

“Is that right? And what would they be?”

“Bruce Randell,” Godfrey said. “You’re not careful and he’ll kill you.”

5

SEEING THE MANGLED, bloodied finger in a shoe box, I reacted as any normal person sent a piece of her husband’s body might. I rushed to the sink and threw up.

My illness came at the thought of that finger belonging to Danny, but whether it actually was Danny’s finger, I couldn’t know. It was way too mangled to tell. Either way, my world was caving in on itself. Danny’s life was in danger. So was mine.

I stood over the sink, shaking, mind racing. I couldn’t go to the police, that much I knew. Whoever was behind this knew too much about our past. Questions would be asked. People would talk. Both Danny and I would go down.

I didn’t have time to figure out who Bruce Randell was by researching the particulars of his incarceration and looking for details about his case. That was a long shot at best. I had to get to Danny, and there was only one way I knew to get to him. I had to go to Basal.

Impulsively, without even taking the time to look again, I wiped the vomit off my lips, grabbed the shoe box, and dumped the contents, tissue and all, into the garbage disposal. I flipped the switch. Three seconds of chunking and scraping later, the thing was gone, and only then did I wonder if I’d sent valuable evidence into the sewer system.

Danny had once cut things off of people. Maybe someone was returning the favor.

I had to get to Danny. He had to be alive. I knew that from my call to Basal earlier. If he was alive, I would find a way to get to him.

Basal was located in the high country, north of Rancho Cucamonga, far beyond my regular stomping grounds, which pretty much consisted of my condo, north Long Beach, and Ironwood State Prison. I wasn’t one for exploring just for the thrill of it. For starters, I hated the traffic in Southern California, especially the freeways, which were anything but free. They were their own kind of overcrowded prison—thousands and thousands of steel boxes crammed together on concrete with their prisoners staring ahead for hours on end. Then again, I suppose