life, Travis was convinced he could never be forgiven. But he was curious.
'We've had several men from the halfway house,' Keith was saying. 'I've even held services there.' They were in a corner of his office, away from the desk, two new friends having a chat in saggy canvas chairs. Nearby, fake logs burned in a fake fireplace.
'Not a bad place,' Boyette said. 'Sure beats prison.' He was a frail man, with the pale skin of one confined to unlit places. His bony knees were touching, and the black cane rested across them.
'And where was prison?' Keith held a mug of steaming tea.
'Here and there. Last six years at Lansing.'
'And you were convicted of what?' he asked, anxious to know about the crimes so he would know much more about the man. Violence? Drugs? Probably. On the other hand, maybe Travis here was an embezzler or a tax cheat. He certainly didn't seem to be the type to hurt anyone.
'Lot of bad stuff, Pastor. I can't remember it all.' He preferred to avoid eye contact. The rug below them kept his attention. Keith sipped his tea, watched the man carefully, and then noticed the tic. Every few seconds, his entire head dipped slightly to his left. It was a quick nod, followed by a more radical corrective jerk back into position.
After a period of absolute quiet, Keith said, 'What would you like to talk about, Travis?'
'I have a brain tumor, Pastor. Malignant, deadly, basically untreatable. If I had some money, I could fight it- radiation, chemo, the usual routine-which might give me ten months, maybe a year. But it's glioblastoma, grade four, and that means I'm a dead man. Half a year, a whole year, it really doesn't matter. I'll be gone in a few months.' As if on cue, the tumor said hello. Boyette grimaced and leaned forward and began massaging his temples. His breathing was heavy, labored, and his entire body seemed to ache.
'I'm very sorry,' Keith said, realizing full well how inadequate he sounded.
'Damned headaches,' Boyette said, his eyes still tightly closed. He fought the pain for a few minutes as nothing was said. Keith watched helplessly, biting his tongue to keep from saying something stupid like, 'Can I get you some Tylenol?' Then the suffering eased, and Boyette relaxed. 'Sorry,' he said.
'When was this diagnosed?' Keith asked.
'I don't know. A month ago. The headaches started at Lansing, back in the summer. You can imagine the quality of health care there, so I got no help. Once I was released and sent here, they took me to St. Francis Hospital, ran tests, did the scans, found a nice little egg in the middle of my head, right between the ears, too deep for surgery.' He took a deep breath, exhaled, and managed his first smile. There was a tooth missing on the upper left side and the gap was prominent. Keith suspected the dental care in prison left something to be desired.
'I suppose you've seen people like me before,' Boyette said. 'People facing death.'
'From time to time. It goes with the territory.'
'And I suppose these folks tend to get real serious about God and heaven and hell and all that stuff.'
'They do indeed. It's human nature. When faced with our own mortality, we think about the afterlife. What about you, Travis? Do you believe in God?'
'Some days I do, some days I don't. But even when I do, I'm still pretty skeptical. It's easy for you to believe in God because you've had an easy life. Different story for me.'
'You want to tell me your story?'
'Not really.'
'Then why are you here, Travis?'
The tic. When his head was still again, his eyes looked around the room, then settled on those of the pastor. They stared at each other for a long time, neither blinking. Finally, Boyette said, 'Pastor, I've done some bad things. Hurt some innocent people. I'm not sure I want to take all of it to my grave.'
Now we're getting somewhere, Keith thought. The burden of unconfessed sin. The shame of buried guilt. 'It would be helpful if you told me about these bad things. Confession is the best place to start.'
'And this is confidential?'
'For the most part, yes, but there are exceptions.'
'What exceptions?'
'If you confide in me and I believe you're a danger to yourself or to someone else, then the confidentiality is waived. I can take reasonable steps to protect you or the other person. In other words, I can go get help.'
'Sounds complicated.'
'Not really.'
'Look, Pastor, I've done some terrible things, but this one has nagged at me for many years now. I gotta talk to someone, and I got no place else to go. If I told you about a terrible crime that I committed years ago, you can't tell anyone?' – Dana went straight to the Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections and within seconds plunged into the wretched life of Travis Dale Boyette. Sentenced in 2001 to ten years for attempted sexual assault. Current status: incarcerated.
'Current status is in my husband's office,' she mumbled as she continued hitting keys.
Sentenced in 1991 to twelve years for aggravated sexual battery in Oklahoma. Paroled in 1998.
Sentenced in 1987 to eight years for attempted sexual battery in Missouri. Paroled in 1990.
Sentenced in 1979 to twenty years for aggravated sexual battery in Arkansas. Paroled in 1985.
Boyette was a registered sex offender in Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma.
'A monster,' she said to herself. His file photo was that of a much heavier and much younger man with dark, thinning hair. She quickly summarized his record and sent an e-mail to Keith's desktop. She wasn't worried about her husband's safety, but she wanted this creep out of the building. – After half an hour of strained conversation and little progress, Keith was beginning to tire of the meeting. Boyette showed no interest in God, and since God was Keith's area of expertise, there seemed little for him to do. He wasn't a brain surgeon. He had no jobs to offer.
A message arrived on his computer, its appearance made known by the distant sound of an old-fashioned doorbell. Two chimes meant anyone might be checking in. But three chimes signaled a message from the front desk. He pretended to ignore it.
'What's with the cane?' he asked pleasantly.
'Prison's a rough place,' Boyette said. 'Got in one fight too many. A head injury. Probably led to the tumor.' He thought that was funny and laughed at his own humor.
Keith obliged with a chuckle of his own, then stood, walked to his desk, and said, 'Well, let me give you one of my cards. Feel free to call anytime. You're always welcome here, Travis.' He picked up a card and glanced at his monitor. Four, count 'em, four convictions, all related to sexual assault. He walked back to the chair, handed Travis a card, and sat down.
'Prison's especially rough for rapists, isn't it, Travis?' Keith said.
You move to a new town; you're required to hustle down to the police station or the courthouse and register as a sex offender. After twenty years of this, you just assume that everybody knows. Everybody's watching. Boyette did not seem surprised. 'Very rough,' he agreed. 'I can't remember the times I've been attacked.'
'Travis, look, I'm not keen on discussing this subject. I have some appointments. If you'd like to visit again, fine, just call ahead. And I welcome you back to our services this Sunday.' Keith wasn't sure he meant that, but he sounded sincere.
From a pocket of his Windbreaker, Boyette removed a folded sheet of paper. 'You ever hear of the case of Donte Drumm?' he asked as he handed the paper to Keith.
'No.'
'Black kid, small town in East Texas, convicted of murder in 1999. Said he killed a high school cheerleader, white girl, body's never been found.'
Keith unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a copy of a brief article in the Topeka newspaper, dated Sunday, the day before. Keith read it quickly and looked at the mug shot of Donte Drumm. There was nothing remarkable about the story, just another routine execution in Texas involving another defendant claiming to be innocent. 'The execution is set for this Thursday,' Keith said, looking up.
'I'll tell you something, Pastor. They got the wrong guy. That kid had nothing to do with her murder.'
'And how do you know this?'
'There's no evidence. Not one piece of evidence. The cops decided he did it, beat a confession out of him, and
