The Sanctuary, Page 3

  “And I see fit that every man must first recognize their true nature and come face-to-face with who they really are in full confession. This must happen before they can turn around and begin the true path of repentance and rehabilitation. As the good books say, only when you realize just how wretched you are can you climb to freedom. Will you allow me to take you on that journey, Danny?”

  “As long as I’m in your facility, my life isn’t my own,” Danny replied. “It’s yours.”

  The warden stared at him for a few seconds and then slowly offered a slight smile. “And so it is. In Basal, I am God. And if you’re going to reenter that fallen world out there, you must first understand the true nature of reward for good behavior and punishment for deviant behavior.”

  He slid a piece of paper across the desk and set a pen on top of it. “You are required to sign this waiver to participate in our program. Basal is outside the rest of the system, and as such there are special restrictions and rules. Take a moment to read it before you sign it.”

  Danny scanned the one-page document, which consisted of a list of behavioral rules and the forfeiture of several basic rights associated with visitation, mail, phone calls, and due process.

  Most lifers who’d spent time in another prison would see the waiver as a small price to pay for a more comfortable stay and an earlier release. Fish—new guys—who believed they were innocent might be less likely to sign, unless they had no case or representation. Clearly, the warden only wanted those who fit a particular profile in his prison.

  The waiver’s restrictions might make contact with Renee more difficult, but there was now another consideration boring through Danny’s mind. The warden seemed to suspect more about Renee than was on the books. How, Danny didn’t know, but the fact that Pape might represent a danger to Renee compelled Danny to learn more about the severity of the warden’s threat. He couldn’t do so locked down at Ironwood.

  Danny signed the waiver.

  “Thank you.” The warden stood, slid his chair under his desk, and began to pace, hands now behind his back.

  “My prison is unlike any other, hidden from prying eyes, and I intend to keep it that way. Consider yourself fully isolated from the influences that corrupted you. That includes phone calls, mail, and visitation, which are earned privileges. Not easily earned, as you will see. I have the full support of the director who oversees this prison, and he’s given me full authority. Due process is in place, but it’s quick, and my word stands without question.”

  He pulled the translucent lace drape aside with a long finger and peered outside.

  “As you have likely noted, we don’t favor typical prison slang. It’s critical that members forget everything they think they know about prison. This isn’t a prison, it’s my sanctuary. It’s a proper reflection of authentic life. I’m sure a man of the cloth can appreciate that.”

  He released the curtain and continued down the length of his desk.

  “We have three populations in our sanctuary. The commons wing is occupied by what’s called the general population at other institutions. A smaller privileged wing is for those who reject deviant behavior and demonstrate sincere progress. And then we have the meditation floor, what you might think of as administrative segregation, or the hole. It’s a travesty that inmates aren’t rewarded for good behavior in most prisons, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I can see that.”

  “It’s an equal travesty that they aren’t punished for deviant behavior. In our sanctuary reward is both earned and coveted. Do good and you will be richly rewarded. But fail me and you will suffer. As the book says, ‘An eye for an eye.’ Isn’t that how it works?”

  Danny’s mind was still on how Pape seemed to know so much about him. Typically a warden knew only what was in a prisoner’s file, which rarely held all the details of his crime. In the warden’s careful vetting process, he had obviously dug much deeper. Everything he’d mentioned was a matter of record somewhere.

  “I asked a simple question, Danny. Please answer.”

  “You would like my true opinion?”

  “Would I have asked for it if I didn’t?”

  “Then I would say an eye for an eye is best replaced by forgiveness, love, and mercy.”

  The warden nodded. “Yes, you would. We may have challenges, you and I. But in the end, you will see my wisdom. We don’t have an orientation period. You will leave me and go straight to the commons, where you will either learn the way things work on your own or be helped along by my staff. A handbook in your cell will lay out all of our rules, but let me highlight a few I’m partial to.”

  He cleared his throat and brought the back of his hand across his lips as if to dry them, then placed his fingertips on the desktop.

  “Foul language is not permitted under any circumstance. It only reinforces learned behavior. Violence of any nature is strictly prohibited unless approved by me. Any form of sexual conduct is strictly prohibited unless I deem it to be appropriate. This includes any form of homosexuality, masturbation, or inciting lewd discussion. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Some of the rules may seem pointless. I would advise you to follow them all to the letter. They’re in place to help you learn obedience, regardless of the nature of that obedience. Any infraction will be grounds for swift disciplinary action in a manner I see fitting. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He pressed the button on an intercom to his right. “Shari, please send Bostich in to transfer our new member to the commons.”

  He returned his attention to Danny. “As I’m sure you know, priests on the inside are often misjudged by others. They will see you as scum, an understandable sentiment. One of our members, a lifer named Bruce Randell, has a particular dislike of your kind for good reason and will try to make your life complicated. He’s not a kind man. I assume you will stay clear of him?”

  “I will do my best.”

  “I doubt your best will be good enough. Randell is a violent man.”

  “And yet he’s in your prison.”

  The warden smiled. “Yes, well, I do make exceptions to the rules when it suits our collective goal. A wolf or two in the sheep pen keeps everyone on their toes.”

  Danny had kept his former occupation to himself at Ironwood, because a priest in prison was too quickly suspected as a sex offender, the worst possible classification among prisoners. Even the most hardened criminals refused to tolerate rapists and pedophiles.

  It was senseless that a murderer could so harshly judge a rapist, but the society called prison had its own code, as unflinching as any law.

  It was ironic that Danny’s first victim had been a sexual predator.

  The latch on the door hummed and snapped open. Bostich stepped in and looked at Danny. The man was in his thirties and wore a buzz cut, black slacks, and a black short-sleeved shirt. His hair was bleached, if Danny was right. Yellowish brows hung over dark eyes, which were an oddity in his pale, blotchy face. The man was average height, but strong, with thick fingers.

  His eyes skirted to the warden. “Sir.”

  “Take our priest to his quarters,” Pape said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Danny stood and walked to the door. He knew nothing about Bostich other than that he was likely the primary enforcer at Basal. Already, he didn’t like the man. But this was his old judgmental nature rising. He set his disfavor aside and offered Bostich a nod, which was returned by an unflinching stare.

  “Oh, and Danny…”

  He turned to face the warden.

  “There’s a rapist in our sanctuary who continues to insist on his innocence. A dense young man named Peter Manning. I want you to see to him, help him understand his true wretchedness, the first step toward rehabilitation. Can you do that?”

  Danny hesitated. “I will do my best.”

  Pape tapped his fingertips on the desk and smiled. “Surely you know how to handle people who harbor dark secrets. How
you handle Peter may very well determine how it goes for you in Basal. Hell is a miserable place, Danny. Take care not to join Peter there.”

  3

  AS I SAID, my meltdown really began with that first breathy phone call.

  The priest is going to die.

  Danny. He was talking about Danny. I stood rigid for a count of three and then I was flying toward my bedroom. My first thought was of the nine-millimeter—the gun in the back of my closet, the one I hadn’t touched in three years. But my determination never to touch it again was already halfway out the window, because the nine-millimeter was the only thing I had that could blow a hole through the head of the man who’d just spoken to me on the phone. I wouldn’t hesitate if it meant protecting Danny.

  I made it to the edge of the bed before my mind caught up. I didn’t need a gun; I needed Danny. And Danny was in prison.

  I spun around and hurried back to the phone, thinking that Danny was probably already in transit to Basal. The images of that overturned transport van winked on, then off. Too neurotic. Impossible.

  The phone was harping its disconnect alert when I snatched it off the counter. I got a dial tone and with a shaking finger dialed the all-too-familiar phone number for Ironwood State Prison, whispering reason to myself.

  The line began to ring. I scanned the walls of my condo for holes and a peeping eye. But I would have noticed; I was too observant in my own environment to miss something so obvious. Who would want to watch me? One of Danny’s old enemies. Or mine. Ghosts from the past, that’s who.

  Calm down, Renee. Take a deep breath.

  “Ironwood State Prison.”

  “Yes, can you connect me with the warden?”

  A pause. I sounded like a frantic girlfriend or wife. The prison probably got them all the time.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  I calmed my voice as best I could. “Renee Gilmore.”

  The phone clicked, then began to ring through to the warden’s office. In prison, the warden might be God, but to get through to God you had to get through his secretary who, in this case, went by the name Susan Johnson.

  “Warden’s office.”

  “Thank God, thank God.” Still way too hyper. “I’m sorry, this is Renee Gilmore and my…a friend of mine is incarcerated there. Danny Hansen. FX49565. He was scheduled to be transferred today.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Gilmore?” Her tone was flat, the kind you might expect from someone trying to cope in a prison stuffed with twice as many inmates as the two thousand or so it was built to hold.

  “I need to find Danny.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I know you can’t just put me through, but I just received a threat on his life and if anything happens to him, I swear…You’ve got to get a message to him.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “At least put him into segregation.”

  “Calm down. If you’d let me get a word in edgewise I’d tell you that my records show that he was taken out at four this morning.”

  “Four? He’s gone?”

  “Try Basal, Mrs. Hansen.”

  “Gilmore,” I said, barely hearing myself, and hung up.

  I’d never been to Basal—no reason to. But I’d looked it up a few days earlier and printed out a map when Danny told me he was being transferred. There was no helpful information on the Internet, only a sentence saying that it was an experimental state facility geared toward rehabilitation for three hundred inmates. The prison system in California was stressed beyond capacity, in large part due to the fact that half of the prisoners who served their time came out of prison more jacked up than when they went in. The state had the highest recidivism rate in the country.

  The state aimed to change that and was searching for answers. Basal had gone live three years ago as part of that effort. As far as I was concerned, that much was good news. A prison devoted to rehabilitation had to be better than the overcrowded gangland called Ironwood.

  Then again, that was all I knew about Basal. All the other prisons in the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation had websites that provided at least a peek into their mysterious worlds.

  Not Basal. It was sealed up and locked down like Area 51. Tucked away in the Angeles National Forest south of Wrightwood, off of Lone Pine Canyon Road.

  Images of Nazi concentration camps that experimented on prisoners flashed through my mind. This was America, not Poland, but Basal was also a prison, and the prison system was a world unto itself, hidden from the rest of society. And I have an active imagination.

  The drive from Ironwood to Basal would take only a few hours. Danny had arrived and was probably already processed by now. Why would someone call me if they wanted to hurt Danny? Maybe it was a prank call. Or a ghost from the past come back to haunt Danny on the outside. Danny and me.

  I know about you, Renee.

  That first part of the call ballooned in my head and for a moment I wondered if it was part of a dream. No, I was awake. I might have had something close to OCD, and sure, I was a bit neurotic, but I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t hallucinating.

  I thumbed in 4-1-1 and paced. When I asked for the number for the Basal Institute of Corrections and Rehabilitation, the operator put me through.

  A warm female voice answered my call. “Basal.”

  “Yes, uh…hi. This is the prison?”

  “The Basal Institute, that is correct. How may I direct your call?”

  “I’m looking for a prisoner who was transferred this—”

  “Hold on.”

  She shuffled me on to the appropriate party. It was a real place with a real voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to a Nazi doctor. That was good, right?

  “Basal.”

  This second voice didn’t sound so warm.

  “Yes, I’m trying to reach an inmate who was transferred to your institution from Ironwood this morning. A Danny Hansen. Can you tell me if—”

  “Visitation is by approval only, every Tuesday.”

  “Well, fine, then I would like to schedule a visit.”

  “I’m sorry, it doesn’t work like that here. Visitation is an earned privilege. Once the member in question has earned visitation rights, you may request a visit, assuming you are approved.”

  “I’ve already been approved.”

  “Not for Basal, you aren’t.”

  The revelation set me back. It had taken me weeks to get approval to visit Danny at Ironwood.

  “Why not?”

  “The regulations at other institutions don’t apply at Basal. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait, like everyone else.”

  “Then I can schedule a call with him.”

  “No, ma’am. Phone calls are also an earned privilege. You have to understand, we’re not like the other prisons.”

  “Then how do I get in touch with him?” I demanded.

  “You don’t get in touch with him. Not until he earns the privilege and you’re approved.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  “How long?” I snapped, aware I was starting to boil over but unable to calm myself.

  “A month or two.” Her tone was now not only flat but unyielding.

  “I’m supposed to wait two full months before I talk to him? That’s ridiculous!”

  “We’re not a resort, ma’am.”

  “Can I get him a message?”

  “Once he earns mail privilege—”

  “I don’t have time to wait for him to earn his privileges, or send a letter. I need to get him a message now! His life depends on it.”

  “Are you his attorney?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Then you’ll have to wait until he earns the right to receive messages. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Wait!”

  I’d been pacing back and forth in front of the breakfast bar like a caged cat, hair on end, and I knew that I wouldn’t get anywhere
with this Nazi unless I calmed down. So I stopped, took a deep breath, and placed my free hand on the counter.

  “Fine. Okay, can you at least tell me if he arrived.”

  I heard the faint clatter of keys on a keyboard. “His name?”

  “Danny,” I said. “Danny Hansen. FX49565.”

  “We wouldn’t use his corrections number. Danny Hansen, you said?”

  “Yes, Danny Hansen.”

  The phone went silent. In an age when the Internet is faster than light, I always wondered why the prison computers are so slow.

  “He’s here,” she finally said.

  “He’s safe?”

  “He’s here, that’s all I can say.”

  My hand-on-the-counter trick failed me; my fingers coiled into a fist. “Someone called me a few minutes ago and threatened to kill him! Now don’t just sit there and tell me I can’t get that message to him. I want to speak to the warden!”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “The warden doesn’t take unofficial calls.”

  “This is an official call!”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to terminate this call.”

  “Wait! At least tell the warden what I told you.”

  She didn’t respond. But neither did she hang up. So I surged ahead.

  “Please, I’m begging you. Someone wants to kill Danny, you have to tell the warden that much. Aren’t life threats part of your concern?”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said.

  “You do that,” I snapped, and I disconnected.

  I was a mess, and it took me ten minutes to calm down enough to start from the top and start thinking straight. The way I saw it I had three options.

  One, I could sit around and wait for another breathy phone call, which in my condition was a clear impossibility.

  Two, I could hire an attorney and get a message to Danny that way, but it would still take a day or two, at least.

  Or, three, I could go to where Danny was and try to make something happen another way. What way, I had no idea. And that was a problem. Which brought me back to option two, which seemed as pointless to me.

  I was pacing when the doorbell startled me. Other than UPS deliveries from Amazon or a visit from either Jane or Sarah, my bell rarely rang. Jane, who’d rescued me from a dead battery in the parking lot two years earlier, had become my closest friend, and although she lived in a unit at the end of the complex, she knew to call first if she wanted to swing by. Same with Sarah, who I’d met at the school for truckers—long story.