Sanctuary (4 page)

“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.”

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.

I crossed to the door and cautiously peered through the eyehole. On the landing stood a rather large woman, warped by the lens so that she looked like a bowling pin wearing a blue dress. I released both dead bolts, cracked the door a foot, and peered out.

“Renee Gilmore?” the woman asked.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

In her hands she held what appeared to be a shoebox. She glanced around nervously. Her brown hair hung to her shoulders, crinkled by a bad do-it-at-home perm—surely she hadn’t actually paid someone to do that to her. She towered over me, all 250 pounds of her.

“You’re Renee Gilmore?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come in?”

“Come in? Why?”

“I’d rather not say, not out here.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated, fiddling with her thick fingers. Her pink polish was a good two weeks old, judging by the growth at the base of her nails. Chipped and scratched.

“Do you know a priest at Basal?” she asked in a husky voice.

Every alarm in my mind clanged to life. First a phone call, and now this? The woman went from being messy tramp to lifeline in less time than I could think it. I scanned the parking lot and sidewalks. “You’re alone?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you? How did you get here?”

“Constance. I got here on the bus. That’s all I can say.” She looked around again, like someone frightened she might be seen talking to me. If she was scared, I had even more reason to be.

I pulled the door open. “Hurry.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as she stepped in, I closed and locked the door. “Don’t touch anything.” That sounded rude. “I mean, I just cleaned. So what do you know about Danny? Have you seen him?”

“No. No, it’s not like that. I—”

“But you’ve heard from him? Or about him?”

“I was told to deliver this.” She held out the shoebox.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will it explode?”

“Hasn’t yet. Please, just take it.”

I took the box from her and examined the lid, which was sealed shut with masking tape. No name, no address, just an old Nike shoebox that held something other than a pair of shoes, judging by how light it was.

“I should open it?” I asked.

“Not now. I have no idea what it is. I was just told to give it to you, that’s all.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“You have to believe me, I have no idea what it’s about.” She hesitated. “But there’s something else.”

“What?”

She glanced around as if putting off saying what she really wanted to say.

“Do you mind if I have a drink of water?”

Not sure what else to do, I set the box on the counter, crossed to the cupboard, pulled out a glass, and filled it from the filtered-water spout at the sink. I handed her the glass. “Here.”

“Can I sit down?”

My first thought was
No, we don’t have time for sitting, just say it! And why’d you bring me a box?
But I immediately realized how absurd that would sound.

So I rounded the counter and waved her into the living room. “Sure, sit.”

“I have to get back. If Bruce finds out I told you this he’d flip his lid.”

“Bruce who? Tell me what?” She’d crossed to the couch but hadn’t taken a seat. “Sit down.”

Constance settled to the couch. Her glass was still full. She was trying to work up the nerve to tell me something. Already, my mind was seeing Danny lying in the center of the prison yard, bleeding on the ground with a shank sticking out of his back.

“Please, just say it. What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing that I know of. But he might be in some trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“I talked to Bruce two days ago. Bruce Randell. He’s in Basal.”

“Your husband?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend? Sister?”

“Let’s just say we know each other. He went down on a distribution conviction eight years ago and was transferred to Basal after it opened.”

I sat down on the edge of the stuffed chair facing her. “And? What about the priest?”

“If this gets back to Bruce…He’s got connections on the outside.”

“Whatever you tell me, I swear, not a soul will know.”