The Sanctuary

by Ted Dekker

  “Renee…” He’d walked up behind me. “I’m sorry, I know how much you care for Danny.”

  Images of Danny spun through my mind. Whips and chains and knives and blood. His enemies would hurt him now, I was sure of that. What if they cut off Danny’s arm? Or his foot? What if they cut out his tongue?

  Sometimes my mind seemed incapable of turning itself off. Keith put his arm around my shoulder. I know he was trying to comfort me, but I almost resented him for it because really, it should have been Danny standing next to me, not Keith.

  He was a good man, the broken cop, but I wanted my broken priest.

  What would Danny do?

  He would lay down his life if he had to, and that was what scared me most.

  I couldn’t break down. Jeremy was waiting. So I swallowed the pain in my throat, took a deep breath, breathed a prayer, and put my hope in Danny, which was the best I could do in that moment.

  “Danny’s a strong man,” I finally said. “He might not be as easy to hurt as Randell thinks he is.”

  And then I walked into the warehouse to save the boy.

  19

  MONDAY

  THE INFIRMARY AT the Basal Institute of Corrections and Rehabilitation was large, considering the size of the prison. Nothing less than a top-notch facility that met the highest standards for professional medical care, in or out of prison. Danny wasn’t a stranger to hospitals. He’d spent time healing in several during the Bosnian War and even more time visiting patients as a priest. The level of sophistication at Basal surprised him. Certainly it was a far cry from the more clinical atmosphere at Ironwood.

  He’d awakened in the ward eight hours after taking his beating in the hard yard, his head splitting with pain, still groggy from whatever medications they’d injected into his system, but otherwise sound. His lip was cut and swollen, and his ear had required several stitches, but none of his wounds prohibited his return to the commons.

  The warden’s orders, however, did. It was for his own safety, the nurse had informed him. Basal’s policy was to segregate injured members long enough for the warden to stabilize the situation.

  The infirmary was laid out like an emergency room, with six spaces separated by drawn blue curtains, each of which contained a hospital bed, an IV stand, and a sealed rolling cart that housed various instruments, none of which were pertinent in Danny’s case. Twelve recovery rooms housed longer-term patients on both sides of the hall outside the primary care facility.

  In most prisons, patients who needed critical care were transported to hospitals and then returned upon recovery, but with the high quality of care available at Basal, only members with more serious medical conditions were transferred. It was yet one more way the warden limited his members’ contact with the outside world.

  Danny learned that a doctor had inspected him and sewn up his ear, but otherwise the only human contact Danny had was with a male nurse, Garton Kilburn, a large fellow with unflinching eyes, few words, and no evident emotions.

  “Looks like you’ll be fine,” the man said after a cursory inspection of Danny’s wounds on the first day. He wore blue scrubs over a white shirt and carried a stethoscope around his neck.

  The nurse checked the leather restraints that tethered Danny by the wrists and ankles to the bed’s steel rails, standard operating procedure following a fight.

  Danny lifted his right arm as far as the bindings would allow, no more than six inches. “I think it would be best if I moved around a bit, don’t you think? My joints could use some loosening up.”

  The man offered him a curt nod and left him without a word, his version of whatever. Danny was their property and would be allowed to move around when they determined him either fit or deserving.

  In Danny’s case, that was two days later, in the evening, long after his joints had all but frozen in place following his time on the wall and his subsequent beating. During those two days, he’d spoken only to Garton Kilburn and only on three occasions. None of the conversations had proven more inspiring than the first. The man’s function was evidently limited to delivering trays of food three times each day, freeing Danny of all but one restraint so that he could use a commode rolled in twice each day, and changing the bandage on his ear twice before removing it altogether.

  Considering the nature of deep meditation, the medical staff likely attended to inmates whose bruising would raise the most eyebrows. They, as much as the correctional officers who knew about deep meditation, would have earned the warden’s trust. Connecting with their patients in a personal way that might test that trust was obviously not part of the program.

  Odd, how being property of the state changed a person’s outlook on freedom and identity, Danny thought. Three years earlier, accepting this kind of treatment would have been inconceivable. The war in Bosnia had filled him with a profound need to protect the abused, and that need had extended to protecting his own life. But he’d walked into the hard yard and let Randell hit him without raising a finger to protect himself. Not once but three or four times, with enough power to kill most men.

  Why? To what end?

  Was he less of a man now than when he’d taken up a gun at age fifteen and avenged his family’s deaths?

  Was he weak in the face of Peter’s suffering?

  He’d taken a vow of nonviolence and he intended to stand by it. Judge not lest you be judged; turn the other cheek; love your enemy; rather than rebel against the authorities who stripped you of your dignity and slaughtered thousands, bow to them and pay them their tax. These were the precepts that had finally drilled their way into his heart.

  But he could not shake the questions that begged him to reconsider.

  Was it even possible to follow that way when boys like Peter stood in your path, begging for help?

  But, no. No, he couldn’t go down that path again. It was precisely that kind of questioning that had led him to violence in defense of the helpless.

  A correctional officer came for him on the second night after dinner. Danny’s muscles still ached, his joints were stiff, a dull ache still hung in his head like an iron weight. Once again he was led through the hub. Once again he climbed the stairs to the second tier in the commons wing. Once again he was ushered into his cell.

  There was a change in the others this time, he thought. The member in the hub watched him with more than just mild curiosity. They wore uncertain faces, either confused by or genuinely interested in him, perhaps a little of both. The prisoners along the tier moved back from the railing without being told to.

  This didn’t mean they’d found more respect for him. In all likelihood word of his beating solidified his reputation as a weak prisoner. He was prey for the predators, the kind of man who could not stand up and defend himself or his brother. A punk. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in prison to win approval, only to do his time.

  Peter was in the cell with Godfrey, waiting for Danny. This was surprising, considering the danger that he might find in the commons now as a resident of the privileged wing. Clearly, the boy saw him as his savior.

  “Danny!” the boy blurted, bolting off the lower bunk. Peter bumped his head on the frame, but the blow didn’t discourage him from stumbling forward and throwing his arms around Danny.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  “You’re back!”

  “I am.”

  Danny patted the boy on the back, shifting to maintain his balance. Peter’s tight hug aggravated the pain in Danny’s ribs, and he was thankful when the boy released him of his own accord.

  Godfrey grinned, one hand on the bunk, the other in his pocket. “Anybody who can take a beating like that and walk out of the grave three days later is a priest in my book,” Godfrey said.

  “It’s been two days.”

  “Either way.”

  “Simon says you’re a strong man and that I should thank God I have a strong man on my side,” Pete said.

  Danny offered the boy a slight smile, but he wanted none of the conve
rsation, not now.

  Pete stared at his stitched ear. “Why did you let him beat you up, Danny?”

  Once again, Danny was confounded by the irony of innocence held captive in such a brutal environment. The boy was guilty of deviating and was paying his price without really understanding either the rules or the price.

  “You crazy, man.” Kearney had walked up behind Danny and leaned on the door, bright eyes twinkling. “And you still walkin’.”

  “Not crazy, no. I just don’t like fighting.”

  “Don’t worry, Danny,” Peter said, beaming. “It’s not like that in the privileged wing. It’s nice.”

  Danny grinned at the boy and rubbed his head. “Well, I’m glad for you. They’re treating you well then?”

  “I have chocolate milk in my room. And last night I had a steak. That thick.” He pinched an inch of air with his thumb and forefinger. “It was juicy.”

  “Steak,” Godfrey said. “Now there’s something I would be willing to spend a day in the hole for.”

  “You can come!” Peter exclaimed, eyes darting between them. “You can both come. If you’re good, you can have all the steak you want. And I have a new friend. His name is Jack.”

  “Seriously, why’d you do it, Priest?” Kearney asked.

  Danny walked to the sink and turned the water on. “Like I said, I don’t like to fight.”

  “Ya, but to git yur butt whooped like that…They sayin’ we got a half-baked priest here.”

  He splashed water on his face. There was nothing more that needed saying. Maybe he was half-baked. Silence filled the cell behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that they were watching him.

  “They take you deep?” Godfrey asked, voice softer now.

  Danny grabbed a towel from the top of his locker and shook it open. The warden had made it clear that no discussion about deep meditation was allowed. For all Danny knew, his mention of the experience would find its way back to Pape and all four of them, including Peter, would pay a price.

  He shoved his head into the towel and dried his face. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired. What time is it?”

  No one responded.

  Danny pulled the towel from his face and turned toward the door. Kearney, standing there only a moment ago, was gone. In his place stood Warden Marshall Pape, watching Danny, one hand in his pocket fiddling with keys or coins, the other limp at the bottom of his black suit jacket.

  “It’s almost eight, Danny,” the warden said. “Time for Peter to leave us.”

  Peter stood still, transfixed by the sight of his greatest oppressor.

  The warden stood aside and indicated the walkway with an open palm. “It’s okay, boy. Run along.”

  Peter hurried past him, turned down the tier, and was gone.

  Pape stepped into the cell. “I hear you took quite a beating,” he said in a gentle voice.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. You’ve proven to be quite a stubborn man, I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  The soothing tone of his voice would have come across as disingenuous before their most recent discussion, but now Danny knew the truth about this man. Marshall Pape was just like the rest of them: a wounded man who was doing what he knew to cope with difficult circumstances.

  At his core, the warden was a gentle man. His motives were as pure as any father who’d suffered the loss of his family. He, like so many well-meaning religious types, truly thought he was doing the right thing.

  “You know, at times I worry that some people are too strong,” Pape said. “They refuse to own up to their own inadequacies. It bothers me. But I have to believe that good can come from even the most vile situations. And I think that maybe you’ll show us all a more perfect way, Danny. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone face punishment with so much courage. It’s inspiring.”

  Danny nodded. “I suppose every man has his limits. I can only pray I never find mine.”

  “Well said. I’m sure you’re still sore. The nurse informs me that he neglected to give you any medication before you left the infirmary.” The warden pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out two white capsules. “Normally, we don’t allow narcotics in the wings, but I think the situation warrants it. Maybe this will help you sleep.”

  Danny looked at the capsules. “I’m fine, really…”

  “I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

  Alarm bells were ringing in Danny’s head, warning him that taking the medication, whatever it might be, would end badly. But he also was sure that not taking them would be considered insubordination.

  So he stepped forward and took the pills from Pape’s hand.

  The warden gave a little flip of his wrist toward Godfrey. “Give him some water, Simon.”

  Godfrey picked up a water bottle and handed it to Danny, who hesitated only a moment, then threw the pills into his mouth and swallowed them down with the water.

  “Good. That’s good. Sweet dreams, Danny. You’re going to need them.”

  He left Danny standing, clueless to his intentions. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? The warden had already made his intentions perfectly clear. He was well-meaning, but he was also hopelessly deceived.

  He was going to help Danny see the light.

  He was going to crush him.

  20

  THE MAN THAT Sicko wanted us to kill lived at 1227 Sunrise Street in Beverly Hills—that was all we learned from the distorted male voice that called my home phone at ten o’clock Monday night. Two days of dread hadn’t brought Keith or me any closer to a better understanding of the note he’d left with the boy Jeremy, the words of which were permanently inscribed in my fractured brain.

  …you will kill the man. If he’s alive in four days, both Danny and that scumbag you’re with are dead. He crossed the wrong man.

  P.S. Cut off another one of the boy’s fingers. Remind him that if he tells anyone about what happened to him, we will kill his mother.

  We knew we were being watched, but we hadn’t cut off another one of the boy’s fingers. On this point we felt compelled to call Sicko’s bluff. We freed Jeremy from the warehouse, helped him into the backseat of my car, and drove him to Santa Monica.

  He’d leaned against the door, silent and numb for most of the ride, and all I could do was rest my hand on his knee and promise him that he was safe now. We would find who did this and make him pay, I said. We were this devil’s victims too. I was so very, very sorry.

  None of what I said did anything to settle my mind, because the fact was, Jeremy had lost more than his finger. He’d lost a part of his innocence through abuse, just like I had before Danny had saved me.

  As we drove, Keith was the one who finally brought up the threat in the note.

  “I know this has all been a nightmare, Jeremy, but I need to know if there’s anything else you can tell us about this man.”

  The boy sat mute, staring absently at his hand, which we’d wrapped in a clean white rag from my trunk.

  “Anything at all?” Keith pressed. “Besides the fact that he wore a ski mask and gloves? What kind of car he drove, maybe?”

  “He put a bag over my head,” Jeremy said. “I couldn’t see.”

  I felt nauseated. His abductors had evidently chosen him at random, an easy target riding his skateboard in an alleyway near his house in Pasadena. A club to the head, a bag, and that was all he could remember. When he woke, his finger was missing. He’d spent the next several days in a dark room, mostly sleeping under the influence of the drugs they’d given him to keep him quiet.

  We drove on for a bit before Keith continued, glancing up at the rearview mirror. “He made a threat in the note he left us. Did he say anything to you about that?”

  The boy looked out the window. “He said I couldn’t tell anyone or he would kill my mother.”

  Keith glanced at me in the mirror. “That’s going to be hard, Jeremy. I know how difficult this is, but I think he means it. Your family
and the police will want to know everything about how you were taken, exactly what happened, about us…everything. But he cut off your finger, which means he’s serious about what he says. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll have to tell them something, I understand that. You don’t have any information that could lead them to whoever did this, so it’s probably okay to tell them what you know, that you were taken and you don’t know why. But if you say anything about the note, or about us, I think whoever did this might carry out his threats.”

  It was true. Sicko knew that if the boy led the police to us, we could lead them to Randell. We were the link that could incriminate him.

  “Tell the police that whoever took you brought you back and dropped you off a block from home. Don’t tell them about the warehouse or about us. I know that may not sound right to you, but I can’t think of a better way to go. Trust me, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and when it’s safe everything will come out. Until then, you can’t say anything about us. Fair enough?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart was already broken, but I saw myself in Jeremy’s shoes, and it was everything I could do to remain calm. I gave him a long hug and helped him out of the car a block from his house in a low-rent district on the east side of Pasadena. We followed him at distance until he entered a duplex, safe.

  But really, he wasn’t safe. Neither was Danny.

  Only two days had passed between the time we drove away from Jeremy’s house and the time we drove up to the large white house on Sunrise Street, but those two days felt like a week to me.

  “This is it?” I asked, pulling the car to a stop twenty feet back from a stucco mailbox marked with the brass numbers 1227.

  “That’s it.” Keith shoved the Google map into the car’s door pocket. “Kill the lights.”

  I did.

  “Turn the engine off.”

  I looked at him, then up the driveway at the house, which was lit by an array of exterior lamps affixed to the stucco walls. Two white pillars bordered a tall arched ironwork door. Using Google’s satellite view, we’d zoomed in on the house, complete with red adobe tiles on a dozen roof lines. It was clear then that our target was wealthy. But we still didn’t know who owned the property or who we were supposed to kill, only that he lived here.