Joel Goldman - Cold truth

Sherri laughed. "You've got to try harder than that to shame me, Lou. I make the news. You can either be the lead or the punch line, but you can't ignore me."

"Sure I can," Mason told her. "That's what the remote control is for. See you in the funny pages."

Sanctuary was secreted off the interstate, off the back roads, in an unincorporated patch of Jackson County in the general direction of St. Louis. The locals called their piece of the action Eastern Jack. Downtown Kansas City was also in Jackson County, but Eastern Jack was a different world. Defined more by the blue collars of Independence and Raytown than the white collars of downtown, Eastern Jack made no pretense of its lack of pretension.

The unincorporated areas outside these smaller cities harbored woods, meadows, and streams that shut out concrete and high-rises, giving nature its own reservation in the civilized world. The natural defenses against the urban onslaught underscored the safety of Sanctuary, touting isolation as security.

"East of the sun and west of the moon, two stars to the right and on till morning." Mason recited the poem from memory unable to name the poet or finish the verse, as he navigated his TR-6 along the convoluted route he'd downloaded from Sanctuary's web site. It was a top-down morning, the sun soothing, not yet hot. Morning fog painted deer tracks with vapor trails. Moist earth, wild grasses, and unseen animals perfumed the air with a musk scent.

Mason had spent his whole life in the city. He wasn't a Boy Scout and couldn't find moss on the north side of a tree. The drive reminded him of Kelly Holt's log cabin sanctuary in the Ozark woods. She was the last woman who'd made him feel the way Abby had. Kelly's sanctuary had proved anything but, and his relationship with her had died in its ashes. Mason hoped the past was not prologue.

He was surprised that it took less than forty-five minutes to reach Sanctuary from the urban comforts of his office. It was set on the ridge of a broad gentle rise, and Mason immediately understood why Centurion Johnson had chosen the location. The road he'd been on emerged from the woods into a freshly cut meadow of several acres that surrounded a large white three-story plantation-style house, complete with a widow's walk around the roof. The natural elevation gave the house an imposing setting, making it appear larger than it was while giving its occupants a commanding view of the countryside. Mason guessed that Centurion could see the downtown skyline twenty miles to the west from the widow's walk.

He parked his car in the wide circle drive, walking onto the veranda that wrapped around three sides of the house. A continuous message engraved on the railing in platinum paint read The New Century Investment Fund Veranda. A freshly painted red barn was emblazoned with the logo of the Commercial Bank Group. Next to it was a machine shed, according to the boldly painted billboard on one wall naming it the USA Telecom Machine Shed. The Mid-America Business Network had paid to have its name embossed on the tractor that was parked next to the shed.

The kaleidoscope of advertising reminded Mason of Centurion Johnson's successful fund-raising campaign for Sanctuary. Pronouncing himself a survivor of the streets, not a victim, Centurion sold Sanctuary with the fervor of a Sunday morning television evangelist. The land was donated, the buildings erected and furnished, and the doors opened to the miscast and maladjusted. Sanctuary provided refuge for young people fleeing abuse, both parental and substance, and a haven for the emotionally brittle. The permanent ads for the contributing sponsors were a constant reminder of the harsh reality of the real world. Follow the money.

Centurion told his sponsors that Sanctuary was no kick-back-meditate-blame-the-old-folks hideout for troubled kids. Not on his watch, he told them. It was a working farmstead. These kids work, clear the land, plant the crops, care for the livestock. Sure, he promised, they would get professional counseling. But they'd also get blisters and backaches from a hard day's work. Nothing like sweat and strain to clear your brain, he told one cheering audience of businessmen who responded by throwing money at him like it was confetti.

Sanctuary was the model for successful partnerships between the business and social service communities, a not-for-profit that made a return on its sponsors' investment by giving them a visible stake in its success. When Mason saw a Mercedes 500 SL parked in the open garage with a vanity plate that read Centurion, he recognized another harsh reality. If crime doesn't pay, good works surely do.

"You must be Lou Mason," a voice said from behind him.

"That I am," Mason said, turning around to a man dressed in denim and tie-dye, his graying hair pulled back in a short ponytail held in place by a leather strap. His round face was sun-lined, open, and friendly. His body was soft, and shaking his hand felt like squeezing a small feather pillow.

"I'm Terry Nix. We spoke yesterday."

Sanctuary did not allow visitors without an appointment cleared in advance by the Executive Director. That was Nix. The policy prevented disruption of the work and therapy schedule, according to the web site. Mason had jumped through the hoops to meet Jordan Hackett, but he didn't like someone else controlling access to his client.

"Mr. Nix," Mason said, "I never know when I'm going to need to see Jordan. I assume you'll waive your appointment policy under these circumstances."

"Call me Terry," Nix said, giving Mason a pat on the back. "We're in the problem-solving business here. I think we can handle that one. Let's go inside."

Nix ushered Mason through the Phillips Pharmaceutical front hall, where a young woman, heavily pregnant, asked Mason to sign in and clip a guest badge to his shirt. They continued past the Kilbridge Foundation family room, down the S amp;J Railroad stairs, to the Hammond Industries Executive Director's Office. A secretary, also young and pregnant, sat at a desk outside the office, struggling with a word processing manual.

Nix's name was on the door too, though on an easily replaced magnetic strip. Nix sat on the edge of his desk, Mason standing, looking over Nix's shoulder at the framed diploma awarding Nix a master's degree in social work and family counseling from St. Louis University.

Plaques and certificates from grateful donors professing their admiration for Sanctuary's noble work flanked Nix's diploma. The one on the end caught Mason's eye. The certificate read For Outstanding Service. The donor was Emily's Fund, a name unfamiliar to Mason until he saw the signature at the bottom-Gina Davenport.

Mason gave up believing in coincidences when he gave up believing in the tooth fairy. He decided to save this one for later. "Where's Jordan?" Mason asked.

Nix looked at his watch. "She's digging postholes for a new stretch of fence. She should be back in about ten minutes."

The Hacketts had shown Mason a recent picture of their daughter. She had long, straight, light brown hair and an angular, unremarkable face. She looked past the camera like she wasn't listening when the photographer told her to say cheese. Her lips were closed in a flat seam. The camera overlooked the anger that forced her from her parents' home, giving no sense that she was a woman who could dig postholes.

Nix asked, "Why does Jordan need a lawyer?"

"Terry," Mason answered, "you know that's confidential."

"Hey, man. I'm her counselor. I need to know these things to do my job."

"Then you ask her. If she wants you to know, she'll tell you," he said, echoing Claire's admonition about Abby. "I thought Gina Davenport was Jordan's therapist."

"All of our residents are assigned an on-site counselor. I'm Jordan's. Some of our residents also see a private therapist, but most can't afford it."