Ted Dekker - Sanctuary

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 THATSicko 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?”