But mostly he would simply do his time, decades of it, trying to figure out who he really was and then attempting to live a life behind bars that allowed him to be that self. Because truthfully, behind bars a man has only himself and time.
His memory of his past life hung in his mind like a distant fog, surreal now after three years. It was hard to believe he’d been that fifteen-year-old boy in Bosnia whose mother and sisters were raped and killed…that child who became a man when he took a pistol and shot the men who destroyed them…that young soldier who became feared for his efficiency.
And that priest, who took the lives of far too many people when he became their judge, jury, and executioner. Through it all he’d learned two things about himself, the part of him that had been buried under years of suffering and rage in a brutal war: he would far rather be a lover than a fighter, and he made for a terrible priest. And yet he would always be known for that, wouldn’t he?
The priest who killed.
Danny had finished making his bed and putting his few items in the second locker when the rap of knuckles on steel interrupted his thoughts. At the door stood an older, skinny man with gray hair and a matching goatee, grinning. One tooth missing. Eyes as bright as the blue sky.
“Hello, cellie.” The man opened the door, stepped in, and extended his hand. “Simon Godfrey’s my name. Welcome to your basal cell in-carcinoma, home of the diseased, deviants unfortunate enough to be caught. Basal, institute for the wayward.”
Danny took the cool, thin hand. “Danny Hansen.”
“Good name,” the man said, still grinning. His eyes sparkled with life. “The word is you’re a priest. Now, what on earth is a priest doing in this sanctuary for the wicked?”
The man was either daft or exceptionally witty, and Danny thought the latter. Translation: What are you in for? It was typically a guarded question on the inside, not the first question asked. Godfrey was either too new or too long in the system to care.
“How did you know I was a priest?”
“Everyone knows, that’s why. The captain announced it two days ago. A priest is coming, he said.”
“The captain?”
“Bostich.”
“He said that?”
“He did. And you know what that means.”
“He announced that?”
“He announced that.”
“How?”
“A man with many questions.” He slapped Danny on the shoulder and stepped past him. “I like that, Father. I like that a lot. He told Randell, who told his bunch of knuckleheads, who told the rest.” Knuckleheads, prison slang for those bucking the system and doing hard time. Godfrey faced the metal toilet, unzipped his trousers, and let loose a stream into the toilet bowl. “Loudmouth works better than the loudspeaker inside. Problem with the loudspeaker is, no one listens. But put it out on loudmouth and in five minutes the whole club knows.” He zipped up and turned around. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Makes sense.”
“How long?”
“Fifty years.”
The man whistled. “Me, I got life. Do you want me to wash my hands?”
Danny found the man’s unpretentious audacity disarming and oddly comforting.
“I want you to do whatever it is you need to do.”
“Then I won’t bother,” Godfrey said. “Not to worry, I didn’t touch myself. Have a seat and let me tell you how it is before you head out to meet the wolves, though to be fair, there’s only one real wolf in this place and you already met him.”
He sat on the lower bunk and patted the mattress. Danny felt obliged to humor the man.
“You’ve been around, so you know that a priest has it coming from both sides. There’s those who assume you’re a sexual predator, and you know how that goes. And then there’s the rest, who think a man of the cloth breaking the law just ain’t right. So you’re screwed either way.”
“Assuming I’m a priest. Which I’m not.”
“I’m assuming you were at one time.”
“I gave it up before I confessed.”
“To what?”
Back to the start. He decided it wouldn’t hurt to leak the right story.
“Let’s just say I helped the wayward see the light using a little too much force.”
“Hmmm. And these wayward, did they deserve it?”
Danny considered the question only a moment. “No more than I did.”
The man grinned from ear to ear. “So now I really like you. Unfortunately, Bostich doesn’t, that much I can assure you. I’m assuming you got the speech from the warden?”
“We spoke, yes.”
“Two kinds of prisoners, right? Fish and indeterminate lifers. But there’s a third group in here: the knuckleheads he brings in for one reason and one reason alone—to test the rest. In his twisted way of thinking, you see, he has to make this grand sanctuary of his as similar to his understanding of the world as possible. That means there’s got to be a carrot and there’s got to be a whip, and he’s going to help you decide which one you want. But what fun is all that without temptation? So, yes, he brings in the knuckleheads to either entice you into wickedness or push you over the edge. If your edge was violence, he’s going to push you there again. Trust me on that.”
Perhaps. But Danny had lost his stomach for violence three years ago. The only edge Danny had now was Renee. As long as she was safe, he would not bend.
“I’m no longer a violent man,” he said.
“All I’m saying,” Godfrey continued, “is that Bostich, who’s a devil, has his orders, and unless I’m a fool those orders are to break you down before he breaks you in.”
None of this concerned Danny for the simple reason that he was powerless to change any of it. There was only so much the authorities could do to a person in an American prison, and none of it compared to the suffering he’d experienced in Bosnia as a younger man. His vow of nonviolence could not be compromised.
“They can try,” Danny said. “I suppose I deserve whatever comes my way.”
“You do realize what the carrot is, don’t you?” Godfrey asked, then answered himself. “The privileged wing. You follow the rules, all the rules, rules, rules, and you live life large until you get out on early release, assuming you still want it. All things become new, my man, that’s the carrot.” He formed an imaginary ball with his thin, blue-veined hands. “A paradise overflowing with milk and honey, that’s the ticket. The Pape’s kingdom, right here on earth. They live in apartments over there, man! With their own bathrooms and flatscreen TVs. They wear what they want, they get all the jobs. Better food, a cinema room, a full weight room, a gym with nets. Heck, if you believe the rumors, they get booty calls over there.”
“And yet you’re still here,” Danny said.
Godfrey lowered his hands and flashed his missing-toothed smile. “Because I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. The warden doesn’t like my little slipups. He’s got all the privileged guys in tow, see?” He stabbed his forehead with a bony finger. “But I got too much up here for him. The only thing that keeps me out of trouble is that no one has the brains to listen.”
His confession made Danny wonder why he’d been placed with Godfrey. Clearly, the warden wanted him to hear all of this.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Two years. Give me another two and I just might see it like the rest. It gets to you, you know. Don’t think it doesn’t. Once you buy into it all, you’re stuck. The strange thing is, the Pape’s philosophy actually seems to work. Basal is probably the smoothest-running correctional facility in the country.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? The warden handpicks his prisoners.”
“True. He’s even got the knuckleheads by the gonads. It’s not just the carrot, my friend. There’s more down in that basement than a cold hole. You buck the system and you pay a price.”