Chapter Eight
Chapter
Eight
“Father Mark!”
Mark looked up to see Darren Samms’s ruddy,
smiling face peering into the kitchen of the halfway house. It was
impossible not to smile back and Mark set down his list of
inventory items in preparation for the inevitable next step.
Darren was a big man, tall as well as wide,
and his hugs were full-body affairs. He was new to the area but not
shy about making new friends, all of whom were greeted physically.
Mark was getting used to it but he always wondered how the parole
officer’s clients felt about the invasion of their space. Luckily,
Darren was making a name for himself with an expert blend of
firmness and compassion, so there hadn’t been too many complaints
about his eccentricities, as far as Mark knew. “Good to see you,
Darren. What brings you here?”
“Where’s your phone, Father? I tried to call
and let you know I was coming, but there was no answer.”
“Oh.” Mark had turned the ringer off that
morning, preferring to avoid calls from his parents, his rector,
and everyone else, at least for a few hours. He’d justified it by
thinking of it as a mini-retreat, but really, it had probably
inconvenienced more people than just Darren. “I’m sorry. I was
looking for a little peace, I guess.”
“In a halfway house for violent
offenders?”
“To each his own. What can I do for you
today?”
“I’ve brought you a new resident. He’s not
religious, but the head office said you had a bed and everywhere
else is full. Can you help us out?”
“Sure. We’ve got a little space. Is he with
you?”
“In the car.” Darren stepped a little closer
and dropped his voice. “He’s not talking much, but the place we’d
arranged for him to stay has fallen through. They were old friends
of his, about the only family the poor kid’s got left, so I think
whatever happened has hit him pretty hard. Only out for a few days,
but he’s really been trying. He needs a little gentle treatment, I
think. Even if there had been beds elsewhere, I’d have wanted to
get him to you, if I could. I think you’ll be good for him.”
The twitching feeling in the back of Mark’s
brain was not at all comfortable. Staying with friends, only out
for a few days. Damn it. “What’s his name? Do I need to know
anything about his crime?”
“Manslaughter,” Darren said. “A bar fight
when he was nineteen years old. Victim was older, bigger, and it
sounds like he started the fight, but our boy lost his temper and
hit the guy with a bottle. Bit of a mess, I guess. I wasn’t around
for it, but you probably remember the case? Apparently it got a
good bit of media.”
Mark forced his lips and tongue to move,
ordered his larynx to produce the sound. “Lucas Cain.”
“That’s right!” Darren said as if Mark had
won a prize. “Glowing reports from his time inside. Therapy, got
trained as far as he could go in a couple different trades. Model
prisoner. I’ve only met with him once, when he first got released,
but he showed up at the police station at six thirty this morning
and asked to see me. They tell me he sat on a bench and didn’t move
or say a word for three and a half hours until I showed up. A bit
shell-shocked, I think.”
Mark knew what Darren expected him to do. He
should produce sympathetic words and a plan to get the client
inside and resting. And he knew what the rector would expect him to
do. He should either explain the situation to Darren and tell him
to find another bed, or immediately recuse himself from the case,
call the rectory and request that someone else come and take
over.
Instead, Mark nodded slowly. “Bring him
inside,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Darren nodded and headed back to the parking
lot, and Mark braced his trembling hands against the cool metal of
the sink. Lucas Cain. He was here. He was about to stand in front
of Mark, those ice-cold eyes staring at the man whose brother he’d
killed. How would Cain react? How would Mark react? What the hell
was going on?
“Father?” Darren said, and Mark whirled. Cain
was standing in the doorway. He looked rumpled, as if he’d slept in
his clothes or not slept at all, and for the first time curiosity
stirred in Mark’s stunned mind. “This is Lucas Cain.” Darren
prodded the younger man forward. “Lucas, this is Father Mark. He’s
one of the priests who runs the place, but there’s other staff as
well. The father will introduce you around, I’m sure.”
“I might not have a job.” The young man spoke
the words in a monotone. “Am I supposed to pay rent?”
It was a ridiculously mundane question. Cain
obviously hadn’t recognized Mark’s face. Darren probably hadn’t
used Mark’s last name. Did Darren even know Mark’s last
name? Did Darren know the last name of Cain’s victim? It was
becoming obvious that Mark was the only one in the room who had any
idea what was going on.
“Having a job is a term of your parole,”
Darren said, filling the silence after Mark had failed to answer
Cain’s question. “If you’ve lost the current job, you’ll need to
find another. If you can’t find another, we’ll look at getting you
into a training program, or finding somewhere for you to volunteer
full time. If you’re training or volunteering, we’ll look after
room and board and give you a small amount for other expenses.”
Darren glanced over to see if Mark was going to contribute
anything, then added, “But you got some training inside,
right?”
Cain slowly nodded. He seemed nearly
catatonic, as if the words were taking longer than they should to
reach his brain. “Plumbing. Electrical. I started on carpentry. But
I couldn’t do a full apprenticeship in there. I don’t have my
ticket in any of it.” There was nothing wrong with the words
themselves, but the total lack of affect was definitely something
strange.
Darren ignored that, saying, “Still, you’ve
got the makings of a damned fine handyman,” with a reassuring
smile. He clapped a hand on Cain’s shoulder and looked over at
Mark, sending a do you see what I was talking about?
message. “We’ll find you something, if the roofing doesn’t work
out. And you’ve got a weekend off now, some time to get settled in
to your new home. Could be worse.”
Another slow nod. “Thank you for your help.
I’m sorry to be a nuisance.”
“It’s my job, son. If this is the worst
trouble you give me, I’ll consider myself lucky.” Darren’s phone
beeped for the third time since he’d arrived and he smiled
apologetically at Mark. “The father will take care of you now. And
you’ve got my number. The same curfew rules apply here. Be in by
nine o’clock at night. You’re expected to do chores around the
place and follow all the house rules—the father will explain all
that. And the other rules of your parole are still in effect too.
You understand what I’m telling you?”
Cain nodded, his gaze still fixed at some
point on the floor near Mark’s feet. It was the same look he’d worn
in the courtroom when his sentence was read, Mark realized with a
start. He’d been staring at the wall, then, but it was the same
absent expression, as if the goings-on around him weren’t any of
his concern. It had seemed like arrogance at the time, but now Mark
wondered.
“I’ll walk you out, Darren,” he said, and he
forced himself to address Cain directly. “You can go through there
into the common room, if you like. I think some of the guys are
watching TV.”
Cain moved as if he were only doing so in
order to be compliant, and Mark followed the parole officer out
toward the car. “Has he been tested? For drugs? Or, I don’t know,
Asperger’s or something? Is his brain working normally?”
“He’ll take the standard drug tests as a
condition of his parole, but I haven’t ordered any yet. No history
of drug abuse. And there’s no sign that he’s not neurotypical. I
don’t know him well, but the reports from the prison said he’s
quiet to start with and then warms up. Above average intelligence,
but poor literacy skills, and didn’t finish high school until we
got him caught up on a few courses in prison.” Darren shook his
head. “Just one more kid screwed up by bad parenting, I expect.
I’ll bet you a beer he’s got a history with Child Protective
Services, but I haven’t looked into it yet.”
“He’s not a kid anymore,” Mark said.
Darren shrugged. “Twenty-two. A lot of
productive life ahead of him, if we can get him on the right path.
A lot of taxpayer expense and misery if we can’t.” He delivered his
goodbye hug and drove off, leaving Mark standing in the driveway,
thinking about Darren’s parting words.
The cost of a criminal versus the benefit of
a rehabilitated citizen. It was the same prosaic argument Mark had
used so many times to justify his work at the halfway house, in
applications for grants, while requesting community support. He’d
generally add a bit more, reminding people that judgment belongs to
the Lord. All humans are sinners, and all are dependent on the
ultimate forgiveness of God; in the face of His ultimate goodness,
upright citizens require mercy just as surely as the most hardened
criminal. Mark was pretty sure it was the more practical arguments
that got him the most support.
It was different, though, faced with
this criminal. The goal of the halfway house was to
reintroduce offenders to society, to help them get on with their
lives. Mark didn’t want Cain to get on with his life. Jimmy was
dead. He’d never have the chance to have a family or build a career
or travel. Nothing. Why should Mark help Jimmy’s killer to do all
these things?
But there was a strange fascination growing,
now that Mark had seen the man up close. He seemed so small. Not
physically, although he was certainly much lighter and shorter than
Jimmy had been, but spiritually, as if he’d shrunk inside himself
somehow. He was no threat, and Mark wanted to watch him. Maybe, a
little bit, Mark wanted to control him. His original jailers had
coddled the man, giving him school and training, letting him go far
too early. But he was in Mark’s keeping now. It was impossible to
ignore the hand of God in all this: Lucas Cain had been delivered
to Mark, and now Mark could decide what to do with him.
Nothing, to start with. There was no hurry.
Mark would watch, and plan. He’d allow Cain the space to recover
from whatever temporary trauma seemed to be affecting him because
he should be judged based on his true character, not the strangely
compliant automaton he was pretending to be.
Mark walked slowly back into the house. He
found Cain in the living room, sitting in a chair faced toward the
television. He would have looked totally normal to someone who
didn’t realize that he was staring at a spot on the wall several
inches above the TV screen.
“Brandon,” Mark said to one of the other men
in the room, “can you show Cain around and get him set up in
Truvey’s old bed? Give him a copy of the house rules, walk him
through the routine?” Mark usually did all that himself, using the
time as an opportunity to get to know the new resident, but he
didn’t want to get to know Cain, not that way. He wanted to be a
distant observer, not an active participant. Besides, Brandon was
always hungry for whatever power he could grab, and he’d been
pretty good lately. He deserved a bit of a reward.
“Let’s go, Cain,” Brandon said, springing
eagerly to his feet. “No more fishing shows for you.”
Cain stood obediently and trailed after
Brandon. Mark watched them go. Cain’s presence was an opportunity,
and it wasn’t one that Mark was going to waste.