Chapter Sixteen
Chapter
Sixteen
It was the second night in a row that Mark’s
evening at home was interrupted by a phone call, and once again,
the person on the other end wanted to talk about Lucas Cain. This
time the call was from the police station, not the hospital.
“We called Darren Samms first,” the female
voice told him. The officer sounded young and not entirely sure of
what she was supposed to be doing. “It seemed like a job for a
parole officer, for sure. But Darren’s out of town, down in the
city at some meeting or something. He said you could probably
help.”
“I don’t understand,” Mark said. “What is it
you expect me to do?”
“We’re hoping you can intervene,” she said.
“I mean, Cain’s breached his parole in half-a-dozen ways, but he’s
done it so blatantly—we learned about this in school, and Darren
said he agreed—it’s not uncommon for recent parolees to get
overwhelmed by the freedom and deliberately reoffend just as a way
to get back inside. That’s pretty clearly what’s going on here.
Isn’t it?”
Mark was certainly familiar with the
phenomenon, and he had to agree that Cain’s behavior seemed to meet
the criteria. “But what can I do? Aren’t you obligated to arrest
him?”
“We’re keeping an eye on him,” she said.
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere or do anything stupid. More
than he already has. But if we arrest him, he’s going to be back in
the system and it’ll be a lot harder to find a good solution, you
know?”
This was kinder, gentler treatment than Mark
had really expected a convicted killer to receive. “You don’t think
he should go back to jail?”
“He wants to go back. It’s not really
punishing him if we give him what he wants.”
That logic was hard to argue with. Mark gave
himself a moment to think, and was relieved to find that he wasn’t
fighting back anger or resentment. “I’m not working at the halfway
house right now,” he said. “But I’ll call the person who is. We’ll
have someone come down as soon as possible to see what we can
do.”
He hit the button to disconnect the call,
then reactivated the phone and dialed the number he knew by heart.
But there was no answer on Terry’s cell. Mark carried the phone
with him to the corner of the living room where he’d set up an old
wooden desk and scuffed through the papers on its surface until he
found the list he was looking for. But there was no answer at
Terry’s home number, either. It wasn’t unheard of. Everyone
deserved a night off. Maybe Terry was at the movies, or maybe he
just didn’t want to be disturbed. It wouldn’t ordinarily be a
problem.
And Mark wouldn’t let it be a problem this
time, either. His behavior had been a big part of what drove Cain
to this state, and that meant he was responsible for helping Cain
out. That was only fair. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the
door and patted its pockets to be sure his keys were where they
belonged. Then he headed for the door, without giving himself time
for second thoughts. He wasn’t sure whether Terry would approve of
his involvement, but Mark couldn’t let an innocent—
He froze just as his hand was reaching for
the door of his car. An innocent man? Was that what he’d just been
thinking? Cain was anything but innocent. By the evidence heard in
court, by the findings of the police, by Cain’s own admission, he
was a killer. He’d killed Jimmy. Terry was right about Mark needing
to move past all of this and focus on the things he could control
rather than dwelling on the past, but not even Terry had gone so
far as to suggest that Mark forget what Cain had done. He hadn’t
used the word forgiveness, either. So what was Mark thinking?
He was thinking of green eyes, he realized.
Thinking of confusion, and pain, and in a strange way, Jimmy. He’d
often worn a similar expression when he’d gotten in trouble as a
child. Then Jimmy got older and he got tougher, at least on the
surface. He’d pretend to be cool and in control, but underneath it
all, there was still a little boy looking to his big brother for
help. And when it had really mattered, when he’d needed it most,
Mark hadn’t been there for him.
He banged his fist on the hood of his car and
felt the hollow thud echo through his body. What was he doing? What
was right? He leaned his head back and looked up at the sky,
searching for guidance. It was startling to realize that a pair of
beady eyes were staring back at him from the branch of a tree
overhanging the driveway.
He squinted into the dim light. A squirrel. A
skinny grey squirrel, sitting there watching him as if it knew what
he was thinking and wanted to see what he decided to do. It looked
just like the one at the halfway house, Mark mused. He had no idea
what kind of a range squirrels covered. And what did it matter if
it was the same squirrel? Just because Cain had been kind to the
little animal, that didn’t mean he was a good man. It was a
squirrel. A rat with a bushy tail.
And Cain had spoken to it, and made it a
promise, and followed through on that promise. “Truly I tell you,
just as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me,”
Mark whispered, and the squirrel cocked its head as if listening.
“But ask the animals, and they will teach you,” Mark added, and
earned another twist of the animal’s tiny neck. Mark shook his
head. “I’m not giving you peanut butter, if that’s what you’re
thinking. I’m not that much of a softie.”
A softie. A killer. Which was it? Mark looked
down at the keys in his hand, then said, “Are you even supposed to
be out at night? Are squirrels nocturnal?” But when he looked back
at the squirrel for an answer, the animal was gone.
Damn. Wondering about the habits of arboreal
rodents was a lot easier than deciding what to do. Mark tried to
imagine what he would do or say if he went down and found Cain, and
nothing came to him. But when he pictured himself going back inside
and continuing with his evening as if nothing had happened, he
realized that there really wasn’t a decision to be made. He
couldn’t just ignore this.
So he climbed into the car and steered it
down to the police station. He didn’t look at the shape slumped on
the bench in front of the station, not until he’d parked the car
and taken a deep breath to prepare himself. And then another deep
breath, because he really had no idea what he was supposed to say,
or what on earth he was doing there.
“Thanks for coming, Father,” a female voice
said from somewhere near the building. Mark looked over to see a
young blonde woman in the dark uniform of a police officer. “I’m
Constable Brady. We spoke on the phone.”
She eased closer, but kept most of her
attention on the bench. “He seems to be getting a bit agitated. I
think he’s wondering why we haven’t arrested him.”
“So am I,” Mark said wryly, then held up his
hands in defense against her raised eyebrow. “I’m not complaining,
I’m just confused. Is it standard procedure to be this
understanding of someone who blatantly stole a bottle of liquor and
is now violating his parole by drinking it? In public, and coming
up on his curfew time?”
Constable Brady didn’t lower her eyebrow.
“When cops do something too rough, like the other night with that
mess on Main Street, people just shrug and say, damn, cops are
assholes. But when we stretch in the opposite direction, you’re
surprised and confused?” She waited for Mark’s reaction, then let
her face relax. “My sister went to school with Luke Cain. She said
he was a quiet kid, never caused any trouble except for whatever
Sean dragged him into. And Darren Samms seemed willing to be
flexible on it. If the parole officer doesn’t want someone’s parole
violated, I’m not going to get bent too far out of shape about it.”
She looked over toward Cain’s bench. “But he can’t stay there all
night, drinking and waiting. If you can’t get him home, I’ll have
to arrest him, and then, like I said—once he’s in the system, it’s
out of my hands.”
“I’ll try,” Mark said. Apparently that was
enough to satisfy her because she stepped back into the shadows of
the building and watched as he took one more deep breath, squared
his shoulders, and started across the concrete.
He was a step away from the end of the bench
before Cain noticed him and jerked to his feet. The half-empty
bottle of vodka slid from his fingers and shattered on the paving,
and Cain stared at it as if unable to understand what had happened.
He grimaced at the shards of glass, then at Mark. “You’re not
supposed to be here,” he said.
“I think you’re the one who isn’t
supposed to be here,” Mark said pointedly, looking at his watch.
“At least, as I understand the terms of your parole. It’s almost
nine o’clock.”
Cain squinted at him as if trying to judge
his sincerity, then looked down at the broken bottle. He looked
back at Mark, and took a few deliberate steps away from the mess.
“And I’m littering. Or something worse, maybe, because someone
could get hurt. What’s it called when you litter with something
dangerous?”
“I have no idea. But if they haven’t busted
you for the rest of your transgressions, I’m not sure high-risk
littering is going to be what pushes them over the edge.”
Cain seemed to think about that, then leaned
in closer. He swayed a little, but stayed upright. “Why haven’t
they busted me?” he whispered, and again Mark was reminded of a
confused little boy.
“They seem to want to give you another
chance. They seem to think that you’re trying to get sent
back to prison.” Mark nodded toward the bench and tried to act as
if this was just one more counseling session. “Why don’t we sit
down? I think we’re okay going a little late on your curfew, all
things considered.”
“Why are you here?” Cain didn’t move toward
the bench. “I mean, why are you here? Is this…” He shook his
head as if trying to clear it, then stopped and held his arms out a
little to the sides as he tried to regain his balance. “Shit,” he