The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 28

I handed the large vase carefully to Brother Mike when I was outside. It was beautiful, I decided. I was not normally one for precious objects, but this warped clay, formed by fire, moved me.

Brother Mike took it from my hands and tossed it away. It landed with a heavy thud on the hard ground.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"It's ruined," he said. "I should have retrieved them at most two days after the firing. It's been six weeks. The humidity got to them."

He picked up the hammer and swung it down, obliterating the vase with one smash.

I did not pa.s.s over the other vase.

"But it's beautiful," I said. It was slightly shrunken perhaps, but exquisite. "Didn't you tell me that the unpredictable results of the firing were all part of the process?"

"Kali," he said patiently. "I have pieces in collections all over the world. Trust me. I know what needs to be done."

He took the vase from my grip and tossed it down. "And besides, it's therapeutic."

I did not share his view, but despite my reluctance, I went back for more. With each trip I handed him another couple of precious items, and he tossed, swung, and smashed. I gave up on the niceties and began rolling them down the tunnel ahead of me, until I could no longer stand the bad air and needed a break. I felt like a coal miner working a seam.

Outside, sweating from the latent heat and the exertion, I ran my hand across my forehead. Brother Mike started to laugh.

"What is it?" I asked, self-conscious.

"If you could see yourself covered in soot and sweat. You finally look like your namesake. Kali, the destroyer of worlds."

"I've been waiting for the right moment to reveal myself."

It was good to see his smile.

By the late afternoon we were inside again and drinking that tea I'd wanted.

"I'm sorry you were left down there," he said.

I did not want to think about that place and those things, and I did not blame him for them. I only wished there were pockets of time that could be utterly forgotten.

"Was it Hammond," I asked, "in the infirmary?"

He did not answer for a minute. I knew that Fenton and Roy had led Brother Mike back to DI-6 and that Fenton had butchered the man within. But there was no official confirmation about the ident.i.ty, no trail to anyone named Hammond, only my insistence, and no one had paid my claims any attention.

"I don't know," Brother Mike said finally. "Jon Crowley had convinced me that it was Hammond. I'm sorry I lied to you about that, but I couldn't tell you the truth. I feared what would happen to Hammond if anyone learned he was there. I was only able to visit the infirmary once, and I didn't recognize anything about him. It was awful what Fenton did to him. Like a cow being slaughtered."

I wanted to ask if they'd found an answer on the man, a tattoo or some indication of the bank account number they were looking for, but I didn't have the heart to press for details.

"I suppose it was the comic book Roy wanted all along," I said. "If they ever catch him, that's the one thing I'd like to ask."

He had escaped from the window of the examination room of a city hospital, a place they'd sent the inmates with the worst injuries. I was still struck by the absurdity of a one-legged man climbing a drainpipe from four stories up, catching a taxi, and getting away.

Brother Mike did not seem to hear me.

"I think I feel most betrayed by Jon," he said. "To know that the comic book wasn't an artistic retelling of Hammond's life. To find out there were symbols and messages encoded in the drawings. And to realize that he'd used me to get the details, that he'd gone through my files for those reasons and not the reasons I thought. I was a fool to believe him."

I stopped him.

"You don't know what Crowley was thinking, why he did what he did. Maybe it wasn't clear-cut either way. Some of it might have been about the money. Some of it might have been about Hammond. Crowley may not have been completely free to act or feel as he would have liked. Roy might have forced him. Or maybe you were conned. That's a very plausible explanation, and the simplest one now. But it's also possible that Crowley was more complicated. I'm not sure anymore that you can ever know another human being."

I was speaking from the residue of my own bitterness, and I was thinking about Ruddik and Wallace and the others, and the different prices that had been paid. The inquiry into the riot had begun with great intensity. There were questions about accounting irregularities at the prison, a whiff of corruption among some of the COs, rumors of a secretive group called the Ditmarsh Social Club, and an imperative to turn over every rock no matter what might be found. But with Droune's suicide and Wallace's resignation, the mood had changed, and the investigation petered out. Instead, the media attention focused on the ex-con who'd impersonated a local journalist to gain entry to Ditmarsh; on me, the brave ex-soldier who'd held off the rioting inmates until the troops arrived; and on Ruddik-the man no federal agency claimed. His former employers, a prison in Kentucky and another in Tennessee, both acknowledged that he'd quit before they'd finished enough paperwork to fire him. Another mystery, and more pain for my heart. I was as disoriented by the attention on my so-called heroics as I was of the scornful way they talked about Ruddik.

"There is something I need to tell you, Kali," Brother Mike said, interrupting my downward spiral. "It's about Keeper Wallace and Josh."

I waited. I did not want to talk about Josh. The connection I would never shake.

"About eight months ago I was approached by a lawyer who'd made a donation to my restorative justice fund. The lawyer wanted to know who, inside Ditmarsh, could do the most to help an inmate, named Josh Riff, about to be remanded to the prison."

It was all very distant to me. I listened and wondered what fork in the path of my life had been decided without my knowledge eight months earlier.

"When I found out the inmate in question was such a young man, sentenced for such a long time, I introduced the lawyer to Keeper Wallace, and that's where I left it. Last week Keeper Wallace called me and confessed. He told me that he'd agreed to provide special protection for Josh in exchange for money."

With the words, a tightness formed inside me.

"They knew the Keeper's daughter was in trouble, that she had no money, a criminal record, and three children. They offered to build her a house if the Keeper looked after Joshua."

Brother Mike stared into my eyes.

"The Keeper told me it was the first time he'd ever been tempted to take a dime. He'd believed no one would be hurt and his daughter and three grandchildren would be taken care of. He had a lot of guilt around his daughter. The only sacrifice would be to his own integrity, and Keeper Wallace, because of various personal failings in her upbringing, believed he owed her that. In particular, the middle grandson was starting to get into trouble and needed an improved environment."

I nodded. "So he housed Josh away from gen pop."

"He thought he could keep everything under control. Obviously he couldn't. When he found out that Josh's father was dying of cancer, the Keeper realized he'd made a terrible mistake. Not because he might get caught, but because he'd taken advantage. He asked me to tell you what really happened and why."

It was difficult for me to hear. I no longer wanted to learn the details of the way Keeper Wallace had compromised himself, even if I could understand the human need behind it. Maybe, when I felt on more solid ground, I would be grateful to know that mere money had not been the basis for it all. But another pain slipped in as I sat there in Brother Mike's room. The pain that Josh had felt over his own father, and the distance between them.

"He did it out of love," I said.

Brother Mike nodded. But I don't think he understood. I meant that Josh's father loved him, and had known he was going to die, and that was why he'd bribed the Keeper. He wanted to do what he could to look out for Josh on the long road ahead of him. Out of all the mysteries that still lapped at me, that was the only certain thing I understood. He did it out of love.

"The Keeper is sorry," Brother Mike said, "that whatever he did to get you involved in this led to everything that happened to you. He wanted you to know that you deserved better."

It was my turn to stare. "You can tell him I'm going to be okay."

All the time, however, I was thinking about love. Distorted, complicated, even misguided love. I thought about the thin, tepid love I felt for my father. And the guilt-ridden love Wallace had for his daughter. And the mute and inexplicable way Josh's father had shown his love for his son. Was there any other force in the universe so strong? The absence of love. The hurt from love. The insecurity of love. The making up for love that had been imperfectly expressed. I had this insight, tickling the edges of my mind, that love caused all the pain in the world, was the source of all the hurt. I was in awe of the mystery of human compa.s.sion and the inability of love to make the distance between us any more bearable.

Brother Mike nodded as if I'd said the words aloud, and we sat quietly, drinking our tea.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This novel could not have been written without Chris Richardson, whose insights and experiences were essential to "getting it right" and whose instinct for story and character was only matched by his willingness to read every line many times. Beth Hollihan was also invaluable for relaying the perspective of a female law enforcement officer, and for opening important doors. A number of other law enforcement professionals involved in corrections work and criminal investigations were generous with their time, stories, and answers, as well as in the trust they showed me despite the natural caution engendered by a dangerous workplace. I'd also like to thank the friends and strangers who offered suggestions, access, and support. In particular, I am grateful to Mike Lambrecht, Robert Syliboy, Jeff McCann, Henry Tenny, Kory Beaton, Bix Skahill, Reema Abdo, Clea Felien, Janna Rademacher, Charlie Williams, David Richardson, James Ellroy, and Bruce Tapola. Karen Stephenson's network theory was applied in an unusual setting, and Siegfried Janzen's work in restorative justice hopefully echoes within. Two others were vital in making the book a reality. My agent, Helen h.e.l.ler, was instrumental with her unconditional confidence and expert guidance, and knew when a vigorous baseball conversation was exactly the right thing. Peter Joseph at St. Martin's/Thomas Dunne Books championed the book and made it better with his creativity, enthusiasm, and commitment. Finally, my wife, Rosemary Williams, has been my creative partner every step of the way.

About the Author.

KEITH HOLLIHAN worked as a business a.n.a.lyst and a ghostwriter before publis.h.i.+ng his first novel, The Four Stages of Cruelty. He has travelled widely and lived in j.a.pan, Canada and the Czech Republic. A Canadian, he now lives with his wife and sons in St. Paul, Minnesota. Visit keithhollihan.com.

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