Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [157]
The man pursed his lips as if the question insulted him.
“One piece of advice,” the warden said. “Do your own time. The less you listen or talk to anyone else, the better off you’ll be. You’ll be treated the way you act. Do what you’re told, follow orders, and you’ll get along. We’re not here to judge you. That’s already been done. Our job is to keep you, and we’ve never failed at that. You follow?”
“Whatever.” The man’s eyes seemed to fall on Thomas’s Bible, then directly into Thomas’s eyes.
The chaplain couldn’t bring himself to smile, but he found himself instinctively greeting the con with a raise of his brows and a tightening of his lips.
This man certainly didn’t look thirty. In fact, for an instant, he looked like a child. His eyes were distant, his cheeks hollow, and a great cavernous emptiness seemed to reside in him. He appeared to want to say something to Thomas, but Yanno interrupted.
“We’re done here,” he said. “Your packet will show you how you can talk to this man if you wish, provided you behave as required your first ninety days.”
As the quartet made its way back through the labyrinth to the administrative offices, Thomas wondered if this would be just another sad soul swept into the black hole of the ASP. He sure looked like he needed to talk with someone, but would he ever ask?
“If I had to guess,” Thomas said, “I’d say that one is a real suicide risk.”
“Only way he could off himself in intake,” Andreason said, “would be to tie his underbritches around his neck and yank it as tight as he can before our guys get to him.”
“I would hope our guys take their time,” Yanno said. “Sorry sack of garbage. Save us the cost of feeding him before we get to kill him anyway.”
“You don’t mean that,” Thomas said.
The warden looked genuinely surprised. “Oh yeah, I forgot. You want these monsters around long enough for Jesus to get to ’em.”
Thomas had never spoken angrily to Frank LeRoy, but there was an edge to his voice now. “Well, that is my reason for being here, after all. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“Man, Dad,” Dirk chimed in, “you know where I stand on capital punishment, but that guy . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Thomas said, and as they emerged from the last security envelope, he hurried ahead of the rest and went directly to his office, slamming the door. Then he noticed Dirk’s overcoat on the chair and knew he would have to face him again. He picked up the phone to call Grace, hoping to be busy when Dirk came in. But he had barely begun dialing when he heard the knock and the door opened.
“I apologize, Dad,” Dirk said as Thomas hung up. “That was insensitive. I wouldn’t want you making fun of my beliefs.”
“Your beliefs? I didn’t know you had any.”
Dirk held up both hands. “All right, apparently not in the mood. I surrender.” He began putting on his coat.
“Well,” Thomas said, “I know you believe it’s wrong to put a man to death, but I guess it’s okay in this instance because, why, the victim was different from all the others of the men on the Row in here?”
“Dad, listen, really, I didn’t mean to push your buttons. I’m sorry. Even if we don’t see eye to eye on the God stuff, I admire what you’re doing here or trying to do.”
“I’m doing nothing here, Dirk. I have wasted my life.”
“Surely you’ve brought comfort and inspiration to someone in here.”
“That’s not what I’m here for! I am here to introduce these lost men to God, and I feel like a blind man in a mine shaft, trying to show people the way.”
“I don’t know how else to say it, sir. I was out of line. I’m going to go now.”
Did God still answer prayer? When was the last time He had for Thomas? Dirk and Ravinia were prime examples. Was Thomas praying in the wrong way for them? Was he really asking for something that was not in the will of God? And how could it not be?
As Thomas left at the end of the day, Gladys moved directly into his path.
“Excuse me, dear,” he said, but when he went to slip past her, she blocked him again. He sighed.
“Hold on there a minute, Reverend,” she said.