Darkness, Take My Hand (Kenzie & Gennaro 2)

“Hi, Patrick,” he said as I came into the room. “Glad you could make the trip.”

He sat at a small metal table bolted to the floor. His frail hands were cuffed and looped through two holes in the table and his feet were manacled. When he looked up at me, the fluorescent seared the lenses of his glasses white.

I took a seat across from him. “I heard you could help me, Inmate Hardiman.”

“You did?” He slouched loosely in his chair and gave off the impression of a man completely at ease with his surroundings. The lesions that covered his face and neck seemed raw and alive, their surfaces carrying a sheen. His pupils seemed to emanate brightly from recessive caverns in their hollow sockets.

“Yes. I heard you wanted to talk.”

“Absolutely,” he said as Dolquist took the seat beside my own and Lief took up position against the wall, eyes impassive, hand on his nightstick. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, Patrick.”

“To me? Why?”

“You interest me.” He shrugged.

“You’ve been in prison for most of my life, Inmate Hardiman—”

“Please call me Alec.”

“Alec. I don’t understand your interest.”

He tilted his head so that the glasses, which had been sliding down his nose, righted themselves.

“Water?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

He tilted his head to indicate a plastic pitcher and four plastic glasses on the table to his left.

“Would you like some water?” he said.

“No, thank you.”

“Candy?” He smiled softly.

“What?”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

I glanced at Dolquist. Career seemed to be an obsession behind these walls.

“It pays the bills,” I said.

“But it’s more than that,” Hardiman said. “Isn’t it?”

I shrugged.

“Do you see yourself doing it at fifty-five?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I see myself doing it at thirty-five, Inmate Hardiman.”

“Alec.”

“Alec,” I said.

He nodded the way a priest will in a confessional. “What other options do you have?”

I sighed. “Alec, we didn’t come here to discuss my future.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t, Patrick. Does it?” He raised both eyebrows and his skeletal face softened with innocence. “I’m interested in you. Humor me, please.”

I looked at Lief and he shrugged his wide shoulders.

“Maybe I’ll teach,” I said.

“Really?” He leaned forward.

“Why not?”

“What about working for a large agency?” he said. “I’ve heard they pay well.”

“Some do.”

“Offer a benefits package, health insurance, the like.”

“Yes.”

“Have you considered it, Patrick?”

I hated the way he said my name, but I wasn’t sure why.

“I’ve considered it.”

“But you prefer your independence.”

“Something like that.” I poured myself a glass of water and Hardiman’s bright eyes fixed on my lips as I drank. “Alec,” I said, “what can you tell us about—”

“You’re familiar with the parable of the three talents.”

I nodded.

“Those who horde or are afraid to answer to their gifts, ‘are neither hot nor cold’ and shall be spewed from the mouth of God.”

“I’m familiar with the tale, Alec.”

“Well?” He sat back and raised his palms against the cuffs. “A man who turns his back on his vocation is neither hot nor cold.”

“What if the man isn’t sure he’s found his vocation?”

He shrugged.

“Alec, if we could just discuss—”

“I think you’ve been blessed with the gift of fury, Patrick. I do. I’ve seen it in you.”

“When?”

“Have you ever been in love?” He leaned forward.

“What’s that got to—?”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you now?” He peered into my face.

“Why do you care, Alec?”

He leaned back, looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve never been in love. I’ve never been in love and I’ve never held a woman’s hand and walked on a beach with her and talked about, oh, domestic things—who will cook, who will clean that night, if we should call a repairman for the washing machine. I’ve never experienced such things and sometimes when I’m alone, late at night, it makes me weep.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “But we all dream of other lives, I suppose. We all want to live a thousand different existences during our time here. But we can’t, can we?”

“No,” I said. “We can’t.”

“I asked about your career goals, Patrick, because I believe you’re a man of impact. Do you understand?”

“No.”

He smiled sadly. “Most men and women pass their time on this earth without distinction. Lives of quiet desperation and all that. They are born, they exist for a time with all their particular passions and loves and dreams and pains, and then they die. And barely anyone notices. Patrick, there are billions of these people—tens of billions—throughout history who have lived without impact, who may as well not have been born at all.”

“The people you’re talking about might disagree.”

“I’m sure they would.” He smiled broadly and leaned in as if he were about to tell me a secret. “But who would listen?”

“Alec, all I need to know here is why—”

“You are potentially a man of impact, Patrick. You could be remembered long after you die. Think what an achievement that would be, particularly in this disposable culture of ours. Think of it.”

“What if I have no desire to be a ‘man of impact’?”

His eyes disappeared in the wash of fluorescence. “Maybe the choice isn’t yours. Maybe you’ll be turned into one whether you like it or not.” He shrugged.

“By who?” I said.

He smiled. “Whom.”

“By whom, then?” I said.

“The Father,” he said, “the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Are you a man of impact, Alec?” Dolquist said.