Part 12 (2/2)

I suddenly remembered something else: the following morning, those same inmates on I-tier had ingested the same water and had not acted out of the ordinary. ”So how did it get uncontaminated?”

”Now that,” Ahmed said, ”I haven't quite figured out.”

”There are a number of reasons that an advanced AIDS patient with a particularly low CD4 count and high viral load might suddenly appear to get better,” Dr. Perego said. An autoimmune disease specialist at Dartmouth-Hitchc.o.c.k Medical Center, he also served as the doctor for HIV/AIDS patients at the state prison and knew all about Lucius and his recovery. He didn't have time for a formal talk, but was perfectly willing to chat if I wanted to walk with him from his office to a meeting at the other end of the hospital-as long as I realized that he couldn't violate doctor-patient confidentiality. ”If a patient is h.o.a.rding meds, for example, and suddenly decides to start taking them, sores will disappear and health will improve. Although we draw blood every three months from AIDS patients, sometimes we'll get a guy who refuses to have his blood drawn-and again, what looks like sudden improvement is actually a slow turn for the better.”

”Alma, the nurse at the prison, told me Lucius hasn't had his blood drawn in over six months,” I said.

”Which means we can't be quite sure what his recent viral count was.” We had reached the conference room. Doctors in white coats milled into the room, taking their seats. ”I'm not sure what you wanted to hear,” Dr. Perego said, smiling ruefully. ”That he's special ... or that he's not.”

”I'm not sure either,” I admitted, and I shook his hand. ”Thanks for your time.”

The doctor slipped into the meeting, and I started back down the hall toward the parking garage. I was waiting at the elevator, grinning down at a baby in a stroller with a patch over her right eye, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dr. Perego was standing there. ”I'm glad I caught you,” he said. ”Have you got a moment?”

I watched the baby's mother push the stroller onto the yawning elevator. ”Sure.”

”This is what I didn't tell you,” Dr. Perego said. ”And you didn't hear it from me.”

I nodded, understanding.

”HIV causes cognitive impairment-a permanent loss of memory and concentration. We can literally see this on an MRI, and DuFresne's brain scan showed irreparable damage when he first entered the state prison. However, another MRI brain scan was done on him yesterday-and it shows a reversal of that atrophy.” He looked at me, waiting for this to sink in. ”There's no physical evidence of dementia anymore.”

”What could cause that?”

Dr. Perego shook his head. ”Absolutely nothing,” he admitted.

The second time I went to meet with Shay Bourne, he was lying on his bunk, asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, I started to back away, but he spoke to me without opening his eyes. ”I'm awake,” he said. ”Are you?”

”Last time I checked,” I answered.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk. ”Wow. I dreamed that I was struck by lightning, and all of a sudden I had the power to locate anyone in the world, anytime. So the government cut a deal with me-find bin Laden, and you're free.”

”I used to dream that I had a watch, and turning the hands could take you backward in time,” I said. ”I always wanted to be a pirate, or a Viking.”

”Sounds pretty bloodthirsty for a priest.”

”Well, I wasn't born with a collar on.”

He looked me in the eye. ”If I could turn back time, I'd go out fly-fis.h.i.+ng with my grandfather.”

I glanced up. ”I used to do that with my grandfather, too.”

I wondered how two boys-like Shay and me-could begin our lives at the same point and somehow take turns that would lead us to be such different men. ”My grandfather's been gone a long time, and I still miss him,” I admitted.

”I never met mine,” Shay said. ”But I must have had one, right?”

I looked at him quizzically. What kind of life had he suffered, to have to craft memories from his imagination? ”Where did you grow up, Shay?” I asked.

”The light,” Shay replied, ignoring my question. ”How does a fish know where it is? I mean, things s.h.i.+ft around on the floor of the ocean, right? So if you come back and everything's changed, how can it really be the place you were before?”

The door to the tier buzzed, and one of the officers came down the catwalk, carrying a metal stool. ”Here you go, Father,” he said, settling it in front of Shay's cell door. ”Just in case you want to stay awhile.”

I recognized him as the man who had sought me out the last time I'd been here, talking to Lucius. His baby daughter had been critically ill; he credited Shay with her recovery. I thanked him, but waited until he'd left to talk to Shay again.

”Did you ever feel like that fish?”

Shay looked at me as if I were the one who couldn't follow a linear conversation. ”What fish?” he said. fish?” he said.

”Like you can't find your way back home?”

I knew where I was heading with this topic-straight to true salvation-but Shay took us off course. ”I had a bunch of houses, but only one home.”

He'd been in the foster care system; I remembered that much from the trial. ”Which place was that?”

”The one where my sister was with me. I haven't seen her since I was sixteen. Since I got sent to prison.”

I remembered he'd been sent to a juvenile detention center for arson, but I hadn't remembered anything about a sister.

”Why didn't she come to your trial?” I asked, and realized too late that I had made a grave mistake-that there was no reason for me to know that, unless I had been there.

But Shay didn't notice. ”I told her to stay away. I didn't want her to tell anyone what I'd done.” He hesitated. ”I want to talk to her.”

”Your sister?”

”No. She won't listen. The other one. She'll hear me, after I die. Every time her daughter speaks.” Shay looked up at me. ”You know how you said you'd ask her if she wants the heart? What if I asked her myself?”

Getting June Nealon to come visit Shay in prison would be like moving Mt. Everest to Columbus, Ohio. ”I don't know if it will work ...”

But then again, maybe seeing June face-to-face would make Shay see the difference between personal forgiveness and divine forgiveness. Maybe putting the heart of a killer into the chest of a child would show-literally-how good might blossom from bad. And the beat of Claire's pulse would bring June more peace than any prayer I could offer.

Maybe Shay did did know more about redemption than I. know more about redemption than I.

He was standing in front of the cinder-block wall now, trailing his fingertips over the cement, as if he could read the history of the men who'd lived there before him.

”I'll try,” I said.

There was a part of me that knew I should tell Maggie Bloom that I had been on the jury that convicted Shay Bourne. It was one thing to keep the truth from Shay; it was another to compromise whatever legal case Maggie was weaving together. On the other hand, it was up to me to make sure that Shay found peace with G.o.d before his death. The minute I told Maggie about my past involvement with Shay, I knew she'd tell me to get lost, and would find him another spiritual advisor the judge couldn't find fault with. I had prayed long and hard about this, and for now, I was keeping my secret. G.o.d wanted me to help Shay, or so I told myself, because it kept me from admitting that I I wanted to help Shay, too, after failing him the first time. wanted to help Shay, too, after failing him the first time.

The ACLU office was above a printing shop and smelled like fresh ink and toner. It was filled with plants in various stages of dying, and filing cabinets took up most of the floor s.p.a.ce. A paralegal sat at a reception desk, typing so furiously that I almost expected her computer screen to detonate. ”How can I help,” she said, not bothering to look up.

”I'm here to see Maggie Bloom.”

The paralegal lifted her right hand, still typing with her left, and hooked a thumb overhead and to the left. I wound down the hallway, stepping over boxes of files and stacks of newspapers, and found Maggie sitting at her desk, scribbling on a legal pad. When she saw me, she smiled. ”Listen,” she said, as if we were old friends. ”I have some fantastic news. I think Shay can be hanged.” Then she blanched. ”I didn't mean fantastic news, really. I meant ... well, you know what I meant.”

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