Chapter 1
Sisters of Mercy
January 20, 1989
Living off the streets, theft, begging, and a new found addiction to cocaine, Owen wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps he could have chosen a better life. Police custody didn't seem the best way to spend the night before he crossed the threshold into paradise. Truth be told, he would have chosen police custody.
The police officer shoved him through the emergency room doors. In anticipation Owen raised his manacled hands to brace himself. Startled when the expected collision didn't occur, he crashed to the cold, white tile floor. Automatic doors were not something his chemically laced mind could anticipate. He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the bright hospital fluorescent lights as they challenged the outside darkness.
The hospital waiting room was classically decorated in early-American orange naugahyde which clashed with the bare beige walls. The freshly mopped floors radiated a pleasant chlorine bleach odor and were decorated with an agreeable pattern of random cigarette burn marks. It smelled like the mill after a kill.
A 19-inch color television bracketed to the wall broadcasted a replay of the afternoon's presidential inaugural speech; background noise that unexpectedly rang clear on the sound of a word or the turn of a phrase. "But this is a time when the future seems a door you can walk right through into a room called tomorrow. Great nations of the world are moving toward democracy through the door to freedom."
The police officer followed Owen into the lobby. Laughing, the officer kicked at his prisoner's chest as he lay on the floor. "Freedom; that's kind of funny. Considering you won't be seeing it any time soon. Get up!" Owen struggled to raise himself. Expelling a weak cough, he settled back on the floor as the officer ignored him. He can joke about prison as much as he likes; it's seems like a good way to avoid bad choices.
The officer addressed the nighttime ER duty nurse, "I have another excellent example of our virtuous junkie populace. He will need some of your finest medical attention before I can take him back to the station. Where do you want him?"
Behind the lobby desk the duty nurse glanced up from her beginning shift paperwork and sighed. "Tony, don't kick him like that," she said. She donned her latex gloves and scurried around the reception counter. She knelt next to the patient and lifted his head by the chin. He peeked at her through narrow, watery slits of his eyelids. Almost as bright green as Abby's on her happiest days.
xXx
All too often Aileen had seen cases like this boy. His shoulder length brown hair and shaggy beard were matted and tangled in knots. "He's a new one. I don't recognize him," she said. The boy's left arm exhibited a few puncture marks at the joint with associated discoloration. She leaned down to lift his shirt revealing deep, multiple old and recent bruising. The youth recoiled from her touch. "Is this some of your handiwork?" she asked.
"Not all of it." He smirked. Noticing the nurse's glare, the officer removed his cap rubbing his short brown hair. Erasing his smile, he stared in no particular direction; he softened his stance, "He gave as good as he got. The boy was a lot more active a little while ago."
"I'll bet he was." The nurse pushed back the patient's matted hair exposing his grimy face. He was younger than she thought at first. "Do you have any information on him? Name? Age? Substance of abuse?"
With a glare of contempt, the police officer glanced at the body curled on the floor. "John Doe, flying like a kite up on Goat Hill. Anything else you'll have to get from him?"
She continued her examination. The patient wore faded denim that was bunched around his waist with an old leather belt on its tightest notch. On his feet he wore black canvas high tops without socks. "Is that blood on his pant leg?" She wondered audibly - instantly regretting the indiscretion in front of Tony.
"Could be," Tony said, "probably his own. Sometimes it can be a little tough to aim the needle – if you know what I mean." He parodied injecting his arm with an exaggerated impression of someone intoxicated.
George Bush droned on in the background. "We as a people have such a purpose today. It is to make kinder the face of the Nation and gentler the face of the world. My friends, we have work to do. There are the homeless, lost and roaming. There are the children who have nothing, no love, no normalcy. There are those who cannot free themselves of enslavement to whatever addiction—drugs, welfare, the demoralization that rules the slums. There is crime to be conquered, the rough crime of the streets."
Tony interjected, "If you ask me, the way to conquer crime and drugs is a little less of the 'kinder, gentler' and a little more of the 'rougher, tougher'." He chuckled at his own crass humor. Who needs the Tonight Show? "The solution for Pueblo is easy. A platoon of marines in the north side could take care of both the unemployment and crime in one sweep. Just haul 'em back home."
"Give it a rest," the nurse said, but there was no anger in it. "That's pretty rough talk coming from a fourth generation Italian. What do you think your ancestors faced when they arrived here?"
"I just want to make sure the Mexicans get the same taste of the American dream we all received: utter contempt. It's the American way!"
"Mexicans? That's awfully civil of you. When did that start?"
"I'd prefer something more colorful like wetback, spic, taco, … you know the ones. But the chief cracked down. I can't even use 'alien' unless I have a straight face, which is just about impossible."
The nurse arched her eyebrows, "The chief? I think he's worse than you."
"I mean the big chief … the one at home." His grin widened.
xXx
Owen enjoyed the banter as he lay on the floor. So this is how adults relate to each other. Even on the tile floor he was comfortable and content. In custody he knew safety. The removal of choice meant the removal of faulty judgment.
The officer's walkie talkie crackled, interrupting the banter. "Calling all units. Possible code 187 on the corner of Lamskin and West C Street. A body was reported outside the abandoned metal finishing plant. Please respond. Out."
He tugged at his radio and pushed the talk button. "10-4, this is unit R12 responding. I'm finishing up at the hospital. I'll be there in five minutes. Out." The officer expression turned serious, "So how old do you think those blood stains are?"
"They're brown and dry. These are old stains. I'd say at least a month."
Tony shrugged, "All right then I guess he's yours. Not that this hasn't been fun. Murder trumps junkie every time … probably one of the new gangs in town proving themselves. I'll return in the morning to collect him." He donned his cap and pulled a folded up piece of paper from his left breast pocket. "Sign here." He handed her the slip of paper.
Wonder who was killed tonight. For once Owen didn't know. He had mixed feelings about his ignorance. Could he have chosen a better victim? Possibly, but the choosing was never easy. He tried to feel content in the ignorance of his intoxication. The coward's escape, but the only way he knew how.
"Could you at least remove his handcuffs?" the nurse asked as she scribbled on the bottom of the form.
"I can cuff him to a bed if you want. Sometimes these guys can be tougher than they look."
"He's already crashing. I think we can handle him."
He shot her a quizzical look, shrugged and removed the handcuffs; the police officer kissed the nurse on the cheek and hurried out the door.
President Bush continued in the background, "For democracy belongs to us all, and freedom is like a beautiful kite that can go higher and higher with the breeze. And to all I say: No matter what your circumstances or where you are, you are part of this day, you are part of the life of our great nation."
The duty nurse stared with annoyance as the officer exited the building. "Hear that. You are part of the life of our great nation. At least he has the higher and higher part right. You're part of this day; we'll try to keep you part of tomorrow, too." She looked compassionately at her decrepit patient. "Do you have a name?" she asked.
xXx
The youth pushed himself up into a seated position with the nurse's help. He rubbed his raw wrists; his bony frame conspicuous through his torn, thin black T-shirt. Instead of answering he began to shake uncontrollably for several minutes. The only words she heard was those of the President, "There are few clear areas in which we as a society must rise up united and express our intolerance. The most obvious now is drugs. And when that first cocaine was smuggled in on a ship, it may as well have been a deadly bacteria, so much has it hurt the body, the soul of our country. And there is much to be done and to be said, but take my word for it: This scourge will stop."
As the shakes died down, he vomited evidence of his body's intolerance on the previously clean hospital tile. Aileen grabbed a nearby waste bucket. Cradling the patient around his shoulders, she held his matted hair aside. When he was finished, she cleaned his face and dirtied hair with an antiseptic wipe. She began to repeat her question again, when he whispered, "Owen." He lay back on the tile and closed his eyes.
Aileen called an orderly to help load him on the gurney and clean up the vomit. After the orderly wheeled Owen back to the patient areas, he prepared him for admittance. He removed his grimy clothes and tennis shoes. No underwear … no surprise.
His pockets held twelve crumpled one dollar bills, a small bell with its clapper taped, a plastic baggy with hundreds of grains of rice, and a vial of water. There was also a photograph – wallet-size, faded and cracked; a black & white photograph of a young girl. I wonder who she is, she thought. The orderly placed these belongings in a small bag. He cloaked him in a flimsy hospital gown that made the black T-shirt look cozy. The entire time, Owen continued to tremble; his breathing was rapid and shallow.
When the orderly was completed, Aileen checked his vital signs - pulse rapid at 120 beats per minute, respiration rapid and shallow, blood pressure high at 180 over 90, and temperature 97.8 degrees, not surprising considering the T-shirt in sub-freezing temperatures. The eyes remained blood shot and dilated. She placed a blanket on him and woke up the on-call physician. While waiting she attached electronic monitoring devices and a nutritional IV bag.
xXx
During the examination, Owen grew more aware what was happening to him. He continued to play comatose. For the first time in years he felt peaceful. Someone was taking care of him.
Wearing a crisp white lab jacket covering his green scrubs and a ceremonial stethoscope around his neck, the young doctor sauntered into the emergency room hands in pocket. He scrubbed those hands in the sink and donned his protective mask and gloves before turning to the patient. "How's our patient today?"
"Fine, Doctor." The nurse gave a courtesy smile handing him the clipboard.
The doctor scanned the patient's chart, nodding at the notations and returned it to the nurse. He pulled out his penlight from his shirt pocket and reached over to open the patient's left eyelid. With a disgusted look on his face, he jolted back away from Owen. "Damned parasites! I hate them." he whispered.
"Excuse me, doctor?"
"Sorry … lice. Make sure that you delouse him when I'm done." The nurse nodded; the infestation was described on the chart. Owen started as the doctor continued his poking and prodding. The discomfort was small compared to the warmth of the blanket. The doctor asked several questions that Owen ignored.
Owen winced as the doctor pressed against his ribs. He spent a lot of time searching for damage or breaks. Apparently satisfied x-rays were not needed; he provided the final details for the nurse. "Add 10 mg of diazepam to the IV to help him sleep. Make sure you record the nutritional IV on the prescription." He smiled. "Let me know if his condition worsens. I'll be in the lounge getting a snack and watching the news." The doctor tossed his latex gloves and smiled at the nurse as he strolled away.
The nurse needed to complete reams of forms on her new patient. She opened the patient chart clipboard, completing the information on the doctor's orders. "Owen," she said, "There are a few more questions I need to ask, if you don't mind." Owen nodded. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," Owen answered, "more or less."
If the nurse wondered about the description, she recorded it without question. "Where are you from, honey?"
Owen thought for several minutes trying to remember. "Ala …. Alamo…" He sighed in frustration.
"Alamosa?" He nodded. That answer would work as well as the truth. She again recorded it on the clipboard. "That's enough for now, sweetie. Try to get some rest."
Peter Jennings analyzed Bush's inauguration speech. "The forty-first president of the United States emphasized a number of key themes in his first inaugural address: a call to volunteerism with his thousand points of light, harsh words for drug dealers and abusers, and a celebration of democratic freedoms arising from the ashes of former communist republics."
Owen startled the nurse as he rolled over and opened his eyes. "Freedom…"
His first initiation of conversation – she wasn't going to waste this opportunity. "Yes, Owen?"
"Freedom … can build its own sort of prison."
She answered him sadly, "Yes, it can, honey. There is a lot of that going around in Pueblo right now. Try to get some sleep."
He curled up in the fetal position and drifted back to sleep.
January 21, 1989
Owen found himself dancing fully naked with a large rattlesnake. It felt awkward, but Owen enjoyed the intimacy. The rattling tail provided the beat for the spectral music. He bobbed his head in rhythm as they swayed around the wooden dance floor. Writhing to the music the rough scales scraped his arms. The room was otherwise empty save for an infant cooing nearby playing with his fingers and toes.
The snake slithered over to the baby without losing the rhythm of the music. Alone on the dance floor, Owen continued to awkwardly bob his head, more or less in time with the rattle. The snake circled and studied her prey with her tongue searching in anticipation. Smiling, the baby tried to play with the snake's tail rattle as it twisted out of reach. He reached up to tease her fangs. The fangs struck back in return.
A piercing wail replaced the cooing and the snake's rattle played louder. Owen squeezed his eyes shut and placed his fingers in his ears, but he couldn't shut out the racket. Residual bawling echoed in the air even when the snake tore into her meal. Blood splattered over the wooden dance floor and a tart, metallic odor filled the air. The baby disappeared in one large gulp. Satiated, with bulging belly, she sashayed back to the dancing Owen.
Irritated, he challenged his partner, "Why did you do that? Why did you eat the baby?"
"That was not a baby. That was an apple; a very sweet, red delicious apple," The serpent answered. Owen remembered that it was just an apple. An apple would be nice. Imagine mistaking an apple for a baby. Strange, how there is so much blood from just one apple.
The snake laid its head on Owen's shoulder. Her tongue tickled his neck. A mixture of blood and poison dripped from her teeth and sizzled as they struck his bare skin. The drops stained Owen's back dark purple. The snake steered the couple over toward a large bonfire. The warmth turned Owen's calf red. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. The fire wasn't there before. Was it? "It's getting hot, why did you build the fire?" Owen asked. The wooden dance floor blackened under the crackling timber.
"The fire is for you, my little apple." Owen grew nervous as the snake nibbled his neck again.
Fearing the worst, Owen pushed away staring into the deep blue eyes of his slithering partner. "Are you going to eat me too?"
"Never!" The serpent smiled. Can snakes smile? "I wouldn't enjoy the taste. You are rotten to the core."
Owen pivoted his partner to move away from the fire. He stopped dancing when he caught sight of three judges. Sitting around a semicircular jurist bench they were wearing identical grave expressions while presiding over the dance. In the front of the bench was carved a dove holding a torch in one claw and a sword in the other. A stone tablet of the Ten Commandments sat on one side. "Thou shalt not kill," shined brightly next to the other nine.
The first judge was an angry, bespectacled old man with a cigarette. The one who had live next to Owen in his apartment building with Abby. He looked odd in his black robe and gray curls. He flicked his cigarette with one hand and held a gavel in the other. Owen almost laughed despite the seriousness.
"I remember you," the judge growled. "I used to be just like you." He banged his gavel hard against the bench. The sound reverberated, echoing through the chamber.
The second judge was his father. His jurist wig was made of tight gray curls and wrapped around his chin. Owen relaxed; his father was tougher than Abby's toe-nails, but fair. He worried about the sawed off broomstick his father wiggled in front of him. "You thought you could stand up to me? I'm going to take this stick and ram it where the sun don't shine – in hell. Guilty!" The broomstick slammed down. The sound reverberated, echoing through the chamber. Owen was growing concerned. What was the penalty for poor dancing?
Owen barely recognized the third judge surrounded by a haze. She wore a black terry cloth robe tied at the waist, and her wig hung loosely. Wineglass held tightly in her left hand, she bounced the gavel loosely in the right. A white alcohol mist sprayed as she spoke her pronouncement. "Woe to ye who call evil good and good evil." Who says ye anymore? "Misery and pain will reign in your eternal torment. Paradise belongs to those who defend righteousness. You have become a slave to Lilith, and you will burn in the maelstrom of Hell for all eternity!" It almost made sense. She struck her gavel seven times making deep bell tones with each tap. "Or choose… choose the needle's eye." A three inch long needle hung in the air next to her.
"How? I can't fit through that. It's tiny."
The snake slithered toward Owen. "I might get to taste you after all, my withered old apple." She wriggled her bloated belly, shoving Owen into the raging flames. Owen screamed as his body shriveled and burned. The screams blended with a thousand other victims. His skin wrinkled and his hair grew gray and brittle. Not bothered by the flames, the snake leaned in and kissed his lips once more. "Goodbye Owen." She whispered. She coiled outside the fire with her rattle vibrating. Her mouth accelerated toward his neck….
Owen jolted awake. Thrashing, he ripped out the IV tubes from his arm. Blood pooled in his elbow joint. Blood. Oh no! In a momentary panic he searched wildly around the area. He was alone. He grabbed a piece of cotton and pressed on the wound. Gasping, he sat up and rubbed his freshly trimmed crew cut. His face felt cold. Someone had shaved his beard. It was like being a little kid again.
Where was he? White sheets were draped loosely over his hospital gown, and nobody else was within the confines of the plastic curtain. Isopropyl alcohol irritated his nose while he calmed his rapid breathing. A hospital; he vaguely remembered arriving. Electrical wires were taped to his body. He pulled those loose, too. The equipment alarmed. He heard footsteps outside, and a nurse threw open the curtains.
She smiled as she reached over and silenced the alarms. "Good morning, Owen." It was the same nurse from the previous night. Or at least the same light green scrubs. He noticed that it matched her green eyes. She continued to disconnect the equipment. "Did you sleep well?" she paused, waiting for an answer. Owen nodded. "The doctor has signed your dismissal. Here are your clothes and belongings. As soon I change your bandage, you can get dressed. I'll contact officer friendly for your ride. There are showers in the rest room, if you want to eliminate that just deloused feeling." She placed his belongings on the bed. "What's with the rice? You don't eat that, do you?"
"Sometimes," Owen shrugged.
The nurse returned the photograph of the young girl. "Who is she? She must be someone very special."
Owen took the picture and stared at with at it for a few moments with aching remorse. He answered matter of factly, as though it were a question he hadn't considered in a while. "I don't know who she is." He returned his belongings to his pockets.
Owen showered, dressed and returned to the waiting room just as a police officer entered from outside. His eyes were drawn and tired. He had been up all night. Owen caught his attention with a flash of recognition.
The policeman addressed Owen, "Wow you clean up well. Look what a good night sleep can do. You look like a new man – almost like a real American. With a little luck, I'll be enjoying my own rest soon." The officer turned to the night nurse. "It looks like this is his lucky day. I've been up all night with the detectives at the murder scene. After examining the crime scene, the suits have declared the murderer an animal or something." The officer chuckled. "The same pattern as the killings at Lake Pueblo before Christmas … must be some sort of rabid beast like a wolf or a dog. He left a wife and two young children this time."
This death was not Owen's concern. It's a shame for the family, but there was nothing he could do about it.
"For now, it's is in the capable hands of Animal Controls' finest. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll sweep up a few Mexicans in the dragnet."
"This doesn't sound like it has anything to do with Owen." the nurse smiled. "During my examination, I discovered that he is neither wolf nor dog. I think he's off the hook." Owen wondered why she vouched for him. Perhaps he could growl a little to convince the police officer.
The officer returned the smile. "I'm sure you were very thorough. I haven't been able to return to the station and complete the paperwork. My job description is 'to protect and to serve.' Protecting crime-scene tape is just enough work for a night, not to mention enough overtime. I have a mind to call it a shift and go to sleep." He turned to Owen, "The chief said to let you go. No free room and board at taxpayer expense. At least until I find you on another night." The police officer turned back to the nurse. "I'll see you later. Don't bring home any strays." Just like the night before, he turned and left the ER.
Owen found this news disappointing. In this case freedom is a curse he would rather avoid. The nurse glanced over toward Owen. "Do you have a place to go?"
"Somewhere on the streets, I guess." Owen shrugged. He knew where he was staying, but he wasn't going to share that with anybody official.
"Wait right here. My shift is over. After I finish closing out your paperwork, I'll clock out and take you someplace special." The nurse grinned at him.
A little while later Owen sat impatiently in the waiting room. Now scrubless, wearing jeans and a Denver Bronco's orange sweatshirt, the nurse exited the changing room and motioned Owen to follow her. She donned her black parka and red plaid scarf looking sadly at Owen in his T-shirt. "I'm Aileen by the way."
Owen gasped as he stepped into the bright sunlight. Temporarily blinded, he squinted until his pupils constricted clearing his vision. Aileen bounced along now several steps ahead of him. He jogged, favoring his injured right side, trying to catch up. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting it to be so bright." Their breath glistened in the cool Colorado morning air. Owen's hands shoved in his pockets, as his ears became flush. He'll need a hat to go with his shorter haircut.
As he eyes adjusted, he was able to study her more closely now. She looked to be in her early-thirties with shoulder length red hair. She wasn't thin, but she carried herself athletically. They shared small talk as they strolled along the city streets. Owen grunting in monosyllabic answers to the probing questions while he slowly warmed to Aileen's company.
"It's funny the chief letting me go. I don't suppose that police officer will be out here to pick me up along the way," Owen wondered. "He seemed pretty determined."
"I think we'll be okay. I'll let you in on a little secret." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Tony the tough guy is not so tough. I have it on good authority that it wasn't the police chief that suggested he let you go, but the chief at home." She began to look a little serious. "But now you owe me, Owen. I don't think I can hold him off a second time." She stopped walking, turned to Owen, and grabbed his shoulders. She looked directly into his eyes. "I have a good feeling about you. You may wind up back in jail, or you may straighten out. You need to stay out of trouble from here on out. Okay?"
Owen pulled away. "Thanks for nothing. I was better off going to jail. I can't get into any trouble there." Even now he could feel the pull, like a strong magnetic attraction. He found himself unconsciously staring in the direction of the old steel mill. Today was stronger than the night before; he knew he could not resist. He lacked the willpower a prison cell could provide.
Aileen smacked him smartly on the face. His cheek stung in the bitter cold. Now, he was paying attention. "I don't know why I try. Jail is a dead end street. Petty criminals enter, and hardened criminals come out."
"There are worse things than hardened criminals," Owen countered.
"You're right." Aileen paused, searching for the right words. "There are worse things than hardened criminals. I have stared in the face of that evil, and it scares the hell out of me." Owen wondered what she had seen. "AIDS. Ten years ago I never heard of it. Now I see it almost every day. These patients are so sick. Over the course of years I watch the disease destroy their spirit of life. Their bodies slowly waste away, but their despair is unbearable."
Aileen continued down the sidewalk expecting Owen to follow. "Thousand of scientists are working on a cure for AIDS, but these patients need help right now." She laughed. "I don't really expect that kind of miracle, but maybe somebody I help can find a way to bring them some comfort. At the very least, stay away from used needles."
Owen walked staring at the ground in front of him avoiding direct eye contact. "I am less than nothing. Thanks for your help, but right now I consider it a good night when I make it through to sunrise. Then I hope to make it through the week."
"Maybe you'll wind up back in jail or maybe not." Aileen stopped once again, turned to Owen, and grabbed his shoulder once again. She looked directly into his eyes. "Even if you straighten out, you will probably just putter along with a job here and a job there. But, if there's a chance … even a small chance that you could do something great, then you deserve the chance. You earn your own choices … your own fate."
They arrived at the door to the neighborhood homeless shelter. It was an ordinary door with a blue painted metal frame around a reinforced cloudy window. There were metal bars covering the window and somebody had scrawled paradise on the bottom half with black spray paint. A door this momentous should be a little less nondescript.
Before Owen could object, Aileen ushered him across the threshold of the door to tomorrow. The shelter was laid out in rows of mismatched portable tables. Some were round some were rectangular. Signs of poverty reeked from each of them - a mother bottle feeding the youngest of three children; a drooling, gray-bearded man quivered while grasping his soup spoon with intensity. Most of the soup arrived to its destination. Owen was disgusted at what he saw, and then he was disgusted with himself. Who was he to judge their lives? These castoffs were a clear sight better than he was.
Aileen instructed him to stay put while she talked with a young Hispanic girl. He just stood there in the entranceway, paralyzed by the crowd.
After a few minutes of discussion, Aileen accompanied the other girl over to Owen. The young girl's wavy dark brown hair rippled as she walked. A Pueblo State sweatshirt caressed her hips at the perfect angle to accentuate her movement. Two small dimples complemented her gentle smile.
"Owen this is Gabriella, she'll help you get settled here."
"Hi, Owen, welcome to our little corner of paradise." Owen nodded.
"Stop back the hospital in a few days," Aileen said. "I'll check your injuries; we should have the results of your blood work by then. If you already have HIV, you should find out for certain so that you can prevent passing it onto others."
"There's no need. I'm sure that I'm infected. I got it – no more needles." Aileen left with a sigh.
Gabriella reached up to touch his shoulder to steer him back to the shelter. "We have something for breakfast over in the kitchen with milk to drink. If you need, we have a few rooms upstairs and donated clothing in the bins." She nodded to a few bins lining the wall. "They're all mixed together, so you may have to dig around a little." There was not a hint of recognition in the girl's eyes, but Owen remembered her. His fresh haircut and shave were a blessing in disguise.
For years Owen experienced emotions ranging from avoidance to outright hostility. This incorruptible kindness was unusual. He felt it once before, from this very same girl. He wasn't sure how to respond. "Thanks," he said.
She steered him over to the "kitchen". It was not much more than a couple of large crock-pots, a few bowls and pitchers on a table. One pot held grits, the other oatmeal. He ladled some pasty oatmeal into a ceramic bowl, added a few raisins, and grabbed a spoon and a glass of milk. He chose a seat far away from the other vagrants. Gabriella moved on to speak with some of the other guests.
A well-groomed man, attired in black pants and wearing a gray fleece hunting jacket, entered a back door to the shelter. Smiling, he stopped at the table with the young mother. He caressed the baby's back and spoke to the woman for a few minutes. The woman gave him a faint smile. He shook a few of the hands of another diner and waved to a few others. Gathering a bowl of grits and coffee the new arrival scanned the room. The volunteer's eyes lit up with discovery upon seeing a new face. Owen groaned as the stranger proceeded toward his table.
"Do you mind if I join you?" He sat down without waiting for an answer.
"Please don't," Owen whispered under his breath. He continued to stare into his bowl, wearing his most unfriendly scowl.
The newcomer placed his grits and two cups, one empty and one full, on the table across from Owen. He rubbed his hands a few times to warm them up and held them over his coffee for a moment. He placed the empty Styrofoam cup under his lips and drooled chewing tobacco into it. Then he took a quick swig from the steaming coffee.
The unwelcome tablemate removed his scarf and jacket and laid them on the back of the chair next to him. Dressed entirely in black with a white collar, he bent his head in silent prayer. A plain silver cross dangled from his neck. A priest, he thought, jail would be less punishment. His smile continued throughout his grace. When finished he looked at Owen, "Ah! Snuff and coffee; what a rush! We all have our vices, right?" He reached out his hand, "Welcome to St. Simeon's. I'm Father Erasmus."
It had been many years since he had been this close to a priest. Stunned, Owen just sat stared. He felt like a fool. The smile remained while the man retracted his hand.
Gabriella saved him. She sat next to Owen and responded to the priest. "Padre, this is Owen. He spent last night in the hospital. He's a little quiet, but I'm trying to convince him to stay." She placed her hand around his wrist. A familiar, comforting tingle raced up his arm to his neck. Her hands were soft and warm; he enjoyed the contact.
As he watched the gentle rhythm of her lips he caught a whiff of her perfume - roses or some other floral scent. She was a sorceress, and he was bewitched.
She continued to speak to Father Erasmus, but Owen did not quite catch what she was saying. The priest startled him back to the shelter. "That's a great idea. Owen, you should stay." He studied him warmly. Everybody was so friendly here – a little too friendly.
Owen pictured a warm bed, heat, and food. He stared around the room at the other lost souls quietly enjoying their meals. The fantasy shattered. "No, I can't stay." Owen's past contained secrets he was not willing to share. And there is no doubt these two were the prying type.
"Why ever not?" the priest wondered. For the first time the smiled faded. "Owen, what we do here is important. Many of these people have demons that can't be silenced. They are elderly; they have addictions that can't be broken; or they have incurable diseases. We can give them care, and I would be happy with just that. But we can't give them hope." He paused to gather his thoughts. "For whatever reason fortune frowned upon you and brought you low. For someone like you we can offer more than just care. For someone like you we can break the cycle of despair. This is what brings the shelter life. This is what brings us joy. Truly you are why we can bear to stand the hopelessness. Please consider staying."
"A priest." Owen shook his head and shuddered. "Fuck you!" He stood up and slammed the chair against the table. "You stand there in that pulpit and pretend you're better than I am. I know how worthless I am. Priests have destroyed everything I ever loved. Everything." Gabriella drew away. He struggled to hold back tears.
Knowing he pushed the limit Owen dipped his head and continued more calmly than before, "I can't stay. I have to care for my little sister." The lie came easy now – even to a priest. The oatmeal was not quite so warm anymore. Years of murders taxed his lucidity. The baby's death was almost unbearable. His appetite gone, Owen stirred the remaining oatmeal.
"That's okay, she can stay here too," Gabriella smiled. "What's her name? We might be able to help her." She touched his hand in support. It was a comforting touch. The warmth rose all the way to his shoulder.
"Abby," Owen let slip. He stared uncomfortably at the back of his chair. He continued more firmly than before, "She's very sick."
"We have other sick people staying here. Perhaps we could find a doctor," Gabriella offered. "She won't be any trouble for us."
"That's not enough. She's contagious. I won't be staying. I may come back, if it's all right. I do get hungry." Puzzled, Gabriella nodded.
Who am I kidding? I'm not returning. Owen stalked over to the clothes bin. His heart raced for fear of any more questions. He quickly selected a jacket for himself and a brown sweatshirt and a faded denim skirt for Abby. Then he grabbed a knitted. It was enough. He wadded up the clothes and stormed through the shelter door. He risked a glance back at the table and saw Gabriella studying his every move.
Owen ran as fast as he could on his weakened, wasted body. All the way to the abandoned steel mill and entered through the damaged side door. He could barely see with the windows boarded up, but he knew his way around in the darkness. He found his way to a bin on the main production area and lifted up several layers of blankets where a small girl lay sleeping.
He reached over the edge and caressed her hair, brushing it away from her face. A blistered sore ahd formed, already. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on her soft, pale cheek. "I'm sorry I wasn't here last night. I had to sort out a few things. I still haven't left you." A small smile formed on her face while Owen replaced the blankets." Owen whispered, "Thousands of scientists are searching for a cure for AIDS, but nobody is trying to help you. Perhaps, I can do that."
He knew the answer. He understood the help Abby needed. Six years he had done nothing for her, not the important things. Up until now he had not found the courage. It's time.
As Owen walked back to his own mattress, he realized something was not quite right. Abby was peaceful and calm, as she should be after a kill. Then it dawned on him; where was the blood from last night's victim?