George Pelecanos - The Way Home

Copyright 2009 by George P. Pelecanos

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Little, Brown and Company

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First eBook Edition: May 2009

Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Excerpt from We People Who Are Darker Than Blue by Curtis Mayfield. Copyright Warner Music Publishing.

Excerpt from The Other Kind by Steve Earle.

Copyright Warner Music Publishing.

Excerpt from My Fathers House by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright 1982 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-316-07344-8

Contents

Also by George Pelecanos

The Turnaround

The Night Gardener

Drama City

Hard Revolution

Soul Circus

Hell to Pay

Right As Rain

The Sweet Forever

Shame the Devil

King Suckerman

The Big Blowdown

Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

Shoedog

Nicks Trip

A Firing Offense

For my father, Pete Pelecanos

Last night I dreamed that I was a child

out where the pines grow wild and tall

I was trying to make it home through the forest

before the darkness falls

Bruce Springsteen, My Fathers House

N O ONE could say why it was called Pine Ridge. Wasnt any pines around that Chris could see. Just a group of one-story, L-shaped, red brick buildings set on a flat dirt-and-mud clearing, surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire. Beyond the fence, woods. Oak, maple, wild dogwood, and weed trees, but no pines. Somewhere back in those woods, the jail they had for girls.

The facility was situated on eight hundred acres out in Anne Arundel County, Maryland, twenty-five miles from Northwest D.C., where Chris had grown up. At night, lying in his cell, he could hear planes coming in low. So he knew that they were near the Baltimore airport, and close to a highway, too. Some days, if the wind was right, playing basketball on the outdoor court or walking to the school building from his unit, hed make out the hiss and rumble of vehicles speeding by, straights going off to work or heading back home, moms in their mini-vans, kids driving to parties or hookups. Teenagers like him, only free.

Of course, he had been told exactly where he was. The director of the districts Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services, the superintendent, the guards, his fellow inmates, his parents, and the lawyer his father had hired to represent him had explained it to him in detail. Hed even been shown a map. But it was more interesting for him to imagine that he was in some kind of mysterious location. They are sending me to a top secret place in the woods. A facility for boys they cannot control. A place that cant hold me. I will now plan my daring escape, ha-ha.

Chris? said his mother.

Huh?

Is something funny?

No.

Youre grinning.

Was I?

Chris, you seem to be treating all of this very lightly.

I dont mean to, Ma. I was thinkin on something, was all it was.

You were thinking about something, said his father.

Chris smiled, causing the muscles along his fathers jawline to tighten.

Chris Flynn was seated at a scarred wooden table in the Pine Ridge visiting room. Across the table were his parents, Thomas and Amanda Flynn. Nearby, several other boys, all wearing polo shirts and khakis, were being visited by their moms or grandmothers. A guard stood by the door. Outside the room, through a square of Plexiglas, Chris could see two other guards, talking to each other, laughing.

Hows it going, honey? said Amanda.

Its all right.

Hows school?

Chris glanced around the room. I go.

Look at your mother when shes talking to you, said Thomas Flynn.

Instead, Chris stared into his fathers watery eyes. He saw a husk of anger and hurt, and felt nothing.

Im asking you, said Amanda, are they treating you all right? Are people bullying you?

You dont need to worry about that. I know how to jail.

You, said Flynn, his voice not much louder than a contemptuous whisper.

Do you have one of those level meetings coming up? said Amanda.

Not that I know.

Theyre supposed to have them monthly. Ill follow up with our attorney. Hes in contact with the superintendent.

Fine.

Lets pray, said Amanda.

She laced her fingers together, rested her hands on the table, and bowed her head. Chris and Thomas Flynn dutifully did the same. But they did not speak to God, and their thoughts were not spiritual or pure.

When Amanda was done, the three of them got up out of their seats. Amanda looked at the guard, a big man with kind eyes who surely would understand, and she embraced her son. As she held him, she slipped three folded twenty-dollar bills into the pocket of his trousers.

Amanda broke away from him, tears heavy in her eyes. Were doing everything we can.

I know it.

Youre in my prayers. I love you, Chris.

Love you, too, Mom. He said this quietly, so the other boys would not hear him.

Neither Chris nor his father made a step toward each other. After a long, empty lock of their eyes, Chris gave Thomas Flynn a tough nod with his chin, turned, and left the room.

Should we try and talk to the superintendent before we leave? said Amanda.

What for? Flynn shook his head. Lets just go.

ALONG WITH an escort guard, Thomas and Amanda Flynn walked out of the building toward the gatehouse, Thomas in front of Amanda, his heavy steps indenting the mud beneath his feet. Inmates, between classes and lunch, were moving from unit to unit, their arms behind their backs, one hand holding the wrist of the other, accompanied by a guard carrying a two-way radio. All of the boys were black. Flynn had seen one Hispanic kid, waxy eyed and wired on meds, on his last visit, so maybe there were a few Spanish here, too, but that was immaterial to him. What weighed on him was that Chris was the sole white inmate of the facility.

My son, here with all these

Flynn stopped himself before ugly words spelled themselves out in his head.

He rang the bell on the door at the rear of the gatehouse, looking through bars and Plexiglas to get the attention of one of two uniformed women behind the counter. Like most of the female guard staff Flynn had seen here, these women were wide and generously weighted in the legs and hips. He and his wife were buzzed in, and they passed through the same security aisle, similar to those used in airports, theyd entered. Neither of the guards looked at the couple or spoke to them as Flynn and Amanda collected their keys and cells.

They exited the gatehouse and walked along the chain link and razor wire fence to Amandas SUV, parked in the staff and visitors lot. They did not talk. Amanda was thinking of going to early mass on Sunday and lighting a candle for Chris. Flynn, as he often did, was thinking of what had gone wrong.

By Flynns reckoning, he had begun to lose his son somewhere in Chriss freshman year of high school. At the time, Chris was playing football and CYO basketball, getting decent grades, attending Sunday school and mass. He was also smoking marijuana, shoplifting, fighting other boys, and breaking into cars and lockers. This was all happening at the same time, when Chris was about fifteen. To Amanda, Flynn began to refer to his son as if he were two people: Good Chris and Bad Chris. By the time Chris was sixteen, only Bad Chris remained.