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the community, or had been referred there by those who still cared about them.
In some cases, like my own, the community had found them and had extended a
hand to them. Every man was free to walk away at any time, without
recrimination, but while they were a part of the community they had to abide
by its rules. There was no alcohol, no drug use, no sexual activity. Everybody
worked. Everybody contributed to the greater good of the community. Each day,
we gathered for what could be termed prayer but was closer to meditation, a
coming to terms with our own failings and the failings of others.
Occasionally, outside counselors would join us to act as facilitators or to
offer specialized advice and support to those who needed it. But for the most
part we listened to one another and supported one another, aided by the
founders of the community, Doug and Amy Greaves. The only pressure to remain
came from the other members; it was made clear to each of us that we were not
only helping ourselves but, by our presence there, helping our brothers.
I think, looking back, that I was not yet ready for what the Colony had to
offer. When I left, a confused, self-pitying man had been replaced by one with
a purpose, a clear aim: I would find the man who killed Susan and Jennifer,
and I would kill him in turn. And, in the end, that is what I did. I killed
the Traveling Man. I killed him, and I tore apart anyone who tried to stand in
my way.
As I passed through the trees, the house came into view. It had whitewashed
walls, and close by, there were barns and storage buildings, also white, and
stables that had been coverted into dormitories. It was after 9 A.M., and the
members of the community had already commenced their daily tasks. To my right,
a black man walked among the chicken coops collecting eggs and I could see
shapes moving in the small greenhouses beyond. From one of the barns came the
sound of a buzz saw, as those with the necessary skills helped to make the
furniture, the candlesticks, and the children's toys that were sold to partly
support the community's activities. The rest of its funding came mainly from
private donations, some from those who had, over the years, passed through the
Colony's gates and, in doing so, had taken the first steps toward rebuilding
their lives. I had sent them what I could afford, and had written to Amy once
or twice, but I had not returned to the community since the day I turned my
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back on it.
As I drew up outside the house, a woman appeared on the porch. She was small,
a little over five feet tall, with long gray hair tied up loosely on her head.
Her broad shoulders were lost beneath a baggy sweatshirt, and the frayed cuffs
of her jeans almost obscured her sneakers. She watched me step from the car.
As I approached her, her face broke into a smile and she dropped down into the
yard to embrace me.
Charlie Parker, said Amy, half in wonder. Her strong arms enclosed me and
the scent of apples rose from her hair. She moved back and examined me
closely, her eyes locking on to mine. Her thoughts flickered across her face,
and in the movement of her features I seemed to see the events of the last two
and a half years reenacted. When at last she looked away, concern and relief
collided in her eyes.
She held my hand as we walked onto the porch and moved into the house. She
guided me to a chair at the long communal breakfast table, then disappeared
into the kitchen before returning with a mug of decaf coffee for me and some
mint tea for herself.
And then, for the next hour, we spoke of my life since I had left the
community, and I told her almost everything. To the east, the flooded land
sparkled in the morning sun. Men occasionally passed by the window and raised
a hand in greeting. One, I noticed, seemed to be having trouble walking. His
gut hung over his belt, and despite the cold, his body gleamed with sweat. His
hands shook uncontrollably. I guessed that he had been at the Colony for no
more than a day or two, and the withdrawal was tormenting his system.
A new arrival, I said, when at last I had finished unburdening myself to
her. I felt light-headed, a simultaneous sense of elation and loss.
You were like that once, said Amy.
An alcoholic?
You were never an alcoholic.
How do you know?
Because of the way you stopped, she replied. Because of why you stopped. Do
you think about drinking?
Sometimes.
But not every day, not every hour of every day?
No.
Then you've answered your own question. It was just a way to fill a hole in
your being, and it could have been anything: sex, drugs, marathon running.
When you left here, you simply substituted something else for alcohol. You
found another way to fill the hole. You found violence, and revenge.
Amy was not one to sugarcoat pills. She and her husband had built a community
based on the importance of absolute honesty: with oneself and, from that, with
others. Do you believe that you have the right to take lives, to judge others
and find them wanting?
I heard echoes of Al Z in her words. I didn't like it.
I had no choice, I replied.
There's always a choice.
It didn't seem that way at the time. If they'd lived, then I'd have died.
Other people would have died as well, innocent people. I wasn't going to let
that happen.
The necessity defense?
The necessity defense was an old English common-law concept that held that an
individual who breaks a minor law to achieve a greater good should be declared
innocent of the lesser charge. It was still invoked occasionally, only to be
knocked out of the ballpark by any judge worth his salt.
There are only two consequences to taking a life, Amy continued. Either the
victim achieves salvation, in which case you have killed a good man; or you
damn him to hell, in which case you have deprived him of any hope of
redemption. Afterward, the responsibility lies with you, and you bear the
weight.
They weren't interested in redemption, I answered her evenly. And they
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didn't want salvation.
And you do?
I didn't answer.
You won't achieve salvation with a gun in your hand, she persisted.
I leaned forward. Amy, I said softly, I've thought about these things. I've
considered them. I thought I could walk away, but I can't. People have to be
protected from the urges of violent men. I can do that. Sometimes I'm too late
to protect them, but maybe I can help to achieve some measure of justice for
them.
Is that why you're here, Charlie?
A noise came from behind me and Doug, Amy's husband, came into the room. I
wondered for a moment how long he had been there. He held a large bottle of
water in his hand. Some of it had dripped from his chin and soaked the front
of his clean white shirt. He was a tall man with pale skin and hair that was
almost entirely white. His eyes were remarkably green. When I stood to greet
him, he held my shoulder for a time and perused me in much the same way that
his wife had examined me earlier. Then he took a seat beside Amy and they both
waited in silence for me to answer Amy's question.
In a sense, I said at last. I'm investigating the death of a woman. Her
name was Grace Peltier. Once, a long time ago, she was a friend of mine.
I took a breath and looked out once again at the sunlight. In this place whose
only purpose was to try to make the lives of those who passed its way a little
better, the deaths of Grace and her father and the figure of a child out of
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