David Bell - The Hiding Place

“I figured you were headed there, that you were in the mood to be there.”

“Something happened.”

Kevin looked concerned. Protective. “What happened?”

“I saw someone.”

“Who, Ashleigh?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Who did you see?” Kevin asked.

“Dante Rogers. The guy who killed my uncle.”

“He was in the park?”

“He wasn’t just in the park. He was at the place where they found my uncle’s body. He was right there.”

“He was there when you were there? Just the two of you in the middle of the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared?”

Ashleigh thought about the question before she answered. “Not scared. Uneasy, I guess.”

“What the hell was he doing there?” Kevin asked.

“He was just standing there. He came walking up, and he looked surprised to see me, like he’d been there before and was always alone.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I tried.” Ashleigh thought back to the scene in the clearing, the way Dante just ran away from her, as though she had something wrong with her. “He bolted. As soon as I went toward him, he ran.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

Ashleigh shook her head. The sun had fallen farther, and near the low ground beneath the hedge that separated the school from the road, fireflies began to blink on and off.

“He held his hands out,” Ashleigh said. “He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He looked scared, I guess.”

“Weird.”

“Why would he go there?” Ashleigh asked.

Kevin shrugged. “Maybe he’s been going to that spot in the woods ever since he got out.”

“But if you go to the place where you supposedly murdered someone, doesn’t it mean you’re guilty?”

“If you’re going there and no one’s making you go there, yes, it does suggest guilt.”

Ashleigh didn’t say anything else, but she again felt Kevin staring at her. Studying her.

“Ash, why do you care about that? Wouldn’t you be happy to know that Dante really killed your uncle? It would mean they convicted the right guy, and he did his time.”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t know?” Kevin asked. “Are you mad because he didn’t go to jail long enough?”

“Not that. I don’t really care about that. I’m not like those stupid people who live for revenge, who foam at the mouth if they think someone should have gone to the electric chair.”

“Then what is it?”

Ashleigh watched the fireflies and tried to think of the right words.

“I want the story to change,” she said finally. “My whole life, that’s been the story. Dante Rogers killed my uncle. He went to jail. My grandmother died from grief. All of that happened before I was born, but I’ve lived with it my whole life. It’s been a black cloud over my head and the whole family.” She turned to him. “But when that guy showed up at the house saying the story wasn’t true, that something else happened to my uncle, I felt something change. I don’t know…There was a chance.”

“A chance to change the story? Your family’s story?”

“Yes.” She kicked at the ground. “When that guy-Steven-first showed up, I thought he just meant that Dante didn’t kill my uncle the way they said he did. Or maybe he just meant that Dante didn’t kill him and someone else did.”

“But?”

“But what if he means something more? What if he’s trying to say that my uncle didn’t die? What if he’s still alive?”

Kevin took a deep breath. “Holy shit, Ash. You don’t know that. You don’t have any evidence for that.”

“I know. But there’s something happening with this guy. I can feel it.”

She knew Kevin would understand. She wanted to tell him because she knew he would get it without a lot of explanation. They got each other. Sometimes she thought he was the only person who got her.

“It makes sense,” he said. “I understand why you want to find this guy and talk to him. But there’s one potential problem with all of this.”

“What’s that?”

“What if you find out something different did happen, just like that guy said, and what if it ends up being worse than what you know now?”

As quickly as Ashleigh wanted to celebrate her friendship with Kevin, she just as quickly wanted to curse him. Being friends with him-and maybe being good friends with anyone-meant that he knew exactly how to cut to the heart of a matter, even if it meant saying something Ashleigh didn’t want to hear.

“It can’t be,” she said. “Anything is better. My mom, you know? She’s living her life and everything, but has anyone ever needed a different story more than her? Hell, sometimes-and I can’t believe I’m going to say this-but sometimes-”

“You even feel sorry for your grandpa.”

“Yes.”

Kevin laughed. Ashleigh spent so much time complaining about the old man that she knew it struck him as funny to hear her express any sympathy for him. But she really felt that way. He might be a grumpy old man, but he was her grandfather.

“So, what are you going to do next?” Kevin asked. “Call the police, I hope.”

“And report a guy hanging out in a park?”

“A murderer, Ash. If he’s out, he’s on parole. He can’t just go wherever he wants or do whatever he wants.”

“How do you know what he can and can’t do?” she asked.

Kevin chuckled. “I’m black, Ash. I may be middle class and respectable, but black men don’t grow up not knowing about these things. If he’s out on parole, I guarantee he’s not allowed to come near your family or that park. He could get sent right back to jail.”

“I won’t call the police on him,” she said.

“Then what?”

“I’m going back,” she said. “I’m going back to talk to Steven Kollman.”

Stynes called into the station before he left his house for his noon-to-nine shift. He spoke to the desk officer and asked if anything was brewing in Dove Point that morning, anything that required his immediate attention. He waited while the officer checked, and while he stood there he looked down at his little notebook. He revisited the details that Reverend Fred had provided-six times in the last eighteen months money had disappeared from the church account. Not big amounts. They all ranged between three hundred and eight hundred dollars. The money always returned, usually without the reverend having to say anything to his bookkeeper.

But still, the reverend wondered, where was that money going?

The desk officer came back and told Stynes all was clear.

“I’m going to be checking on a complaint from the Reverend Fred Arling,” Stynes said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

He hung up and took a last look at the name of the bookkeeper before he left the house.

Ray Bower. Michael Bower’s father.

Could it just be a coincidence?

A converted Cape Cod with a wide front porch housed Ray Bower’s bookkeeping office on Lincoln Street, just two blocks off the circle. Stynes stepped into what had once served as the living room of the home. A large desk and a photocopier took up most of the space, and the young woman behind the desk took up the rest with the size of her smile.

“Can I help you?” she said.

The woman, who looked to be about twenty-five, wore her hair pulled back into a businesslike ponytail. Stynes made a point of not staring at the exposed skin where her black V-neck shirt dipped low enough to reveal a strip of black bra. A large bouquet of flowers took up one corner of the desk.

“Is Mr. Bower in?” Stynes asked.

“He sure is. Did you have an appointment?”

“No,” Stynes said. “I just wanted to talk to him.” Stynes decided to cut to the chase. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather billfold. He felt a little like a cliche from a TV show, letting one half of the billfold fall open, revealing his shiny gold badge. “Is he in?”