The Hiding Place

by David Bell

  Janet didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She still didn’t understand what Michael wanted from her. She waited while Michael remained in that position, his face hidden, his body quiet. Someone who stumbled upon him that way would think he was praying-or grieving. And maybe he was.

  He finally shifted his hands from over his mouth and said, “I can see it, Janet. That day.”

  “I can see it, too. Always.”

  “No, Janet.” His voice sounded harsh, impatient. “I can see that day, of course. But I can see this spot. This very spot.” He slid his hands all the way off his face and shifted his weight. He leaned forward and rested on his knees, his body kneeling in the soft dirt. “Remember, I followed Justin into the woods when he chased after that dog.”

  “Sure.”

  “And this is where he came. To this exact spot.”

  “Are you saying you were here? You came this far into the woods?”

  “Something’s happened to me since I’ve been back in Dove Point. It’s exactly what my therapist told me would happen. Since I’ve been here and living in this place, a flood of memories has come back to me. Everything. Smells and sounds and sights. I’ve been a little overwhelmed.”

  “It’s hard for me to really understand,” Janet said. “I never left like you did.”

  “Trust me. Memory is a powerful force.”

  For a long moment, there were only the night sounds. Then Janet said, “You told me in the coffee shop that you think you saw your dad in the woods that day. Did you see him here? In this clearing?”

  “I went to our old house today, the one we lived in when I was a kid. You know, Dad has it on the market. I made an appointment with the real estate agent. I didn’t tell Dad that I was doing it. He was at work while I went through with the agent. I’m not going to buy it, of course, but I wanted to see what the old place was like.”

  “I didn’t know he was moving.”

  Michael made a bitter laughing sound. “He’s getting married. Did you know that? He’s marrying his fucking secretary. Some girl younger than us, and he’s marrying her.”

  Janet thought of her own dad. She couldn’t imagine him marrying again, or her reaction to it, but there were days she would gladly have accepted a twenty-five-year-old stepmother if it brought the old man out of his funk.

  “It’s been a long time for him-”

  “No,” Michael said. “No. I don’t want to hear excuses for him. He left my mother. I know you went to the house the other day. I know you saw how she lives.”

  Janet understood. She didn’t know the particulars between Ray and Rose, but she understood that Michael would believe his mother had got the shaft. On the surface, it certainly seemed that way.

  “So you went through the house?” Janet said, hoping to steer Michael away from the anger at his father and back to what he had to say about his memories and the clearing.

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t tell your dad?”

  “We’re not really talking right now. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s funny. You’re back in your house, and I went back through my house. Did we ever think we’d be doing that when we were sixteen?”

  “We figured we’d be in New York or LA. At least one of us made it out.”

  He made the bitter laughing noise again. “For a while. Anyway, when I went through the house, a lot of things came back to me. The way I felt as a kid. The way I felt about my father. I opened up the medicine cabinet and saw his aftershave. I sat in the recliner he always sat in. I didn’t tell the real estate agent who I was or that I used to live there. She probably thought I was nuts, wandering around so lost in my thoughts. And then, at the end, I just left. I didn’t take her card or the sheet about the house. I just left.”

  He scratched his nose. “I feel like it made a lot of sense to go there like that. It served as preparation for the other things I needed to do. A warm-up exercise, if you will.”

  “And what were you warming up to?” Janet asked.

  “When I left the house and the real estate agent behind, I walked over to the park. I followed the exact course that he would have taken to get here. Out our backyard, through the neighbor’s yard, and over to the path into the woods. I walked all the way back here, right to this spot.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “He was here, Janet.”

  “Today?”

  “Then. That day. He wasn’t just in the woods. He was here. Right here.” He closed his eyes again. “I can see him. I can see him in this clearing.”

  Janet shivered. The sweat on her body seemed to have suddenly cooled. “With Justin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would your dad be here in the first place?” Janet asked. “Why would he just be walking through the woods in the morning?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if my dad was involved somehow. If he did something.”

  “But what reason would he have for doing anything to Justin? Why?”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t know, Janet. I don’t know any of it. I just know that something is wrong with my dad. He walked away from my mom. He walked away from his responsibilities as a father.”

  “It doesn’t make him a killer,” Janet said. “And there’s a guy claiming to be Justin running around town-”

  “And the convicted killer says he’s innocent,” Michael said. “So if Dante Rogers is innocent, that means someone else committed the crime. Someone who was here and close. And my dad was here.” Michael pointed at the earth. “He was right here.”

  Something snuck up on Janet, a memory of her own. Except it wasn’t from years past. It was from earlier that day.

  “My dad,” she said.

  “What about him?”

  “I just found out today that my dad was home the morning Justin died. Not only was he home, but he…I don’t want to say he lied, but he…”

  “He what?”

  “He told the police one thing about where he was that morning, and my mom said something else. But he was home that morning when he was supposed to be at work. Why would they both be home in the morning? Did you ask your mom about this?”

  Michael shook his head. “I can’t. She’s too fragile. She’s not over the asshole yet. It’s pathetic.”

  Janet wrapped her arms around her body. She looked at the ground where her brother supposedly died. “What happened here, Michael?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m supposed to trust these memories you’re having,” she said. “I can’t remember what I did last week, and you’re asking me to believe that you can remember something that happened twenty-five years ago, something you haven’t clearly remembered until now. I don’t know what to do with all of that. And the truth is I don’t want to believe you. I don’t want to believe that your father or my father had anything to do with Justin’s death. I want to believe he’s still alive, that the man claiming to be him is really him.”

  Michael stood up. He came over, and Janet scooted to her left so he could sit on the rock next to her. Their legs touched, the fabric of their jeans rubbing against each other. Michael took her hand in his. “That’s what I’m here to find out. That’s why I came back here.”

  “They’re looking for that man, Michael. The one who might be Justin.”

  “He’s not Justin, Janet.”

  Janet pulled back so she could see Michael’s face clearly. “Why would you say that?”

  “The answer is here,” he said. “In this clearing. With my dad.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “I believe it.”

  “And you need me to believe it along with you?” Janet asked. “That’s why you brought me here today.”

  “I do.”

  Janet looked around at the darkened ground. That was always the thing with Mi
chael, always the thing. He needed, and she ran along behind providing. Twenty-five years, ten years-nothing had changed.

  “Okay, Michael,” she said.

  “You believe me,” he said.

  “I believe how important this is to you,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m convinced of anything else.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Stynes stayed up too late, then woke up too early. After returning home from the apartment complex, he checked his e-mail and downloaded a scanned copy of the police report on the arrest of Justin Manning. Stynes read it over several times, sitting at the small table in his kitchen. He made notes, but when his eyes grew bleary because of the late hour, he put it all aside and decided to deal with it in the morning.

  Which meant he didn’t sleep well. He stared at the ceiling for an hour before he drifted off. The time in bed, in his dark house, represented the first quiet moments he’d had since he’d gone to the Mannings’ house in the afternoon. And every question that the day had raised swirled through his mind.

  Was this man Justin Manning? Why was Bill Manning home that day? Why was money disappearing from the accounts at the church where Dante Rogers worked-accounts overseen by the father of one of the key witnesses against Dante?

  Why didn’t you stand up to Reynolds back then? Would you be asking any of these questions if you had just stood up to your partner?

  He woke up sooner than he needed to as well, but took it as punishment for being in the middle of a case that should have closed twenty-five years ago. So he went in to work and reviewed the notes he’d made the night before. One thing stood out that merited further investigation: the man assaulted by Justin Manning worked for a child welfare office in Columbus. Why hadn’t Helton mentioned that detail on the phone? Stynes located the office through a Google search and understood why Helton hadn’t mentioned it-the assault hadn’t taken place at the child welfare office. Stynes called the office, and after a series of transfers and relays through secretaries and assistants ended up speaking to the man named as the victim in the police report: Paul Downing.

  When Downing came on the line, Stynes explained who he was and why he was calling.

  “Oh.”

  Downing sounded a little taken aback by Stynes’s introduction. Wouldn’t a social worker be used to getting calls from the police? Maybe just not about a case in which he was the victim…

  “I’m just wondering if you could tell me about this altercation you had with Justin Manning.”

  “It was hardly an altercation,” Downing said. “Altercation suggests something mutual, like a fight. This was decidedly one-sided.”

  Downing’s voice sounded high and reedy. He expected the man to harrumph though the phone.

  “So what happened?” Stynes asked.

  “Well, Mr. Manning came into my office seeking records and information about someone who had been in our foster care system many years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, it’s been a little while. I see so many names cross my desk.”

  “He wasn’t asking about himself?”

  “No.”

  “Was the name ‘Steven Kollman’?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s it.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “I told him he couldn’t just come in and ask for records for anybody and expect us to hand them over. Most of those records are sealed, and even if they aren’t, someone would have to get a court order to have anything released to the public, let alone someone who didn’t appear to be related to the individual in question.”

  “Did he say why he wanted Steven Kollman’s records?”

  “No.”

  “And did he give any identification saying he was Justin Manning?”

  “Not to me, no. But I didn’t ask for it.” He sniffed. “I suspect the police saw his identification.”

  “So you told him no, and he decked you?”

  “He begged and pleaded for me to bend the rules, but I held firm. I just can’t do anything like that. A few hours later, I was at a restaurant near work having a drink, and Mr. Manning came in and confronted me. He asked for the records again, and when I refused him again, he did, as you so eloquently put it, deck me. Someone called the police, and I filed the complaint.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  “Just my pride.”

  “Did Manning threaten you or have a weapon?”

  “The punch was threat enough. I didn’t see any weapons.”

  “How do you think he found you in this restaurant? Did you mention it in front of him?”

  “It’s near my office. For all I know, he just went to the places near where I work looking for me. There aren’t many.”

  “What’s the place called?”

  “Hathaway’s.”

  “Would any of your coworkers give that information out to Manning?” Stynes asked.

  “Heavens, no. In this business, we do whatever we can to protect ourselves. As evidenced by Mr. Manning’s behavior.”

  “Anything else you can think of?” Stynes asked.

  “No, I haven’t seen the man since.”

  “After all this happened, did you look into the records of Steven Kollman? Just to see what might be there?”

  “I didn’t bother.”

  “Can I check them out?” Stynes knew the answer but wanted to take a shot.

  “You’d need a court order, too, Detective. It shouldn’t be hard to get.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me, Detective, this Manning isn’t some sort of serial killer, is he? I’d hate to think I’m in danger.”

  “I guess we don’t know what he is yet,” Stynes said. “But I’d sure like to find out.”

  Stynes hung up, then stood and walked to the desk officer.

  “Covington?”

  The eager young officer looked up. “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you from Columbus?” Stynes asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You ever hear of a bar called Hathaway’s?”

  Covington thought about it, her face puzzled. “Hathaway’s? It sounds kind of familiar.”

  Stynes looked at the printed copy of the police report in his hand. “It’s on something called Bethel Pike.”

  “Bethel Pike. That’s on the west side of town.”

  “You tell me,” Stynes said.

  Covington chewed on the end of her pencil. “Is this a little dive bar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think there’s a place called Hathaway’s on the west side. A little hole-in-the-wall.”

  “You sure?”

  “My uncle rides Harleys. He’s talked about it.”

  “Harleys,” Stynes said. “So it has a pretty rough crowd?”

  “I would think so. Mostly the shot-and-a-beer types.”

  “Would you expect to see an effeminate social worker hanging out there?”

  “Not if he valued his life.”

  “Is it the kind of place you just stumble across, or do you have to know it’s there?”

  “You’d have to know it’s there. I don’t think they’ve invested in a very big sign.”

  “Thanks, Covington.”

  Stynes returned to his desk and called Helton’s number. He didn’t answer, so Stynes left a message asking Helton to call him back. If he’d worked a late shift the previous night, then he probably wouldn’t be in early the next day. And even if Stynes had the guy’s cell number, he wouldn’t use it. Let the young guy sleep in. But just a few minutes passed before Covington came back and informed Stynes that a detective from Columbus was on the phone.

  “Detective Helton?” Stynes said into the phone.

  “No, this is Detective Bowling. Helton gave me your number.”

  “Oh.”

  “Helton isn’t in until noon, but he and I talked last night, and I have some more information for you about the Manning case. Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “Like I said, I talke
d to Helton last night in passing, and he told me you were dealing with some stuff from that Manning case. Were you on the case originally?”

  “I was.”

  “Damn. And here it is still coming back up for you. Anyway, I don’t know if what I have to tell you is a big deal or not, but about six months ago a guy came into the station and asked to talk to a detective. He said he had information about a murder case. I was next up, so he ended up sitting at my desk and told me that he knew something about the Justin Manning murder that happened twenty-five years ago in Darke County.”

  Stynes’s blood grew a little colder. He swallowed and said, “What did he say?”

  “That’s just it-he didn’t have much to say. He said the crime didn’t happen the way everyone thinks it happened, that an innocent man went to prison for it. This guy said his father was involved somehow, and he wanted to know what could be done about it.”

  “Who was this guy?” Stynes asked.

  “Well, that’s just it. He wouldn’t give me his name. He said he understood that he was making a pretty big accusation of murder, and he didn’t know if he was really ready to step forward. He wanted to talk to a detective first and see what his options were.”

  “He didn’t give his name?”

  “He wouldn’t. I told him I needed a name if the conversation was going to go any further, so he said to call him Mr. Jones.”

  “Original. What did this guy look like?”

  “Good-looking guy, early to mid-thirties. Seemed educated. And he sounded like he was from the Midwest.”

  “That’s all he said then.”

  “I asked him what kind of evidence he had to back up his claim. I told him that he couldn’t just suspect something and expect a twenty-five-year-old case to be reopened. He said it wasn’t just a suspicion. He said he had memories, memories that had been lost to him but had come back over the years through therapy. He said he knew now that he had seen his dad in the vicinity of the crime scene when the murder happened.”

  “And that’s all he had?”

  “That’s it. Memories.”

  “Was the guy a nut?” Stynes asked.

  “You know, we have some cases based on that over here,” Bowling said. “Apparently the current scientific evidence sees real merit in recovered memories. We have shrinks testify about it, and it’s helped us win some cases.”