Hide

by Lisa Gardner

  Charlie accepted my explanation with his cheerful smile. Understanding completely. Not at all challenging.

  The long hike up five flights of stairs—lugging suitcases, no less, gave me plenty of time to curse myself. Why had I forgotten the Taser? And how in the world did I end up with a dog who was such a rotten judge of character?

  Because I was pretty sure Charlie Marvin was a threat. I just wasn’t sure how.

  In the good-news department, I had fitness and youth on my side. By the time we hit the fifth-floor landing, Mr. Marvin was breathing hard and holding his side.

  He stood back. I worked the first lock on my door. Second. Third.

  “Cautious girl,” he commented.

  “You never know.”

  My door opened. Once again, I let him do the honors of going first. Then I propped open my door with the giant suitcase.

  “In a building structured like this one,” he commented, “seems like our every word might echo down the staircase.”

  “Oh, they will,” I assured him. “Screams, too. And we know at least one of my neighbors is home.”

  He smiled more ruefully this time. “I spooked you that bad?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want to say, Mr. Marvin?”

  “I’m not the real threat,” he said quietly. I thought he looked a trifle grieved, even sad.

  “Mr. Marvin—”

  “He is,” Charlie said, and pointed behind me.

  BOBBY WAS WALKING. Very fast. D.D. was talking. Very angrily.

  “You didn’t run a background check on Charlie Marvin?”

  “We checked on him. Sinkus followed up on the man just this morning. He does volunteer at the Pine Street Inn. He did have an alibi for last night.”

  “Oh yeah, and how do you know the Charlie Marvin volunteering at the Pine Street Inn is the same as our Charlie Marvin?”

  “What?”

  “You gotta go in person. You gotta show a picture. Of all the stupid, rookie mistakes!”

  “I didn’t make the call,” Bobby protested again, then gave up the matter. D.D. was too pissed off to listen. She needed someone to grind up and he was the lucky body standing closest. That would teach him.

  They’d put out an APB for a man matching Charlie Marvin’s description. Since they had to start with what they knew, officers were converging upon the Pine Street Inn, as well as Columbus Park, Faneuil Hall, and the former site of Boston State Mental, all known Charlie Marvin destinations. With any luck, they’d pick up Marvin within the hour. Before he ever suspected a thing.

  “It still doesn’t make sense,” Bobby grumbled as they hustled through the lobby. “Marvin can’t be Uncle Tommy. Too old.”

  “My car,” D.D. said, pushing through the heavy glass doors.

  “Where’s it parked?”

  She told him, he shook his head. “Mine’s closer. Plus, you drive like a girl.”

  “That would be Danica Patrick to you,” D.D. muttered, but followed him swiftly toward his Crown Vic. Then, as they were getting in: “Charlie Marvin lied. That’s good enough for me.”

  “He doesn’t fit,” Bobby insisted, firing up the engine. “Uncle Tommy would be around fifty. Charlie Marvin looks to have jumped that hurdle at least a decade ago.”

  “Maybe he just appears old. That’s what a life of crime will do to you.”

  Bobby didn’t answer. Just swung his vehicle out, hit the lights, and headed full steam for the Pine Street Inn.

  I WHIRLED AROUND toward my open door. Saw nothing. Jerked back around, hands out, feet spread for balance, expecting the counterattack.

  Charlie Marvin still stood there, that beatific expression on his face. I thought I was starting to figure it out. Mr. Marvin heard voices when nobody was home. To give credit where credit was due, Bella also seemed to have figured it out. She sat down now, between us in the tiny kitchen, and whined nervously.

  “Better late than never,” I told her. Sarcasm is totally lost on dogs.

  “You’re very beautiful,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, I blush.”

  “Too old for my taste, though.”

  “And that quickly, the moment is lost.”

  “But you’re the key. You’re the one he really wants.”

  I stopped breathing again, feeling my mouth go cotton dry. I should do something. Grab a phone. Yell for help. Run back downstairs. But I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. I honestly, God help me, wanted to hear what Charlie Marvin had to say.

  “You knew,” I whispered.

  “I found it. One night a few years back. When they first announced they were going to raze the buildings to the ground, I came back for a farewell tour. One last adios to a place to which I’d vowed never to return. But then I heard a rustling in the woods. Got curious. I’d swear to God there was someone out there, then poof, he’d simply vanished. It was almost enough to make you believe in ghosts. ’Course, I’m not that superstitious.

  “Took me another four nights of scouting before I spotted the glow in the ground. I waited beneath the trees. Until I saw the man rise from the earth, bank the lantern, and disappear into the woods. I got a flashlight after that. Returned right before dawn. Found the opening, descended into the chamber. I never would’ve imagined. It took my breath away. The work of a master craftsman. I always knew it couldn’t last.”

  “Who did it, Charlie? Who came out of the ground? Who killed those girls?”

  He shook his head. “Six girls. Always six girls. No more, no less. I kept checking, kept waiting for something to change. But year after year. Two rows. Three bodies each. The perfect audience. And I never ran into the man again, though Lord knows I tried. I had so many questions for him.”

  “Did you kill them? Is it your work that was discovered on the grounds?”

  He continued as if I’d never spoken: “Then, of course, I saw the story of the grave’s discovery on the news. Another victim of urban growth. But that’s when it came to me. This would force him into the open, make him want to check on his work one last time. So I started hanging out again, hoping to catch a glimpse. But all I saw was you. And you are a liar.”

  For the first time, his voice dropped, grew menacing. I took an instinctive step back.

  “Who are you?” I asked him. “Because you’re certainly no minister.”

  “Former patient, fellow aficionado of mass graves. Who are you?”

  “I’m dead,” I told him bluntly. “I’m the ghost that haunts the grounds. I’m waiting for that monster to return so I can kill him.”

  Charlie’s blue eyes narrowed. “Annabelle. Annabelle Granger. Your name was in the paper. From the pit. You really are dead.”

  And then, a heartbeat later, his face broke into a smile. “You know, I had my heart set on your blonde sergeant friend,” he said slyly. I saw the wink of the blade in his hand. “But come to think of it, Annabelle dear, you’ll do just fine.”

  BOBBY HASTILY DESCRIBED Charlie Marvin to the young Latino who greeted them at the Pine Street Inn. Juan Lopez agreed that BPD’s Charlie Marvin was indeed the shelter’s Charlie Marvin. Had been volunteering there for the past ten years, in fact. Score one for the good guys.

  Except Mr. Marvin wasn’t currently on the premises. Had taken off about an hour ago. No, Lopez didn’t know where. Mr. Marvin was a volunteer after all. They didn’t track the man. However, Mr. Marvin was known to work the streets, visiting with the homeless. The police might want to try some of the parks.

  Bobby assured him they already had officers on the way. Marvin was wanted for immediate questioning.

  Lopez seemed doubtful. “Our Charlie Marvin? Bushy white hair, bright blue eyes, always got a grin on his face, Charlie Marvin? What’d he do, man? Steal from the rich and give to the poor?”

  “It’s official police business. In regard to a murder.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way.”

  “Well, score one for AARP.”

  “Just give us a call if
you see him, Mr. Lopez.”

  “Okay, but now that you got me thinkin’, I’d head to Mattapan. Check out the grounds of that old mental institute. You know the one they’ve been digging up? Charlie’s been hanging around there day and night ever since…Hey, you don’t really think…”

  “Thanks, Mr. Lopez. We’ll be in touch.”

  Bobby and D.D. headed toward Mattapan, while Bobby got out his cell phone and dialed Annabelle.

  I ANTICIPATED CHARLIE’S first reckless lunge, sidestepping on auto-pilot while my brain tried to sort out many things at once. Charlie Marvin was a former patient at Boston State Mental. Charlie Marvin had discovered the pit. Far from being horrified, Charlie Marvin had been impressed.

  It would seem Mr. Marvin had a little violence in his past. He certainly knew how to move with a switchblade.

  After his first failed lunge, we neatly exchanged places within my tiny kitchenette. Before I got too far in congratulating myself, I realized Charlie’s move had worked perfectly. He was now positioned between me and my open doorway.

  He watched my gaze dart past his shoulder to my best hope at escape, and grinned broadly. “Not bad for an old guy,” he offered. “I confess it’s been years, but I think I got some magic left.”

  Bella backed into my legs. She had her hackles up, was regarding Charlie, a low growl in her throat.

  Bark, I wanted to yell at my hyper dog. This would be a good time to make some noise! She, of course, continued to growl in the back of her throat. Which I couldn’t really blame her for, because three minutes into my first confrontation with evil, I still couldn’t manage a scream.

  Fear sometimes paralyzes the vocal cords, my father had said. He really had done his homework.

  Charlie stepped forward, I stepped back and bumped into my kitchen counter. The kitchenette allowed precious little room for maneuvering, but I already realized I couldn’t let Charlie herd me deeper into my apartment. The open door, the exposed hallway were my best hope for escape.

  I found my balance, prepared to take a stand. He was old, a switchblade wasn’t as threatening as a gun. I stood a decent chance.

  Charlie feinted low to the right.

  I prepared to swing into an arcing kick.

  Bella leapt up at the last minute.

  And I heard my silly, heroic dog yelp as Charlie’s blade buried itself in her chest.

  PHONE RINGING.

  Phone ringing.

  Phone ringing.

  The answering machine picked up. Bobby heard Annabelle’s crisp voice announce, “We are not home right now. Leave your name and number after the beep.”

  “Annabelle,” he said urgently. “Annabelle, pick up. We need to talk. Got some new information on Charlie Marvin. I’m running late, at least pick up the phone.”

  Still nothing. Had she grown tired of waiting for him, gone running off on her own? Anything was possible with this woman. Maybe that’s why he felt so scared.

  Screw it. He hit the brakes.

  “What the hell—” D.D. exclaimed.

  “He followed her.”

  “Who?”

  “Marvin. He found her in the park last night. Twenty to one, Charlie Marvin knows where Annabelle lives.”

  BELLA WENT DOWN, the phone rang, and I heard my own voice ripped from my throat. “You son of a bitch!”

  I launched myself at Charlie, knitting my fingers together and aiming for the soft spot at the base of his throat. He rolled, grabbing my forearm, slicing at me with his switchblade. I toppled, and we became lost in a tangle of limbs. In the detached part of my brain that preferred to watch rather than act, I thought this wasn’t the kind of fight I’d been preparing for. There was no fancy footwork, no graceful dodging of well-considered blows. Instead, we grunted and heaved, pummeling each other frantically as we rolled across the floor.

  I could taste sweaty salt beading down my face, feel stinging in my hands and arms. Charlie continued to slash madly. I continued to batter at his face, working with my right hand to hit his eyes, while defending with my left.

  I was quicker. He was better armed. I was bleeding. He was short of breath. He sliced left, flaying open my cheek. I slammed the heel of my hand into his sternum and he fell back with a gasping cough.

  I got my hands beneath me. Staggered to my feet. Lurched for the door.

  I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t leave Bella. He’d kill her for sure.

  Charlie was already up, weaving forward. I scuttled back toward the kitchen cabinets. He kept coming. I reached behind me, working the wooden edge of the cabinet with my fingers.

  He came within range. I kicked for his chin. He ducked beneath and I finally showed a little skill, reversing my motion, catching the top of his head, and slamming it toward his knees. Not as much force as I wanted, but enough to get the job done.

  I got the cabinet open, starting sifting through the disordered stacks of pots and pans.

  Charlie was straightening up.

  Come on, come on.

  And then I found it. Edge of my cast-iron frying pan. The perfect weapon.

  Charlie started advancing once more and I prepared to do something I never thought I’d do: kill another human being.

  Suddenly, in the distance, the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Footsteps, pounding up the stairs. Charlie froze. I stilled.

  Bobby, I thought, Bobby coming to rescue me.

  A brown UPS uniform burst through my apartment door.

  “Ben!” I gasped.

  Just as Charlie said, “Benji?”

  And Ben answered in a shocked voice, “Christopher?”

  BOBBY GOT CAUGHT in traffic. Of course he got caught in traffic. Because this was Boston, where driving was a blood sport, and just because the other vehicle had a siren and you didn’t was no reason not to be an asshole.

  He dialed Annabelle’s number again. Got the answering machine, hung up. Punched the steering wheel.

  “Temper, temper,” D.D. drawled.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Because lover girl isn’t waiting anxiously beside the phone?”

  He shot her a look. “Seriously. She knew I was returning to take her to a hotel. She wouldn’t just leave.”

  D.D. shrugged. “She has a dog. Maybe she needed to take her out or go for a run.”

  “Or maybe,” Bobby said flatly, “Charlie Marvin beat us there.”

  His phone rang. He flipped it open without bothering to glance at the display. It wasn’t Annabelle, but his buddy, Detective Jason Murphy from the Massachusetts State Police.

  “Ran Roger Grayson, like you asked,” Jason shot off rapid-fire. “Found record of a storage locker in a facility right off Route Two, north of Arlington. Grayson had been prepaying the fees in five-year chunks. Latest payment ran out a few years back, so the owner’s filed a lien. In fact, if we want to come down and clean out the whole thing, that works for the owner. He’d like to get the space back in circulation.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Criminal history was negligible. Nothing more than a traffic infraction, and that was twenty-five years ago. Grayson must be a regular choirboy.”

  “Traffic infraction?”

  “Excessive speed. November fifteen, 1982. He was caught doing seventy-five in a sixty zone.”

  November 15, 1982. Three days after Dori Petracelli was never seen again.

  “What else?” Bobby asked the state detective.

  “What else? I just started an hour ago, Bobby—”

  “What about Walter Petracelli?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “I live to serve. Not for nothing, Bobby, but don’t let working for the city go to your head.”

  Jason clicked off. Bobby slid his phone back into his breast pocket. He whooped his sirens again. Nothing happened. The traffic was snarled too tight for any car to give way.

  He glanced at his watch. They were on Atlantic Avenue now. One and a half, maybe two miles from
Annabelle’s apartment.

  “I’m pulling over,” he announced.

  “What?”

  “Forget the car, D.D. We’re strong, we’re fast. Let’s run.”

  BEN, BEN, THANK God you’re here. He’s stabbed Bella. He’s insane. You gotta help us. Bella, poor Bella, I’m here, girl, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

  I’d abandoned the cast-iron frying pan in favor of my dog, pulling her onto my lap. I could feel the warmth of her blood oozing all over her fine white fur. She whimpered. Tried to lick at my hands, tend her cut.

  “Ben!” I shouted again.

  But Ben wasn’t moving. He was standing in my doorway, staring at Charlie Marvin.

  “It was you? Oh my goodness, still waters do run deep!” Charlie said.

  “She’s mine,” Ben said flatly. “You can’t have her. She’s mine.”

  “Call the police,” I was sobbing. “Call nine-one-one, demand Detective Bobby Dodge, ask for EMTs. I don’t know who they send for dogs, but an ambulance should do the trick. Ben? Are you listening to me? Ben?”

  Ben finally looked at me. As he stepped into my little apartment. As he closed the door and started working the locks, one by one, behind him.

  “It’s okay now,” he told me solemnly. “Uncle Tommy’s here now, Amy, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  CHARLIE STARTED LAUGHING. The sound quickly turned into a wheezing rattle. The blow to his sternum had knocked something loose. Now that the buzzing was fading from my ears, I could feel my own aches and pains. My bruised ribs, sliced ankles, gashed cheek.

  At least I gave as good as I got. Charlie’s right eye was swelling shut. As he scooted across the floor, away from Ben, he favored his left side, gasping as if in pain.

  My brain was not computing anymore. I didn’t care about Charlie. I didn’t understand Ben. I just wanted to get Bella out of here. I wanted my dog to be safe.

  Which was the best thing to focus on, because the conversation going on around me was too terrible to believe.