Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(79)

I didn't know what to say. I had never before had a minister come to me with a matter of faith. In the next moment, however, it became clear that Charlie Marvin was not looking for my opinion. He had already formed his own.

"It has become my obsession," he stated. "This grave at Boston State Mental, the souls of those poor girls. Where I have failed once, it is my duty not to fail again. I would like to outreach to the families, but they have not been identified yet. Except for you. So here I am."

I frowned, still uncertain. "I don't understand. What do you want?"

"I'm not here to demand, sweet child. I'm here for you to talk. About anything and everything you'd like. Come, have a seat. It's cold, it's late, you've come to the park instead of finding your warm, cozy bed. Clearly, you have something on your mind."

Charlie gestured to a waiting bench, then headed toward it. I followed reluctantly, not one for talking, and yet, oddly, hating for this meeting to end. Bella was happy. And I'd felt something unfurl inside of me in the presence of such a warm, easygoing man. Charlie Marvin did know the worst about humanity. If he could still find a reason to smile, then maybe so could I.

"All right," he said briskly, when he arrived at the bench and discovered I hadn't bolted yet. "Let's start with the basics." He thrust out his hand. "Good evening, my name is Charlie Marvin, I'm a minister, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

I played along. "Good evening. My name is Annabelle, I do custom window treatments, and it's a pleasure to meet you, too."

We shook. I noted that Charlie showed no reaction to my name, and why should he? But I felt giddy at having spoken my real name in public after twenty-five years.

Charlie took a seat. I followed suit. The hour was late, the park wet and deserted, so I unhooked Bella from her leash. She leapt up with grateful kisses, then was off racing along the trellis.

"So, if you don't mind me saying," Charlie was commenting, "you don't exactly sound as if you're from Boston."

"My family moved a lot when I was growing up. But I consider Boston home. Yourself?"

"Grew up in Worcester. Still can't say my R's."

That made me laugh. "So you're a local boy Wife, kids, dogs?"

"Had a wife. Tried for kids. Wasn't in God's plans. Then my wife got ovarian cancer. She passed away… oh, it's been a good twelve years now. We had a small house up in Rockport. I sold it, returned to the city. Saves me the commute—it's possible that I'm no longer the best guy behind a wheel of a car. My brain is fine. My hands, however, are a little slow to do what they're told."

"And you work with the homeless?"

"Yes, ma'am. I volunteer my time over at Pine Street. Help out with the shelter and the soup kitchen. Plus, I believe strongly in fieldwork. The homeless can't always find it in them to come to you, you gotta go to them."

I was genuinely curious. "So you come to places like this and, what? Preach? Buy soup? Hand out pamphlets?"

"Mostly, I listen."

"Really?"

"Really" He nodded vigorously "You think the homeless don't get lonely? Sure they do. Even the mentally disadvantaged, the economically forsaken have a basic need for human connection. So I sit with them. I let them tell me about their lives. Or sometimes we don't say anything at all. And that can be just as nice."

"Does it work? Have you 'saved' anyone?"

"I've saved myself, Annabelle. Isn't that good enough?"

"I'm sorry, I meant—"

[page]He waved away my embarrassment. "I know what you meant, dear. I'm just yanking your chain."

I blushed. It seemed to amuse him more. But then he leaned forward, his tone growing serious.

"No, I can't say that I've magically turned someone's life around. Which is a damn shame, given that the average age of a homeless person is twenty-four." He saw my surprised look, and nodded. "Yes, it's sobering to think about, isn't it? And nearly half of all the homeless are mentally ill. To be honest, these folks aren't the kind who are going to turn their lives around after getting a free shower and a cup of soup. They need help, they need guidance, and most, in my humble opinion, would benefit from at least a brief stint in a therapeutic environment. None of which is going to happen to them any time soon."

"You're a nice man, Charlie Marvin."

He playfully clutched at his chest. "Oh, be still, my beating heart. I'm too old to be receiving such high praise from a pretty face. Be careful, or my wife's spirit will come back to chastise us both. She always was a hellion."

That made me laugh, which seemed to make him happy. Bella returned to check on our progress. Seeing we had accomplished nothing, she flopped down at my feet, sighed heavily, and put her head down. For a while, the three of us sat there, gazing at the moon, listening to the water, feeling the peace of the silence.

Of course, I was the one who broke it first.

"Do you know who did it?" I asked, no reason to define "it."

Charlie took his time with his answer. "I'm afraid I know who did this terrible thing," he said at last. "Meaning, when the police figure it all out, the name will be someone I knew from the hospital."