The Hiding Place by David Bell Page A

be like for a middle-aged black man, three years out of prison, with no education and not much in the way of smarts to begin with, to try to get a job? Don’t you think a church like mine has a role to play in making a brother’s life a little more tolerable? I counseled Dante when he was in prison, and then I continued that work after he got out. About a year ago, I gave him the chance to work at the church part-time, and he never, ever works with or around children. Now, I didn’t make a big deal out of him working here. I didn’t exactly tell any members of my congregation he was doing it. I figured if he wasn’t working with the congregation, then no one needed to know.”
    “You might want to reconsider that stand,” Stynes said. “You’re just going to get more complaints. I know you’re not afor-profit operation here, but how are you going to keep the donations flowing in with someone like Dante around?”
    “I have a higher calling to answer to.” The reverend raised his right index finger and scooted back.
    “Is he here?”
    “
He
is everywhere.”
    “I mean Dante. And keep in mind his parole officer already told me he’s working here today.”
    The reverend shrugged. “Then I guess this humble servant of the Lord has no choice but to let you by. Dante is back in our literature room right now, stuffing envelopes. When he’s finished, I’m going to treat the brother to lunch and a little Bible study. If you or Sister Myers object, I can’t change that.”
    “I would like to talk to him,” Stynes said.
    “Two doors down on the left,” the reverend said, pointing. “And go easy, Detective. Dante is a little skittish.”
    Stynes stood up. “Dante remembers me,” he said. “And don’t I look like a gentle man?”
    “Do you want to investigate a real crime, Detective?” the reverend said. He pointed to his computer. “Three hundred dollars missing.”
    “From where?”
    “From my accounts,” he said. “We’re a small church here, and we can ill afford to lose even a small amount of money.”
    “Sounds like you need better bookkeeping software,” Stynes said.
    Stynes found Dante hunched over a stack of envelopes and paper. Two large folding tables filled the center of the room, both of them covered with church flyers and literature, butDante worked alone. The room smelled musty, like a long-closed closet. Dante didn’t look up when Stynes came to the door.
    Stynes had seen the photos of Dante in the paper, but they didn’t convey completely the toll the years had taken on him. At the time of his arrest, Dante’s body had possessed a leanness. He looked like someone who ran track or cross-country. But there was nowhere to run in prison. Even though he was only forty-two, his face bore enough lines to make him appear ten years older, and a puffy double chin hung beneath his gray stubble. His shoulders were slumped. He seemed to be concentrating with great force on each individual task he performed in the “literature room.” Fold. Stuff. Seal. Dull work, but Dante made it look particularly arduous, like each piece of paper weighed fifty pounds.
    “Dante?”
    He stopped what he was doing and slowly turned his head toward the door. His eyes had always been big, but they looked sad and pathetic after the prison time. A whipped dog’s eyes.
    “Do you know who I am?” Stynes asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Tell me. Who am I?”
    “Cop.”
    “You know why I’m here?” Stynes asked.
    “Checking up on me.”
    Stynes came into the room and sat down across the two tables from Dante. Dante followed Stynes’s movement with a slow turn of his head and a wary tracking of his big eyes. Stynes pointed to the piles of paper.
    “You like doing this?” Stynes asked.
    Dante shrugged. “It’s okay, sir.”
    “Reverend Fred treat you okay?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You messing around with any little kids?”
    Dante’s head jerked higher. His eyes widened. “Oh, no, sir. No, sir. Not at