Camouflage

22

JAKE RUNYON

Robert Darby cooled down some after Runyon let him come in and look through the apartment. Darby stood flushed and jittery in the middle of the living room, his red-eyed gaze flicking here and there without resting on Runyon or anything else for more than a second. Man badly in need of rest, beset by grief, anxiety, impotent rage. An unlikable, self-centered shyster whose treatment of Bryn was little short of cruel, but seeing him like this, you couldn’t help but feel for him.

“You’re sure you haven’t seen Bobby, heard from him?”

Second time Darby had asked that question. Runyon gave him a slightly different version of the same answer. “I’d tell you if I had. I’m not your enemy, Mr. Darby.”

“All right. All right.”

Runyon asked, “Did something happen to make the boy run away?”

“No.” Darby shook his head, scraped fingernails through his close-cropped hair. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “The nurse I hired, she went in to use the bathroom and when she came out he was gone. Just like that… gone.”

“How long ago?”

“A couple of hours. Just before I got home.”

“No prior indication that’s what he had in mind?”

“Didn’t say a word to her. To me, either. Closed up tight since that horror show yesterday, wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t eat… ah, Christ. Where would he go?”

Runyon said, “His mother’s house, maybe.”

“No, he’s not there; I just came from there. First place I thought of.”

“Did you or the nurse tell him where Bryn’s being held?”

“… You think he went to the Hall of Justice?”

“Might have, if he has an idea that’s where she is. You notify the police that he’s missing?”

“No, I drove straight out here-”

Darby broke off, jerked his cell phone out of his coat pocket; fumbled it, almost dropped it in his haste. It took him a nervous two minutes to get through to either Farley or Crabtree; his voice rose and cracked a little as he talked. From Darby’s end of the conversation Runyon gathered the boy hadn’t been seen at the Hall and that they’d put out a BOLO alert for him.

“I should’ve called them sooner,” Darby said when he ended the conversation. “First Francine, now this with Bobby… just not thinking straight.”

“The police will find him. Best thing you can do is go home and wait for word.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, goddamn you!”

Runyon sidestepped the flare-up with a question. “Did Bobby take anything with him when he left? A bag, clothing?”

“What? No. The nurse looked, I looked… a jacket, that’s all.”

“What about money? Bus fare, cab fare.”

“He couldn’t have much, no more than a few dollars from his allowance…” Darby shook himself, a sharp rippling action like a dog shaking off water. “What the hell am I doing standing here talking to you? If Bobby does come here or you hear from him, notify me right away. Understand?”

Runyon said, “You and the police both,” but Darby was already on his way out.

Why had Bobby run away?

Bad environment in that flat, whether the boy had had anything to do with Whalen’s death or not. Painful memories, ghosts haunting his impressionable mind. Fear made worse by his overbearing father’s anger and grief, by a stranger called in to watch over him, by not being told what had happened to his mother. Sensitive, damaged kid huddled inside himself for security and solace, but too bright and too needy to stay that way for long. Perfectly natural that when he freed himself from his shell he’d want to free himself from his oppressive surroundings as well.

Where would he go?

Linked answer: familiar place where he felt safe, where he might find genuine comfort, where he might find his mother. Her house, his second home, the only real home he’d ever known-that was the logical choice.

Three hours. More than twice as much time as it would usually take to travel by bus from the Marina to the Sunset District. Unless he’d gotten lost or something had happened to him on the way… No, the hell with that kind of thinking. But Darby had been to Bryn’s house, presumably still had a key and searched it, and Bobby wasn’t there-

Or was he?

The brown-shingled house was completely dark, sheathed in mist, when Runyon pulled up in front. Fast walk up the path and stairs to the front porch. Bryn kept a spare key in a little box mounted under the window ledge to the right of the door. He went there first, felt inside the box. Empty.

All right.

He had his own key to the place, as Bryn had one to his apartment-an in-case-of-emergency exchange and a measure of their mutual trust. He let himself in, closed the door behind him, and stood listening before he switched on the hall light. Silence except for the faint snaps and creaks you always heard in an old house in cold weather. Cold in there, too, with the furnace off or turned down; he could see the faint vapor of his breath as he made his way to the bedrooms at the rear.

Bobby’s room was empty, the bed neatly made, everything in place. Same in Bryn’s room. The spare bedroom, her office, the living room, the kitchen were just as empty. She kept a flashlight in the pantry; Runyon found it, tested it, and then opened the door to the basement and flicked on the light.

A short flight of stairs led downward. He hadn’t been in the basement before, took a moment to orient himself. Furnace and water heater at the far wall. To his left, washer and dryer and storage cabinets; to his right, a workbench and rows of hand tools hung on a pegboard. Behind the water heater, Bryn had said. He crossed to it, found the narrow space where he could wedge his body behind the unit. The opening to the crawlspace that led deeper under the house was closed off by a sliding panel. He eased it open partway.

“Bobby? It’s Jake.”

Silence.

He slid the panel open the rest of the way. The pale overhead light didn’t reach this far; all he could see inside was heavy blackness.

“It’s okay for you to come out now,” he said, keeping his voice low pitched, normal. “Your dad’s gone. There’s nobody here but me.”

Silence.

“You can trust me, Bobby, you know that. I’m your friend and your mom’s friend. I know where she is and I’m doing everything I can to help her. But I need you to help me do that.”

Silence.

Runyon hesitated. He didn’t want to go into the crawlspace himself or use the flashlight, but he had to be sure the boy was there. Had to get him out if he was, and without scaring him any more than he already was.

“I’m going to put on a light,” Runyon said. “Don’t be afraid. I just want to see where you are.”

Faint rustling sound… the boy moving away from him? He leaned down to put his head and arm inside the musty opening, aimed the flash at an angle to one side, and flicked the switch.

Bare boards, disturbed dust, tattered spiderwebs jumped into sharp relief. Sounds of movement again in the deeper blackness beyond the reach of the light. He moved the beam along the side wall, not too fast, until it touched the crouched shape far back against a maze of copper piping. Bobby, one hand lifted to shield his eyes against the glare.

Immediately Runyon shut off the flash. “Okay, son,” he said into the darkness. “Now that I know you’re there, I’m going to go over and sit on the steps. Come on out when you’re ready and we’ll talk.”

No response.

Runyon backed out of the opening, straightened to step around the water heater, then crossed to the stairs. He sat on the third riser from the bottom, the flashlight beside him, and waited.

Five minutes. Six, seven. If the boy didn’t come out, Runyon wasn’t sure what he’d do. Go in after him, carry him out? Not a good option, because it would likely damage what trust Bobby had in him, keep him withdrawn and silent. Leave him in there, call his father and the police? That wasn’t much good, either. Finding out what the boy knew was imperative, and Runyon would never have a better opportunity than this.

Ten minutes. Eleven-

Faint scraping sounds from across the basement. A soft thud, as of a sneakered foot thumping against wood. A muffled cough. Coming out.

A few more seconds and the pale oval of Bobby’s face peered around the edge of the water heater. Runyon didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Ten-second impasse. Then Bobby moved again, out into the open in slow, shuffling steps, blinking in the ceiling light.

He stopped in the middle of the basement, fifteen feet from where Runyon sat. Stood there in an attitude of expectant punishment, chin down, eyes rolled up under the thin blinking lids, shivering a little from the cold. A purplish bruise under his left eye, the aftereffect of Whalen’s blow to his nose, showed starkly against the facial pallor. Web shreds clung to his hair; his light jacket and Levi’s were streaked with dust and dirt smudges.

Looking at him, Runyon felt a long-forgotten emotion-a tenderness, an aching compassion that had its roots in fatherhood. The time Joshua had fallen out of his crib when he was a baby, bruising an arm… that was the last time Runyon had experienced that kind of feeling. As if this kid, this relative stranger, were his child. He had to stop himself from going to Bobby, wrapping him in a protective embrace.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, son,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.”

Four-beat. Then, in a scared little voice, “Where’s my mom?”

“Don’t worry, she’s all right.”

“Where is she? Why isn’t she home?”

“It’s cold down here,” Runyon said. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll put the furnace on. We’ll talk up there.”

No response.

He got to his feet in slow segments. Bobby watched him without moving. Runyon smiled at him, then pivoted and mounted the steps into the kitchen, leaving the door wide open. The thermostat was in the front hall; he went there and turned the dial up past seventy to get the heat flowing quickly. When he returned to the kitchen, the boy was standing in the basement doorway. So far so good.

Runyon said, keeping his distance, “It’ll take a few minutes for the house to warm up. Want me to get you a blanket meanwhile?”

“No. Where’s my mom?”

“I won’t lie to you, Bobby. The police are holding her in jail.”

“Jail? Why? She didn’t do anything.”

“I know that. The police will, too, before long.”

“When will they let her come home? When can I see her?”

“Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

Some of the boy’s tension seemed to ease, make him less skittish. His breathing was audible: little nasal hissing sounds.

Runyon said, “But there are some things I have to know in order for your mom to be released. About what happened yesterday.”

No response.

“It’s very important. I need you to talk to me about it, Bobby. For your mom’s sake. Okay?”

Six-beat. Then, “Okay.”

“You know Francine is dead?”

“Yes. I know.”

“The police arrested your mom because they thought she killed Francine-”

“No! She didn’t, it wasn’t Mom.”

“Who was it? Do you know?”

“Mom wasn’t there; she came after.”

“After Francine was killed?”

“Yes.”

“How long afterward?”

“I don’t know… a few minutes.”

“Who was in the kitchen with Francine, Bobby?”

Headshake.

With the basement door still open, snapping, thrumming sounds from the cranked-up furnace were audible below. Reliable and efficient, that furnace, only a few years old; Bryn had told him that. Warm air pumping up through the heat registers had already begun to take the edge off the house’s chill. Runyon moved to his left, then forward a little; Bobby responded as he’d intended, coming out of the doorway and sideways in the other direction, nearer the heat register.

“Somebody else was with Francine before your mom came, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No.”

“Man or woman?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

“Couldn’t hear them talking?”

“Just Francine. She… started yelling loud and weird…”

“How do you mean, weird?”

“Stuff about cows.”

“Cows?”

“That’s what it sounded like. She said the f word, too.”

“How long was it after she hit you before the other person got there?”

Headshake.

“Bobby, we all know Francine was hurting you. Your mom said she hit you in the face, cut your cheek, and made your nose bleed. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“… Yes.”

“Why did she do it?”

“I wanted a snack, that’s all. But she was taking a tray out of the oven and I got in her way and she burned herself.” Bobby’s face scrunched up at the memory; he pawed at it angrily, as if trying to rearrange it-as if trying to stop himself from crying.

“What did she say after she hit you?”

“Go wash the blood off, change my shirt. And tell my dad I fell down or she’d hurt me real bad. I hated her!”

“Enough to hurt her back?”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Okay. So then you went to the bathroom-”

“No. Just to my room.”

“Didn’t wash off the blood or change your shirt?”

“I didn’t feel good, I wanted to lie down.”

“How long were you in your room before the other person came?”

“Not long. Couple of minutes, I guess.”

“And you were still lying down when Francine started talking loud about cows and using the f word?”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember anything else she said?”

“No. Just yelling and then a crash and… hitting sounds. Then she screamed, real loud and short.”

Hitting sounds-Francine and her killer struggling, fighting. The scream from her as she was attacked with the knife, cut off short when the blade went into her chest.

Runyon asked, “What made the crash you heard?”

“Something breaking.”

“In the kitchen?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No.”

Something breaking in the kitchen, just as the struggle started. But there hadn’t been any sign of breakage when Runyon had gone in there. His focus had been on the dead woman, but he’d never yet walked into a crime scene without his trained eye registering anything out of place, everything large enough to see. If there’d been glass or other shards on the floor, the countertops, in the sink, he’d have noticed. Yet Bobby had no reason to lie about hearing a crash…

Runyon asked, “Did you stay in your room after you heard Francine scream?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until the door slammed. The front door.”

“Did you go into the kitchen then?”

Nod. “Francine… she was lying there with blood all over…” This time the memory made Bobby shudder. “I was glad she was dead. But it made me sick, too, and scared.”

“Like you were having a bad dream.”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”

“And that’s when your mom came.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her you were glad Francine was dead?”

“… I don’t remember.”

“But you told her everything you just told me-about the other person who was there.”

Nod. “She made me change my clothes and lie down again with a wet towel on my nose. After that… I don’t know, she acted funny. She kept saying don’t tell Dad or anybody else what happened, don’t say anything, she’d make everything all right.”

Easy enough now to piece the rest of it together. Bryn may or may not have believed Bobby’s story at first, but with no evidence that anyone else had been in the flat to support it and her son’s face and clothing still bloody, she’d mistakenly assumed the worst: Bobby hated Francine enough to want her dead; he’d retaliated for the blow in the face by stabbing her; some of the blood on his clothes was hers; he’d made up the story about another visitor out of guilt and fear. That was when Bryn decided to take the blame and try to keep the boy hushed up.

“Jake?”

“Yes, son?”

“Can I stay here until Mom comes home?”

Before he answered, Runyon went over to close the basement door. “I wish you could, but I think you know it’s not possible.”

“Why not? You don’t have to tell my dad you found me.”

“Yes, I do. The police, too-he’s already told them you ran away.”

“You said I could trust you. You said you’re my friend.”

“You can and I am. I only want what’s best for you and your mom.”

“Then let me stay here. Please.” The boy’s hands were tightly fisted now; his gaze skittered around the kitchen as if he were looking for a path of escape. “I don’t want to go back to my dad’s. I don’t want to live there anymore; I want to live here with Mom.”

“Maybe we can work that out. I’ll talk to your mom’s lawyer about it.”

“Honest?”

“Yes. Promise. But you can’t stay here now, not yet.”

“Why can’t I?”

“You can’t keep on hiding, Bobby. Your dad’s worried about you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. You know he’s hurting-you don’t want to cause him any more pain, do you?”

“… No.”

“And you don’t want me to get in trouble, right? Remember, I’m a detective. That means I have an obligation to obey the law, and the law says I have to take you back to your dad and notify the police that you’re safe. If I don’t, then I’ll get in trouble and I won’t be able to help bring your mom home. You understand?”

The boy’s hands slowly unclenched; his gaze steadied again. And after a few seconds he murmured, “Yes.”

“Okay. Tell you what. You must be hungry and so am I. Sit down and I’ll fix us a couple of sandwiches before we leave.”

No response. But when Runyon opened the fridge, Bobby moved over to sit at the dinette table and watch with moist, solemn eyes while he made the sandwiches.