destroyed him, too. With Bryn it was different. A closeness built on friendship, understanding, a gradually hardening bond of trust. Gentle intimacy, even in bed the past month. Two damaged people, her by the stroke that had paralyzed one side of her face, him by Colleen’s lingering death and the black hole it had left inside him. Leaning on each other for support, sure, but it was more than that-it was helping each other learn how to feel again, how to care about themselves again.
She’d be working now, he thought, as she did most afternoons. Maybe on one of her watercolors or charcoal sketches, maybe on the computer-generated graphic designs that paid her bills. She’d refused spousal support when her cold, selfish ex-husband divorced her after the stroke. Too proud, too self-sufficient. She’d even insisted on paying a share of the support for her only kid, nine-year-old Robert Jr., Bobby.
Bobby had spent this past weekend with her-one of the two weekends a month she was allowed to have her son to herself. The ex-husband, the kind of lawyer that gave the profession a bad name, had manipulated it that way. Made some sort of arrangement with a family court judge who granted him full custody except for the monthly weekend visits and one week in the summer, the decision based on the lie that Bryn’s stroke and disfigurement made her less than fit to raise the boy as a single mom. Bastards. And now Robert Sr. was getting married again, which meant a new “mother” for Bobby, an increased feeling of alienation for Bryn.
Nothing she could do about it. Nothing Runyon could, either, except be there for her when she needed him- particularly during one of her periodic bouts of near-suicidal depression. He’d been suicidal himself after Colleen died, come close more than once to eating his gun; he knew all about the waves of black melancholy and the death-wish impulses. He’d fought them, beat them off, finally buried them. Bryn would do the same with his help and support. He believed that and he felt that she was starting to believe it, too.
He hoped the weekend had gone well. He hadn’t talked to her since Thursday night, didn’t feel it was right to intrude on her private time with her son. Had she taken his advice to be more affectionate with the boy? So afraid Bobby would pull away from her because of her deformity that she’d let an uncomfortable distance build up between them, not once in his presence removing the scarf she wore constantly over the frozen side of her face.
That wouldn’t change, at least not for some time. She still wouldn’t let Runyon see her without the scarf, or touch her face or kiss her. Sex in the dark, bodies close but heads apart at awkward angles.
Hurt and lonely, both of them. It was what had drawn them together, what would keep them together until something happened to end their relationship or make it permanent.
Better not think about that now. Carpe diem. It had been so long since he’d felt like seizing any day, looked forward to something other than filling up the long empty hours with work and aimless driving. Enjoy it while it lasted. Be grateful for the chance to feel alive again.
Noe Valley, between the east side of Twin Peaks and the Mission District, was one of the city’s thriving upscale neighborhoods. Fashionable older homes and apartment buildings, and along 24th Street blocks of restaurants, coffee-houses, bookstores, taverns, small businesses. Parking was at a premium; it took Runyon ten minutes to find a space within a block and a half of 24th and Castro, where Noe Valley Arts amp; Crafts was located.
Small place: long, narrow, with shelves and displays along the walls, more shelving down the middle, and an upfront counter. The girl behind the counter was eighteen or nineteen, gold rings and studs in her ears, nose, and upper lip, and fingernails painted the color of a ripe eggplant. The stud in her lip sparkled when she told him, smiling, that Mr. Madison was in his office in back. She offered to go fetch him, but Runyon said he’d just go on back, he had some personal business to discuss.
The office door was open, revealing a small, tidy office and the man standing at an old-fashioned file cabinet along one wall. He was taller than his brother, a couple of inches over six feet, and also red haired, but with the kind of smooth baby-skin face that would sprout only enough whiskers for twice-weekly shaves. A weak chin and close-set eyes kept him from being good-looking. He glanced around, blinking, as Runyon stepped into the doorway.
“This is a private office,” Madison said. “The girl at the counter can get you anything you need-”
“Afraid not, Mr. Madison.” Runyon introduced himself, showed his license. “I’m here about your brother.”
Madison said, “Oh, God,” in a voice that was half-pained, half-irritated. “Come in; shut the door.” Then, when Runyon had complied, “I suppose that bondsman, Melikian, hired you to find Troy.”
“My agency. That’s right.”
“Well, I don’t have any idea where he went.” Madison moved away from the file cabinet, around behind his desk. Most men of his height had an easy way of walking, but his movements were awkward and loose-jointed, almost a duck waddle. “A long damn way from here, I hope. So far away you never find him.”
“If you feel that way, why did you arrange for his bail?”
“You don’t know him,” Madison said. “Nobody knows him like I do.”
“Meaning?”
“He puts on a good act, pretends to be easygoing, everybody’s friend. But inside he’s just the opposite. A mean, violent son of a bitch. He used to beat me up when we were kids, just for the hell of it. I took more abuse from him than anybody else in my life, including my wife.”
“He threatened you, is that it?”
“Not at first. Claimed he was innocent, that he’d been set up and could prove it at his trial. Swore he’d pay the money back as soon as he could-a crock; he never paid anybody back a dime in his life. I told him no, we couldn’t afford it. That’s when he turned ugly. He knew we had the money. Said he’d hurt me, hurt Arletta, if we didn’t bail him out.”
“You could’ve ignored the threats, left him in jail.”
“Sure. Maybe he’d’ve been convicted and maybe he wouldn’t, and even if he was he’d spend, what, a couple of years in prison. What do you think he’d do when he got out? No, you just don’t know him and what he’s capable of.”
“Did you expect him to jump bail?”
“I thought he might. He was in jail for six months a few years ago; you probably know that. He hated it, hated the idea of going to prison.”
“So you were hoping he would jump, go on the run.”
“Well, what if I was? I didn’t help him do it, did I?”
Same as. But Runyon didn’t put the thought into words.
“I have a right to protect myself and my wife,” Madison said defensively. “The best way I can.”
“She agree?”
“Sure she agrees. Why ask that?”
“I understand it was her money that paid Melikian.”
“Her money.” Madison’s mouth thinned down even more, until his smooth baby face seemed lipless. “Christ, I get tired of hearing that. So she’s gotten lucky with those sculptures of hers, darling of the critics and gallery owners, so what? We’re married, it’s my money, too.”
Runyon said mildly, “Abe Melikian says you had to ask her for the thirty-five hundred. Prenup?”
Anger kindled in Madison’s pale blue eyes. “That’s none of your business. My personal affairs have nothing to do with my brother skipping out on his bail.”
Runyon let it go. “When did you last see him?”
“The day he got bailed out.”
“No contact with him since? No demands for more money?”
“No. At least not yet.”
“Then he might have some of his own stashed away. Or a supply of drugs or a source to get him some that he can turn into ready cash. Any idea who his suppliers are?”
“No.”
“His friends?”
“No. They’re all drug freaks like that bitch he lives with. I don’t have anything to do with people like that.”
“But you do know her. Jennifer Piper.”
“Not before he was arrested. I hardly ever saw Troy, except when he needed money. She was at the jail
