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.
