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 Not a good option, because it would likely damage what trust Bobby had in him, keep him withdrawn and silent.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?”
