“Well, I always thought I might be if I had the chance.”
She didn’t comment on that; she knew what he meant. He’d told her the whole bleak story of his relationship, or lack of one, with his son, Joshua. The mistake he’d made in not fighting harder for custody after he’d filed for divorce from Angela; how she’d taken Joshua away to San Francisco, riddled with vindictive hate and driven by the alcohol dependency that eventually killed her, and convinced him as he was growing up that he was a victim of adultery and careless neglect-neither of which was true. Runyon had never had another chance to be a father- Colleen hadn’t been able to have kids-and by the time he’d moved down here from Seattle after Colleen died, it was too late to mend the damage done by Angela’s malicious hatred. Joshua wouldn’t listen to the truth. He’d called on Runyon once professionally, when his lover was a victim of gay-bashing, but refused to have anything to do with his father since. Unbridgeable gap between them.
Bryn put a hand on his arm. “Be careful with him, Jake. He’s very fragile right now.”
“I will.”
“So am I, for that matter. If I didn’t have Bobby… and you…”
“But you do.”
“For now. Sometimes I feel as if I were made of glass. Bump me too hard and I’ll shatter into little pieces.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“Am I? I don’t know.” She clutched his arm more tightly. “I can’t stand any more of this. It has to stop before it gets any worse.”
“It will. We’ll put an end to it.”
“One way or another,” she said.
In the car on the way to the Stonestown mall, Bobby sat fiddling with a berry-colored Game Boy. Runyon let the silence go on until they reached Nineteenth Avenue, then began to do a little probing.
“You like living with your dad, Bobby?”
“… I guess so, sure.” But the words were mumbled and unconvincing.
“Spend a lot of time together with him?”
“Not very much. He works all the time, and I have to…”
“Have to what?”
No response.
“What do you do together when he’s not working?”
“Not too much. He’s always tired, or else…”
“Or else?”
No response. The boy’s fingers moved rapidly on his computer toy.
“Does he get angry when he’s tired? Lose his temper?”
No response.
Runyon tried a different tack. “You know, your mom wishes she could see you more often. She really misses you.”
“I know.”
“You miss her, too, right?”
Head bob.
“Then how come you stay in your room, instead of spending time with her?”
Six-beat. Then, “I wish it was like it used to be.”
“Before your dad moved out?”
“Before she had that stroke. We were a family then.”
“The divorce was your dad’s idea. He couldn’t deal with what happened to her face.”
No response.
“It doesn’t make any difference to me. Or to you, right?”
Flying fingers, now. “I don’t want to talk about this stuff anymore, Mr. Runyon.”
“Jake.”
No response. And silence the rest of the way to the mall.
Runyon parked in the galleria’s underground garage. The mall was enclosed, inhabited by dozens of stores, shops, salons, and cafes on two levels-a few of them empty now, victims of the economic recession. He took Bobby into Macy’s, let him wander around looking without making any suggestions.
The boy said nothing until they’d nearly finished making a circuit of the women’s clothing department. Then, in that shy way of his, and with a little more animation, “I know what I want to get Mom. But I only have two dollars and it’ll cost more than that.”
“Tell you what,” Runyon said. “I’ll loan you the money and you can pay me back out of your allowance. Fifty cents a week or whatever you feel comfortable with.”
“My dad wouldn’t like that.”
“He doesn’t have to know, does he?”
“I guess not.”
“Just between us. What is it you want to buy?”
Bobby showed him. Good choice. Perfect, in fact, because it was caring, thoughtful, appropriate.
Scarf. Silk scarf.
He spent five minutes making his pick, one unlike any in the collection of scarves Bryn used to cover the nerve-paralyzed side of her face. A deep burgundy color, with an interwoven silver and gold design.
“You think she’ll like this one, Jake?”
“I think it’ll be her favorite.”
Bobby was quiet again on the ride back to the house. But he didn’t fiddle with the Game Boy; he sat looking straight ahead, his mouth thinned a little, his forehead ridged. Thinking hard about something.
They were on Moraga, with only a few blocks to go, when Bobby said, “Mr… um, Jake. Are you really a detective?”
“That’s right. I was a policeman in Seattle for a long time; now I work for a private agency.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Three-fifty-seven Magnum.”
“Can I see it?”
“… Why?”
“I’ve never seen a real gun before.”
“Guns aren’t toys, Bobby.”
“I know that.” Pause. “Have you ever shot anybody?”
“Yes. In self-defense.”
Another pause. “Could I see it? Please?”
Runyon almost said no, he didn’t have it with him. But he didn’t like lying, especially to kids. The weapon was locked in the glove compartment, where his permit allowed him to keep it; loaded but with the chamber under the hammer empty. There didn’t seem to be any harm in granting Bobby his request.
The house was just ahead. Runyon said as he pulled up in front, “All right, but just a quick look.” He shut off the engine, keyed open the glove box. The Magnum was in its clip-on holster; he slid it out, let Bobby have his wide-eyed look.
Runyon was locking the weapon away again when the boy said, “I wish I had a gun like that,” in an off-tone that made Runyon glance sharply at him.
“Why? What would you do with it?”
“Keep it for… the next time.”
“What do you mean, the next time?”
No response.
“The next time your dad hurts you, is that it?”
