I shifted my line of sight. The rutted track petered out in what had once been a front yard: a mixture of bare graveled earth, nests of weeds and thistles, a discard scatter of boards and shingles and broken pieces of furniture. The well house and windmill stood at an angle between the house and barn, near where the creek and its fringe of trees bent away to the north; the windmill had two missing blades and part of its frame was damaged, one broken timber jutting out at right angles like the arm of a gibbet. It was difficult to tell for sure from this distance, but there might have been an irregular path of sorts angling away from the barn toward the creek; some of the weeds in that direction had a trampled look.
The barn next. Big, tumbledown, boards missing, the double doors drawn shut. But the structure itself wasn’t what held my attention, led me to try sharpening the focus. Parallel ruts showed in the grassy earth fronting the doors. Tire marks stood out in the softened earth-fairly deep and fresh looking, made by a heavy vehicle such as a Ford Explorer. I followed them backward to where they thinned out and merged with the ruts in the track.
“I was wrong,” I said as I lowered the glasses. “Somebody’s been here recently. Have a look at the front of the barn.”
Chavez took the binoculars, made his study. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Been and gone, you think?”
“Looks that way. Can’t be sure from up here.”
“Wait and see if anything happens?”
“That’s the passive option. I’d just as soon go on down and find out one way or the other.”
“Works for me.”
I made one more scan of the buildings, the creek, the meadowland beyond. Everything still and empty looking in the pale morning light. Then I recased the glasses, shoved off the outcropping.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get it done.”
24
JAKE RUNYON
Before he was allowed to talk to Bryn Saturday morning he had to endure more than an hour of the usual necessary legal and procedural bullshit.
First there was a consultation with Thomas Dragovich. Runyon had called him after delivering Bobby to his father and enduring another round of verbal abuse from Darby, despite the boy corroborating where he’d been and how he’d been found, and had brought the attorney fully up to date, including his suspicions as to Bryn’s motives and his conviction that Bobby was innocent. But Dragovich was a careful man; he wanted to go over the questions Runyon intended to ask Bryn, to make sure they were acceptable and her rights would be protected.
Then there was a conference with Dragovich, Inspector Crabtree, and an assistant district attorney named Magda Halim. On Dragovich’s advice, Runyon told them exactly what he believed and why. Neither Halim nor Crabtree seemed surprised; Crabtree admitted that he and his partner had guessed it might be the boy Bryn was protecting and had passed along their suspicion to the DA’s office. Halim asked several pertinent questions-testing his honesty, Runyon thought. She was a no-nonsense ADA, probably a hard-liner in most cases; but Dragovich had told him she was also the mother of two young children and therefore might be sympathetic to Bryn’s protective stance. He hoped Dragovich was right.
They sent Runyon out of the room so the three of them could talk things over. When they called him back, Halim told him he could interview Bryn, with herself, Crabtree, and Dragovich present, but that if in any way he attempted to lead or direct her, the interview would be terminated immediately. When he agreed, Crabtree called to have Bryn brought down to one of the interrogation rooms.
Dragovich took Runyon aside for another quick conference, to tell him that if Bryn recanted and cooperated fully he was pretty sure Halim and the police would be willing to release her without any further charges. So it was all up to Runyon. Handle the interview right, get her to open up, and she’d be free again.
The interrogation room wasn’t one of those with the two-way glass. Nor was there any video equipment; evidently Crabtree and Halim had decided taping the interview wasn’t necessary. Just four bare walls, a table with two facing straight-backed metal chairs, two other chairs set at the table ends. Familiar territory to Runyon. He’d been in carbon copies of interrogation rooms like this any number of times during his years on the Seattle PD.
A matron brought Bryn in a minute or so after the rest of them trooped in. He felt some of his tension ease when he saw that they’d let her wear her scarf; if they hadn’t, her self-consciousness would’ve made the interview more difficult. The exposed side of her face was very pale; otherwise she seemed composed in a drawn-up, girded way-a woman preparing for another ordeal. They hadn’t told her Runyon would be there; her composure slipped a little when she saw him.
The matron escorted Bryn to one of the chairs at the table. Runyon took the one facing her. Dragovich pulled a third chair around on Runyon’s side, but away from the table. Halim stood at the opposite end and Crabtree leaned against a wall, both of them in position to watch both Bryn and Runyon as they spoke to each other.
He said, “You holding up okay?”
“Yes. Jake, what are you-”
“I saw Bobby last night.”
She blinked, leaned forward. “You did? Where?”
“Your house. I found him there.”
“… I don’t understand. What was he doing in my house?”
“Hiding in the crawlspace.”
“The- Oh my God.”
“He ran away-took a couple of buses from the Marina. His father went there looking for him and he hid because he didn’t want to go back.”
“Buses? By himself? Why? ”
“He wanted to see you. Be with you.”
Choked her up. Her mouth and throat worked in little spasmodic movements; a tear wiggled down along her cheek. She started to reach a hand out across the table, a reflexive gesture that she checked in mid-motion. The hand lifted, swiped at the wetness on her cheek, then dropped back into her lap.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. We had a long talk. Then I took him back to his father.”
“Long talk about what?” She was suddenly on her guard. “What did he say?”
“The same things he said to you on Thursday.”
“I… don’t know what you mean.”
“He didn’t do it, Bryn. You don’t have to keep lying to protect him.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“It’s what everybody in this room knows you’ve been doing.”
“No. You’re trying to trick me…”
“I’d never do that to you. You know me better than that.”
“I don’t know anything anymore.”
“The fingerprints on the knife aren’t Bobby’s, any more than they’re yours or mine. If necessary, Mr. Dragovich will get a court order to have the boy’s fingerprints taken to prove it.” That was one of the legal options he and the attorney had discussed earlier.
Bryn’s gaze shifted to Dragovich, to Halim, then back to fix on Runyon. Reading his eyes, trying to crawl in behind them to read his mind.
“Somebody else was in the flat that afternoon,” he said. “In the kitchen with Francine. Bobby heard them talking, scuffling. Heard Francine scream.”
“… Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The good half of Bryn’s mouth twisted. She reached up to touch the scarf with her bandaged finger, lowered her hand again. “Man? Woman?”
“Bobby isn’t sure. Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. No.”
“He heard the door slam just after it happened. Not long before you got there. You must have just missed seeing whoever it was.”
Silence.
“Did Bobby open the door for you, let you in?”
“No. I rang the bell, but… no.”
“Was the door closed?”