Free Victims by Collin Wilcox Page B

yourself.”
    With the confidence of someone who was familiar with his surroundings, Carmody led the way up to the third floor and down a short hallway to John’s room, where the TV was blaring. While the mother and the lawyer looked on, I sat beside John on the boy’s bed and unholstered my revolver while Carmody turned the TV down.
    “The first thing you always do,” I said, “is unload the weapon.” I swung out the cylinder and showed him how to eject the cartridges. I put the cartridges in my jacket pocket, swung the cylinder back into place and held the revolver in the palm of my hand. “Now it’s safe. You can see it’s safe. And that’s why policemen carry revolvers, instead of automatics.” I looked at him. “Do you know the difference between a revolver and an automatic?”
    Promptly, he nodded. “Sure. An automatic has the bullets in the handle. And you don’t have to cock it. You just keep pulling the trigger.”
    Surprised, I nodded. “That’s right. Where’d you learn about guns, John?”
    As if the question disturbed him, he looked quickly away, refusing to answer. I looked at him thoughtfully for a moment as I gripped the pistol for firing, pulling back the hammer and aiming at a cartoon figure on the silent TV screen. When I pulled the trigger and the hammer fell, the boy’s whole body responded, reacting to the loud metallic click.
    “Let me try.”
    I handed over the gun, cautioning: “Don’t point it at anyone. Don’t ever do that. You always treat a gun as if it’s loaded.”
    Nodding, he used both thumbs to draw back the hammer, used both hands to aim the gun at another cartoon figure. Concentrating fiercely on steadying the gun, his finger tightened on the trigger as his tongue came through his lips, moving to one side. It was the classic picture of total childhood concentration. As the hammer fell, his whole body reacted again, electrically.
    “Wow!” His eyes glowed. “I could’ve blown it up. The whole TV. If it’d been loaded, I could’ve killed it. Can I try again?”
    “One more time.” I smiled, cautioning him again not to point the gun at anyone. Rapturously, he dry-fired the weapon again, then carefully gave it back to me.
    “You handle it like a pro,” I said. “Is this the first time you’ve ever held a revolver?” As I asked the question, I reloaded the gun and slipped it into its holster.
    Once more he looked quickly away. “Can I see the handcuffs now?”
    I’d already decided how I’d answer the inevitable question, turning his intense interest to my advantage. “I’ll tell you what, John—why don’t we do that when I come back again? Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Okay?” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to police headquarters now.” It was a lie, calculated for its effect.
    “Police headquarters,” he breathed, taking the bait. “No fooling?”
    I got to my feet, smiling down at him. “No fooling. I’ll see you soon. We’ll have longer to talk, the next time. Okay?”
    He was plainly disappointed—and plainly not accustomed to having his expectations unsatisfied. But, doubtless having made his own calculations, his answering nod was grudgingly polite. “Yeah—okay. Tomorrow?”
    “I hope so. Soon, anyhow.” Pretending that I had to leave quickly, I thanked Marie Kramer, nodded to Michael Carmody and left the room. I went down the first flight of stairs to the living room level, down the second flight of stairs to the front door, and let myself out. Bruce Durkin, the bodyguard, was standing on a small landing halfway down the steep flight of flagstone steps that led to the street, and my car. Both the steps and the landing were protected by a sturdy iron hand railing. Looking down, I could see why. The rocky hillside fell sharply away from the steps.
    “You’re Bruce Durkin,” I said.
    He’d been looking off across the bright blue waters of San Francisco Bay, picturesquely dotted with hundreds of sails, most of