God Save the Child

I stepped closer with the gun still at my side and pulled Bartlett away by the collar. Marge Bartlett was sitting on her heels with her head back trying to stop her nose from bleeding. Bartlett sat on the ground and looked at Harroway. Harroway had his arm around Kevin’s shoulder.

“He’s staying with me,” Harroway said.

I held the gun up and said, “We’ll have to see about that.”

“No,” Harroway said. “We won’t see. He’s staying with me. I don’t care about your goddamned gun.”

“That’s the only way you can get me,” Kevin said, “if you use a gun. You don’t dare try and stop Vic by yourself. Nobody does. Nobody can. We’re staying together If you try to shoot him, you’ll have to shoot me first.” The kid moved between Harroway and me.

Marge Bartlett said, “Kevin, you stop that right now, You are coming home with us. Now don’t be ridiculous.”

Kevin didn’t look at her. “You see what he did to Big Rog.” I could feel the distaste like a force. I wondered how his father must feel. “He’ll do that to anyone that bothers me. He takes care of me. We take care of each other.” The kid had big dark eyes, and on his cheeks, just like his father’s, two bright spots of color showed.

I flipped the cylinder open on my gun and, with the barrel pointing up, shook the bullets out into my left hand. I put the bullets in my pants pocket, put the gun in my holster. Then I took off my jacket, folded it, and put it on the ground. I unclipped my holster and put it on the jacket.

Kevin said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “I’m going to beat your man.”

Marge Bartlett said, “Spenser,” in a strained voice.

Harroway smiled.

“I’m going to beat your man, Kevin, so you’ll know it can be done. Then I’m going to let you decide.”

Marge Bartlett said, “He can’t decide. He’s not old enough.” No one paid any attention. Harroway gently took Kevin’s shoulders and moved him out of the way. “Watch this, Kev. It won’t take long.” He shrugged his shoulders forward, and the triceps swelled out at the back of his upper arms. “Come and get it, Spenser.”

I wasn’t paying attention to his arms. I was watching his feet. If he set up as if he knew what he was doing, I might be in some trouble. We both knew I couldn’t outmuscle him. He stood with his feet spread, flat-footed in a slight crouch. Good. He didn’t know what he was doing. Sometimes an iron freak will get hung up on karate and kung fu, or sometimes they’re wrestlers. Harroway was none of those. If I could keep my concentration, and if he didn’t get hold of me, I had him.