See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

Laura had often asked herself if this was so, but the answer was beyond her. “Nobody knows. Sending them off to live at school hurt her. A lot, you could tell. Maybe it hurt her more than she could stand.”

  “And their father?”

  “Their father—I don’t know. I think he blames them. Or he can’t understand why this happened to them. Maybe he’s just given up. It’s hard to say.”

  “That’s why he drinks?”

  She looked away and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, she was the strong one. And then—she was gone.”

  “I see,” said Montana. He seemed to be watching her closely, and it made her nervous.

  “Listen, Montana,” she said impatiently. “How long do you intend to keep the boys, anyway? Do you know how hard this is on them?”

  “Death’s harder,” he said.

  His words shocked her, and perhaps he had meant them to.

  He said, “If we’re dealing with Colombians, we don’t want them even to know these kids exist.”

  She swallowed. “Do you really have control over the news getting out?”

  “Some,” he said. “We have some control.”

  “That means you don’t know how much. Doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Her head throbbed more wickedly. “So many people already know,” she said. “Everybody at school. The police. This—this task force, the four of you. Your families know where you are, surely? What you’re doing?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She couldn’t believe him. “Your own families don’t know?”

  “Becker never tells his wife everything. It’s how he plays the game. Jefferson’s divorced. Stallings isn’t married. He’s got a fiancée, but he doesn’t tell her. That’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “How can you live like that?”

  “It’s how we live. That’s all.”

  “What about you?” she asked, studying his face. He looked calm and concerned, but he had an actor’s face, she thought; it could show emotions that never touched his heart.

  “I’m single,” he said. “When I was a cop, having a family didn’t seem right. I was undercover. A wife and kids? That’d be giving hostages to fortune.”

  “And now?”

  “I still don’t give hostages to fortune.”

  She looked away from him. Montana could be kind when he chose; he could be perceptive. But there was, at his center, something implacable. Of the other men, only the pink-cheeked Stallings seemed to share this hardness.

  “Where’s Stallings?” she asked, glancing toward the hall. “I didn’t see him.”

  A half-smile touched the corner of Montana’s mouth.

  “Stallings lifts weights for half an hour, has a glass of something made out of seaweed, then goes to bed. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or touch fat, sugar, or caffeine. I hope he also doesn’t snore. I have to bunk with him.”

  “Are you staying up much longer?” she asked. “I want to sleep. I’m taking the sofa. I found extra blankets in the closet.”

  She touched the grimy sofa with distaste. She imagined a long, restless night ahead of her, and she didn’t even know if she had a nightgown or pajamas.

  Someone at the precinct house had sent a policewoman to Laura’s apartment to get her things. Laura hadn’t even yet had time to open the suitcases. She had no idea what possessions or clothing she had with her.

  “Go ahead, stretch out,” Montana said. “I stay up until three-thirty.”

  “Why?” she asked, nonplussed.

  “We drew lots. It’s my turn to take watch.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. She could think of nothing else to say. Of course, there would be a watch. These men were, after all, guards.

  “Go to sleep,” he urged. “You’re tired. I see it in your face. Things will seem better in the morning. You’ll get used to this.”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t. I don’t see how anybody could.”

  “You get used to it,” he said, nodding. “Trust me.”

  I don’t want to trust you, she thought bleakly. I don’t want to trust anybody except myself.

  A man may be so intent on other matters that he may sow the seed of a great folly and not notice.

  Don Mesius Estrada had sown such a seed, ironically, when he was striving to spurt his far less metaphorical seed into a most delicious blonde of eighteen.

  “My cousin wants to be in the Cartel,” she’d said, as he undid her lace bra. “He’s an assassin. He’s only eighteen, but he’s killed.”

  “I have all the assassins I need,” Estrada had mumbled against her white, round breasts.

  “He could start out free-lance,” she’d whispered. “If someone needed something done, you could recommend him. He could work his way up.”

  “Would it make you happy?” Estrada had asked, pulling down her lacy panties.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” she’d said with a breathy sigh.

  “Then it is done,” Estrada had said, and marveled that she was truly blond all over.

  A week later, a customer of the Cartel’s, a good customer, told Estrada he wanted two men “taught a lesson.” That was precisely the phrase the customer used: “I want these guys taught a lesson.”

  And Estrada, still bewitched by blondness, had given him the name of his mistress’s cousin, a boy he’d never met.

  Now Estrada, who had until now built his empire unerringly, was threatened by the foolishness of a silly boy from Bogotá, who, along with his friends, had thought it would be fun to kill. Estrada was enraged.

  He had had phone calls from half a dozen different informants today. Each call sickened him more. This bully-boy had only needed to threaten. Instead he had killed.

  Not only that, he had taken friends with him. He had even let a friend use the gun. Reynaldo Comce had shot down Francis Zordani like a dog in the street—Reynaldo Comce!

  Estrada had become almost ill when he heard this. Then he was told that the police had witnesses, and that Colombians were suspected. Madre de Dios, his life passed before his eyes.

  These spoiled schoolboys had created this mess, this abomination. He swore to God they would clean it up. Coolly, all graciousness, he’d summoned them, and they had come to him, as nervous and eager as suitors.

  He greeted them silkily and with elegance. When they entered, his stomach knotted and he felt poisoned, but he looked at his guests and smiled sublimely.

  You will undo the evil you have done, he thought, gazing on their foolish young faces. Then you will die—and not easily.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to my home.”

  They smiled back uneasily. Well might they be nervous, he thought. And let them smile while they had heads to smile with.

  But none of his rancor showed, not a jot. He was as charming as if he loved them deeply. He was a man of station, and he acted it.

  Mesius Estrada’s address was exclusive; a famous rock star had once lived in this building, and his widow still did. It was an enclave of the wealthy and powerful.

  Estrada’s living room was lavish. A chandelier dripped crystal, and the reflection from its hundred lights glimmered from the silver candelabra and golden bric-a-brac. The drapes were of satin so deeply crimson the shadowed folds seemed black, and the furniture was upholstered in velvet.

  His guests, the three young men he had summoned, looked callow and unsophisticated. Reynaldo Comce was not with them, of course. They thought Reynaldo Comce was their little secret.

  Their leader was the blonde’s cousin, a slender baby-faced boy known as Paco. He had frightened eyes, this Paco. Did he guess his pretty neck was in the noose?

  I have wines older than you, thought Estrada, smiling down at Paco. And worth far more.

  Estrada was well-built and of medium height. He was fair-skinned and dark-haired, and his piercing hazel eyes were fringed with lashes as long as a film idol’s. He wore jeans and a simple blue sweater, but gold glistened at his throat and from his f
ingers.

  Mesius Estrada was young for so important a position, only thirty-two. Unlike these bumbling provincials he had been bred for power. He had felt the weight of its responsibility from childhood.

  These three privileged brats were only—what was the pungent Yankee phrase?—they were mere wannabees. Like children, they had played at being outlaws. Now he would work the little bastards like puppets to make them undo the damage they had done.

  Estrada walked to the ormolu liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of Tia Maria, and poured four glasses. “Come,” he invited. “We’ll drink to you. I’ve heard you had a successful day—is that right?”

  “Yes, Don Mesius,” said Paco. “We hope it was.” He took his glass in a hand that was not wholly steady.

  The other two youths followed suit. Their names were Puentes and Diaz, and they had all come from Bogotá together, ostensibly to attend college.

  All three had flunked out, although they had not told this fact to their families. They aspired to greater things than college. They aspired to the Cartel.

  An unprepossessing lot they were. Paco was narrow-shouldered, and his face was childish, round and smooth with no trace of a beard. Puentes had a thick, dull, oxlike look to him. Diaz was mean-eyed and cocky and already bore himself like an up-and-coming young assassin.

  Puentes and Diaz aped Paco, smiling when he smiled, drinking when he drank. They came from families far less well-to-do than Paco’s. Puentes’s father managed a coffee factory, and Diaz was little better than a servant, come to New York to keep Paco company and see to his needs.

  Estrada gave Paco a conspiratorial look. “So. You’re the ones who did the job for the norteamericano, eh? The one who went to Florida. He’s hiding now. Everyone is looking for him, no?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Paco said. “We weren’t given details. We were told to go after two men, and we went.”

  “I see,” Estrada replied. “Alas, a job’s not always as simple as it seems. There’s always the unexpected, isn’t there?”

  Paco blinked hard in apparent surprise. A wary expression shone in his eyes. “What?”

  Estrada put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and paced to the center of the room, his pose thoughtful. “There seems to be a problem,” he said.

  Paco swallowed. “A problem, Don Mesius?”

  A problem. Estrada could see the word sent terror skittering along Paco’s nerve endings. Yes, something is wrong, little man. Very wrong.

  Estrada gave Paco a mild look from under his long lashes. “Yes. There were witnesses. Something has to be done about them.”

  Paco’s face was a study in confusion. Clearly, the news stunned and frightened him. He stared at Estrada, his face pale. “Witnesses? Who?”

  Estrada strolled to the window, lifted the drape, and stared at the jewellike lights of the city. “Three witnesses,” he said. “A teacher, a young woman. And two children. They saw everything, noticed everything.”

  “Children?” Paco said stupidly. He kept repeating everything Estrada said, as if he had no words of his own.

  Estrada let the drape fall back into place. He turned to face the three young men. “They saw the gunman’s face. They can identify him.”

  All three looked as if they had taken mortal blows. Paco smiled sickly, as if he prayed to God Estrada was joking. “But Don Estrada, everything happened so fast. No one could identify—”

  “These aren’t ordinary children,” Estrada said in his silky way. “They remember everything they see. The make of the car. The license plate. And the face they saw.”

  Paco shook his head as if dazed. “But—but …”

  Estrada reached into the right front pocket of his jeans and drew out a piece of paper. He unfolded it. “The car you used. A Cadillac de Ville? License number MPZ one oh four eight one nine? They remembered this, you see. As well as a man’s face. I’m told if they see him again, they’ll know him. Without error, they’ll know him.”

  Paco looked thunderstruck. Yes, Estrada thought bitterly. I know what you’re thinking. What curse of Satan is this? What sort of children are these, the devil’s own?

  “Yes,” Estrada said, shaking his head. “They saw everything. The police have them in custody, hidden away. Along with the woman.”

  Paco looked sick with fear and dismay. “I’m sorry, Don Mesius. What do you want us to do?”

  The other two young men held themselves so tensely that Estrada thought their spines must hurt.

  “I want there to be no witnesses,” said Mesius Estrada with a smile. “And you must want the same thing. It’s you they can identify—no?”

  “Yes,” Paco blurted. “Yes, of course.”

  No, you little liar, Estrada thought. It’s Reynaldo Comce they can identify, and if that happens we are all dead men. You have fucked us, Paco. You have totally fucked us.

  “Now,” said Estrada with a careless gesture, “this isn’t really my problem. It’s yours. And the norteamericano’s. He started this business. You’ll have to finish it for him. Dispose of the witnesses.”

  Paco seemed physically shrunken, as if his body had aged decades in the last minutes. “But if they’re hidden, how do we find them? How can we get to them?”

  Estrada regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then he held up the piece of paper with the Cadillac’s make and license number. “I can find out any number of things. When I tell you where and when, I want you to kill them. Them and anyone who tries to stop you. Understand?”

  “Yes, Don Mesius,” Paco mumbled, looking sick with repentance. “I understand.”

  “And this isn’t Cartel business. You’re finishing it up for the norteamericano, not us. That’s clear?”

  “It’s clear, it’s clear,” Paco nearly babbled.

  He thinks I don’t know about Reynaldo, Estrada thought, marveling at Paco’s naivete. Oh, Paco, Paco, you and your friends should have stayed with your schoolbooks and left killing to men who understand it.

  “As a favor to the Yankee,” said Estrada, “I’ll help your search. And as a favor to you. But I repeat, this was never a Cartel matter.”

  “No,” Paco said. “Never.”

  Estrada walked to Paco and put his hands on his shoulders. He looked into Paco’s eyes. “If you’re successful, you’ll have indeed proved yourselves. Then it will be time for you not to work for the norteamericano any longer. Instead you’ll join us.”

  The pulse in Paco’s throat leaped visibly. Estrada looked at that jumping vein and thought with satisfaction of slicing it open.

  “We’ll make a place for you.” Estrada smiled. “Just kill the witnesses.”

  FIVE

  At breakfast, Laura struggled to pretend things were normal. She cajoled the twins to eat their cornflakes, not play with them, to drink their orange juice, not gargle it or blow bubbles in it.

  She herded them into the bathroom to brush their teeth and left them there. Grateful for a respite, she hurried back to the kitchen to finish her coffee.

  Montana was there, leaning against the kitchen counter as if waiting for her. The other men were gathered in the living room, setting up a computer.

  The computer’s for the mug shots, she thought with a sinking sensation. How would she ever make Rickie and Trace sit through dozens of mug shots?

  She squared her shoulders. “The boys need to go outside, have some exercise. Or they’ll be wild. It has to be done.”

  Montana’s dark gaze rested on her face. “Later. You and I have other things to talk about.”

  “Other things?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive. “What?”

  “I’ve got good news, bad news.”

  “What’s the good news?”

  “We’ve heard about Fletcher.”

  She sighed in relief. “That is good news. When will he be here?”

  “That’s the bad news. He wrapped his car around a coconut tree yesterday afternoon. They had to fly him to a hospital in Tahiti.”

  She coul
d only stare at him, wordless with shock.

  He took her coffee cup from the table, refilled it, and handed it to her. She took it from him numbly, but only held it, did not drink.

  “He’s got a head injury,” Montana said. “He’s not going anywhere for a while.”

  “A head injury? How bad?” Laura said in disbelief. “He can’t come back? For how long?”

  “Laura,” he said, “I’m sorry. He’s seriously hurt. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She ran her hand through her hair in frustration. Burton Fletcher in the hospital? Who else did the twins have? One set of grandparents in Florida, with the grandfather dying of cancer. A sickly grandmother in Pennsylvania. An aunt and uncle working for an American oil company in Belgium.

  “Drink your coffee,” he said in a voice that was gruff, yet kind.

  But she couldn’t drink. She set the cup aside.

  Montana shrugged, almost casually. “We can have you appointed as their temporary guardian,” he said. “We’ve got a judge working on the order.”

  “Me?” she asked, astonished. “Me?”

  “I’m sorry.” He shrugged again, just as nonchalantly. “The kids need somebody. You’re all they’ve got. Let’s face it.”

  She sat down at the table in stunned silence, her coffee untouched before her. Montana’s face was grim. She expected he might at least try to look sympathetic, but he didn’t.

  “I don’t know why you’re so stony-faced,” she said. “I’m the one caught in the middle.”

  “We’re all caught in the middle,” he said. “Fletcher’s in bad shape. That’s all there is to it.”

  “How’d it happen?” Laura asked with a toss of her head. “He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Montana said. “He was.”

  Laura crossed her arms and gave him a disgusted look. “He was probably feeling sorry for himself. As usual.”

  “Maybe he was,” Montana said without emotion.

  “I was hoodwinked into this whole mess, wasn’t I?” she said. “The only thing you need me for is to take care of the twins. You didn’t have Fletcher, so you drafted me.”

  “We’d need you even if he was here,” he said. “Could he handle the boys? No. Only you can.”