See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

  “It’s a possibility.”

  He said it as calmly as if he was discussing the weather.

  “Will it snow again?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Will it be a lethal snow? Will it kill us?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  She looked at the boys and pressed her lips together in a tense line. Rickie was uneasy, and Trace looked angry.

  Both still dawdled over their cereal, and Trace talked to himself. “Blue rhubarb,” he whispered as he watched the light glint on his milky spoon. “Blue rhubarb, blue rhubarb.”

  If only I hadn’t said anything, she thought, angry at herself, angry at the unfairness of it all. Nobody would know. But, no. God, God, why didn’t I keep quiet?

  Montana must have sensed her growing despair. He moved beside her, put his good hand on her shoulder. “Look—” he said, “At least the Record’s a weekly. It’s distributed nationwide. It won’t hit the stands for a couple of days. And if it’s any help, you’ve been doing great, more than great, you’ve—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Stallings came into the kitchen, dressed in a suit and tie. His usually pink cheeks were pale, his eyes watery.

  “We’re set,” he said to Laura. “Everything’s packed. So when you’re ready, we can—”

  He was cut off by howls of pure anguish, each more shrilly piercing than the last.

  Stallings stopped, openmouthed. The shrieks ascended in a piercing spiral, more frenzied, more pained.

  Rickie screamed uncontrollably. He dropped his spoon, knocked over his cereal, and fell to the floor with a crash.

  He scuttled backward into a corner and crouched there like a small, trapped animal, tears streaming down his face. He howled and swatted out wildly at the air.

  “It’s the swan,” Laura cried to the bewildered Stallings. “He’s terrified of swans.”

  Stallings wore a beige tie with a black swan printed on it. She practically snatched it off him. He gaped at her as if she were a madwoman and Rickie were her demon spawn.

  But she finally convinced Stallings it was the tie. Rickie was terrified of large birds, even pictures of them, and nobody knew why.

  Reluctantly Stallings pocketed the offending tie and went down the hall to hide it in his suitcase. He grumbled that it had been a present from his fiancée, that it was a really nice tie.

  Laura took Rickie into her arms and held him tightly. “The swan’s gone far away,” she consoled him. “The swan went to Japan, and Godzilla ate it. It’ll never come back.”

  By the time Rickie quieted, Trace was upset, his eyes flashing dangerously. Just when she thought she had them both calmed and took them into the bathroom so they could brush their teeth, they both threw tantrums. Becker had unwittingly packed their Bugs Bunny toothbrushes away before they could use them.

  Laura’s patience was stretched to its limit by the time they got into the van. Both boys were irritable and exhausted.

  Rickie looked frightened of Stallings, as if any minute Stallings might pull the evil swan tie from his pocket. Stallings was moody because in spite of all his seaweed and vitamins, he was coming down with a cold, a bad one.

  Jefferson volunteered to switch places with Stallings and go with the twins, Laura, and Montana. Laura was grateful. Jefferson was far more genial.

  It was snowing hard, and traffic crawled. Laura couldn’t wait to get out of Manhattan, through the tunnel, and onto Long Island.

  Jefferson had left a few books unpacked for the boys, but they were more interested in a road map they found under the backseat. Laura was content to let them study it and play an incomprehensible game with highway numbers.

  “So is he over his scare about the swan?” Jefferson asked. The windshield wipers shuffled back and forth, clearing snow from the glass.

  “Pretty much,” Laura said, although she could tell both boys were bewildered by another sudden change.

  “Is he afraid of anything else?” Jefferson asked. “I mean, don’t be scared to say. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  She took a deep breath, and pushed her hair back from her face. “Yes,” she said. “Swans. Penguins. Owls. All big birds. And they’re both afraid of Santa Claus.”

  “Santa Claus? I never heard of a kid afraid of Santa Claus. Why?”

  “We don’t know,” she told him. “And they can’t tell us. Maybe someday, but not yet.”

  Jefferson shook his head. “That beats all. What else?”

  “Bathing suits. Trace is frightened of people in bathing suits.”

  “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about that this time of year.”

  She leaned back against the seat, closed her eyes. How paradoxical, she thought. Rickie hadn’t screamed or cried at the gunfire or the blood when Zordani was shot. Yet even the picture of a large bird could send him into paroxysms of terror.

  She wished she could experience, for just a little while, what it was like to understand the most complex problems in math, but not comprehend the simplest of wordless human signals, a smile, a wink, a hug, a kiss.

  Montana’s voice interrupted her futile wondering. “We’ll get you out of Valley Hope as soon as we can.”

  “It can’t be soon enough,” she replied as evenly as she could. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”

  She hated the thought of the boys at Valley Hope. She’d seen it once, on a tour of residences for the mentally handicapped.

  The hospital was ancient, three stories high, its liver-colored brick dingy with age. A high, thick wall of the same brick surrounded it, and the windows were barred with rods of rusty iron. The inside was cheerless, dirty, and evil-smelling.

  Montana said, “I don’t know where they’ll send you after there. You may be put in the charge of federal marshals by then.”

  Her eyes flew open, and a strange hollowness took possession of her. “You’ll leave us?” she said.

  Without realizing it, she’d become used to these four men. “You’ve been good to the boys,” she managed to say.

  “Thanks,” Jefferson said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “The marshals will treat you right,” was all Montana said.

  A disturbing thought crossed her mind. “They’re not going to relocate us, are they? You won’t send us off and change our names and everything—will you?”

  “I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Jefferson said cheerfully. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She couldn’t help it; she had to worry. As soon as the twins’ names and pictures were published, the whole country would know about them. Any hope that their testimony would be anonymous was forever gone.

  Contracts, she thought. Wasn’t that what drug dealers did to someone they wanted eliminated? They put a contract on him, a price on his head.

  A price on their heads, she thought, her stomach queasy. She gazed at the twins, bent over their road map. Their straight, glossy hair fell over their foreheads, and their dark lashes were so long they cast shadows on their cheeks. They’re so helpless, she thought. So completely helpless.

  Once past Queens, the two-car caravan made a brief stop on Long Island. Stallings signaled that he wanted to halt, and both cars pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall.

  Stallings came to their car and said he wanted to get aspirin and cough drops; he felt lousy. Laura thought he was starting to look seriously ill.

  Although the twins grew restless as soon as the car stopped, Montana warned her to keep them inside. He didn’t want anyone to catch sight of them.

  Rickie and Trace, bored, began to squabble, and she put all her energy into making peace. She separated them, making one sit on either side of her, and she commandeered the map, which they had torn.

  The van was crowded, the rear stacked with the video equipment, the television, and the boys’ belongings. Looming up over the rear of the backseat were the wall plaques of a grinning Daffy Duck and a snarling Tasmanian Devil.

  We’re trapped
in the world of Looney Tunes, Laura thought darkly, and she wished sanity would return to life.

  At last Stallings, wiping his nose, came out of the drugstore, a bag clutched to his chest. Once again, they got under way. Stallings and Becker’s car was as crowded as the van, for it carried the adults’ baggage and the computer.

  The snow fell more heavily. The radio repeatedly issued travelers’ warnings. Highways were treacherous, and side roads were drifting shut.

  Each slow, snowy mile took them closer to the misnamed Valley Hope. She let the twins, reconciled, sit together again. Once more they studied the map and giggled about highway numbers.

  “Love is strange,” Rickie kept singing over and over. It was a phrase they’d picked up from an oldies station on the radio. The one line was all they ever sang.

  “Love is strange,” Trace would echo. “Love is stra-a-ange.”

  “How much farther?” Laura asked, staring at the thick veils of snow. It was as if the car were completely curtained by swirling whiteness, and the world were a wasteland of cold.

  “Six miles,” Montana said. She could see the tension in him. More than once the van had skidded.

  “Six miles,” Trace echoed without emotion.

  “Six miles,” Rickie said and laughed.

  A sudden gust of wind shuddered the van and made the falling snow churn like flakes in a shaken snow globe. Laura’s heart jumped, Jefferson swore under his breath, but Montana said nothing. The twins didn’t notice. “Love is stra-a-ange,” Rickie chanted, then bent lower over the map.

  Montana drove the last six miles at a cautious crawl. The snow kept falling, and the wind whipped harder. The van rocked with each fresh gale.

  Even Valley Hope will look good, she thought as another gust shivered the van. It’s come to that. It’s that bad.

  But then, at last, the van came to a halt. She could see the blurry shape of the Chevrolet stopped in front of them, its red taillights glowing.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We’re there, but the gate’s shut,” Montana said. “Becker’s opening it.”

  Through the driving snow Laura could see the iron bars and crossbars of the gate. It had a medieval stoutness and would have made a fine entrance for a prison, which was, of course, exactly what Valley Hope was.

  Becker, hunched against the cold, came and rapped at the window on the driver side. Montana rolled the van’s window partly down and narrowed his eyes against the swirling snow.

  The cold had made Becker’s face apple red. “Gate was shut but not locked,” he said, his breath pluming up. “Wind keeps blowing it shut. I’ll hold it open.”

  Montana nodded, but Laura sensed tension in him.

  “I hope they got coffee in this dive,” Jefferson muttered.

  “Yeah,” Montana said absently as he rolled up the window.

  Becker jogged to the gate and held it open. If hell had a gate, Laura thought, it would look like the one to Valley Hope.

  Ahead of them, Stallings put the Chevrolet in gear and inched through the gate. His wheels hit an icy spot, spinning uselessly, and he gunned the motor, trying to gain momentum.

  The car lurched forward, and Becker waved for Montana to follow.

  Just as Becker’s hand reached the top of its arc, there was a strange, distant popping sound, and Becker’s fingers turned into bloody stumps, spewing scarlet.

  Becker’s forehead erupted in vivid red; his reddened cheeks disappeared beneath the rain of his own blood, and from his chest and belly gushed fountains of red.

  The Chevrolet, with Stallings at the wheel, shivered and was suddenly pocked with holes. Its rear windows cracked into complex webs.

  Laura was too horrified to scream, even when she saw the shattered rear window of the Chevrolet spatter with crimson. Stallings had to be mortally wounded for so much blood to spray the glass.

  “Shit!” Montana swore. He threw the van into reverse so fast that she felt it twist her spine.

  Instinctively she flung herself over the twins, who cried out in surprised anger. Jefferson grunted with pain.

  “Hell, man, I’m hit,” Jefferson said. She was vaguely aware that the car was colder. Looking up fearfully, she saw that Jefferson’s side of the windshield was shot through.

  Montana shifted, spun into a sliding turn, and took off at an insane speed.

  Behind them, Laura heard the roar of another vehicle, a truck perhaps, and a fresh assault of gunfire. The back window cracked, and she pushed the twins farther down against the seat. Rickie wailed; Trace struck at her hand.

  “Man, I’m hit.” Jefferson’s voice was choked.

  “Get down,” Montana said, “or you’ll be fucking dead.”

  Another volley of shots smashed through the rear window. The twins wailed in protest. Laura dragged them down to the floor, pressing them hard against it despite their screams.

  Something struck her back, but bounced away harmlessly. Her eyes had been squeezed shut, but she looked up, dazed. She’d been hit by the plastic plaque of Daffy Duck. It had been knocked onto the seat.

  Half of Daffy’s carefree face was ripped away by gunfire. He grinned a broken, insane grin.

  SIX

  The van skidded down the street, veering crazily.

  In the rearview mirror, Montana saw a white panel truck in pursuit, and he hoped to hell he wasn’t going to take a fatal slide that would leave them a sitting target.

  Jefferson, curled in a fetal position half on the floor and half on the seat, was bleeding badly. The shoulder of his tweed overcoat was sodden with crimson.

  The kids’ screams ripped the air. Montana could not see them in the mirror, or Laura, either. Had they been hit?

  “Laura?” he yelled. “Are you all right? The kids?”

  “I think so.” He barely heard her above the din.

  The white truck was gaining on them, although it, too, lurched and slid in the snow.

  The window on its passenger side was rolled down, and a man in a black watch cap leaned out. He aimed an assault rifle at the Ford.

  “Stay down!” Montana yelled. He veered to the left so hard that he went over the curb and onto the sidewalk, then slid back into the street, spinning like a top.

  A volley of shots burst out. The windshield on Jefferson’s side turned into a web of fractures. A hole exploded through the upholstery, just above Jefferson’s head.

  Swerving, the van swung out and jumped another curb. Montana, desperate, let it slide, then floored it again, wrenching the wheel into the spin. The van pivoted 360 degrees, then plunged onward, weaving first left, then right, running a stop sign.

  A snowplow came trundling down the street toward them, and Montana struggled not to smash into it. He maneuvered around the plow, barely missing it.

  Once he hit the plowed street, he accelerated as hard as he could and headed for the first cleared side street.

  In his mirror, he saw the truck, still following. The truck swung out to give the snowplow a wide berth, hit an icy patch instead, and careered straight into the plow’s scraper blade. It ricocheted off the blade with a metallic, ripping sound.

  Then, with an almost dreamlike slowness, the truck skidded on two wheels until it crashed sideways into the thick metal post of a street lamp. It shuddered to a stop, falling back heavily on all four wheels.

  The snowplow driver stopped his machine and leaped to the street. A wiry, older man, he ran gingerly toward the van, apparently to check the passengers.

  He got as far as the curb before a blast from the gun hit his chest and blew clear through his back. He pitched forward, collapsing facedown into the snow.

  Montana didn’t wait to see more. He was doing sixty in a twenty-mile zone, the kids were still screaming, and Jefferson was bleeding like a stuck pig. He swung around the next corner, the axles shuddering in protest.

  Montana didn’t think the truck was in any shape to come after them; he hoped it wasn’t. But he wanted another car—as fast as poss
ible. Nine blocks from the wreck, he saw a four-wheel-drive vehicle, a blue Bronco, coming down a side street, and he brought the van to a screaming halt crossways in its path.

  “Give me your badge,” he ordered Jefferson. Jefferson looked weak and befuddled, but he nodded. He pulled the badge’s leather holder from his inside pocket and handed it to Montana. The case was slippery with blood.

  Montana sprang from the van, flashing the badge with his right hand and holding his gun in the left, pointing upward. The Bronco ground to a halt. Its driver was a dark, bearded young man in a plaid jacket. He stared at Montana with utter incomprehension.

  “Open the door,” Montana commanded. When the driver didn’t respond, Montana leveled the gun at him and motioned for him to get out. White-faced, the driver opened the door and stepped out, raising his hands.

  “FBI,” Montana said. “I need this car. Government business.”

  “Hey,” the man said in protest, but he looked more frightened than resentful.

  “There’s been shooting, there may be more. Get inside someplace. Don’t be seen near this car.” He nodded at the Ford van.

  “Hey,” the driver said again. “You can’t just—”

  “Help me move my partner. He’s hurt. We’ll have to lift him.”

  The man frowned, gave Montana an impotent glower.

  “Help me,” Montana said, gesturing with the gun. “That’s an order.”

  Reluctantly the driver obeyed and went with Montana to the passenger side of the Ford. Montana opened the door, and when the man saw Jefferson, crouched and bleeding, he said, “What the hell—?”

  “Help me,” Montana repeated, hoisting Jefferson from the car. He tried to ignore the screaming of the twins.

  “Jesus, he’s bleeding all over. Don’t put him in my car—”

  “Shut up,” Montana said. “Take him under his good arm.”

  The driver shook his head, supported Jefferson’s right side, and together they maneuvered him into the passenger seat of the Bronco.

  “God, he’s bleeding all over my sheepskin seat covers. Who’s gonna pay for this? Somebody’s gonna pay for this.”