“Veterinarians set bones,” Hepfinger said. “They cut flesh, sew it up. And one is Jefferson’s cousin.”
“Dentists?” Estrada said with ill-disguised contempt.
“Dentists operate. They prescribe drugs.”
Estrada read on and shook his head in disdain.
Hepfinger sighed. “Unfortunately, the list isn’t alphabetized. Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to arrange the names by some system of priority. Some, to be sure, are less likely than others.”
“Look at this,” Estrada said in disgust. “This woman, this nurse. Your note says she’s seventy-nine. That she’s crippled by arthritis.”
“A crippled nurse is better than none.”
Estrada flicked a finger contemptuously at Marco DeMario’s name. “This one’s even older. The bureau’s already questioned him. It says he’s palsied and—possibly—drunken. It says he had wine on his breath.”
“A man can put wine on his breath with a single swallow,” Hepfinger said. “A tremor can come and go. It can be faked, exaggerated.”
“Very well,” Estrada said in resignation. Hepfinger’s love of detail would drive him mad. “What do you want?”
“A team of men. Smooth enough to impersonate officers and not call attention to themselves. More than one team would be better. There are many names.”
“Too many.” Estrada cast another disdainful look at the list. “And you want to double-check even those the bureau’s dismissed? Veterinarians? Dentists? A crippled old woman? A shaking old man?”
Hepfinger gave a good-natured shrug and smiled, showing dimples in both his round cheeks. “You never know. Sometimes the heart of a mystery is plucked from the least likely place. An animal doctor. A dentist. A crippled old woman. Or a trembling old man.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Estrada asked sourly.
“Yes,” Hepfinger said. “We will.”
TWELVE
They reached Hooksett and drove to the office of the realtor, whose name was Freneau. Laura stayed in the van, but watched Montana through the tinted glass. She held Trace in her arms. He was burning with fever, so sick that he submitted to her embrace without protest.
Montana stood on the doorstep of the office building, laughing and joking with Freneau, who leaned in the doorway.
She cradled Trace more protectively and thought, Hurry, Montana. How can you act so casual? How can you act as if everything’s normal, nothing’s wrong?
Jefferson, who’d been dozing in the front seat, awoke and straightened. Immediately, he slumped again, putting his hand over his face. He shivered violently as if wracked by cold, even though the van was warm.
She leaned forward and clasped his good shoulder. “Montana’s getting the key. We’re almost there. Then we’ll get you to a real bed.”
“Damn Stallings,” Jefferson muttered. “First he ups and dies, and now he’s tryin’ to take me with him.”
Stallings, Laura thought with a pang. He’d been dead only a few days, and his family and fiancée must still be in shock. But to her, it seemed as if Stallings and Becker had died eons ago, in a different century, a different world.
Beside her, Rickie fidgeted and tugged at her sleeve. He’d been staring at the map, frowning and mumbling to himself.
Now he said, “Laura, make Trace play. Make Trace play pennies. Laura, tell Trace about—”
“Shh,” she said as patiently as she could. “Trace is sleeping.” She was relieved when Montana opened the door and got back into the van. He tossed a set of keys into the air and caught them with a flourish. “Let’s go home, troops,” he said, putting the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket.
Rickie quieted as soon as the motor started. She felt both gratitude and a pang of affection. She always counted on him to be the more cooperative and even-tempered of the boys.
She swallowed, her throat tight. Rickie was the one Montana wanted to take from her. What would her world become without Rickie? And without Montana?
Trace stirred restlessly in her arms. His eyes were closed, but his lids fluttered. “Mama?” he said sleepily. “Mama?”
Laura’s heart beat faster as she touched his hot forehead. “Montana,” she whispered, “I’m scared.”
The house was two miles out of town, off a dirt road and down a long, twisting lane. On either side of the snowy lane, pines rose like dark walls. The house, a small barn, and a corral stood in a clearing surrounded by pine woods.
The house itself was a bungalow, white with red shutters, a carport, and a big front porch. When Montana opened the door and switched on the lights, the interior seemed cheerily bright, even welcoming. The furniture didn’t match, the appliances were old, out-of-date newspapers and tabloids were stacked by the fireplace, but everything looked solid and comfortable.
There was a kitchen with a real refrigerator and stove, and a bathroom with real fixtures. There was a large bedroom with a double bed, a smaller one with twin beds, and in the living room, an old green sofa that made into a bed.
Montana watched as Laura lowered Trace to the sofa and covered him with the afghan that had draped its back.
When Rickie saw the television in the living room, he cawed with raucous laughter. Laura switched on the set, and he immediately plunked down on the braided rug with his treasures: his penny jar, his marbles, and his plastic lizards. He stared at the screen in enchantment, even though only a commercial was on.
Jefferson took two more aspirins, then collapsed into the double bed, not bothering to undress.
“Let me check your shoulder,” Montana said. “You’re bleeding again.”
“Later. Leave me alone, okay?”
“Let me see,” Montana ordered. He unzipped the sweatshirt; blood was soaking through the dressing Marco had applied.
“I’m gonna have to change this,” Montana told him.
“Man, I’m an albatross,” Jefferson said in disgust, “I’m no good for nothing. You should have dumped me.”
“Shut up and heal,” said Montana. “We’ve boarded a train we can’t get off.”
Montana helped Laura haul the twins’ things inside, then helped her arrange the room so it would seem familiar to the boys. They each knew their part of the task; it had become ritual to them.
She seemed distracted as she unpacked the Looney Tunes sheets, pillowcases, and curtains yet again. Her face was pale, which made her freckles stand out. And she was quiet, as if she was thinking hard about something.
At last she spoke, saying exactly what he’d hoped she wouldn’t.
“Jefferson needs a doctor. He’s wounded—now this. It’s some kind of flu, a bad one. He could get pneumonia. He could die.”
Montana stopped unpacking the dog-eared books. He straightened and looked at her, wanting her to meet his eyes.
She kept on hanging curtains, her back to him. He could see the tension in her body.
“We can’t take him to a doctor,” Montana said. “Conlee can’t hold off the bureau forever. The law’s going to be looking for Jefferson, for all of us.”
Carefully she smoothed the pleats in the curtains. Then she repeated the motion, as if unaware she’d already done it once.
“Last year,” she said, “a little girl at school got flu and it turned into pneumonia. She had to be hospitalized.”
She turned to face him. “What if that happens? What if Jefferson gets so sick, he needs a hospital?”
“He’ll have to do without,” he said. “We can’t take the chance.”
From the next room, he heard the pained, ragged sound of Jefferson’s cough. She heard it, too, and winced. Her eyes were sad and stormy, both accusing and pleading.
Montana shook his head. There were few blacks in New Hampshire. Drag a black man with no identification and a poorly-patched gunshot wound to the hospital? They might as well advertise their location.
“What if he dies?” she challenged. “What happens to your plans then? And what about Trace? What if he keeps gettin
g worse? Will you let him suffer, too?”
He studied her face, and he thought, I’ll sacrifice whoever I have to. But he couldn’t tell her that. She was just learning to understand these things, and she hated them, couldn’t accept them.
What, he wondered, if she were the one in Jefferson’s place? Would he be as cold, as ruthless? Would he sacrifice her welfare for the others if he had to? The thought made him edgy, slightly sick.
“Montana?” she said, raising her chin.
“Yes?” He was careful to keep emotion out of his voice.
“There’s nothing we can do? Jefferson’s trying to play it down, but he’s really hurting. The way he was bleeding again—it scared me. I’m scared for Trace, too.”
Montana looked about the little room. The Bugs Bunny lamp, its shade dented and smudged, sat on the night stand, casting its golden light. The rug with the cheerful picture of the Road Runner lay between the beds. Tweety Birds and Sylvesters stared at him, smiling, from the curtains.
Innocence, he thought bleakly. It’d be easier without all the damned innocence.
In the neighboring room, Jefferson hacked, an exhausted, tearing sound. As if in answer, from the living room Trace coughed. Mixed with those sounds was the manic theme music from the Bugs Bunny cartoon Rickie was watching.
Montana’s innards knotted, and he had a surreal image that inside him there was an old, cold snake, tired of winter and hunger and darkness.
He said, “I’ll call Marco.”
She looked reluctant and hopeful at the same time. “You could,” she said. “But you don’t really want to, do you? You don’t want to involve him again.”
Montana shook his head. “I’ll be careful.”
He left her and went to the small dining area where the cellular phone rested on the corner of the table. He picked it up and dialed.
At the room’s far end Rickie sat on the braided rug, hypnotized by the television and fingering his lizards. He bobbled his head back and forth, humming to himself.
On the couch, Trace lay curled in a fetal position, his eyes screwed shut and his forehead shiny with sweat. Hell, Montana thought in frustration, the kid’s sick as a dog.
He dialed Marco’s number. The phone rang thirteen times before the old man answered.
“Marco, it’s Mick. One of the kids is sick. So’s Jefferson. We think it’s flu. What do I do now?”
“Just keep ’em in bed,” Marco said. “Aspirin helps. And fluids, lots of ’em. But mostly just rest. Is the other kid okay?”
“Fine so far.”
“I’ll phone in a prescription for amantadine. Start getting it down him as soon as possible, and he should stay fine. What about you and Laura? Have you had flu shots?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Montana said. The thought of Marco phoning in a prescription made him profoundly uneasy.
“Listen,” Montana said. “This hit Jefferson hard. He’s been bleeding again. Laura’s scared he’ll get pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia’s a distinct possibility,” Marco said in his quavery voice. “What about the wound itself? Any pus? Excessive swelling? Inflammation?”
“No. But I think the coughing made him tear something loose.”
“Okay. I’ll give you prescriptions for amantadine and an antibiotic for the wound and an antitussive for his coughing. It’s a narcotic; don’t give it to the kid.”
“Okay,” said Montana. “I understand.”
“Keep his wound clean,” Marco said. “Fluids’ll help keep the coughing down. The other important thing is to let him rest. The kid, too. Are you settled in someplace? Are you in the city? What name are you using? What’s the closest pharmacy?”
Montana hesitated. He’d dreaded these questions. He didn’t want to say, and it was best Marco didn’t know.
“What are you trying to do?” Marco asked sardonically. “Be noble? Protect me? From what? Nobody saw you come here, nobody saw you go. I’m safe.”
“And nobody turned up to question you?” Montana asked.
Marco hesitated a moment. “Oh, hell,” he finally muttered. “Two clowns from the FBI showed up. Day before yesterday. I gargled some wine, blew fumes at ’em, and jittered like an aspen. They couldn’t get away fast enough. Now where the hell are you?”
Shit. The FBI, Montana thought, gritting his teeth. Marco was naive about such things. The authorities could be watching the old man, could even have his phone tapped. The thought wrenched Montana’s stomach with a primitive, evil-feeling twist.
“Jefferson’s weak, and he’ll get weaker,” Marco scolded. “You got one sick kid, and if you don’t do what I say, you’ll have two. This flu going round’s a bad strain, a strong bugger. Now—where are you? And what name’re you using? The one I think?”
Montana set his teeth. He knew it wasn’t likely Marco’s phone would be tapped; it took major red tape to get a wiretap. “Yeah,” he said, “the name you’re thinking. Which drugstore? Let me look one up.”
A telephone book lay on the dining room table. Montana opened it to the yellow pages. He picked a pharmacy in the village of Goffstown on the other side of the river, a good long drive away.
He gritted his teeth harder and gave Marco the number. “Don’t call from your own phone,” he said. “Just in case they ever start investigating phone records. Use a pay phone, okay?”
“You’ve got it,” Marco said.
“Clark’s Family Drugstore,” Montana said, dragging the words out of himself. “Goffstown, New Hampshire. Six-oh-three, five-five-five, six-one-two-one.”
“Wait—let me write it down. Goffstown, New Hampshire? Where in hell is Goffstown, New Hampshire? What are you doing, heading for Canada? Don’t try it. It’s too crazy.”
“Don’t worry. The FBI should think we’re in Philly.”
“The FBI asked about Philly,” Marco said. “They were very interested in you and Philly.”
Good, Montana thought. Let them stay interested.
Marco said, “They’re also very interested in Jefferson. They act like they think you’re not together. Why?”
“I don’t want them to think we’re together,” Montana said. “It doesn’t matter why.”
“Do you need money?” Marco asked, sounding concerned. “Use the damn card. Use it all you want.”
“I will, Marco,” Montana lied. “Now I’m getting off the phone. It makes me edgy. Just phone in the prescriptions. Like I said. Don’t try anything cute.”
“God be with you, boy,” Marco said roughly.
“You, too,” Montana said. He hung up.
He stood for a moment, staring at Rickie who sat swaying and humming before the television screen. The kid gaped happily at Bugs Bunny cavorting through the woods.
Montana wondered if he’d be arrested by state police as soon as he walked in the door of Clark’s Family Drugstore in Goffstown. He wondered if even now authorities were starting to mobilize, readying to close in on them.
Small towns were the worst places in the world to hide, he knew. He would have given his good hand to have everybody’s papers, to be over the border and safely split up in Canada.
He put on the old leather jacket and went to tell Laura he was driving to Goffstown.
“Let me go instead,” she said. “I need to get used to being out on my own. I have to do it.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s night, it’s a strange town, it’s icy, and you’ve got no ID, nothing. You’ll get your chance soon enough. I promise.”
She looked up at him, concern on her face. She laid her hand on his jacket arm, as if she didn’t want him to leave.
“Don’t worry,” he said gruffly. He brushed his lips against hers, a kiss meant to reassure. But when he drew back and gazed down at her again, he could still see the anxiety in her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he repeated. He buttoned up the jacket, went outside, got into the van, and headed toward Goffstown.
He was careful, his every move sure. When he reached the drugst
ore, he was studiously casual. He called no attention to himself.
He acted as efficiently and nervelessly as when he’d worked undercover vice. But he felt haunted and powerless, as if what little control he had over the situation was slipping away.
Laura was almost sick with relief when she heard the van pull up in the carport. There were footsteps on the porch, then Montana’s voice.
“Laura? It’s me. Bugs Bunny faces the wall, okay?”
She unlocked and unbolted the door, swung it open, and flew-into his arms as soon as he was over the threshold. “It seemed like you were gone forever,” she said against his shoulder.
He gave her a swift but intense kiss. His mouth was cold and stung her lips, but the sensation seemed delicious.
“You’re okay?” he asked, pulling her closer. “Nothing happened?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Is that the medicine?”
“Yes. How’s Trace?”
“The same.” She undid the buttons of his leather jacket, and he slipped out of it, hanging it on the back of a chair. Laura took the medicine vial from the bag and read the dosage.
She filled a glass with water. Montana followed her into the boys’ bedroom. She had everything in its right place. In the light from the Bugs Bunny lamp, he saw that Rickie slept peacefully on his side, his penny jar on the night table next to the lamp.
But Trace, sweat shining on his forehead and upper lip, had kicked away his covers. His hair was damp, and he frowned in his sleep.
Gently Laura woke Rickie and made him sit. He was so sleepy that he barely fought against taking the pills. He swallowed them on the second try, then tried to wriggle out of her embrace. She took her arm away, and he sank back to the pillow, his eyes already closed in sleep.
She rose and gave Montana a weak smile. “That’s that,” she said and held up the medicine. “This doesn’t help people already sick?”
“Marco said no—just rest and fluids. Let me get this other stuff down Jefferson so he won’t cough.”
She nodded. Together they left the children’s room.
Montana went to Jefferson, and she headed for the kitchen. She rinsed Rickie’s glass, dried it, and put it away. Then she leaned against the counter, waiting for Montana, her heart beating unaccountably hard.
See How They Run Page 19
