Santander spoke from between his teeth. “If we can take down the two men by surprise, through the windows, we will. Then the woman and kids are easy. Afterward, we burn the house.”
“What if the woman, too, has a gun?” challenged Hepfinger.
“It doesn’t matter. We just shoot her.”
“Those in the house—they are as good as dead,” Luppler said from the backseat. His voice was full of bravado.
Hepfinger didn’t seem to notice. He kept staring into the swirling snow. “They’d better be,” he said softly.
SIXTEEN
Laura was filled with anxiety, but she forced herself to smile weakly. Jefferson stood at the edge of the braided rug, the video camera poised on his good shoulder.
Briefly her eyes met Montana’s. He nodded encouragement. She sat down cross-legged on the rug with both boys.
“Lights, camera, action,” said Jefferson.
She turned to the twins. Trace still wore his rumpled blue pajamas. “Tell me about Moleman,” she said to Rickie.
She led Rickie through the whole scenario again, then Trace. Both talked reluctantly, but both identified the picture of Reynaldo Comce. Jefferson had found two more photos of the boy. They identified each, just as quickly, just as surely.
Finally, when Trace grew irritable with questions and seemed on the verge of exasperated tears, she looked at Jefferson and said, “I’m sorry. He’s not feeling good. I don’t want to push him further.”
Jefferson said, “Beautiful, baby, beautiful.” He switched off the camera and, with a wince, took it from his shoulder. “I think we got it all,” he said.
“Couldn’t have been better,” said Montana. “Perfect.”
Jefferson handed him the tape cassette, and Montana slid it into the VCR. “Let’s see if we got it.”
For a few seconds, the television screen was blue. The blue transformed into a gray, shifting confusion of lines. Then the images appeared, Laura sitting on the braided rug beside Trace and Rickie.
She watched the whole scene replay again until she looked up into the camera and said, “I’m sorry. He’s not feeling good. I don’t want to push him further.”
Jefferson’s voice said, “Beautiful, baby, beautiful,” the screen turned blue again, and it was over. Laura’s heart beat high and hard in her chest, and she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Jefferson had put the camera aside. The taping seemed to have energized him, given him back his edge. “We’re in business, man,” he said to Montana.
“You did great,” Montana told him. “You missed your calling.”
“Yeah,” Jefferson said. “I should have been a cinematographes An artiste.”
Montana shot him a small, crooked smile. But Laura saw the men’s eyes lock, and Montana’s smile faded.
Neither said a word, but Laura knew the unspoken message that passed between them. We are into big stuff here. We are into dangerous stuff. Very, very dangerous.
She looked at the boys, sitting on the rug. Rickie’s face was rapt and innocent as he stacked coins. Trace frowned in discomfort, and he sneezed so hard that his eyes filled with tears.
She picked him up and made him lie on the couch again, covering him with the afghan. “Laura’s good boy,” she said.
He hid his face in his hands and said nothing.
Montana parked the van in front of the town’s brick post office. It was a compact structure, so small it seemed toylike. Its bare flagpole shuddered in the winter wind.
A dim light shone in the lobby. He got out of the van, the wrapped tape concealed beneath his jacket. He tried the door. It was open.
He stepped inside, found the stamp machine. No “Out of Order” sign was taped to it, and he offered up a brief prayer of thanks.
He went to the counter by the front window and weighed the package on the postal scale. Then he fed bills into the stamp machine, took out the booklets, and fixed enough stamps on the package to mail it to Sister Agnes Mary in Iowa.
He pushed the package into the mail drop. The tape was in care of the U.S. Mail now, and he wished it Godspeed.
Outside the post office he glanced up and down the street. No one in sight. The place was a ghost town. He got into the van and headed back toward the house.
He figured the tapes, given the weekend, would reach Agnes Mary in three days, four days at the most. It would take her at least a day to copy them and to express them to their final destinations. Maybe longer.
He had dictated a long letter to Sister Mary Agnes, and Laura had taken it down in her perfect schoolteacher writing. Montana asked the nun to send copies to the major broadcasters: NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX, CNN, C-SPAN, even MTV. He also wanted copies sent to The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, and the Chicago Tribune.
Agnes Mary was to delay only if she heard from him personally. He would identify himself by the code word “spitball.”
Montana frowned and narrowed his eyes against the silvery flash of snowflakes whirling in his headlight beams. He stepped on the accelerator.
He didn’t like leaving Laura and the boys. For some reason, he’d become hinky, haunted by the feeling that danger lurked nearby and was creeping nearer.
He shook his head to clear it. When he reached the house, he’d call Conlee to see if there were any new developments. He didn’t know if Conlee was friend or foe, or how much they could believe in him. But he was the only liaison they had.
The snow swirled down more lightly now. He pulled into the lane that led to the house. He was on the last lap of his journey, coming home.
Home, he thought. It was an odd name for it.
When Laura and Jefferson heard the vehicle pull up outside, they both tensed. Jefferson went to the window, lifted the edge of the blind, and peered out.
He nodded to Laura, signaling that Montana had returned. She heard the slam of the van door. Jefferson relaxed, but he kept his hand near his gun, just in case.
“It’s okay,” Jefferson said. “Let him in.”
Laura went to the door, undid the chain, and shot the dead bolt back. Montana stepped inside, bringing a gust of frigid air with him.
“How’d it go?”
“We’re in luck,” he said. “The post office was open. The stamp machine worked. The tape’s on the way.”
“Did anybody see you?” Jefferson asked.
Montana shook his head. “Nobody.”
She sighed in relief. Montana met her gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched in an unborn smile. “Kids asleep?”
She nodded. Rickie had been tired and sleepy from playing outside. But Trace had napped throughout the day and had been harder to handle. Finally, after she’d read him almost the entire lizard section of the Field Guide to American Reptiles, he’d nodded off into restless sleep.
“Trace is better, I think,” she said. “I hope he’s through the worst of it.”
“Good,” Montana said. He shot a glance at Jefferson. “How about you?”
“I’ll make it,” Jefferson said. “I’m gonna hit the sack for a couple hours. Then I’ll get up, stand a watch.”
Laura felt an unspoken message pass between the two men. They’re worried, she thought. More worried than usual—why?
“You don’t have to,” Montana told him. “I’m a light sleeper.”
Montana, always serious about their security, seemed positively grim. So did Jefferson. A shiver, slow and cold, went up her spinal cord. Do they know something? she wondered. Or just sense it?
Jefferson said, “I slept a week’s worth today. I won’t sleep through the night. It’ll do me good to take a watch.”
Montana nodded, but Laura sensed a reluctance in him. “It’s your call.”
“Right,” Jefferson said. “I’ll probably dream the damn tabloids. Space aliens after me all night long. And bat-faced babies and Elvis.”
He lumbered into the bedroom. Laura could see from the way he carried himself that he was still in p
ain.
She waited until he closed the bedroom door behind himself. “What’s wrong?” she asked Montana. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
He shook his head, unbuttoned his jacket. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”
“Then why does Jefferson have it, too?” she asked. “Something must have happened. Something you’re not telling me.”
“There’s nothing I’m not telling you,” he said. “I just keep wondering what I haven’t thought of. It’s always the thing you don’t count on that does you in. I get restless. He must, too.”
She searched his face, wondering if he was lying.
He raised his good hand, touched her cheek, then stroked her hair, once, twice.
“Call it a sixth sense,” he said. “When you’re on the run, you live like an animal. You rely on cunning and instinct. Sometimes you sense something in the air. Maybe it’s really there. Maybe it’s not. But you pay attention.”
“You mean it’s better to be paranoid than sorry?” She found her hand was rising, almost without her volition, to rest on his shoulder.
“I wish it was just paranoia. But people really are after us. And that puts your nerve ends on alert. You know it. You feel it, too.”
Animal cunning, animal instinct, she thought. You sense something in the air.
He said, “I’m calling Conlee. To see if anything’s happened.”
“But you won’t tell him about the Comce boy or the tape?”
“No. Of course not.”
She stood by him, tense, while he dialed Conlee’s home number. He put one arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. She leaned against him and closed her eyes.
“Conlee, Montana here. Anything new?”
Conlee gave him a long answer, and Laura felt Montana’s muscles harden as his arm tightened around her. She heard the faint noise of Conlee’s voice, droning on like the inarticulate buzz of an insect.
Sensing something was wrong, she drew back and studied Montana’s face. His expression was at first stunned, then angry.
“Shit,” he said with violent passion. “I told you—”
She’d never seen him look or react this way, and it unsettled her. His side of the conversation consisted of curt, ominous questions: In broad daylight? When? Who?
“No leads? None? No, I’m not coming in. No way. I don’t give a damn.”
He hung up and looked at Laura. He was pale, his face taut, the look in his eyes so bitter it seemed cruel.
“What is it?” she breathed.
“Marco’s dead,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “They think somebody killed him.”
Like a trap shutting, the room closed in on Laura. The floor seemed to pitch drunkenly beneath her feet. She clutched Montana’s arm and stared at him, unable to speak.
His nostrils flared. “Some service station attendant named O’Malley got worried about Marco. He said he heard Marco’d been at the station the night before, acting shaky and disoriented. This O’Malley said he ‘got a feeling.’ ”
“ ‘A feeling’?” Laura echoed.
“That’s what he said,” Montana muttered. “A bad feeling. He said the longer he thought about it, the more worried he got. He tried to phone Marco. Nobody answered. So when O’Malley’s shift was over, he stopped by the house. It was dark, and Marco didn’t answer the door. But when he looked in the garage, he saw Marco’s car.”
She gripped his arm more tightly, tears rising in her eyes.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Then Marco’s niece showed up. She was supposed to pick him at six-thirty, take him to a Knights of Columbus pancake supper. He should have been expecting her. She and O’Malley went to a neighbor’s, asked them to call the police. The police found him. He’d bled to death.”
A wave of horror shivered through her. “But how? How?”
Montana looked away, rubbed his eyes wearily with his thumb and forefinger. “A broken glass or jar or some damn thing. A piece went clear through his hand. But the coroner’s not convinced it was an accident.”
“But who’d hurt Marco?” She tried to blink back tears, but couldn’t.
Montana kept rubbing his eyes. “The cops thought this O’Malley acted like he knew something he wasn’t saying. So they grilled him. Finally he said he’d been worried because two guys’d come to the station, asking who’d used the pay phone last night. They were interested in Marco, took some money he’d dropped, warned O’Malley not to talk. They said they were cops.”
He let his hand drop from his face, and gazed into her eyes, his expression hard as stone. “They weren’t police, Laura.”
“Then who were they?” Furiously she wiped a tear away. Her throat was choked and dry.
He swore. “I wish I knew. Somehow, some way, somebody got onto him. They had to be after us. They had to be.”
“But how could they find him? Why did they do such a thing? He didn’t know where we are.”
“He knew New Hampshire. He knew Goffstown. That’s too close for comfort.” His eyes glittered, and he blinked hard, his jaw taut. He swore again.
She touched his face, but he brushed her hand away. He went and stood before the window, staring at the drawn curtains, his lips clamped together. A muscle in his chin kept jerking.
Laura watched him, not knowing what to say. “Do you think he told where we are?” she asked at last.
He turned and gave her a sharp look. “Never voluntarily. He’d never do such a thing. But who knows what they might have done to him? He’s an old man, he’s weak, he might—”
He stopped abruptly. “I keep talking about him like he’s still alive. Hell.”
He clenched his jaw and looked around the room, not meeting her gaze. “How’d they trace him? How’d they know he’d used that phone? They have to have inside information, lots of it. This is no bush-league outfit. No way this is just Dennis Deeds. This is big-time. They’re probably closing in on us right now.”
“Montana? I’m sorry …”
“Yeah, me too,” he said and took a deep breath. “That and a buck’ll buy us a cup of coffee, right?”
She winced and struggled not to shed more tears. “What did Conlee say?”
“The same as always—give up.”
“But we can’t do that.”
“No. We can’t.”
“Then—” she swallowed “—maybe we should move. Now. Tonight.”
For a long moment he seemed lost in his own dark thoughts. Finally he nodded. “Yeah. Can you do it? With Trace sick?”
“Better sick than dead.”
“The kids’ll be hell to handle if we yank them out of bed.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ll handle them.” I’ll use the tranquilizers Marco gave us if I have to, she thought with fatalistic resolve. Oh, Marco, Marco …
“Let’s start packing,” Montana said. He came to her, and took her in his arms, almost roughly. He kissed her on the mouth, a brief kiss, but hard. She kissed him back just as desperately.
It’s like we’re kissing good-bye, she thought, her throat tightening.
His hand moved to her hair, smoothed it. “If they’re coming to look in New Hampshire, we’ll leave New Hampshire. We’ll go northeast. Maine, Cobscook Bay. Try to hire a boat to take us into New Brunswick. It’ll be a bitch, but I think we can do it.”
“We can,” she said. “We have to. I’ll pack the boys’ things.”
“I’ll help.”
Dazed, she thought they should be able to pack quickly; they’d done-it so often that they had it down to a science.
She didn’t want to leave the little house. For a short time, she’d felt almost safe there, as if they’d somehow come home. She couldn’t be sure that running was wise, only that the impulse was too strong to resist.
Safety was an illusion. Only the running was real.
Montana awoke Jefferson as Laura finished packing the boys’ clothes.
He put his hand on Jefferson’s shoulder. He
could feel the feverish heat of his body even through the sweatshirt. “Wake up,” he said. “They got Marco. He’s dead. I’ve got bad vibes about this place. We’re moving on. You up to it?”
Jefferson propped himself on one elbow and shook his head groggily. “Hell, man—Marco? They got him? Who did? When? How?”
“We don’t know anything for sure,” Montana said. “Can you handle it? Moving, I mean? Or should we leave you behind? Last chance, Jefferson. I won’t tell you where we’re going. We’ll just go. You can stay behind.”
Jefferson sat up, ran his hand over his hair. “No, man. I’m with you. I’ve been feeling funny about this place myself, you know?”
Jefferson still looked sick, still sounded sick, but at least he was better than he’d been yesterday. Montana clasped his upper arm. “Okay. You’re in. You’re a fool, but you’re in.”
Jefferson swore. “Jesus, I’d like to see my own kids for a change,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Montana tonelessly and took his hand away.
Jefferson got up from the bed and strapped on his holster. “I’ll help load the van.”
Montana shook his head. “No. I can do it. Take some aspirin, get your shit together. We’ll wake the kids when we’re loaded.”
He thought of Laura moving swiftly and softly about the boys’ room. The boxes had been packed and unpacked so often that they had a beaten look. Together, he and she had taken down the curtains, the Looney Tunes plaques, the bulletin board, put them away again. How many times have we done this? he’d wondered, watching her pack sweatshirts and underwear. She worked with an efficiency that belied the anxiety in her expression.
He left Jefferson and went back to her. She was packing books now, and when she glanced at him, the look in her eyes made his heart twist in his chest. He wanted to hold her and promise her everything would be fine.
But there was no time for such things, and they both knew things might never be fine ever again.
“How’s Jefferson?” she asked.
See How They Run Page 26
