See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

  Suddenly he was there, looming before her, his gun raised and pointed at her head. Her heart leaped insanely. She tried to scream but couldn’t.

  “Bitch,” he said. “Whore. That’s twice you’ve hit me.” He took a limping step toward her. “You’ll pay, devil’s whore.”

  She could think of nothing to do but throw the gun at his head. She hurled it as straight and hard as she could. He turned to dodge it, and it struck him in the shoulder.

  When it fell to the ice, he kicked it aside savagely. He strode toward her. She tried to shrink back from him, but he drew back his hand and hit her in the face so hard she felt a tooth break.

  But the pain was phantomlike; she barely felt it. Fear was stronger. He hit her again, this time so violently that she was knocked off balance and fell heavily against the inside back wall of the fishing house.

  “Stay there,” he ordered. “If you want to make a run for it, try. I’ll shoot your legs off.”

  She was too dazed to move. She lay on the ice as he backed off, keeping his gun trained on her. When he turned away and headed toward the snowy shore, she had the irrational desire to seize Trace and run.

  But she was too weak and shaky to rise, let alone carry a child. She knew he meant what he’d said. He’d shoot her legs from beneath her. But whatever he did to her next, she knew, would be worse.

  He hadn’t seen Trace yet. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Maybe even if the man killed her, he wouldn’t find Trace. And maybe somehow against all odds, Montana would be all right, and he could save Trace.

  It occurred to her hazily that Trace might be safer if she did run, only without him. If she ran, the gunman would shoot her out there on the ice or in the snow. He might not even come back to this place.

  She crawled on her hands and knees to Trace, took off her jacket, and laid it over the sleeping boy. Then she dragged herself to the door. If she could pull herself up by the door frame, then she would make herself run. She could do it. She knew she could.

  But suddenly the man was there again, and once again he hit her so hard that she knocked against the back wall and fell to the ice.

  She looked up at him. In one hand he still carried the gun. But in the other he had what looked like a gasoline can.

  He took a limping step toward her. “Now, whore,” he said from between his teeth, “we’re going to have some fun.”

  She stared at him. Clouds dimmed the moonlight, and she couldn’t make out his features. “What are you going to do?” Her voice shook.

  “Maybe I’ll shoot you in the legs, so you can’t move,” he said. “Shoot you in the hands, too. Then throw gasoline on this house. Set fire. You won’t even be able to crawl away. You’ll lay there and burn up alive.”

  “Why don’t you give me a fair chance?” she said, her voice shaking harder. “Let me run for it.”

  “No. I like where I got you,” he said. “Where are the others? The man was in the barn. He’s burning up now, too.”

  “I’m a fast runner,” she said. “You’re afraid you couldn’t bring me down. You don’t have the cajones.”

  “The man,” he said, stepping nearer. “Was he alone? Did he have one boy with him, or two? Where are the boys?”

  “The boys are with him,” she lied. “Let me run. You really don’t have the cajones, do you? You can’t shoot well enough. You’re a coward and a bad shot, afraid to take a chance.”

  “Anybody else here?” he asked. “What’s behind the chairs?”

  Painfully she moved so that her body was between him and the chairs. “Nothing, she said. She could taste the blood in her mouth, and it tasted like despair.

  “You don’t act like nothing,” he said contemptuously. He grabbed her by the arm, hauled her up, and threw her against the opposite wall so hard that for a moment she saw only darkness and spinning lights.

  But when her vision cleared, he’d pulled the chairs away and Trace lay, unconscious and helpless, wrapped in the sleeping bag and jacket. The man reached into a pocket, pulled out a cigarette lighter, and flicked it on.

  He stared down at the child’s face with a satisfied twist to his mouth. He was, Laura saw, a cadaverous-looking man with hollow cheeks and a scarred complexion. The lighter’s flame made pinpoints of reflected fire glitter in his eyes.

  “Is he dead?” the gunman said. “Did I kill him?”

  “No,” she said fiercely. “He’s medicated.”

  “Wake up,” he said, bringing the light nearer Trace’s cheek. “Wake up and die, muchacho.”

  He’s going to burn him, Laura thought with a surge of anger. She lunged for him and struck his hand away with all her might.

  She pushed herself between him and Trace, and she tried to wrest the gun away.

  He called her a name in Spanish, snatched the gun from her grasp, and backed off. He spewed a long string of foreign curses at her.

  Then he straightened and said, “Whore. For that, I throw the gasoline on you and the child.”

  He flicked the lighter on again. “And then I will set you on fire. Both of you.”

  He took a step backward, putting the lighter back in his pocket. He picked up the gasoline can and deftly, with his gun hand, he unscrewed the top. Laura snatched up her jacket from Trace, and when the man threw the first splash of gasoline at them, she held up the jacket as a shield.

  “It’s toreador you want to play?” he sneered. He tried to jerk the jacket from her hand. She struggled to hold it.

  “Toro, toro,” he mocked her. “You’re a fighter. You don’t want to die. That makes it more fun to kill you.”

  Laura kicked at him, but she didn’t let go of the jacket. He pulled so hard, she felt as if her fingernails were tearing out.

  “Whore!” he cried and let go of the jacket. Then he lifted the Uzi to strike her with the barrel.

  “Stop right there,” a quiet voice said. “Drop the gun, fucker. Or I take your head off.”

  Laura dropped down, shielding Trace again. Her eyes widened, and her heart beat so hard she thought it would explode.

  “I’m counting to three,” said Montana’s voice. “One. Two—”

  But the man didn’t drop the gun. He whirled and shot. Montana shot, too. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she saw the orange-white flash of gunfire.

  She pressed into the corner, keeping as low as she could. The gunman stopped firing. He staggered forward a few steps. Then he fell face forward on the ice.

  The silence seemed louder than the gunfire. “Montana?” she called, her voice small. “Montana?”

  “I’m here,” he said. He stepped from behind the nearest of the fishing houses. All she could see was his silhouette. He moved toward her, something peculiar in his gait.

  He stopped by the gunman’s prone form, knelt, and turned him over. She rose, shaky, and made her way toward him. He held up his hand, signaling her to stop.

  She paused, shivering, three or four paces from the gunman. He lay on his back in a twisted heap, breathing in gasps. A dark puddle formed on the ice beneath him. He lifted his hand a few inches as if his fingers were trying to claw a hold in the empty air.

  The moon swam out of the clouds, and by its bluish light, she saw the man’s eyes were open. He glared at her as if in his mind he was burning her, killing her.

  Montana grasped the front of the man’s bloody jacket, pulled him up so that his body arched in pain. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “Can you hear me? Tell me, you son of a bitch. Who sent you here to die?”

  The gunman’s glare, not quite focused, turned to Montana, and his mouth worked spastically.

  “Who sent you?” Montana said through clenched teeth. “Whoever did it got you killed. They murdered you. Who did it? Who?”

  The gunman’s hand groped for Montana’s. He said, his voice rasping, “We will kill you yet. You and your whore and your maggots. We never quit. Never.”

  Montana slammed him back against the ice. “Don’t make me beg, bastard.”

  Numb
ed, Laura watched as Montana stuck his right thumb into a deep, open wound in the man’s shoulder. She flinched at the strangled sound the gunman made.

  “Montana,” she said, “don’t—please.”

  He ignored her, gouged the wound more deeply. “Tell me, damnit. Who sent you?”

  The man’s back arched again. His mouth worked frantically. He said something that sounded like “H-h-heffinger.”

  “Hepfinger?” Montana said with venom. “Jorge Hepfinger? Who else? You want to die easy? Or you want to die hard as you can?”

  He drew the gunman’s body up and slammed it against the ice again. “This is the fucking angel of death talking, kid,” he said, bending closer. “Hepfinger and who else? Who, goddamnit?”

  “M-mesius Estrada. That’s all. Let me die in peace. Madre de Dios. Madre de Dios.”

  Montana’s lip curled. “What about Reynaldo Comce? Is that why they sent you here? To protect Comce? They let you come here to die for Comce? For a pretty little rich boy?”

  “Sí, sí,” the man said, wrenching the words out. Again his hand clutched at the air. “Reynaldo es un asesino … Reynaldo, no mí… deseo madre … deseo mama …”

  “What about Isaac Conlee of the task force? Is he in on this? Is he one of yours?”

  “No. No. For favor … el dolor, el dolor …”

  “Who else is out there?” Montana demanded, lifting him by his jacket front again. “How many of you came? Are there more?”

  The dark eyes rolled upward. The gunman’s mouth went slack, he gave a long, rattling sigh, and his hand fell lifeless to the ice. His mouth still open, he lay with his eyes reflecting the cloud-dimmed moon.

  Montana released his hold, letting him fall again to the bloody ice. He stared down at the bony, pitted face.

  “Is he dead?” Laura asked. She could feel no horror, no shock; she could feel nothing.

  “Yeah,” said Montana. “He’s dead. Remember what he said. About Comce. About Hepfinger and Estrada. It’s important.”

  He shook his head and rose. He came toward her, limping slightly.

  “Wh—who are Hepfinger and Estrada?” she asked numbly.

  “Bad guys,” he said and reached for her. “Laura, I’m sorry. I had to get it out of him. Remember the names. Remember those names, all right?”

  Then she was in his arms. He gasped with pain. Her hand moved under his jacket, and his shirt front was sticky when she touched it.

  He kissed her, but she wouldn’t let him hold her close. “You’re hurt,” she said in alarm, drawing away and looking into his shadowy face. “Where?”

  He kept one arm around her shoulder. “He got me in the ribs.” She could hear him trying to bite back the sound of pain in his voice.

  “How bad?” she asked.

  “Hey,” he said with a forced laugh. “I’m still standing. That’s what counts. All that counts in the end is who’s standing.”

  She looked at the dead man. She started to move toward him, but Montana held her back. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “His shirt,” she said. “I’ll take his shirt, wrap your ribs. You’re bleeding—”

  “Later,” he said. “I left Rickie in the woods. He’s alone. Is Trace all right?”

  She nodded mechanically, feeling like a dreamer who cannot escape from a nightmare. “Yes—yes. I’ll get him. Then we’ll get Rickie. And then we’ll—we’ll—”

  She stopped. What would they do? The van was probably burned up. The house was gone.

  “These guys got here somehow,” Montana said. “Take his gun. There may be more of them.”

  “More?” She couldn’t take any more. She forced herself to reach for the gun, and her stomach pitched when she touched it. But she took it.

  She set it aside long enough to put her jacket back on and button it all the way and turn up the collar. Its fur was damp from gasoline. She didn’t want to think of that or talk of it. She knelt and took Trace into her arms.

  Awkwardly she took up the gun again and stood. What a combination for a portrait, she thought darkly. Woman and child and Uzi.

  “I’ll carry him,” Montana offered.

  She shook her head. “Save your strength for Rickie.”

  Together they moved to the edge of the pines, began to follow the trail of his footsteps. The only sound was the wind and the crunching of the snow.

  She’d been afraid to ask the question, but she forced herself. “Is Rickie hurt, too?”

  “No,” Montana said. “He’s cold, he’s confused, but I don’t think he’s hurt. But he saw an owl. It scared him.”

  What these children have seen, she thought, a wave of bleakness sweeping through her. What they’ve been through.

  “He was more frightened of a dead owl than the dead men,” Montana said.

  “Dead men,” she said with peculiar detachment. “You killed them?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. She didn’t have the energy left to marvel at her new callousness.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him sooner,” Montana said. “I couldn’t get a bead on him. He wouldn’t come out of the damn shack. Did he hurt you?”

  “Some,” she admitted. “I was too scared to feel it, mostly.”

  Her jacket reeked of gasoline, but she tried to ignore it.

  She said, “I was scared for you. It sounded as if they shot the barn apart. How did you keep from getting killed?”

  Haltingly he told her. “I never want to be in another bathtub as long as I live,” he said with feeling. “I don’t even want to see one.”

  Suddenly there was Rickie, standing by a tree trunk, shivering and looking at his watch. “Rickie!” she cried and ran toward him. “Rickie, it’s Laura. And Trace. We’re together.”

  Rickie looked up at her and gave her a weak smile. Laura almost stumbled in the deep snow, but in a moment she was at the boy’s side.

  She let the gun fall from her shoulder and pulled him to her in an awkward hug. She held both him and Trace as tightly as she could. She kissed Rickie’s icy cheek.

  “Tell me how you feel,” she said. “Tell me if you hurt.”

  He wriggled in her embrace, but didn’t answer. “Rickie,” she said, drawing back and studying his confused face. “Laura’s so happy to see you. Tell Laura if you hurt anywhere.”

  “He won’t talk yet,” Montana said. “The time isn’t up yet.”

  Tears of pride stung her eyes. “Rickie, you’re a good, good boy. One of the best little boys in the world.”

  Montana bent and picked Rickie up. The boy didn’t like it, but he allowed it.

  “Yeah,” Montana said, and he couldn’t keep the emotion from his voice. “You’re a good boy, pal. You’re a good kid. The best.”

  Laura knew it cost Montana pain to carry the child. He limped badly, but he said nothing.

  Together they kept to the edge of the woods and made their way back toward the house.

  It flamed upon the night, filling the sky with its eerie, dancing light.

  NINETEEN

  It’s too much to take in all at once, Laura thought.

  Numbed, she stood in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, hugging Trace to her, staring at the fire.

  Parts of the house’s skeleton still stood black and broken among the high flames, but the roof had caved in and the walls tumbled down in ruin.

  The carport roof had collapsed on the van, and the van itself was a torn and blackened shell, its interior full of leaping flame.

  We’ve lost Jefferson. He’s gone forever, she thought dully. Smoke poured up from the blaze in dark billows, and its acrid stench filled the night.

  Jefferson, a good man, full of kindness and courage, was dead in that inferno, his earthly body burning. She would never again hear his deep voice grumble or chuckle or joke, never again see his expressive eyes, his rueful smile. Her throat ached. For a moment she squeezed her eyes shut.

  The house was gone, the van was gone. Everyt
hing that had sustained them during this endless chase was gone, literally up in flames.

  She was stunned by shock and a sense of helplessness. The loss, especially of Jefferson, was too much to comprehend. Her mind simply could not accept it.

  For reasons beyond logic, the only thing she could truly grasp was that the boys’ possessions were lost. All those fragile, childish things that had given their world the illusion of order—destroyed. The patterned sheets and curtains, the cartoon plaques, the books, the toys, the battered Bugs Bunny lamp, the videos and maps and marbles and jars of pennies. All gone.

  She opened her eyes again. Montana leaned against the trunk of a tall pine, clutching his side and watching wordlessly.

  He had set Rickie down, and the boy was so rapt by the spectacle of the flame that he clearly did not understand what was burning. At least God gave you that, she thought. She bent and brushed a kiss against Rickie’s cheek. He didn’t seem to feel it.

  “Rickie’s going to be fine,” she told him mechanically. “We’re all going to be fine.”

  Montana spoke. “We’re too near the light. We should get back.”

  The firelight flickered over his features and lit the grim expression of pain he tried to mask.

  Without speaking, she backed further into the woods until she and Trace were deep within the shadows again. Even there, she could feel the heat from the monstrous fire.

  Montana, the assault weapon slung over his shoulder, straightened. “Come on, kid,” he told Rickie. “We’re too close. It’s dangerous.”

  Rickie stood as if rooted until Montana gripped the boy’s shoulder and forced him to turn away. Rickie kept turning back to stare, but Montana urged him on.

  With growing concern, Laura saw that Montana walked slowly, his limp more pronounced. The right leg of his jeans was shiny with blood from his side.

  “We’ve got to do something about your wound,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Later. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She nodded. In a dreamlike way she recalled the dead men whose bodies lay scattered in the night. Somewhere, not far down the lane, they must have left a car, a vehicle of some sort.

  In the same surreal, hazy way, she remembered Montana saying there might be more gunmen. More. It really was too much to bear; she really could not think of that.