See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

  She looked at Montana and listened to his labored breathing. She set her jaw, shifting Trace’s weight. The gun she hated so much hung over her shoulder. The child was heavy, the gun awkward, but she had to keep carrying both.

  “We go by way of the woods again?” she asked Montana. “Right?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll go alone. Stay with the kids. I’ll get the car and come back for you.”

  He had leaned against a tree trunk again.

  “Let us go with you,” she said. “You’re hurt, and—”

  He cut her off. “No. You’ve seen enough for one night. So has he.” He shot a look in Rickie’s direction. The boy stood staring back over his shoulder at the fire, still mesmerized.

  “I’m afraid for you,” Laura said.

  “I can go faster without you,” he said.

  He seemed to wrench himself away from the support of the tree. He walked past her, one hand clamped to his side, the other steadying the gun. He walked too straight and too carefully, like a drunk fighting not to stagger.

  “Montana …” Her voice trailed off because she was overwhelmed by new fear. She suddenly realized that he could not carry Rickie if he wanted to. He could hardly carry himself; he was hurt worse than he’d admitted.

  He made a good fifteen paces through the pines. Then he stumbled, and her heart stumbled with him.

  He paused, swayed, then straightened and kept on. But his careful gait was deteriorating, and he lurched as he walked. He stumbled again, and this time he fell to his knees in the snow.

  “Oh, God, no,” she breathed.

  She ran to him, her steps awkward in the drifted snow. But by the time she reached him, he’d risen again. He stood, swaying a moment, then plunged on crookedly.

  “Don’t!” she begged.

  He drove foreward, but he gained only another dozen yards. Then he sank again, pitching forward into the snow.

  She ran after him and fell to her knees as he struggled to rise again. She could see his blood, a thin stream of it, trickling into the snow.

  “You can’t go on,” she pleaded. “You’ll bleed to death.”

  His breath was ragged. “Don’t leave Rickie alone. He could go too close to the fire.”

  “I’ll bring him to you. You keep the boys. I’ll go for the car.”

  “No,” he said, struggling to rise. “Somebody might be there.”

  She shifted Trace to her left arm. With her right hand she gripped Montana’s shoulder and hung on hard, too hard for him to spend the energy to fight her.

  “If you go, you’ll bleed to death,” she said from between her teeth. “And then what good are you to us?”

  It was the one argument that would give him pause, and she knew it. She pushed her advantage. “What happens if you fall over and die, Montana? We’ll freeze to death waiting for you. You’ll kill us all.”

  “There might be somebody waiting,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’ll be armed.”

  “And if there is, how much protection are you?” she demanded. “Lie down. I mean it, lie down. I read about a woman who got shot and would have died, except she fell in the snow. It slowed her bleeding.”

  He tried to protest, but she made him sink down into the snow. He lay on his back, his teeth gritted, his hand bloody against his ribs. “Lie there,” she said. “Don’t move. I’m going to lay Trace against you and get Rickie. And then I’m going for the car.”

  “Christ, Laura,” he said, his voice a groan.

  She lowered Trace so that his body was nestled against Montana’s. Carefully she adjusted the sleeping bag so that it kept the snow from touching his face. She felt his forehead. It was burning hot.

  She drew the sleeping bag more securely around him, covering his face from the cold air. She did not know what else to do for him.

  Then she rose, waded back through the snow to Rickie, and half carried, half dragged him to where Trace and Montana lay.

  She knelt before the boy. “Rickie,” she said earnestly. “Listen to Laura. Laura has to go away. Stay right by Montana. Don’t move away until I come back.”

  “Cold,” Rickie said, clearly miserable. “Cold. Go home.”

  He did not look at her, but back toward the glow of the fire. For the first time she realized he had no covering for his feet except his slippers. She felt sick with dread, and took his face between her hands.

  “Don’t move away until Laura comes back. Now come here. Take snow like this—” She pushed snow against Montana’s bleeding side “—Keep the snow on Montana’s side. Where Montana’s bleeding. Rickie, keep snow there.”

  Obediently he crouched by Montana, pushing snow against the wound with his bare hands.

  “That’s Laura’s good boy.” She brushed a kiss on his cheek, but he flinched away from the contact.

  “Cold,” he said again, even more unhappily than before. But he stayed kneeling by Montana, his hands in the snow. He intended to mind her.

  She turned to Montana. She ran her hand over his cheekbone, touched the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be back. Don’t die on me. Promise.”

  “Laura—” he said “—be careful. Don’t be afraid to shoot. If somebody’s there, ambush him. Don’t let him see you—”

  “I won’t,” she said. She touched his face one last time. “I mean it. Don’t die. Please.”

  She stood and took the gun, the hated gun, from her shoulder and into her hands. She set off, moving as swiftly as she could through the shadows. Behind her she left Montana and Trace lying in the snow and Rickie, stolidly kneeling, pressing the packed snow against Montana’s side.

  The car phone rang. Hepfinger answered and heard Estrada’s impatient voice.

  “What’s going on?” Estrada demanded. “Why haven’t you called? Haven’t you found them?”

  “We found them, all right,” Hepfinger said cheerfully. “The house is burning. There’s been a good deal of shooting. They must have put up a fight.”

  “The shooting’s over?”

  “Yes. They must be cleaning up, getting all the bodies in the fire, something like that.”

  “Go check,” Estrada ordered. “And when you’re sure it’s done, call me.”

  “Of course,” Hepfinger promised in his chipper way. “Rest easy. I’m taking care of everything.”

  He switched off the phone with a sigh. He was more than ready for the twins and the others to be dead. It would be, as the Yankees put it, a feather in his cap. To have followed them this relentlessly, to have tracked them with such swiftness?—His praises would be sung, loudly, long, and oh, so sweetly.

  Hepfinger folded the hinged receiver back into itself and put it back on the charger. He rolled down the window slightly and listened. There was only the wind’s long, lonely sigh and creak of icy tree limbs. No more shooting.

  He supposed, idly, that Estrada would have the three gunmen killed—Luppler, De Mosquera, and Alvirez. That way there would never be any danger of their talking of this night.

  Perhaps Estrada would even have Santander killed; it would not be a bad idea. Santander was a bit perverse, Hepfinger suspected; he was not pleasant, and he was so damnably ugly. Hepfinger would have him shot for his complexion alone.

  The chill night air flowed through the open window, and Hepfinger shivered a bit. He rolled the window back up and sighed. The van was warm and toasty, and he had lovely classical music on the CD player, Liszt’s “Mazeppa,” the Symphonic Poem Number Six.

  But manfully he switched off the music, struggled into his coat, and pulled on his fur-lined gloves. He took a black watch cap from his pocket, pulling it down securely to cover his tender ears.

  He reached to the back and took up a gun, an Uzi such as Santander favored. He took an ammunition belt and slid it jauntily over his shoulder. Then he looked down the road one more time. Nothing out of place. No movement of any sort except the trees in the wind and the play of shadows on the snow.

  Hepfinger was a meticulous man, so he woul
d trudge the cursed quarter mile to the house through the woods, not the road. He certainly would never drive into a potentially dangerous situation; it would be far too conspicuous. This sort of caution at the expense of his own comfort had kept him the assassin instead of the assassinated.

  He was glad he had let the others do the killing tonight. For one thing, it was too cold out to enjoy such diversions, and for another, he truly had no stomach for strenuous killing tonight; his supper of extra-crispy fried chicken had roiled his digestion. He loved rich fast food, but hated the heartburn it always gave him.

  And, deep down, he was still secretly vexed over Marco DeMario. Hepfinger prided himself on his genial disposition, but DeMario had put him out of sorts.

  He had meant to kill the old man eventually, of course. He knew a dozen ways to make it look accidental, even with the wounded hand.

  But DeMario’s excessive bleeding had taken Hepfinger badly by surprise. Hepfinger had misjudged the situation, his stride had been ruined, and he was still cross when he thought of it.

  Yes, he would be relieved to get to Boston and on the plane that would take him safely back to Atlanta. Santander and the others would fly to New York; the Cartel men in Boston would dispose of the van; and then, once Reynaldo Comce was taken care of, this episode would be over. Closed.

  Hepfinger tapped his fist against his chest, belched softly, and opened the door of the van. He would take the long, annoying walk to see that the killing was properly done. But he had been sitting in the van a long time. First, he would urinate. He faced away from the wind and unzipped his trousers.

  • • •

  Laura had run through the pines as lightly as she could, trying to make little noise. She kept her body low and stayed as near the road as she could without being seen.

  But she was tired and ran awkwardly, wasting effort, and her footsteps crunched loudly in her ears. Her side hurt as if a knife were thrust into it, and her legs seemed more leaden at every forced stride. She was frightened and desperate, but she could not shake off the feeling that she was a ridiculous child playing soldier in the pine woods.

  She’d run off, perhaps leaving Montana to die. Please, God, don’t let him die.

  Trace lay abandoned and feverish in the snow. If she didn’t get help, he would catch pneumonia; his lungs would fill, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Please, God, don’t let him die.

  She had left Rickie behind, exhausted but obedient, with nothing on his feet except his slippers and with his bare hands in the snow. He wouldn’t move until she returned. What if she didn’t come back? He would stay until he passed out from cold and exhaustion, and he would freeze to death where he fell. Please, God, don’t let him die.

  What if she did find a car standing there empty but without keys? What if the keys were with one of the fallen men? She would have to retrace her steps, search the dead, perhaps all of them, and she’d lost track of how many dead there were.

  She shuddered spasmodically. There, was no time to turn back. Time was running out.

  Please God, don’t let them die.

  The farther she ran, the more hallucinatory the world seemed. What if the car was waiting—but miles away? Sheer adrenaline and willpower kept her moving, but how long could she last? She was dizzy with breathlessness. Her lungs burned, her ears roared, and strange, tiny lights snapped at the edges of her vision. She already felt faint enough to fall, and tired enough never to get up.

  But then, glimmering in the moon’s unsteady light, she saw it. A van was parked at the snowy roadside.

  She’d been so intent on running, she’d almost passed by, not even seeing it.

  Slow down! she commanded herself. Think straight. You have to get this right. You won’t get a second chance. Montana can’t save you this time.

  She backtracked a few yards, until she could clearly see the van through the trees. She forced herself to move as quietly, as economically as possible. She breathed in gasps even though she struggled not to gasp, to be silent. Her head swam; her knees threatened to buckle.

  But then the door of the van opened, and a man stepped out, locked it, then put the keys in his pocket. He was a fat man with an ammunition belt slung over one shoulder and a gun much like hers over the other.

  He turned, standing in profile to her, and unzipped his pants. She watched, strangely embarrassed to see him urinating in the snow.

  She crouched and raised the gun, trying to get him in her sights. The gun wasn’t enormously heavy or bulky, but it was strange to her, and she was shaking so hard she couldn’t hold it steady.

  Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. She couldn’t help it; the gun jittered and jumped in her hands. This wasn’t like shooting at the man at the fishing houses. He had threatened her and Trace’s lives, and shooting had been an instinctive act, one of survival.

  The van’s driver zipped up his pants, took his gun from his shoulder, and stepped in her direction.

  He’s coming into the woods, she thought in panic. He’s coming straight for me.

  Had he heard her? No, he moved too casually, lazily, almost reluctantly.

  She wouldn’t have to kill him if she wounded him so that he couldn’t shoot—she could aim at his arm. But that wasn’t possible because she couldn’t hold the gun that steadily.

  She would have to aim at his body and fire repeatedly. I have to kill him in cold blood. I have to kill him now.

  He moved through the trees in her direction, slowly, almost daintily, watching where he set his feet. He held his gun ready.

  Images cascaded through her mind like cards falling from a pack. She saw old Mr. Zordani, his chest turning into gory wreckage before her eyes.

  She saw Becker standing at the gate at Valley Hope, his fingers suddenly turning to red stumps. She saw Jefferson staring in stunned disbelief as his lifeblood poured out, soaking the green carpet.

  She saw Montana bleeding in the snow, Trace nestled unconscious beside him, and Rickie crouched beside them, his hands in the snow.

  She smelled the sharp scent of gasoline on her jacket. These men would have burned her and Trace to death. These men would have murdered them all.

  The man was only four or five yards from her. She held the gun as steady as she could. The words Montana had so often said spun through her mind: “We do what we have to do.” For the first time, she understood him, completely and perfectly. We do what we have to do.

  She squeezed the trigger, firing again and again.

  The man rose up on his toes, almost as if he were a mime ascending invisible stairs. Then he danced a few stumbling steps forward, his arms flailing. His gun flew off into the shadows. He started to fall forward, his arms thrown out as if in amazement. He seemed to fall in slow motion, taking forever to hit the snow.

  She fired until she had no more bullets. Then the gun was silent, and the man lay facedown in the snow.

  She crouched as if paralyzed, still squeezing the trigger, even though the gun had gone silent. It had kicked hard, bruising her shoulder, but she was only vaguely conscious of the pain.

  The man did not lie completely still. He rolled to his side; his legs twitched.

  Laura rose, her own legs weak. She went to his gun, which lay beneath a pine. She picked it up. Then she walked to the man’s side and looked down at him, feeling hollow and unreal; I did not do this thing. This is a dream.

  He was breathing, but irregularly, and each time he inhaled or exhaled, he made a broken, sucking noise.

  His leaking blood stained the snow. Blood dribbled from his chest and upper arms. His fingers fluttered weakly, like those of an old man picking feebly at nothing.

  She knelt beside him. Gingerly, she turned him on his back. Her stomach pitched with nausea. His chest was a ruin of blood. She had done that to him.

  He stared up at her, his gaze glassy and unfocused. “Quién es usted?” he said in a choked voice. “Who are you?”

  Her hand trembled as she reached to his jacket pocket
for the keys. “I’m Laura,” she said mechanically. “Laura’s here.”

  “Puta,” he gurgled. “Devil’s bitch. Help me. Help me—socorro!”

  He cursed her at the same time he begged her for help. Tears burned her eyes again, blurring her vision. She forced her hand more deeply into his pocket.

  Her fingers closed around the keys, and she drew them out, her hand shaking.

  He seized her by the hand, his grip surprisingly powerful. “You—” he said, in an accusing, angry voice. “You—you. You’re nothing but a teacher of idiots. That you should do this to me—to me—”

  His body convulsed, and his legs kicked impotently.

  “Nothing but a little teacher,” he said between his teeth and kicked again. “A woman. Nothing but a woman—”

  Then, his gaze looking past her, he went still. The rasp and sucking noise of his breath ceased. His hand fell away from her wrist.

  “I killed you,” she whispered in disbelief. And then, even though it was irrational, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She stood, her knees shaking, and made her way, stumbling, toward the van. She fumbled with the lock, finally got it, opened the door, and climbed in, slamming it behind her.

  She put the key into the ignition, and stepped on the gas. The thing started. Her heart wrenched from its too-swift pace and missed a beat. She searched for the headlights, found them, and switched them on. Grinding the gears slightly, she put the van into drive. It lurched forward. She was not used to a vehicle this large and powerful; her blood jarred fearfully in her veins as she stepped on the accelerator.

  As swiftly as she dared, she drove back toward the fire. She stopped parallel to the place in the woods where she had left Montana, Trace, and Rickie.

  She kept the motor running and opened the door. When the overhead light came on she noticed, for the first time, the phone. The phone, she thought. Get help.

  She picked it up, her hand trembling harder than before.

  She knew they were on the run, that they shouldn’t ask for help, but she had no choice. Montana might die if she didn’t. And the boys needed more help than she could give.