“Look,” Conlee said, the line of his mouth going bitter, “every agency’s got leaks. Between the money and the intimidation, the dealers get to people. The cocaine money—it’s endless.”
Montana shook his head impatiently. He knew all this. “You’re still not saying why you need somebody from the attorney’s office.”
“All right,” Conlee said. “Look—we can’t find these kids’ father. The mother’s dead and the father’s in Bora Bora or some damn place. When we do find him, God knows how fast we can get him back.”
“What?” Montana said. “You can’t find any parents?”
Conlee made a gesture of disgust and frustration. “He’s some big-shot jeweler or jewelry designer. He’s island hopping, something to do with pearls. We haven’t been able to catch up with him. The best we can do is this: We got a judge to declare these kids temporary wards of the state—for their own protection.”
“Great,” Montana said sarcastically.
“Yeah?” Conlee said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, it gets greater. I said we’re holding a woman, too. Now she didn’t really see anything. She’s a teacher at the school, but she was out on the playground when it happened. The thing is, Montana, we got no parents for these twins. We got no guardians. And they are not normal kids.”
“I’m aware of that.” Montana thought of his nephew, the dinosaur boy. He was a strange, good-looking kid who treasured his privacy and routine. When either was threatened, he could scream like a banshee.
Conlee set his jaw. “We got nobody trained to handle individuals like these. The woman, she’s trained. They know her. They’re comfortable with her. She can communicate with them. We can’t. We got her in protective custody not because she saw anything, but because we need her, the kids need her.”
“Jesus, Conlee,” Montana said with distaste, “you can’t do that.”
“It’s been done. She’s agreed to help. She’s soft where these kids are concerned. She feels responsible for them.”
Montana gave a disgusted sigh. “Did anybody tell her how much trouble she could get into?”
“No,” Conlee said, “not in so many words. She’ll figure it out, fast enough. In the meantime, I want you there to talk her down, keep her calm, keep everything on the legal up-and-up.”
Montana muttered several curse words in Italian.
“Hey,” Conlee said from between his teeth, “it’s her own fault. She’s the one who told NYPD the kids knew the license number, counted the shots. She got them into this.”
“She’s a civilian,” Montana countered. “She’s a schoolteacher, for Chrissake. She probably thought she was doing her civic duty. How could she know what she was getting into?”
“That is not our problem. Protecting her and the kids is,” Conlee said flatly. “Now, let me brief you about this safe house. It’s not ours, it’s not NYPD, it’s DEA. Like I say, we’re going to move in mysterious ways.”
“So what happens,” Montana persisted, “when the Colombians find out about these twins and the schoolteacher? If they’re called as witnesses, you can’t keep it secret.”
“We can try. For the grand jury, we’ll go for a deposition on videotape. See if the judge will allow the kids on videotape; don’t show their faces, just silhouettes. Then they’re home safe, they’re home free,” Conlee said. “Let’s hope that’s the way it happens.”
We better do more than hope, Montana thought cynically. I better call up all my churchly relatives to pray.
Montana went home, packed a suit carrier and a duffel bag, and strapped on his holster. He called his sister Isabel and said he was on special assignment; he’d be incommunicado for a while.
She sounded aggrieved. “Oh, no, Mick. I thought those days were gone for ever.”
He only smiled at her tone and said, “Not quite.”
Dark had fallen by the time he reached the precinct house. He identified himself and said he’d been assigned by the task force. An unshaven detective, ill-tempered and with the unlikely name of Valentine, came for him and told him it was about time.
Montana, said Valentine, was the last of the four guards to show up. The FBI, Valentine said pointedly, had been prompt. So had NYPD. The lawmen waited upstairs. So did the woman and kids.
Montana had been told with whom he’d be working. An NYPD homicide investigator, M. J. Stallings, belonged to the special District Attorney’s squad. This was no mean distinction. Stallings had come up through the Seventy-third Precinct, the city’s toughest and most volatile.
The two FBI men were Becker and Jefferson. Conlee had said they were used to this sort of duty and had pulled it before.
Montana met the three of them in a room that seemed too small to contain them. They were all big men. Montana, at six feet, was the shortest. He’d always been lean. Next to their muscle and bulk, he felt gaunt.
Stallings was almost six foot four, with broad shoulders, a bland face, and big hands. He had clear blue eyes and the sort of healthy pink cheeks seldom seen in New York. Although he looked like an overgrown farm boy, his accent was pure Brooklyn.
Becker was about six foot two and built like a packing crate. He had the inevitable FBI suit, haircut, contained expression, and icy eyes. Jefferson was his black clone. The two could have hired out as oversized salt-and-pepper shakers.
Montana introduced himself; they introduced themselves. It was formal, it was professional, but Montana knew they were sizing each other up like soldiers about to enter battle together, not wanting any illusions.
The others had met the woman and the twins. Montana alone had not. Valentine, plodding like a man who is much put upon, led Montana down the hall to another small room.
“These kids,” he said scornfully, “are sensitive. We’re introducing you one at a time. Make your entrance. Meet ’em. Then you’re taking off. We got cars for you.”
He swung open the door and let Montana enter first. Montana kept his scarred hand in his overcoat pocket. He didn’t want to put off the kids.
He saw the woman sitting on a metal chair. The twins were huddled in similar chairs, one on either side. They leaned against her and she had an arm around each.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide and wary, and she pulled the twins to her more tightly. The boys’ faces were clouded with confusion. They stared up at him as if they were at his mercy. One had a white Band-Aid across his cheek.
Christ, Montana thought with an unexpected surge of emotion. He thought of his nephew, Joey, in Bellevue. These kids were just like him—there was something not quite human in their eyes, yet they were good-looking. His sister Cindy had said that autistic children were often unusually attractive. She was right.
The twin with the bandage looked more tired, frightened, and sullen than the other. Otherwise the kids were phenomenally alike.
They had thick dark hair, nicely trimmed, that fell over their foreheads. They had straight dark eyebrows and thick black eyelashes. Their eyes were an almost unearthly blue-gray. Beautiful kids, who looked whole and normal.
“This is Rickie, this is Trace,” Valentine said, pointing first at the uninjured twin, then at the one with the Band-Aid. He sounded bored, as if all of this was dull and stale news to him.
“This is Laura Stoner,” Valentine said and nodded at the woman. “This is Michael Montana. Mr. Montana’ll help take care of you.”
Laura Stoner stared at Montana, and he stared back. She wore little makeup and had freckles. Her eyes were troubled, as if she was just starting to realize the enormity of what she’d gotten into.
She had an angular but elegantly boned face, and could have been a looker if she’d tried. Her eyes were deep-set and a clear hazel. Her white blouse had blood on it, but she didn’t seem to realize it.
She had long hair that was dark red; he guessed the color was called auburn. It made her face look even paler.
“Hello, Laura,” Montana said softly. He knew from his cop days that when people were dazed or frightened, y
ou got friendly fast. He nodded at her encouragingly. “Just call me Montana. I’m with the U.S. Attorney’s office. I’m here to help watch out for you and the boys. We’ll take good care of you.”
Her eyes held his for a moment. He had the eerie sensation that she could see inside him. It was an illusion, he knew, because nobody saw inside him. He didn’t allow it.
Then she nodded, as if she accepted him. Odd, he thought, because although she might be scared, she was going to take care of those kids, damned good care. He sensed a certain quiet ferocity in her.
He smiled at her, although he knew he wasn’t gifted at smiling. She managed a half-smile back. Good girl, he thought.
He moved toward them slowly, then dropped on one knee before her and the twins so he could look into the boys’ faces. He didn’t try to touch them. He knew his nephew didn’t like being touched. He was surprised they tolerated the woman holding them as she did. Maybe it was because she was the only familiar being in a strange new world.
“Hello, Rickie,” he said quietly. “Hello, Trace.”
They said nothing. They stared past him as if he were an apparition that might be either good or evil, one that it was safest to ignore.
What’s going on in there, boys? he thought. How do I reach you? Can I reach you?
On impulse he said, “Tyrannosaurus rex. Brontosaurus. Stegosaurus.”
He thought he saw a light of interest flicker in the eyes of Rickie, the unwounded twin. The other said nothing. Looking tired, the boy tried to twist away from Laura Stoner’s grasp. She held him tight.
Montana concentrated on Rickie. “Triceratops,” he said, “Pteradactyl. Velociraptor.” Come on, kid, he thought. I’m running out of dinosaurs. All kids love dinosaurs. Even you in there, I bet.
“Horned toad,” Laura Stoner said in a soft voice. “Iguana. Monitor lizard. That’s the sort of thing they like.”
He looked up at her. She nodded. She was letting him know that the kids liked their reptiles alive and well, not extinct.
He nodded back. He looked into Rickie’s blue eyes again. “Yeah,” he said. “Monitor lizard. Lizards? Tell me about lizards.”
Rickie cocked his head, looking at the ceiling, not at Montana. “Chuckwalla,” he said in a clear, strong voice. “Gila monster. Spiny-tailed iguana.”
He turned abruptly to stare at his brother. “Spiny-tailed iguana,” he said, as if Trace had missed his cue. “Spiny-tailed iguana.”
Trace shifted uncomfortably. He hung his head and muttered, “Flat-tailed horned lizard. Regal horned lizard. Round-tailed horned lizard.”
Ricky took up the list in a more singsong voice, then Trace took his turn again. Lizards, lizards, they reeled them off mechanically, by the dozen.
We have achieved lift-off, Montana thought. He looked up again at Laura Stoner. He had the weird sensation that the four of them were united by a strange language that the twins knew best, the woman knew fairly well, and he was just learning.
His eyes met hers again. Nobody’s going to hurt these children. I won’t let them, her gaze said.
I’ll die before I let anybody hurt you or them, he tried to tell her with his own. He meant it. It was his job to mean it. But he wondered how long she’d feel protective, once she realized how serious the situation was.
“Enough with the lizards,” Valentine said cynically. “We got to get you vehicles.”
“I’ll see you, boys,” Montana told the twins. They took no note of him; they were still taking turns listing night lizards.
He rose. “I’ll be back, Laura,” he said. She gave him the nervous twitch of a smile, but did not speak.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” he told her. Then he turned and went with Valentine.
In the hall, Montana said, “This has to stay quiet. If word gets out, these kids are targets. The situation’s serious. Extremely.”
Valentine swore. “I know that,” he said. “I gave the school a cover story for ’em and orders not to talk.”
“If word gets out,” Montana said in his toughest voice, “and we find the leak came from here, your collective ass is grass. I hope you know that.”
Valentine said as far as he was concerned, if they found any leaks in his precinct, the D.A. could plug them with hot lead, freshly fired.
Ten minutes later, Montana, along with Becker, Jefferson, and Stallings, ushered the woman and the boys out of the station house and into its garage. The department had given them two inconspicuous cars, a green-gray Chevy Lumina and a tan Ford Aerostar.
Becker, the white FBI man, was senior officer. He decreed two men would go with the woman and children, two men would follow. Nobody else had been able to get the twins to talk, so Montana was assigned to travel with them. Becker and Jefferson were used to each other, so the pink-cheeked homicide man, Stallings, volunteered to go with Montana.
Becker and Jefferson were to take the Chevy. As the group moved through the passage that led to the parking garage, Montana looked again at Laura Stoner.
She held each twin by the hand, and she walked with her back straight, her chin up. Her dark red hair swung as she walked, as if it had a life of its own, like a dark flame. She looked shaken, but determined.
Come on, God, Montana thought. She shouldn’t be in this at all. And they’re just kids. No leaks, okay? If you’re up there, cooperate this time—no leaks.
They stepped into the coldness of the garage.
If God heard Montana’s plea, He gave no answer, made no sign.
THREE
The safe house was not a house, Laura was told, and it did not sound particularly safe.
It was an apartment over a luncheonette near the garment district, the man named Montana said. He drove and did most of the talking. He spoke in the easy, trust-me tone that reminded Laura of a policeman talking a would-be jumper off a ledge.
The comparison made her uneasy. She did indeed feel like someone trapped on a high ledge, like a sleepwalker suddenly wakening, not knowing how she got there, not knowing how to get off. And, somehow, she had two children with her.
The boys, she kept thinking. I have to take care of the boys. That thought alone helped her keep her composure. She couldn’t tell if Montana’s too calm voice made things better or worse.
But at least he talked. The other agent, Stallings, barely spoke. He was intimidatingly large, with close-cropped blond hair and pink cheeks. If his eyes hadn’t been so cold, he would have looked like a strapping, wholesome Scandinavian farm boy.
Montana, by contrast, seemed completely of the city. His lean darkness and New York accent made her think of city neighborhoods as Italian as Rome, and he moved with the edgy grace of a man who knows the streets.
“They tell me this place isn’t much,” Montana said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “But it’s only temporary. If we need to detain you longer, we’ll move someplace more comfortable, more out of the way.”
If we need to detain you. Laura swallowed.
The boys sat on either side of her, slumped in their seats. They usually loved riding in a car, but both were tired and disoriented. Trace fluttered his fingers aimlessly against the collar of his blue jacket. His head hung down, and his eyes kept closing sleepily.
Rickie, more alert, stared without emotion at the passing streets. He hummed tunelessly to himself. Somewhere he had found a white paper napkin and was shredding it into tiny pieces without looking at it. Normally, she would have stopped him. For the time being, she let him do whatever gave him peace.
“How long—” she hesitated. “How long do you think you might keep us?”
Montana’s gaze met hers in the mirror again. His eyes were unreadable, despite the friendliness in his voice. “I couldn’t say. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you safe. That’s what counts.”
She leaned forward, pulling her coat more tightly around her. She put her hand on the edge of the driver’s seat. Somewhere along the way, she had lost her gloves. So had Rickie, so had Trace.
>
Three little kittens who’ve lost their mittens, she thought irrationally. But I won’t begin to cry. I can’t begin to cry.
“Listen,” she said to Montana. “How much danger are we in? You can tell me. The boys won’t understand. But I need to know.”
She thought she saw Stallings’ big shoulders flinch slightly at her question. Rickie hummed more loudly and tore the napkin into tinier pieces.
Montana gave a casual shrug. “Rest easy. We don’t know that you’re in any danger. We’re just taking every precaution, that’s all.”
Her fingers pressed more deeply into the seat’s upholstery. “Please. Don’t be evasive. I asked you a frank question. I want a frank answer.”
He shook his head as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the weather. “The truth is that at this point there isn’t any answer. The important thing is that word of this doesn’t get out. If it doesn’t get out, we’ve got no problem.”
Laura persisted. “And if it does, just what kind of problem do we have?”
“Nothing we can’t deal with,” Montana said.
She leaned back against her seat grimly, letting her hands fall into her lap. Montana wouldn’t give her a straight answer. Probably nobody would.
But she was still thinking clearly enough to know that being swept off into hiding by four men of the law was no cause for optimism. The boys were in big trouble, and so, somehow, was she.
All she could do was pray that what Montana said was true. She was out of practice at praying, but she tried anyway. She closed her eyes. She heard Rickie’s tuneless humming. She felt Trace’s body fall softly against hers, felt the evenness of his breathing. He was asleep.
Please, God, she thought. Don’t let anybody know about them—please. Keep them safe. Haven’t You dealt them a hard enough hand?
Her mother had told her once that hypocrites prayed only when they wanted something. She supposed that made her a hypocrite, but she didn’t care.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that Montana had been watching her again in the rearview mirror.
See How They Run Page 4