Burton Fletcher sat at an outdoor table of the Bora Bora Yacht Club staring blindly at the turquoise water. He had not touched his food, only his wine, and the bottle was three-quarters empty.
Many people called Bora Bora the most beautiful island in the world. Thick vegetation covered its jagged volcanic peaks, robing them in a deep, glowing green as rich as velvet.
The lagoon that surrounded the island was as blue and crystalline as the mountains were green. But Burton could see none of this. He wanted to care for beauty but could not; it no longer registered on him.
He refilled his glass and signaled for another bottle of wine. For a moment he let his gaze rest on the small, shallow pool that had been created beside the deck. In the pool’s confines a trapped shark swam back and forth, back and forth, for the amusement of the customers.
Burton, in his growing drunkenness, identified with this shark. He felt as if his life consisted of some cramped, fetid space from which there was no escape.
He kept pointlessly moving even though moving took him nowhere, and he remained caught in the same murky, empty circle.
He was cold-blooded like the shark; he felt hungers and animal drives, but he no longer felt emotions. The shark needed water to exist; Burton needed alcohol. They both could sustain themselves only in their liquid element, although why they should bother to sustain themselves, neither knew.
Burton raised the last of his Beaujolais to the shark and said, “Here’s to cold fish.” The shark swam back and forth. Burton drank.
An hour and a half ago, in the open-air lounge of the Hotel Bora Bora, Burton had been approached by a heavy-set young Polynesian in a tan police uniform. The man’s wide bronzed face had looked grim when he’d said, “Mr. Fletcher?”
Oh, damn, Burton had thought irritably. The police? What now? He wondered if he’d had a fender-bender last night with his rented car in the parking lot. He couldn’t remember getting back home after drinking at Bloody Mary’s.
“What’s wrong?” he’d asked.
The policeman’s face had gone even more stolid. “We had a fax from Papeete, Mr. Fletcher. It’s about your sons. There was a drive-by shooting in front of their school. Your sons are fine, but they saw a man killed.”
In accented English he droned out the story, ending with the news that police had the boys and their teacher in protective custody.
Burton had stared at the policeman uncomprehendingly. “Protective custody? Then they’re all right. So why—”
The man had shaken his head. “The man killed was in the Mafia, Mr. Fletcher. New York police think he was killed by hit men. That maybe there’s some kind of drug war. You need to go back. They’ll put you into protective custody with your boys. There’s a plane leaving for Tahiti in six hours. We can get you on it to catch the night flight to the States.”
Burton could feel nothing, nothing at all. He simply stared.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” said the policeman. “You’re requested to go back to the States.”
Burton took a long pull from his morning drink, then looked the officer in the eye. “Why should I go back? What good would it do?”
The man seemed taken aback by the question. “Why? To be with your children. Vos enfants. Tes enfants.”
Burton said nothing because there was nothing to be said. How could he tell this man that he did not want to see his children? How could he say that he had stopped loving them, had stopped loving anything? That he wished, ardently, his children had never been born? He would gladly sacrifice them if it would bring his wife back, but nothing could. She was gone forever.
So he drained his drink, stood, and clapped the young policeman on the shoulder. He said he would be on that afternoon plane to Papeete and from Papeete he’d depart for the States.
Then he’d come here, to the pretentiously named Yacht Club, to be alone and embalm himself in liquor before he had to go back. The waitress brought him another bottle of wine, but gave him a disapproving look.
Burton didn’t give a goddamn. He was past caring, and he was long past tears. That was the odd thing. When he’d learned that his boys would never be normal, he hadn’t cried, his eyes hadn’t even moistened. He didn’t cry when he sent them off to live at Stephenson, although his wife had. He couldn’t even cry when his wife died, although he’d wanted to.
No, he could not cry. He was no longer capable.
He poured a fresh glass and raised it to the captive shark swimming through water fouled by its own wastes. To those who have no tears, he thought, and drank as deeply as he could.
FOUR
The boys fell into uneasy sleep at last. The Bugs Bunny lamp would stay on all night; that’s what they were used to. Beyond its soft glow, the corners were full of shadows.
Laura rose from her chair, shut the book, and laid it aside. She walked down the dim hall and into the living room where the lights blazed.
The FBI men Becker and Jefferson sat hunched over the coffee table, playing cards. Both had the sleeves of their white shirts rolled up and ties loosened. Both wore guns.
“Gin.” Jefferson yawned.
“Lucky bastard,” Becker muttered and tossed down his cards. “I’m too tired to think straight. I’m going to bed.”
When Becker saw Laura, he stiffened. “Excuse the language, ma’am. We didn’t know you were there.”
She tried to smile, almost succeeded. “It’s all right.”
She glanced about the room. Montana lay stretched on the green couch, his head on a dingy sofa pillow. An open book was propped on his chest.
Stallings, the apple-cheeked, cold-eyed man from the NYPD, was nowhere in sight. Becker and Jefferson sat eyeing Laura warily, as if she might be about to make trouble.
But Montana’s voice was easy when he spoke. “The boys asleep?”
“Yes,” she said.
He closed his book, swung his feet to the floor. “Both of them?”
“Yes,” she repeated. Her heartbeat speeded, and her throat tightened. This is really happening, she told herself. I’m in this seamy room with three strange men with guns. This is not a nightmare. This is real.
“Good,” Montana said with a small nod. “You want a sandwich or something?”
The thought of food made her queasy. “No. Thanks.”
“I’m hitting the sack,” Becker said and got up.
Jefferson rose, too. “Likewise.”
He moved toward the door, but paused when he reached Laura. Becker also stopped. She felt dwarfed by the two big men, overwhelmed.
Jefferson, the black agent, gave her a kindly smile. He said, “Good night. And don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you and those boys.”
“Thank you,” she said, and wished her voice didn’t sound so stiff and unnatural.
Becker said only, “Good night,” then moved on. He was a serious-faced man, with permanent worry lines etched across his brow.
Jefferson patted her shoulder, winked at her, then followed Becker.
She stared after the two men, then turned to Montana, who stood by the television. He was putting a Bugs Bunny videocassette back into its box. Like the other two men, he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, unbuttoned his collar.
He was so lean that his face was gaunt. It reminded her of the paintings of El Greco, the portraits of dark, ascetic-looking men who seemed beyond the temptations of the flesh.
“You said we’d talk,” she said.
He smiled. It was a small, disarming smile, but she didn’t allow herself to be disarmed.
“Sure,” he said, and gestured toward the couch. “Join me? Can I get you something? There’s half a pot of coffee left.”
She shook her head. Caffeine was the last thing she needed. She crossed the room and sat down at the end of the green couch. It was hard and lumpy, and the fabric looked grimy from years of neglect.
He sat at the other end, crossing one leg over his knee. His hair looked jet black in the bright light, and so did his
eyes.
“So,” he said. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
He was trying to relax her, make her smile. She could do neither. She forced her voice to stay steady. “You tell me. What am I doing in a place like this?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re keeping out of trouble.”
She met his gaze. “It’s big trouble, isn’t it? How big?”
His eyes didn’t waver an iota. “We don’t know. Maybe not so bad. Let’s hope so.”
“That detective, that Valentine man. He said what we saw was a drug killing. Was it?”
“It’s a major possibility. Look, you’re sure you don’t want something to drink?”
His calmness irritated her and so did his evasiveness. “Don’t hold out on me,” she said. “You’ve blown our lives apart. You’ve forced us to hide away like—like prey. I’ve got a right to know what we’re hiding from.”
His smile slipped away, his face went somber. “All right. How much did Valentine tell you?”
“He said the old man was a drug lord. That the killing was planned, that it was a—a hit. He said something about a drug war. Is that true?”
His expression was impassive. “Maybe so. Yeah.”
“And the twins are in danger because they got the license number, saw the gunman?”
“Yes,” he said. “And you saw it, too.”
She shook her head, confused. “No. I saw him die. That was all. It was terrible. That’s all I remember.”
“But you saw it,” he said. “And if word gets out that the kids saw what they did, it could be dangerous for them.”
“Somebody would really harm children?”
“These people don’t care who they hurt. You get in their way, they hurt you.”
She drew in a long, shaky breath. She could think of nothing to say.
He said, “These same people, this same organization, drove a van into a mall in Florida. Yeah, you heard right. Drove it right inside the mall. Opened fire.”
She stared at him as if he were making up a horror story, an unbelievable one.
“They were mad at the guy who ran the liquor store. Shot the store to pieces. Killed four people. Kept firing all the way out. They gunned down a sixteen-year-old kid in the parking lot, killed him. A bag boy, carrying groceries out of the supermarket. It was lucky they didn’t kill more.”
She kept staring at him. “And these people are Colombians?” she asked. “Like—like the bad guys on Miami Vice?”
“We think so. What this is about, we don’t know. Are they moving in on Mafia turf? What’s coming down? We don’t know.”
“And if they find out about the boys?”
“The Colombians don’t like witnesses. So we want to keep this thing under wraps. They move against the boys, they move against us. All of us.”
“All of you,” she said, not comprehending.
“All of us. Jefferson, Becker, Stallings, me—we’re from different parts of the Organized Crime Task Force. And the force wants you safe. All of you.”
May the Force be with you, she thought. “Why me? I’m not really a witness.”
He looked her up and down as if measuring her. “You saw enough. And we need you. The kids need you.”
Slowly the realization dawned on her. “You’re not going to keep me because of them, are you? You don’t intend to keep holding me after their father gets here?”
From the moment she’d seen him, she knew his face could be hard if he chose, his eyes cold. She just hadn’t expected how hard, how cold.
“You got them mixed up in this,” he said. “You’re the one who got them into it.”
She looked away, her heart thudding. Why had she been in such haste to be Ms. Good Citizen? What had she done to herself—and to the boys?
If she’d stayed quiet, they’d be at Stephenson now, safe in their own beds, locked into their usual ordered existence. The events of their day would run in as smooth and inevitable sequence as the numbers they loved: breakfast, play, roll call, salute the flag, lessons—one, two, three, four, five.
And she would be home in her spartan apartment, living a life as sequestered and narrow as theirs. Her apartment was clean and well lighted, and she kept it as bare as possible. She liked it that way. After work, she returned to it and lived in it as snugly as a hermit crab in its shell.
If only she’d kept quiet, tomorrow she would arise and go about her pleasantly predictable tasks. She would take her morning coffee break with Herschel and Shelley Simmons.
Herschel would be cheerful and full of good-natured teasing. He always had what he called “the joke of the day,” and it was always bad. Shelley, who was to be married next month, would be fretting about wedding arrangements.
Most important, she would work with her special group of students—not only the twins, but Fergus, Janine, and Brian—children to whom she was fiercely devoted. She did not love them; that would be unprofessional, but she put their welfare above all else.
The children would need her tomorrow because today had been so violent and upsetting. They wouldn’t understand why she was gone.
If Laura wasn’t there, how would Janine learn to tie her shoes? How would Fergus master writing his name? How would Brian finally learn to talk?
Other people’s children, her ex-husband had once said to her in frustration. Your whole life is other people’s children.
She locked gazes with Montana. “I was stupid to tell the police,” she said bitterly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I wish I could turn back time.”
“It doesn’t turn back,” said Montana.
Down the hall, Rickie cried out in his sleep.
Rickie lay on the unfamiliar, lumpy mattress, dreaming. Even in dreams, his world had no order; it was like a wild and boundless sea on which he sailed in a tiny boat.
He had no map for this sea. He did not know in what direction he sailed or toward what shore. Laura might say, go this way, go that way. Laura was his only compass.
Laura talked with her voice and her face, but Rickie did not know the language of faces. Like this, Laura would say, showing him a picture of a smile face. This is happy.
In Rickie’s world, clocks ran smoothly, but time itself was broken. Clocks talked in numbers: twelve hours, sixty minutes, sixty seconds.
But time gibbered nonsense and ran wild. Time had eaten up Mama and wouldn’t give her back.
Mama said that death is like a door in the clouds. Mama is in the clouds now, but where is she when the clouds are gone? Mama is behind the sky. She went through a door in the clouds. What took her?
A bird, huge and vicious, with a sharp beak and wide beating wings. Rickie had seen a picture in a storybook of such a bird carrying a child up into the clouds.
In his dream, Mama was at first with Rickie and Trace, and Laura was, too. The four of them stood on the playground, and far away on the edge of the sky Rickie saw a dot, a moving dot. It flapped nearer, taking on a terrifying shape.
Rickie couldn’t move; he could only stand and watch the bird grow bigger, bigger, until he saw in detail all its ferocious features: the knifelike beak, the yellow eyes, the terrible claws.…
The bird swooped, but it didn’t take Rickie. Instead, it took Mama, It flew up, up, with her, and the sky turned sunset red, and a door opened in the fiery clouds …
Rickie screamed, screamed long and hard.
But then he was awake, and Laura was there. She held him so tightly that she was more real than the bird, but still he could not stop crying, although he could not say why.
• • •
Laura sat on Rickie’s bed, hugging him.
Montana had followed and stood in the doorway watching. He made her self-conscious, and she was sure his presence only upset Rickie more. Over her shoulder she said, “This would be easier if you’d go away, Montana.”
He nodded silently and left. It took her perhaps fifteen minutes to get Rickie back to sleep. She heard the
phone ring and the low mumble of Montana’s voice, but couldn’t understand what he said.
What are these children doing here, going through this? she thought resentfully, rocking the boy. What am I doing here? It’s mad. But at last Rickie’s eyes were shut, his face peaceful, his breathing even.
Wearily she rose and returned to the living room. Montana, looking restless, stood by the sofa, his dark eyes trained on her face. “You were holding him,” he said. “I thought they didn’t like that kind of thing.”
She sat on the arm of the sofa and shook her head. “Mostly they don’t. But sometimes being held tight calms them.”
“How do you know when to do it or not?”
A good question, Laura thought, rubbing her forehead tiredly. “Instinct,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Fletcher’s been located,” he said. “We’ve sent word to him. We’re waiting for a reply.”
Laura’s fatigue melted and a sudden alertness seized her. The phone call—she’d forgotten about the phone ringing.
She said, “Once he’s here, I’ll go—right? You can’t really keep me.”
“We’ll take it as it comes,” he said vaguely. “Tell me about him, about Fletcher. What’s the story?”
She resented the change of subject, the continuing evasiveness. “You’re the ones with the files on everybody. Don’t you already know everything?”
“Not everything. What happened to their mother?”
“I told you—she died.”
“How?” he asked.
“Can I go home when he gets here?”
“That’s not my decision. I’ll do everything I can for you. How’d she die?”
Laura put her fingertips to her temple. Her head ached. “She was walking. Near Times Square. The light was against her, but she stepped into traffic. In front of a taxi. It couldn’t stop in time.”
“An accident?”
“Nobody knows. It was six months to the day that they’d put the twins in school. She was devoted to them, completely. She always seemed like the strong one in the family. You know, the one who held things together.”
“Maybe she was tired of being strong.”
See How They Run Page 6