He smiled faintly. “What’d they play? Cops. They always played cops. Day in, day out. Like they were joined at the hip. Like they were twins.”
He stared at the twins playing on the hearth rug, and his smile faded.
“Where’s Mike?” she asked. “Did he grow up to be a policeman? Or a doctor like you?”
Suddenly DeMario looked older, frailer than before. “Mike didn’t grow up,” he said. “He died. Seventeen years old. A diving accident. Two and a half weeks in a coma. He never woke up.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she hadn’t asked. DeMario obviously still grieved for the lost boy.
“I cried,” he said. “Everybody cried. Except Mick. Mick was one of the pallbearers. He was the strong one.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
He put his hand to his trifocals, shook his head. “It’s a terrible thing to be a doctor and stand there, helpless, when someone you love is dying. I did it two more times. When my daughter died. Mike’s mother. She couldn’t stand up to it, Mike’s dying. She took to drink, and it killed her. I couldn’t stop that, either. She was the only one that could. But she didn’t. Or she didn’t want to.”
“I’m sorry,” Laura said, feeling like a broken record. Impulsively she reached out and took his hand. His flesh felt as dry as parchment, his bones as fragile as bird bones.
He didn’t look at her. He stared at the twins piling pennies in a system only they understood. “You would think,” he said, “a man who’s seen as much dying as I have—the war—would get used to it. But, you see, those boys, those soldiers, were strangers. Still, I never got used to that, either. I thought if I got used to it, the doctor in me would die. I had to care. It’s important.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand more tightly. She understood why Montana had turned to this man.
DeMario stared at their joined hands. “I cried when my wife died. I went away so nobody saw. But both times, for my daughter, my wife, Mick was there again. He was a pallbearer again. I thought, ‘He must get tired of carrying my dead.’ ”
“I don’t think he’d look at it that way,” she said. She thought, I have no right to say that. I don’t know him that well. But still, she thought it was a true thing to say.
“No,” DeMario said, gazing at the twins again. “He wouldn’t. You’re in good hands. Which is a funny thing to say, with his hand cripped up so bad. It doesn’t matter. You’re still in good hands.”
“I know,” she said, her throat tight. Montana was a mystery to her, a paradox, and she knew he didn’t always tell her the truth. Yet she had literally trusted her life to him, and the twins’ as well. An instinct deeper and more primal than any reason told her that DeMario was right.
DeMario kept staring at the twins, not looking at her. “I like seeing you with these boys. Yes. You’re good with them. They’re in good hands with you, too.”
His words embarrassed her, and she changed the subject to what concerned her most. “I’m worried about Montana,” she said. “He should be back by now. Shouldn’t he?”
“What should be done, he’ll do,” DeMario said. He drew his hand from hers. He stood and took a moment as if gathering strength and insuring his balance.
“I’m going to check on your friend,” he said, nodding toward the bedroom where Jefferson rested. “Then I’m going to have another shot of hooch and go to bed. I’ll sleep in the same room with him. My wife, at the end, she wasn’t comfortable sleeping in the same bed. We got twin beds. It was easier on her. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thank you,” she said. He had already showed her the room that would house the boys. Once again she’d put the familiar sheets on the bed, hung the Looney Tunes curtains on the window. She’d put up their plaques and bulletin board and even hung some of their clothes in the closet, although she knew she’d soon have to repack everything.
“I’ll leave the Chianti bottle on the counter,” DeMario said. “Help yourself if you want. Make Mick have a drink. He’ll need it. Even if he won’t admit it.”
“I will,” she promised. She stood and took his hand again. “Thank you, Dr. DeMario. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Once again he drew his hand away. He gave her a rueful smile. “Don’t go sentimental on me. I can spill my guts all I want. I’ve got an excuse. I’m senile.”
She put her hand on her hip and regarded him. “You’re not a bit senile.”
“Put it in writing, will you?” he muttered. “So somebody can read it to me when I can’t remember who I am or where I’m going or why.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” she said, smiling.
“I’m a cynic,” he said. “I have been since World War Two. But I’ll tell you one thing. We won that son of a bitch.”
He waved a vague good night and went to check on Jefferson, then hobbled into the kitchen for his drink. He did not acknowledge her again.
The boys went to bed with remarkably little fuss, although they insisted on keeping their jars of pennies.
She read to them from their lizard book. Although they knew it by heart, they always liked to hear it. They hardly seemed to remember what had happened that afternoon. For this, Laura was grateful.
It struck her that although DeMario’s house was old and ill-kept, the place had an air of hominess. She felt at home herself, for reasons she could not explain, and she was sad that they must move on.
Rickie had fallen asleep first, then Trace, still clutching his jar of pennies. Gently she took it from him and set it next to the Bugs Bunny lamp so he could see it as soon as he woke up.
DeMario had given her the room next to the twins’. Everything was dusty, and the ruffled green spread on the double bed had faded to the color of bread mold. Yet, paradoxically, again she felt at home in the room. It was as if she were visiting the house of a favorite grandparent.
She paused by Trace’s bed. Gently, so gently he would not feel it, she stroked his hair. Then she turned and lightly kissed Rickie on the forehead. He turned and frowned in his sleep, then went still again, as if sinking more deeply into his dreams.
She left their Bugs Bunny lamp on, then went downstairs to wait for Montana.
He didn’t return until after eleven o’clock.
He knocked at the kitchen door and said, “Laura? It’s me. I should’ve given you a password. What can I say? Your eyes are hazel, the twins’ are blue. The Bugs Bunny lamp always has to face the wall; we don’t know why. Okay?”
She unlocked the door and swung it open. His too-lean face seemed almost handsome to her.
He wore an old leather jacket of Marco’s because his own coat, like hers, was stained with blood. Snowflakes glittered in his dark hair. He carried two brown paper bags of groceries.
“How’s Jefferson?” he said.
“Marco says good. He can be moved tomorrow if he feels like it.”
“Good. And the twins?”
She sighed with relief. “Better than I could have hoped. They act like it was a bad dream. They don’t realize what happened. I got their room set up. They’re asleep.”
“That’s good,” he said, setting the bags on the counter. “How about you?”
She said, “I was worried about you. You were gone a long time.”
“I had to lay a false trail. I drove back to Long Island. I used the car phone, called a bunch of numbers. Like motels, hotels, doctors. And car rental agencies. To confuse anybody looking for us.”
She still felt half giddy over the miracle of his return. “You got another car?”
“Yeah,” he said, putting a carton of milk and a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator. “I borrowed it from my uncle. He doesn’t know it yet. I left a note.”
“You borrowed it without him knowing?” she said, appalled. “You mean you stole it?”
Montana didn’t answer directly. He said, “Every year he takes his wife and flies to Florida for six weeks. He won’t be using it.”
“But how? Did you have the keys?”
“He keeps a spare set in a magnetized case under the front bumper. I picked the lock to his garage. There was the van, there were the keys. He won’t be home for a month. Nobody knows the van’s missing. It’s clean, nobody’ll notice it.”
“Your uncle—won’t he get angry?”
“That’s then. This is now.”
“What about the other car, the Bronco?” she asked, worried about all this larceny.
“I changed the plates and dumped it. The airport parking lot. I hope it takes a while for anybody to notice it’s abandoned.”
“How did you get from the airport?”
“Took a cab to a hotel. From the hotel I took a different cab to a bar in my uncle’s neighborhood. From the bar, I walked to his house and picked the garage door.”
“What if you’d set off an alarm?”
“I keep telling my uncle to install a guard system. Maybe now he’ll listen.”
His audacity frightened her, and she hoped her fear didn’t show on her face.
“The van’s in Marco’s garage, out of sight,” he said. “We should leave early, so nobody sees. Can you do it? Get the kids ready early? I got groceries for their breakfast and stuff.” He nodded toward the two sacks on the counter.
“I’ll do my best.” She pushed her fingers through her hair, a nervous gesture. “But how can you think of all this—even groceries?”
“It’s my job. Like it’s yours to teach the kids. They’re really okay? Calmed down again?”
“Really. The worst thing, they think, is I pushed them down and scattered their lizards. And it’s like Marco gives off an aura. Somehow, he made them feel safe.”
“Yeah,” Montana said, as if he took it for granted.
“Montana,” she said, her brow furrowing, “are we putting him in danger? It scares me.”
“I’ve done my best not to. It scares me, too,” he said. “But I don’t gamble wild, I gamble careful. He knows that. He trusts me. And besides, he’s not afraid.”
She swallowed, looked away. “I know he’s not. Why?”
“Because he’s old,” Montana said. “Older than he ever wanted to be. But he’s brave. He was born brave. He’ll die brave. What happens in between is the same to him.”
She stared down at the worn linoleum. Jefferson’s blood still spotted it, a red-brown trail from back door to kitchen to hall to bathroom.
“I’m not brave,” she said, “I’m frightened. I saw Becker get shot. He has to be dead. What about Stallings?”
“Stallings is probably dead, too,” he said without emotion.
She put her hand to her eyes, trying to shut out reality for any length of time, even a second. “We were lucky, weren’t we? That’s the only reason we’re alive. Sheer, dumb luck.”
“Maybe,” he said.
She let her hand fall away, and she looked into his eyes. “I’m terrified for the boys. You said we were set up. That’s how we got ambushed. Who did it? Who can we trust?”
“I don’t know who did it. I don’t know who to trust. Somebody, somewhere sold us out. We’re on our own.”
“The newspaper,” she said. “Breaking the story on us. Is that how they found us?”
“Hell, maybe the newspaper was set up, too. I don’t know. All I know is for now we’re on the run. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
She looked away from him. “Oh, damn,” she said. “I don’t want that. Not with the boys. They’re not meant to run.”
“I know,” he said. “But that’s how it is.”
She walked to the counter, put her hand on the Chianti bottle. “Marco left out the wine,” she said. “He said to make you take a drink. That you’d need it.”
Montana came to her side. “Marco’s had his nip, I know,” he said. “He didn’t overdo it, did he?”
“No,” she said, regarding the bottle. “He didn’t. But he’s right. You probably need it.”
“That’s not what I need,” he said.
And she knew what was going to happen. She’d known from the moment he came in the door.
He put his arms around her. He kissed her. The touch of his mouth made her dizzy with a hunger for life. She kissed him back, almost ravenously.
“Montana,” she said against his lips, “don’t worry. I won’t fall in love with you or anything stupid like that.”
“This isn’t about love,” he said. Then he kissed her again, harder and more desperately than before.
SEVEN
Her lips parted so that he could taste her more completely. She tasted him back.
Stop, he told himself. Or in another sixty seconds you won’t be able to stop.
For a crazy moment he didn’t care.
But she was the one who drew back. He forced himself to try to breathe evenly and not to pull her into his arms again. He looked into her hazel eyes and at her mouth. His groin tightened another notch.
“You’re right,” he said, but he still held her by the upper arms. “We don’t need more complications.”
Her expression was wary. “No. We don’t.”
“Maybe I just wanted to prove we’re both still here.”
She looked away. She seemed embarrassed, yet she didn’t move away from him.
He dragged his gaze from her and found himself staring at the Chianti bottle on the counter. “Let’s sit, have a glass of wine. We need to talk.”
“Yes,” she said. “We should talk.”
He released her with reluctance. She stepped back, almost as if she felt the same hesitation.
He went to a cupboard, and took two of the old jelly jars that served Marco as drinking glasses. He half filled each.
“This isn’t fancy,” he said, trying to sound casual, unconcerned. “I think when Marco’s wife died, he gave all the china and stuff to his niece. Have a seat.”
He pulled out a kitchen chair for her. She sat down rather stiffly and took one of the glasses. He seated himself across from her.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. He sipped his wine, wishing it would calm his rambunctious blood. He’d kissed her. He’d liked it. For a wild moment, she’d seemed to like it, too.
Hell, he told himself, it was sex, that was all, and he couldn’t afford to think with his dick; he’d been assigned to protect her, not get into her pants. Yet he knew more than hormones had pulled them together for that instant.
Today they’d seen Becker and Stallings killed and Jefferson torn apart. They all could have died, and they both knew it. Last week she’d seen Zordani blown away, just as nastily.
Violence, he thought, all the damn violence and pain and death. When you see enough of it, when you’re threatened long enough by it, something snaps. You’ve got to have the opposite. Pleasure. Affection. Life. Sex.
That’s what he’d felt. It was what she’d felt, too, even if she didn’t understand. And part of Montana’s mind kept whispering, What’s so wrong with wanting it? What if we don’t make it out of this? Would it matter so much if we fucked? What the hell?
He searched for something neutral to say. “Did Marco feed you okay? You and the kids?”
She nodded, still seeming shy with him. “All he had were SpaghettiOs and cheese and crackers. But the twins were happy. Still, you’d think a doctor would eat better.”
Montana shrugged, took another sip of wine. “He says nothing tastes the way it used to.”
“What about you?” she asked. “Did you eat?”
“A couple candy bars,” he said.
They fell silent again. She looked at him, worry in her eyes. “Montana? What are we going to do?”
He tried to sound nonchalant. “We’ve got some problems. What we do is go to earth. We hide. Like a fox does.”
“How long?” she said, looking more worried than before.
“I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
She picked up her glass and took a drink of wine. “I watched the late news. The story abo
ut the shooting was on. They haven’t caught the gunmen. But they didn’t mention us. Not a word.”
He nodded. “They didn’t mention us on radio news either. They’re keeping it quiet.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“Authorities. Somebody high up.”
“Why—to protect us?”
He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. “Maybe. Or to protect themselves. They screwed up.”
“Have you called anybody?” she asked. “Do they know we’re safe?”
“I called Conlee from the car phone. They can’t trace a cellular phone. I told him we’re alive, that the kids aren’t hurt. That’s all. I don’t want them to know more.”
A futile bitterness filled him. Conlee had said there was no clue to the identity of the killers. They’d escaped.
But how did somebody crash into a goddamn snow-plow, kill its driver, and still escape? What did they do—walk away down the street? Hail a cab? Charter a plane?
She set down her glass and pushed it away. “The task force is made up of different agencies. Does that mean anybody, in any part of the system, could have betrayed us?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then who can we go to for help?” she asked. “Who’s not involved?”
That was the question that haunted him. He rose and refilled his glass.
“Who’s not involved? Everybody’s involved. The police. The district attorney. The federal attorney’s office. And the attorney’s office can tap or be tapped by all the federal agencies. FBI. DEA. More. There are moles all over the place. Moles and snitches and sellouts.”
She looked up at him. “My God,” she said. “Can’t we turn to anybody?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “And I don’t know why what the kids saw is so important. Was it the car? The license? Or the gunman? Maybe all three. Whatever it is, somebody doesn’t want them talking.”
She looked bewildered. “Then all we can do is run?”
See How They Run Page 11