She jumped up and ran to him. Soon she was at the bathroom door, leading Trace by the hand. She knocked, telling Rickie in no uncertain terms to get out. Trace stood, his shoulders slumped, rubbing his eyes.
Rickie strolled to the breakfast table and squinted accusingly at Montana. “Get some juice,” he demanded. “Get some cornflakes. Get some bananas. Get some toast. Get some jelly.”
For a sinking moment Montana didn’t feel like a fugitive or an attorney or an ex-cop. He felt like a father trapped in a too-small house with too many people for a day that was going to be too long.
But he rose and poured Rickie’s cornflakes.
For the moment, this was family, and it was all that they had.
Marco DeMario awoke feeling as weak and wasted as an old insect facing winter. Sleep had not refreshed him; dreams of deaths and loss had assailed him all night long.
Last night he had executed everything that Montana had asked—and more. Doing so had filled him with headiness and a sense of purpose; he’d felt a rejuvenating rush.
But the rush had eddied and died, leaving him spent. He’d hardly been able to make his way home and to bed. Now, when he arose, he felt as fragile as if all his bones were made of blown glass.
Bleary and exhausted, he dressed himself in wrinkled trousers and a shirt in need of laundering. He did not bother to shave. He did not bother with shoes or socks; he wore scuffed leather slippers on his blue-veined feet.
He shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a cup of instant coffee and a piece of toast, which he buttered then promptly forgot. He sat down stiffly at the table and sipped his coffee. It was tepid, but he was too tired to rise and heat it.
Last night Marco had gotten in his old car and driven through the snowy streets to the nearest service station. He drove as seldom as possible, and never on snow or at night if he could help it, but Mick had told him to use the pay phone.
Marco hated pay phones because they were newfangled and confusing. They had buttons instead of dials, and half the time when you wanted to talk to an operator, you got an incomprehensible recording. He refused to use a phone credit card, which he considered a sort of numerical witchcraft, instead of good, solid, clinking coins.
So he’d dug into another of his jars of change, filled his pockets, and phoned in the prescriptions. By the time he’d finished the call, his heart was thumping so hard it quaked his ribcage. His blood hummed, and his mind seemed lit by a preternatural alertness.
He folded the paper with the Goffstown number and shoved it into his coat pocket. Mick didn’t want him to get more deeply involved; Mick probably thought he was a coot, a codger, a weak old man who would wear out.
But Marco’s mind, lively and in fighting trim, spun with activity. He was part of a war again. It was like being young again. Fearfulness edged his excitement, but only edged it; excitement was stronger.
Mick was struggling to lay false trails, was he? Marco could help. He looked up a number in the phone book that was chained to the telephone platform. He picked up the receiver again. The night was freezing, the phone out in the open, but Marco did not feel the cold.
He fumbled in his pocket for more change. With hands that had, oddly, stopped shaking, he arranged the coins on the metal shelf beneath the phone.
He dialed the local police, and when a woman answered, Marco lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. He sometimes watched mystery movies on the Late Show. He knew calls from pay phones could not be traced, and a whispering voice was hardest to identify.
“I saw something you should know. On the day of the killings at Valley Hope. I saw about those killings on TV.”
He sensed a sudden tense interest on the other end of the line. “Who’s calling?” the woman asked. She had a deep, calm voice, full of authority. “Your name, please?”
“I don’t want to say,” Marco whispered. “I’m afraid. But the day of the shootings, I saw a car—a blue Bronco—drive up to the back of this nursing home. A white man helped a black man get out. The black one was bleeding.”
“A Bronco, you say?” the woman asked in her deliberate way. “Did you happen to get a license number on that?”
“No, no,” Marco whispered. “The white man came out and got back in the Bronco. He was dark. Like Spanish or Italian. He drove off.”
“Sir, where is this nursing home?”
God, Marco thought, his nerves suddenly going skittish on him, how can she sound so businesslike, so laconic?
“New York. I don’t want to say any more.”
“New York State or New York City?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “New York State. I don’t want to talk any more. I don’t want to get involved.”
He hung up and found he was panting for breath. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and for the first time he was conscious of the cold.
But triumph surged through him, making him giddy and frightening him with his own boldness. There, he thought—let them report that. Let them investigate every nursing home in the entire goddamn state of New York. That ought to keep them busy.
Marco’s hands had started to shake, but he was determined to buy Mick more time still. He would call the FBI itself.
He would again disguise his voice. This time he would say he had talked on the phone to a cousin in Philadelphia. This cousin, he would say, claimed he knew about the shooting at Valley Hope.
Marco would say the cousin also claimed that there were two adult fugitives from the shootings, a man and a woman, and they had some children with them, and that this cousin had helped them get away to the Virgin Islands.
Years ago Marco’d had an old army buddy in Pennsylvania, a back surgeon with a light plane. He’d often sent Marco postcards from the Virgin Islands, his favorite destination. Marco thought the story would have the ring of truth and would send the FBI on a pretty good goose-chase.
He looked for the phone number of the FBI in the book and was confused when he found not one, but several—they seemed to have offices all over the damned state. Albany, Manhattan, all the boroughs.…
Marco felt the cold more deeply now and began to tremble with it. He chose the Manhattan number, but then realized he’d read the phone book wrongly, and had dialed the number of a different branch. Let it be, if it’ll do, he thought.
An operator’s voice came on the line, demanding more money. Shakily he inserted the coins into the slots, cursing his own frailty.
His call was answered on the second ring, and he tried to muffle his voice.
“What?” said the man on the line. “I can’t hear you, sir. You’ll have to speak more clearly.”
Marco swore silently and took his hand away from his mouth. He whispered again. “This is about the shooting at Valley Hope. The newspaper said if anyone had information to call—”
“I can’t hear you, sir. Are you speaking into the receiver?” The man had the same maddening sort of voice as the woman had, unhurried, unemotional, almost uninterested.
Marco rebuked himself again. “This is about the shooting at Valley Hope. The newscaster said if anyone had information—”
“You’re calling about the shooting at Valley Hope in Long Island. I see. Go on.”
Marco hesitated. Suddenly this call didn’t seem like a clever piece of strategy at all. It seemed a damned fool thing to do, and he was the damned fool doing it. He held the receiver, pondering if he should say more or simply hang up.
“Sir, are you still there? You have information about the Valley Hope case? I’m listening.”
Sir, Marco thought with a pang of fear. His whispering hadn’t fooled his listener. He stood, his mind racing. “Philadelphia,” he mumbled. “The people you want are in Philadelphia. A man, a woman …”
“Let me confirm this. You say that the people we want are in Philadelphia. What people do you mean, sir? The perpetrators?”
“The innocent ones,” Marco said with a desperate hiss. “Philadelphia. They’re in Philadelphia.
A man, a woman, two children.”
“Which people, sir? Can you speak up?”
An operator’s voice interrupted them. “Please deposit another dollar, twenty-five cents.”
Marco automatically reached toward his stacked coins, but his hand quivered and twitched, knocking them to the ground. Some rolled away, some sank into a pockmarked patch of snow, and some splashed into the trampled slush.
“Please deposit another dollar, twenty-five cents,” the operator droned.
But Marco’s trembling hands had betrayed him, and his mind seemed to fly apart in confusion. He forgot what he’d meant to say to the FBI, he was afraid he couldn’t retrieve enough coins to feed the phone, and the phone itself suddenly felt as dangerous in his hand as a cobra.
He hung it up, and breathing hard, his heart and his pulses rocking his body, he hobbled back to his car.
“Hey, Dr. DeMario,” called the station attendant. “Ya dropped some money there—”
Marco ignored him and almost stumbled getting back inside his car. He drove home feeling disoriented and frightened. Mick had said something he should remember. But what? What? He was so shaken that twice he almost drove off the road.
Once home, he was so unsteady, he could barely get his key in the door to unlock it, and it took him two tall glasses of wine, drunk quickly, to calm him.
But his temples still banged when he lay down on his bed. He thought he’d done all Mick had asked. What had he forgotten? What?
Now in the light of morning, he stared dully into his coffee cup. He thought back to his confusion over the call to the FBI, the fallen coins, his own humiliation. No fool like an old fool, he told himself bitterly.
Then, suddenly, Mick’s words came flashing into his brain. Mick had said, “Don’t try anything cute.” Trying something cute, of course, had been exactly what Marco had done.
He thanked God that he’d used the pay phone because that number couldn’t be traced. And he prayed God that his cuteness wouldn’t backfire. He would rather give up his immortal soul than put Mick in danger.
Laura gave Montana his first stint as a teacher that morning. She let Trace skip his lessons and curl up on the sofa.
He was still sick, but stubbornly insisted that Jefferson read him the newspapers. Jefferson pretended to grumble, but settled in next to Trace and read aloud.
Laura sat with Rickie and Montana at the dining room table. She showed Montana how she tried to teach the concept of cause and effect.
“Tell me about this picture,” she said, pointing at one in a series.
“Boy has big cookie,” Rickie muttered, bored. He rocked back and forth in his chair and chewed his lower lip. He seemed jealous of his brother and kept wanting to turn around to look.
“That’s right, the boy has a cookie,” Laura encouraged. “Tell me about the boy’s face. Say how his face looks.”
“A smile.” Rickie sighed.
She nodded to Montana, a signal for him to take over.
“Say if the smile means happy or sad,” Montana said.
Rickie twisted in his chair, sighed again, and looked at the book. “Happy,” he murmured, and he began to hum and tap his fingers against his face.
“Tell what makes the boy smile,” Montana said. “Say what makes the boy happy.”
Rickie frowned at the picture and chewed his lip harder. “Butterflies,” he said for some unfathomable reason. “Butterflies fly.”
Montana looked at Laura in grim astonishment.
Laura pointed to the picture. “The cookie makes the boy happy. The cookie makes the boy smile,” she said patiently. “Now tell about this picture. Say who has the cookie.”
“Doggy has the cookie,” Rickie said and began to hum again and fiddle with the cuff of his sweatshirt.
Laura took him by the chin, made him look back at the book. “Tell about the boy’s face. Say how the boy’s face looks.”
“Sad,” Rickie said petulantly.
“Say why the boy is sad,” Montana coached.
“Butterflies,” Rickie muttered. “Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies.”
“No,” Montana said, shaking his head. “Say what made the boy sad.”
At last, after four more tries, he got Rickie to say the boy was sad because the doggy had the cookie.
Then Rickie wanted to go to the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Montana turned to Laura. “When’s recess?” he asked in a stage whisper.
“You’re in luck,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s in five minutes.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I had it easier busting crack dealers.”
“You think you got it tough?” Jefferson called from the sofa. “I ran out of real newspapers. Now look what I’m reduced to.”
He held up one of the old tabloids that had been stacked by the fireplace.
“He likes those?” Laura said dubiously.
“He loves ’em,” Jefferson said with a put-upon look. “It’s gonna rot my mind completely.” He gazed at the paper in disbelief and shook his head. “My, my. What’s that rascal Prince Charles gone and done now?”
Laura and Montana smiled at his mock gloom. Jefferson obviously felt at least a bit better, and Montana could see Laura’s relief. Under the table he took her hand and squeezed it, as if to say, See? We’re going to be all right.
She squeezed his hand in return, but her smile died. He knew what she was thinking.
Their time together was running out.
For recess, Montana and Laura took Rickie outside. Rickie took one look and immediately ran toward the barn.
“He’s curious. That’s always a good sign,” Laura said. Montana nodded and together they set off after him.
The barn was small, but neatly kept, and its door was unlocked. Its air was scented with hay and the faint hint of horse. Straw littered the floor, a worn bridle hung from a peg, and a faded saddle blanket draped the door of a stall. An old-fashioned cast-iron bathtub stood in one corner under a faucet.
“Horses take baths?” Montana said, feigning surprise.
“They used it for a watering trough,” Laura said. “My grandpa did the same thing. Only his was in the barnyard.”
“Horses take baths,” Rickie piped and climbed into the tub. He sat in it, grinning at them gleefully. He began to chant, “Horses take baths. Horses take baths.”
Montana shook his head, but Laura only smiled. “Now see what you’ve started?”
He sighed and put his arm around her. She nestled more snugly into its crook and, while Rickie was crooning, gazed about the barn.
The place had served as a storage shed as well as barn. Sheets of rusted corrugated iron roofing leaned against one wall. An ancient tractor was parked near the bathtub.
An untidy collection of tires lay heaped in a stall beside a wheelbarrow and a tangle of hose. Overhead, the hayloft, thickly strewn with hay, sent fragrant motes dancing through the air.
Rickie, tiring of the tub, climbed out, his singsong words trailing off. He became intrigued by the ladder up to the loft and wanted to climb it.
Laura remembered her grandfather’s farm and how much fun a hayloft could be. She let Rickie climb up and followed him to make sure his play was safe. Montana stayed below.
Rickie loved the hay. He fell into it, threw it into the air, crawled through it on hands and knees. Laura was touched by his delight, but could not forget that Montana paced beneath them like a sentry, his gun in place. A deep and terrible sadness nagged her. Will we ever be free again?
When she could finally lure Rickie away from the wonders of the loft, she let him climb down first. On some impulse, he sprang away from the ladder and Montana caught him. It was as if he trusted Montana to catch him without warning, and Montana had done it.
Montana whirled him around. He stopped and with his good hand, turned the boy’s face to his. “Gecko,” he said. “Iguana.”
“Texas banded gecko,” Rickie said with fervor. “Big Bend gecko. Bande
d gecko. Yellow gecko.” But he struggled to get out of Montana’s grasp.
Montana released him, and Rickie ran outdoors. He threw himself down and began making a snow angel. “Leaf-toed gecko,” he chanted. “Oscillated gecko. Ashy gecko. Reef gecko …”
Laura reached the bottom of the ladder. Montana took her by the waist, drew her to the floor, and turned her around. “I never had time to say good morning,” he said, and gave her a brief kiss.
She was ashamed that such a quick kiss should make her short of breath. She kissed him back, just as quickly, and then they drew apart. Neither spoke.
Rickie lay thrashing in a snow bank, making a second snow angel. “Blunt-nosed leopard lizard,” he caroled. “Leopard lizard. Spot-tailed earless lizard.”
She strolled to the barn door and watched Rickie rise from the snow, then fling himself down again to a third angel. She felt Montana move behind her, so close that she could sense his warmth in the icy morning air.
She kept her back to him and her gaze on Rickie. “I keep wondering,” she said. “What did they see that’s worth all this killing? Or who?”
“I wonder, too.”
Laura shook her head. “Who could they recognize? We went through almost all the mug shots.”
“Almost,” Montana said. “Not all.”
Rickie leaped up from the snow, whirling around giddily. “Texas spiny lizard!” he shouted at the sky. “Granite spiny lizard! Crevice spiny lizard!”
He threw himself into a drift and flailed his arms and legs, making yet another angel in the snow.
Fear had been a constant presence in Laura’s life for almost a week, a presence she’d tried not to admit. Now she found herself not only acknowledging, but bowing to it.
She spoke from between clenched teeth. “I want him to make angels, not to be one. He’s so innocent. No one else could be as innocent as he and Trace are.”
Montana gripped her shoulder. “Laura …”
She lifted her chin to a stubborn angle and tried to ignore his touch. “I don’t care what we pretend about you and me,” she said. “But I always want to know the truth about them and what’s happening to them.”
“All right,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. She felt the warmth of his breath, saw it ascend, ghostlike, toward the gray sky.
See How They Run Page 21