[Holly Lin 01.0] No Shelter

by Robert Swartwood

  I continue toward the kitchen table where Marilyn sits with the children. She has today’s Post open before her and is busy scanning an article. Without glancing up at me, she smiles and says, “Good morning, Holly. How was your trip?”

  As usual my absence is explained by some sort of trip—visiting friends, family, whatever. Walter almost never clues me in on specific details and so when asked a general question about a trip I give a general answer.

  “It was good, thanks.”

  She smiles again, turns the page. “Glad to hear it.”

  Casey and David both wave and say hello. Their smiles fade when they see my face. In all honesty, the bruising isn’t terrible. From a distance you can barely tell it’s there. But up close, with the kids less than ten feet away, they can see it and at once worry clouds their faces.

  I look at both of them, look at them hard, and quickly shake my head. I can deal with the kids later, but right now I don’t want to deal with Marilyn. She won’t be as discreet as Sylvia. She won’t accept a simple answer of it being an accident. She’ll worry, ask questions, maybe even call the police on my behalf. She’s a good woman who means well, but right now she’s the last person I want to deal with.

  “Hey, kiddos,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “You guys ready for a fun day?”

  “Yeah,” they answer together, though the enthusiasm they usually share at this time in the morning has been diminished by their worry.

  I don’t bother asking Marilyn if her husband is home. I don’t bother making a silly excuse to leave the kitchen. Two years now I’ve been working for this family, giving me the right to have the run of the house when I want it, and so I continue past them through the house all the way to Walter’s office.

  I don’t bother knocking. I open the door and walk in and then stand there, holding the coffee.

  Apparently today is a Pentagon day. Walter sits behind his desk wearing his uniform, his three stars aglow from the artificial light of the computer screen. He looks away from the monitor, stares at me for a moment, and says, “Christ, you look like hell.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Walter.”

  “Nova told me it was bad, but … Christ.”

  “You really know how to lift a girl’s spirits.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just watches me.

  “I see you have the FBI still chaperoning us.”

  He shrugs. “For the time being it makes sense.”

  “Which means what exactly—how much longer before you replace me?”

  “That’s not—”

  “I don’t want to be replaced.”

  “Holly—”

  I take a step closer, lower my voice. “I don’t want to be taken off the team. This is what I do. This is what I’m good at. I can’t … I can’t do anything else.”

  Walter doesn’t say anything.

  “If the issue is about me being reckless and irresponsible, I can change that. I can be better.”

  Walter shakes his head. “No, you can’t. That gradual decline you’re on, it’s too steep. You’ll never get back to where you were before.”

  His words, they’re like a slap in my face. In a soft, stunted voice, I say, “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? I’d assumed after what happened to Scooter you would learn your lesson and not knowingly put your team members in danger. But from what I understand, you walked into Xerxes’s club just because you wanted to see the man.” He snorts a disgusted laugh. “Just how stupid are you?”

  I look away from him. “What happened to Philippe?”

  “What do you think happened? He just found out his entire team has been working as double agents. He’s under investigation, and will probably never return to that detail again.”

  “That’s not fair. He’s a good man.”

  “His superiors feel otherwise. And quite frankly, I can’t say I blame them. After all, Philippe has been making this thing against Xerxes personal. His feelings got in the way of rational thought.”

  I didn’t get a chance to talk with Philippe about what happened. Nova was the one who had found me. He was the one who drove me to the airstrip and got me on the cargo jet out of the country. He even rode with me, holding me most of the flight. And when we had landed he took me home, fed me and put me to bed where I slept almost the whole day.

  “Something’s troubling you,” Walter says. “What is it?”

  “That man in the alleyway. The one who saved my life.”

  “What about him?”

  I fix my gaze on Walter’s. “He held his gun right at my face, like he was going to shoot me. But he didn’t.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. We still don’t know who he is.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s … I had the sense he didn’t even intend on killing me. But he wanted me to see that he had the opportunity. He wanted me to understand in that instant he had the power of deciding whether or not I lived.”

  “And that scares you?”

  I nod.

  “Why?”

  “That’s exactly it. Why? Why did he save me from those cops? Why did he decide to let me live?”

  I glance down at the carpet, glance back up. Shake my head.

  “Just what am I to him, anyway?”

  Forty-Three

  The agents’ names are Colin and Mitchell. Mitchell’s nose is the one I broke. It’s clear they don’t like me much—I have to admit, after what I put them through, I wouldn’t like me much either—but their assignment is to keep an eye on us and so that’s what they do.

  I have to let the kids know about them. There’s no getting around it. Their combined ages might equal ten, but they’re not stupid. They remember what happened last Wednesday. They remember the faces of those two men. And now those two men will be following us everywhere, and so I explain to them that they’re FBI agents and that they’ll be following us today and maybe tomorrow and maybe for the rest of the week.

  David says yeah, they already know about the FBI guys. He says Daddy told him and Casey. He says Daddy asked them to keep it a secret from Mommy and Miss Sylvia, and if they keep that promise, they’ll both get a present.

  “A really big present,” Casey says, a huge smile on her face.

  We make our usual trip to the community pool. Brunette and Redhead are lounging in the shade of their favorite tree. Blondie is nowhere in sight.

  I don’t want to bother with the girls—not with my face the way it is today—but Redhead spots me and points me out to Brunette, who stands up and waves me over with both hands flapping wildly.

  The kids are already suited up. They race into the kiddie pool. David makes his way over to his friends. Casey, who has trouble making friends, stands off to the side. She watches everyone, bending slightly so she can graze the tips of her fingers in the cool water.

  Colin and Mitchell station themselves by the entrance. They wear jeans and polo shirts. They wear sunglasses that scream they’re police.

  When I reach the girls, Brunette says frantically, “Holly, you won’t believe—oh my God, what happened?”

  She reaches out, touches my tender face. It takes everything I have not to flinch.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Redhead approaches, her mouth open and her eyes wide. “Holy crap, are you okay?”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Was it him?” Brunette says, meaning I guess my fictional boyfriend. “Did that bastard do this to you?”

  I hesitate, trying to think up all the different ways this could go. Finally I lower my head and nod and murmur, “Yes.”

  “Oh, poor dear,” Redhead says. She steps forward, gives me a hug.

  “I’m through with him,” I say, thanking God I’m wearing sunglasses and don’t have to fake tears. “I told him if he ever comes around me again, I’ll call the police.”

  “Good for you,” Brunette says, like I’m a two-year-old who just used the potty by myself for the first time.

  “But re
ally, don’t worry about it,” I tell them. “It’s all over with. What were you going to tell me? What won’t I believe?”

  And suddenly it’s like my own horror story isn’t news anymore and they start telling me about what happened to Blondie, both of them talking over one another in their excited, breathless voices.

  “She found out he’s cheating—”

  “—has been cheating—”

  “—and that one of the girls he’s been cheating with—”

  “—like, one of her best friends—”

  “—and she’s not the only one either—”

  “—yeah, there’s been like three or four other girls—”

  “—and when she called me she could barely talk she was crying so hard—”

  “—she told me she threw her ring at him, hit him right in the eye—”

  “—she should have kept the thing, tried to pawn it or something—”

  “—so terrible—”

  “—yes, so terrible.”

  They fall silent at the same time, staring at me, probably waiting for me to start up the chorus where they left off. I even open my mouth but then close it. I don’t want to tell them what I’m thinking. How I’m happy this happened. How I’ve listened to Blondie talk about her boyfriend all this time and how they gushed over the ring and the wedding details and how they left me out and how if anybody in the world should be happy it’s me.

  It’s a terrible, selfish thing for me to think, but I can’t help it.

  I shake my head and echo their chorus: “Terrible.”

  Before the girls can start up again, I hear Casey’s voice rising among the rest of the voices shouting out around the pool.

  I turn and see that she’s being splashed again. They might be the same kids as before but they might not. Regardless, two of them are splashing her while the lifeguard once again has his attention focused on something else. David is off on the other side of the pool, playing with his friends. He doesn’t hear his sister, or if he does, he’s ignoring her.

  I tell the girls I’ll be right back, and start toward the kiddie pool.

  David reaches the two brats before I do. I’m forty feet away when his sister’s cries finally burrow into his brain. I’m thirty feet away when he turns and breaks away from his friends. I’m twenty feet away when he starts hurrying through the water, then ten feet away when he reaches the two brats.

  I slip off my sandals and step into the water when David grabs the closest brat on the shoulder, turns him around, and punches him in the gut.

  I reach them a second later. The brat that’s just gotten punched cries out, and of course his shout catches the attention of the waste-of-space lifeguard. The lifeguard jumps to his feet, blows his whistle, hurries into the water. A woman’s voice rises up among the rest. It’s the voice of the brat’s mother, and she’s screaming as she runs to the kiddie pool.

  I grab David and pull him back. He tries fighting me, looks up at me like I’m crazy, like I should let him punch the kid again.

  Casey is crying. The brat is crying. The lifeguard reaches us, asking what the matter is. And the mother is now standing on the edge of the pool, her hands to her mouth. She screams like a banshee, drawing everyone’s attention, screaming like her boy is being murdered in front of her eyes.

  Forty-Four

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “He was picking on Casey.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to punch the kid.”

  “But he was hurting her.”

  We’re out in the parking lot, grouped around my car. Casey is standing with the agents while I crouch down to look David in the eye.

  “Again, that doesn’t give you the right to punch him.”

  “Why not? You punched him,” David says and points at Mitchell.

  I glance back at Mitchell and see the agent shaking his head, looking off toward the fence and the pool beyond. I turn my attention back to David.

  “That was different.”

  “How?” he asks. “How was that different?”

  “The point is what you did was wrong. You should never hit anyone.”

  “But you hit him,” David says, pointing again.

  “That’s right, I did, and do you know what? I was wrong. If I could go back, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  David looks down at his feet. He smiles when he says, “You really kicked his butt.”

  “David.”

  “Do you know kung fu and ninja stuff?” He looks up, his eyes hopeful. “Can you teach me?”

  I glance over at the agents and catch them grinning. Casey stands between them, holding tightly onto her towel, looking down at the ground. I want to go to her, hug her, tell her that everything is all right. I want to give her a reason why people are mean and how she can avoid those people for the rest of her life.

  I say to David, “What I know how to do is protect myself. That’s the purpose of karate: self-defense. You should never use it to attack another person.”

  “Can you show me?” His eyes and smile growing even larger. “Huh? Can you? Can you please?”

  I stand up straight, reach into my purse for the keys. “Not today.”

  “Oh, come on—please?” Now holding his hands flat together. “Pretty please?”

  One of the agents chuckles.

  “You’re being a real brat, David,” I say.

  He keeps his hands flat together, pouting his lips, looking so very un-David-like that I can’t help but smile.

  I open the car, throw in my bag, then glance back at the agents. I decide Mitchell has had it a little too rough lately so I motion Colin to come forward. He glances at his counterpart, glances at me, shrugs and walks over to us.

  I gesture for Colin to stand behind David and take him from behind. Colin does just this, quickly grabbing David’s right arm and pulling it back as the agent wraps his other arm around David’s neck.

  “Now this, David,” I say as the boy starts to struggle, “is called a sleeper hold. Do you know why it’s called a sleeper hold?”

  David keeps fighting, trying to squirm and wiggle his way out of Colin’s grasp. Colin grins at me, the sun reflecting off his shades, and behind me Mitchell doesn’t stifle his chuckle this time. He lets out a full-fledged laugh. Even Casey giggles.

  I lean down close to David. “Stop struggling. That’s your first lesson. The more you struggle, the more you’ll wear yourself out.”

  David is reluctant at first, but he stops struggling. His chest heaves.

  “Okay, good. Now what you want to do next is—”

  “I know what to do next,” David says, and with his free arm he lifts his elbow and brings it right back down on Colin’s crotch.

  Mitchell lets out a great roar of laughter as Colin groans and releases David and turns away. Even Casey giggles again.

  David smiles at me triumphantly. “Like that, right?”

  “No, you dummy, not like that.”

  I start toward him, meaning to grab him by the ear and lead him to the car, when my cell phone rings. Thinking it might be Walter, I reach into the car and grab the phone from my bag. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway.

  “Hello, is this Holly?” a female voice asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Holly, this is Gloria Stevens from Markham & Davis. How are you today?”

  I frown. Markham & Davis is Ryan’s firm. I interviewed there last week.

  “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

  As the woman tells me she’s doing fabulous, thank you, I motion to Mitchell and Colin that we’re leaving.

  Colin has righted himself again but he’s wincing, breathing through his teeth. Mitchell walks up behind him, claps him once on the back.

  “The reason I’m calling, Holly, is that I’d like to schedule you to come back for a second interview.”

  With the phone to my ear, I manage to get Casey into her child’s seat. She watches me click in the harness when I say
, “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry we rushed your interview last week, but there was a funeral I had to attend, and … well, regardless, I would like you to come back in so you can take a typing test and so we can discuss the job in more detail.”

  I stand up and glance over the roof, watch Colin and Mitchell heading to their car. Mitchell is still laughing; Colin shakes his head and gives him the finger.

  “Holly? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “So can I schedule you to come in sometime this week?”

  I glance down at Casey in the child’s seat, at David who has opened the opposite rear door and climbed in and slammed it shut.

  “I … um … I’m not actually interested anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In the job. I gave it a lot of thought, and I don’t think it’s a good match for me.”

  “Oh,” the woman says. “Okay. Well, that’s no problem at all. I, um, wish you luck with your other endeavors.”

  Endeavors. The word makes me want to roll my eyes. “Thank you. And thank you for calling.”

  “My pleasure. Have a good day.”

  “You too,” I say and immediately hit the button to disconnect.

  “Who was that?” Casey asks. She kicks her legs hanging over the child’s seat back and forth.

  “Wrong number,” I say, smiling at her, and shut the door.

  I start around the car to the driver’s side when the phone rings again. I don’t recognize this number either, and after dealing with Miss Endeavor I don’t feel like dealing with anymore asinine bullshit, so I answer with a tired and irritated hello.

  “Hello, Miss Lin,” a man says. He has a Spanish accent. “How are you today?”

  I open my door but don’t get in just yet. “I’m sorry, who’s this?”

  “How much do you care for the welfare of those two precious children?”

  A red light starts flashing in my head. My body tenses. I don’t move, though, don’t give the caller the satisfaction of knowing his words have had the desired effect. After all, judging by the way he posed the question, how he called right after I was done with my previous call, he’s no doubt watching me.