[Holly Lin 01.0] No Shelter

by Robert Swartwood

  His eyes are robin-egg blue.

  “But I’m sure Javier explained that to you. He may even have explained how we contacted him. Like I said, Holly, the family wants you dead. Actually, they want you tortured and then dead. But we managed to persuade them otherwise. We managed to extend your life.”

  He has a small cleft in his chin; jokingly I always referred to it has his little baby’s butt.

  “Trust me when I say we wouldn’t do this for just anybody. But you … well, believe it or not, I do still love and care for you.”

  I’d seen him shot in the chest by my father. I’d seen the blood.

  “You’re going to be my messenger, Holly. You’re going to tell Walter what we want in return for his children.”

  I’d seen him fall over the side. I’d heard the splash his body made when it struck the water.

  “It’s not going to be easy for Walter. We’re aware of this. It’s not like the United States government will simply hand over the flash drive to him so he can hand it over to us. But I’m sure he’ll do his best to get it back. Don’t you agree?”

  He turns away from me, turns back around with a syringe in his hands. He inspects it closely, tapping the sides to release the air bubbles as he pushes the plunger.

  “I’m not going to be melodramatic about this. I’m not going to set a deadline. If he wants his children back, he’ll get us the flash drive as soon as possible. It’s that simple.”

  He moves to the side, to my right, and stands beside me.

  “We’ll be watching everything. We’ll know what he’s thinking. We’re more powerful than he cares to admit. Just remind him of that, okay?”

  The aftershave he wears is the same he wore two years ago. I can close my eyes and picture the two of us naked in bed. I can close my eyes and almost taste his sweat.

  “This right here, Holly, this is only a sedative. It’ll knock you out for a couple hours. By that time Walter should be here.”

  With his free hand he twists my arm, looking for a vein.

  “He’ll want to know what happened. And you’ll tell him. You’ll tell him everything.”

  He finds a vein and keeps it in place with his thumb, then places the needle on the vein.

  “You’re the only one we can trust now, Holly. We know how you feel about those kids. We know you’ll do your best to get them back safely. Won’t you?”

  He pushes the plunger down with his thumb.

  “By the way, I heard about what happened to Stuttering Scooter. Can’t say I’m surprised. The guy was always out of his element.”

  The syringe empty, he pulls out the needle and stands back.

  “It should only take about a minute or two. Are you feeling anything yet?”

  I glare at him.

  “Don’t judge me, Holly. I’m not going to give you some bullshit excuse for standing here right now. I picked this path and I’m happy with the decision.”

  His face starts to blurs. The room starts to go in and out of focus.

  “It’s starting to take effect, isn’t it?”

  My eyelids grow heavy. My head grows heavy too, so heavy that I drop it and then quickly try to bring it back up.

  “Remember, Holly—if Walter wants his children back, he’ll get that flash drive.”

  Zane leans forward, and as I look up at him, his face begins swirling toward the vortex of his nose.

  “Also tell him no bullshit. We’ll be watching. We’ll know everything.”

  The world tilts, starts to go gray.

  “For the children’s sake, Holly,” Zane says, “don’t fuck this up.”

  The last thing I know before the gray turns to black is Zane kissing me on the forehead.

  Forty-Eight

  At some point I open my eyes. A whiteness stares back at me. I think that this is it—this is death. There is no heaven. There is no hell. All that waits for us at the end is nothing. We’re taken back to the place we began, to a womb of whiteness, and here we stay for eternity, staring at that numbing white and thinking about everything we could have done better in our lives, every misstep and every mistake, and never any of the good stuff, no matter how much there was.

  Someone clears his throat.

  When I look away from the whiteness—what I quickly realize is a ceiling, the ceiling of the Haddens’ guest bedroom—I have to do it slowly because the world’s largest department store has set up shop in my head, a hundred thousand cash registers going ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching all at once.

  A man in an Army uniform stands in the doorway.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I open my mouth but close it. My throat is dry.

  “Do you need something to drink?”

  I nod.

  He walks out of the room, leaving the door open. I take a moment to look around the guest bedroom. I’ve stayed here before, the few times I needed to spend the night. It’s one of Marilyn’s pet projects. An actual spinning wheel sits in the corner. A handcrafted quilt hangs from the wall. This room is meant to give the impression of a simpler time. A time where evil was mostly superstition.

  When the soldier returns with a glass of water he isn’t alone. Walter is with him, still wearing his uniform, only the top couple buttons have been undone. His face is strained, making him look ten years older.

  The soldier sets the glass of water on the bedside table. He helps me sit up. It takes a while because my head is still pounding and because my body is still sore. When I’m at the right position, the soldier hands me the glass. He doesn’t let go, though, and helps guide the glass to my lips, keeps his hands there as I take a sip, then another.

  Walter thanks him, tells him he can leave. Then he pulls up an antique rocking chair beside the bed and sits down.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “Can you talk?”

  I swallow, clear my throat. In a weak voice, I say, “Yes.”

  “Good. Now tell me who did this.”

  “It was”—I have to clear my throat again—“Zane.”

  Nothing changes in Walter’s face. No surprise. No confusion.

  “Walter, did you hear me? I said it was Zane.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Walter”—I sit up even straighter—“how can that be possible? Zane … is dead.”

  He leans forward. “What does he want?”

  “The flash drive.”

  Walter closes his eyes. He places his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

  “They have Casey and David. They’re going to kill them if you don’t give them the flash drive.”

  Again he doesn’t react when I use the plural form. Nothing surprises this man. He no doubt heard Sylvia’s story already, about the men in suits … that is, if Sylvia is still alive.

  “How’s Sylvia?”

  “What?” Walter looks up, blinks at me. “She’s fine. Shook up, but she’s fine.”

  I think briefly of the bloody carpet, the lump of fur. “And Baron?”

  Staring at me, Walter shakes his head.

  “How is this possible, Walter? Zane … he’s supposed to be dead.”

  “Take me through everything that happened this morning. Every single detail.”

  “Walter—”

  “Goddamn it, Holly, tell me what happened.”

  I tell him what happened. From the moment we left the house today, to the pool, to the kids picking on Casey, to David coming to her rescue. To my lesson to David in the parking lot, to my first call, to my second call, to watching Colin and Mitchell die, then to getting in the car and taking off and meeting up with Javier Diaz and then to where they tied me up in Walter’s study.

  “How many would you say there are, in total?” Walter asks.

  “At least six. Zane, Javier and the two in the car, the guy who took the kids, the Porsche’s driver, and the shooter back at the pool.”

  Walter nods, as if this is what he’s thinking too.

  “There’s probably more,
though,” I say.

  “Probably.”

  “How is Marilyn taking it?”

  His eyes stare at me for an instant, quickly shift away.

  “Jesus Christ, Walter. You haven’t told her yet?”

  “She’s had meetings all day.”

  “Then call her.”

  “Not yet. Not until I decide what needs done.”

  The hundred thousand cash registers have gone silent. The only sound now is the blood beating away in my ears.

  “What needs done,” I say, swinging my feet off the bed and onto the floor, “is getting your kids back.”

  “You don’t think I know that?”

  “You don’t seem to care.”

  “You have no idea how I’m feeling right now.”

  “They’re your kids, Walter.”

  “I understand that. I fucking understand that. But what they’re asking for in return is something … fuck.”

  He throws his arm aside, knocking the glass against the wall. The shattered pieces scatter on the carpet.

  For a moment there’s silence. Walter glares at me, his jaw set, his face red. There are no tears in his eyes. I can’t say I’m not surprised. After all, the man has been trained to be like steel. Even when his children’s lives are on the line, he shows no emotion.

  For the very first time I pity him.

  “You need to tell her, Walter.”

  “My wife is a great woman.” Even though he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s speaking to himself. “She has sacrificed so much for our family. Now … now this.”

  “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you assigned the agents to watch us.”

  “I’d had an idea they would retaliate. Especially when I found out your father was involved.”

  A trapdoor opens up beneath my feet. For an instant I’m weightless, falling, falling, falling. Then I steady myself. I close my eyes. Take a breath. Open my eyes again.

  “What did you say?”

  Walter blinks. “You mean Zane didn’t mention him?”

  “My father”—I shake my head slowly—“is alive?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Holly. You saw Zane with your own eyes. If he’s alive, your father’s alive too.”

  “But I … I shot him.”

  “That’s what they wanted you to think.”

  “There was … blood … blood all over him.” I pause, glance back up at Walter. “You knew?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “You fucking bastard. You knew this entire time. Why didn’t you … why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “You should go home, Holly. Get some rest. I’ll have someone drive you.”

  “How long have you known?”

  Walter shouts out a name, and a moment later the same soldier from before enters the room.

  “Rick, please drive Miss Lin home, would you?”

  Rick nods and steps forward.

  I ignore him. I keep glaring at Walter.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Go home, Holly. There’s nothing else for you to do here.”

  I close my eyes. Shake my head. Try to hold back the tears. I want to beat this man sitting in front of me right now. I want to kill him. But instead I take a deep breath and open my eyes and turn and walk past Soldier Rick out of the room.

  Down the hallway to the stairs, down the stairs to the landing, from the landing through the hallway to the living room, then the kitchen, I pass at least a dozen soldiers, many MPs, looking for evidence, whispering to each other, trying to do everything they can so they don’t have to bring the actual police into the situation. After all, this isn’t a civilian issue. This is an Army issue, a United States government issue, and they will try to keep it as hush-hush as possible.

  Outside there are a half-dozen cars and SUVs parked in the driveway and along the street. I don’t know which one to go to. I wait until Soldier Rick comes out and then I follow him to one of the cars and get in and then just sit there, my arms crossed, staring out the window.

  “Where to?” he asks, starting the engine.

  I don’t answer.

  He puts the car in reverse, backs us out of the driveway. We start down the street, the sun shining through the trees that reach up and cover us, casting shadows everywhere. At the end of the block we reach the stop sign. A car coming up Vine Street stops at the same time, its turn signal flashing.

  Marilyn. It’s five thirty—I now see the time on the dashboard—and she’s coming home from her meetings. Soon she’ll arrive home and see all the cars and SUVs. She’ll enter her house to find that it’s become a stranger’s. Then Walter will approach her and she’ll see it on his face, in his eyes, and she will begin to cry, begin to wail, falling to her knees, pounding Walter with her fists.

  I don’t know for certain this will happen, but as we pull through the intersection, as we leave Marilyn behind, I hope it’s close enough to the truth.

  I hope she punches him as many times as she can.

  I hope she makes him pay.

  Forty-Nine

  It’s one of those silly ironies that on the worst day of my life the elevator in my apartment building is working.

  I take the stairs anyway. I let myself into my apartment and shut the door. I think about eating something—my stomach is growling—but I don’t have an appetite. I take off my sandals, drop them to the floor, and enter the living room to find Nova sitting on the couch.

  He doesn’t say anything. He just watches me. In his hand, resting in his lap, is a black Beretta pistol.

  I sit down in the recliner facing him.

  “Were you followed?” he asks.

  “No, but it doesn’t matter anyway. They know where I live and if they wanted to take me out by now they would have.”

  Nova doesn’t respond.

  “How long have you known?”

  He keeps watching me.

  “Why the fuck did nobody ever tell me?” I shake my head, lean forward in my seat. “I watched them die.”

  “No”—Nova shakes his head almost imperceptibly—“you watched what they wanted you to watch.”

  “So you knew?”

  “I had my suspicions.”

  “But why … why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I figured it wasn’t my place. Besides, I never knew for certain.”

  I lean back in the recliner, run my fingers through my hair. “So everybody figured it out except me.”

  “John was your father. Zane was your lover. After seeing what you did, there was no way you could ever step back and look at it rationally.”

  “And if I could have stepped back and looked at it rationally, what would I have seen?”

  “For starters, I was supposed to be the one who went on that yacht, not you. But John changed the plan before we left. He said he wanted you there instead.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No, but remember who gave you your guns.”

  “Zane did.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That still”—I shake my head again—“that still doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I know you, Holly. I know how particular you are about your weapons. Especially your ammunition. When you can, you like to load your own rounds. You like to make sure you touch each one before you put them in the magazine. But sometimes you’d allow Zane to load your magazines for you. Why? Because out of all of us, he was the one you trusted most.”

  I think about Zane again, turning around in Walter’s chair, Zane who I watched die two years ago.

  “Impossible,” I whisper.

  “They’d loaded blanks in the magazine.”

  “No, they didn’t. I’d used the gun. I’d fired it.”

  “But had you hit anything?”

  I pause a moment, trying to remember. Everything had been happening so quickly.

  “Zane and my dad were doing most of the shooting. They went on the yacht first.”

 
Nova nods, watching me closely. He doesn’t say anything.

  “But I …”

  I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. Trying to work it out in my head, how it could possibly have happened that the two men I trusted most in the world played me for a fool.

  But I saw Zane with my own eyes today. I heard his voice. I felt his hands on my arm. I felt his lips on my forehead.

  “Why?” I ask finally.

  “Who knows. There may not even be a reason.”

  “There has to be a reason. Zane, my father … they were good men.”

  “Were they?”

  My teeth clenched, I get up and stalk into the kitchen. I open the fridge. The light comes on and I look at the little I have in there—the nearly empty container of milk, the V8, the aging cheese—and I wonder if I died who would be the one to clean out this fridge, what they would think, the story these few remaining items would tell.

  I close the fridge door, open the cabinet and pull out a glass. I use the tap to fill the glass and I take a long swallow, then another long swallow. I set the glass in the sink and start to turn back toward the living room when the corkboard on the wall by the phone catches my eye.

  On the corkboard, in the top right corner, is the Bazooka Joe comic Scooter gave me.

  Nova steps into the kitchen, leans against the doorway. The Beretta hangs at his side.

  “You should get some sleep,” he says.

  Still staring at the comic, I say, “Do you know everything that happened today?”

  “I know two FBI agents were killed. I know Walter’s kids were taken and are being used for ransom for Delano’s flash drive.”

  “Those kids are already dead, aren’t they?”

  Nova doesn’t answer.

  I turn around so I can face him. “Answer me, Nova. Do you think Casey and David are dead already? Do you think Zane—do you think my father—is capable of killing them?”

  “People are capable of all different kinds of things.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “You should go lie down.”

  “I’m not tired,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’m exhausted. Whatever Zane gave me is still working its way through my system and I feel more than a little drowsy.