[Holly Lin 01.0] No Shelter

by Robert Swartwood

  “You wouldn’t hurt them.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

  “I guess it’s safe to assume there are two Hollys now. The Holly of Yesterday and the Holly of Today. Does the Holly of Today, now knowing everything she does, think I wouldn’t kill these kids if I didn’t get what I wanted?”

  “I don’t know. But the Holly of Tomorrow has something she wants to say to you. She says that when she sees you next, she’s going to shoot you in the fucking face.”

  “Fuck this,” Zane says. “Just remember—the children’s blood is now on your hands.”

  “Let me talk to them.”

  “What?”

  “The children. I want to hear their voices.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll talk.”

  Zane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t make a sound. I think for a moment that the line has gone dead when I hear a sniveling voice say hello.

  “Casey?”

  “Holly? Holly, is that you?”

  “Casey, it’s okay, baby. I’m—”

  “Holly, why—”

  Her voice fades away and then it’s David’s voice I hear, David’s frightened six-year-old voice quickly saying, “Mommy? Daddy? Hello? Hello?”

  I start to say David’s name but his voice fades away too and then it’s Zane back on the line, clearing his throat.

  “Satisfied?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The flash drive.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “No, but you can get it. And you will if you want these children to live.”

  I don’t bother questioning him. I know he’s serious. I know he’d snap one of the kid’s necks just to hear the sound it makes. That’s the type of person Zane has become.

  “How?”

  “Your car is parked three blocks away at the gas station on Vicker Street. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “The car is presently unlocked. The keys are in the glove box, along with a cell phone. When you get there I’ll call to give you further instructions. Oh, and Holly? No more being a bitch. Any flippant comment made to me will result in one of the children’s fingers being broken. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now you have exactly five minutes to get to the car before I call the cell phone. I will let it ring only five times before I hang up and kill one of the children. Do you understand that?”

  When I say I do, he says, “The clock is ticking.”

  Fifty-Three

  The clock is ticking, all right. The moment I slam the phone in the receiver, I start the countdown in my head.

  One—sprint through the kitchen—two—sprint to my bedroom—three—open the bottom dresser drawer—four—pull out my guns—five—strap the Kimber Micro 9 to my ankle—six—throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—seven—stick the remaining gun in the back of my jeans—eight—run back out into the apartment—nine—slip on my sneakers—ten—bolt for the door.

  My body has gone into overdrive. I have the vaguest sense that I’m moving faster than any human body should ever move.

  Out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs, through the lobby, crash through the main doors, and into the night.

  Two minutes.

  I sprint down the first block.

  Two and a half minutes.

  I sprint down the second.

  Three minutes.

  The third block.

  Three and a half minutes and I make it to the gas station, my body still in overdrive, the rest of the world a blur, and crowded around my car are three punks in long T-shirts and baseball caps tilted to the side.

  When I approach them, the one wearing a Red Sox cap says, “Yo, baby, what’s the hurry?”

  “Get the fuck off the car.”

  “Say what?”

  I step up close to him, breathing hard, the granules of sand in the hourglass of my head almost expired.

  “Fuck off.”

  He stands up straight. Looks at his boys. Looks back at me and lifts up his T-shirt to reveal the piece he has tucked into the waistband. It’s a dinky .38 Special revolver.

  I snatch the revolver from his pants, jam the barrel right into his balls.

  “Leave,” I say.

  His eyes wide, he stutter-nods and then backs away, waving his confused boys to follow him.

  I tear open the car door. The phone is already ringing. I throw the revolver on the passenger seat, open the glove box, and pull out the cell phone.

  “Just in time,” Zane says. “One more ring and either little Casey or David would have had their throat cut.”

  I’m silent, still trying to catch my breath. Finally I say, “I made it. Now what?”

  “Notice the GPS system installed on your dashboard?”

  I hadn’t, not with trying to beat the clock, but now I see the small screen sitting on the dash.

  “What about it?”

  “An address has already been keyed in for you. It will take you to the home of Atticus Caine.”

  “Who’s Atticus Caine?”

  “Walter still doesn’t tell you guys shit, does he?”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a guy who knows more than he should. If anybody will know where the flash drive is located, it’ll be him.”

  “What if he doesn’t help me?”

  “Then it looks like these children are never going to see their parents again.”

  I close my eyes, try to slow my breathing, my heart rate. Try to take myself to that special place, that little piece of shelter where nothing can hurt me. When I speak, it’s like all the oxygen has left my lungs.

  “I will get you the flash drive.”

  “That’s my girl. Oh, and Holly? I’m getting impatient. You have until six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  I glance at my watch. “That’s barely eight hours.”

  “More than enough time, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How will I contact you?”

  “You won’t.”

  Then he’s gone and I’m left sitting there alone in a car that used to be mine but isn’t anymore. Not after what happened today. Not after it was used in a kidnapping.

  I reach back into the glove box, extract the keys. I start the engine just as my rear windshield shatters.

  There are whoops and shouts. The three punks have returned. While the one was packing, the others apparently weren’t, and now they’re back with metal baseball bats. One hits the rear windshield again. Another takes a shot at my taillights. The third—my boyfriend in the Red Sox cap—steps up to the front and shatters my left headlight.

  He smiles at me, hawks and spits a loogie. It lands with a plop right on the hood.

  I consider getting out of the car. Consider kicking the shit out of these three idiots. It will be good for me, help me relieve the stress, but right now these assholes are just a distraction.

  I place the car in reverse and punch the gas. The car jerks backward. It knocks one of the punks aside. He falls to the ground and once again I consider hurting him more, but instead I maneuver a quick one-eighty and peel out onto the street.

  My hands are white around the steering wheel. My arms are shaking. Every single terrible thought and scenario is slithering their way through my brain. I feel like I’m on fire. I feel like my head is going to explode. I scream, as loud and as long as I can until my voice goes raw.

  Then I scream some more.

  Fifty-Four

  The GPS takes me north. Up 495 into Maryland, then west on 190 toward Elmer County. Nearly an hour and a half has passed. It’s now almost eleven thirty.

  According to the address Garmin gives me, Atticus Caine lives in a farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. A large metal gate blocks the driveway. To access it one needs a code, which I don’t have, and even if I did, I doubt I would be able to make it through the gate and up the lo
ng drive to the house at the top of the hill without alerting Caine and possibly the authorities.

  I drive a half mile down the road. I find a place to park, enough where I’m properly concealed by passing traffic.

  The night is still. The shrill of cicadas fill the air.

  I start into the trees. I go at a quick enough pace where I won’t trip and twist my ankle. I know the direction is correct, because after ten minutes I come across a chain-link fence. Barbed wire runs across the top of it.

  I begin to wonder what kind of farmhouse needs the protection of barbed wire when a twig snaps behind me and I draw my gun as I spin around and aim it right at Nova’s face.

  He says, “I didn’t know you were the hiking type.”

  I lower the gun. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I figured somebody would be watching your place. After I left, I circled around and parked two blocks up so I could watch your building. After about five minutes I saw you come out and book down the street. I followed you to the gas station. Say, what’d you do to piss off those kids?”

  “Does the name Atticus Caine mean anything to you?”

  Nova shakes his head. “This his place?”

  “According to Zane.”

  “Zane told you to come here?”

  “He says if anybody would know the location of the flash drive, it’d be this Caine guy.”

  Nova looks at the fence, at the barbed wire. He brings his arm out from behind his back to show a pair of bolt cutters. “I always knew these would come in handy one day.”

  It takes Nova a few minutes to cut a big enough hole in the fence. Once we’re on the other side, he says, “Now what?”

  This side of the fence is completely bare. No trees, no bushes, no cover of any kind. The farmhouse sits less than a quarter mile away. It’s a two-story and it seems as if every light on the first floor is burning.

  “Now that we’re in,” I say, “we might as well introduce ourselves.”

  We head up the long slope of grass. At the porch there are both steps and a ramp. As we approach the door, Nova reaches for his gun. I tell him don’t.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I have an idea this guy’s not an enemy.”

  “Holly, we just busted through his fence. We’re trespassing on his property. Trust me, to him we are now the enemy.”

  I knock on the door. Wait a couple seconds. Knock again.

  Nova says, “Fuck this,” and reaches out, turns the knob.

  The door opens.

  He looks at me, shrugs, and enters the house. I follow him, walking slowly, listening to the heavy silence.

  “Hello?” My raised voice sounds odd to me, much too strained. “Mr. Caine?”

  Nothing.

  Nova now has the Beretta out. He walks just as slowly as I do. The floor is polished oak. Framed photographs line the hallway, what look like Ansel Adams’s work.

  A stairway is directly in front of us. On the left and right are two open doorways. Nova leans up close against the wall, peeks in the one room, then the other. He looks back at me, shakes his head.

  An electronic voice says, “Drop your weapons.”

  Both of us freeze.

  “The police have been called. They will be here momentarily. Drop your weapons now and surrender.”

  The voice comes from every single room of the house.

  I shout, “We are here to speak to Atticus Caine!”

  A man appears in the doorway directly ahead of us. He’s tall and pale and holds a rifle in his hands.

  Nova raises his gun at the man.

  The electronic voice says, “Regarding what?”

  “The safety of Walter Hadden’s children.”

  Silence. The pale man keeps the rifle aimed at us while Nova keeps his gun aimed at him.

  Finally the voice says, “Are you Jian Lin’s daughter?”

  Nova shoots me a quick look.

  I say, “Yes, I am.”

  “Walter Hadden’s children are in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Staring directly at the man with the rifle, I say, “We need to speak with Atticus Caine.”

  There is another lengthy pause. Then the voice speaks again, sans the electronic tone.

  “James, lower the rifle.”

  The pale man lowers the rifle.

  “Now please escort our two guests to the basement.”

  Holding the rifle lowered in one hand, James motions us to follow him with the other.

  Nova and I look at each other. I nod at the Beretta, and he lowers it. Then I start forward, toward James, into the kitchen. He moves over to a door, opens it, gestures for me to go first.

  I start down the stairs.

  At the bottom sits a black man in a wheelchair. He appears to be in his sixties, some gray streaking his full beard.

  “So you’re Holly Lin.” His voice is low and deep. “And this gentleman behind you is Nova Bartkowski, correct?”

  The entire basement is filled with electronic equipment. In one corner are two dozen monitors, showing different angles of the interior and exterior of the farmhouse. In every other corner are computer screens.

  James has reached the bottom of the stairs. Still keeping the rifle lowered, he walks past us and then turns so he’s standing behind the man in the wheelchair.

  “We’re here about Roland Delano’s flash drive,” I say.

  “Who is Roland Delano?” When neither of us answers, the man shakes his head and says, “I don’t have his flash drive. You should know that already.”

  “But you know where it’s located.”

  “I don’t, but even if I did, why would I tell you?”

  “Because David and Casey Haddens’ lives depend on it.”

  Atticus Caine shifts his weight in the wheelchair. He glances up at James, turns his attention back to me. “Young lady, do you know what is on that flash drive?”

  “No.”

  “Are you aware of what kind of trouble will happen if that flash drive falls into the wrong hands?”

  “I have an idea.”

  Atticus Caine squints his eyes, studies my face. “You care deeply about these children.”

  “They’re innocent.”

  Atticus Caine smiles. “You remind me of your father.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s the reason I’m in this mess right now.”

  The smile fades on Atticus Caine’s face. He nods, slowly, and says, “Yes, I know.”

  Suddenly an alarm sounds. White strobes flash around the basement.

  Nova, still holding the Beretta at his side, steps back, looks around wildly. “What is that?”

  Atticus Caine takes a remote from his pocket, presses a button, and the alarm and flashing white strobes stop at once.

  “That,” he says, “is the police.”

  Fifty-Five

  He tells us to wait down here. He says that if for some reason the officers want to search the house—which they probably will—we should hide behind the metal door in the corner. Then he wheels himself to a lift against the wall, presses a button, and with a mechanical whine it raises him up into the air. James looks at us once, nods, and hurries up the stairs.

  On the monitors we can see every angle of the house, both inside and out. A police car has stopped in the driveway. Two officers get out. They hurry up to the front door. Another monitor shows the gate at the bottom of the drive open; apparently the police have the entrance code.

  Atticus Caine appears on one of the screens. He comes out of a door. James meets him and pushes him into the hallway, then down to the front door.

  The officers don’t knock or ring the doorbell. They simply walk in.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Atticus asks, microphones stationed around the house picking up his voice perfectly.

  One of the officers says, “You tell us. We got a call there was a bre
ak-in.”

  “Yes, yes”—Atticus Caine bows his head in shame—“I’m sorry about that. We were working on the system and it malfunctioned. We couldn’t get it to stop.”

  “So everything’s okay?” asks the second officer.

  “Yes,” Atticus says. “Everything is fine.”

  Both officers look at each other. Then the first one says, “Mind if we check the house, just in case?”

  “Of course, be my guest.”

  Atticus Caine wheels himself back while the two officers enter deeper into the house, their hands on the butts of their service pistols. Even though these two cops are becoming a pain in my ass, they’re simply doing their job. If there’s a disturbance, they need to check it out regardless. Just because the homeowner says everything is fine, doesn’t mean it’s so.

  Nova taps my shoulder, points at the metal door.

  I’m afraid the door will make noise when we open it. It doesn’t. It opens smoothly, without a sound.

  A motion sensor turns on the overhead lights.

  Nova whispers, “Holy shit.”

  We’ve stepped into an arsenal. Colt M4s. Heckler & Koch MP5s. A fucking MG5, not to mention dozens of pistols—the weapons either hang off the wall or are displayed on tables.

  Outside the door we can hear footsteps coming down the stairs. It sounds like only one set.

  Nova is holding the rifle James set on one of the tables. He places it aside, then steps forward, grips onto the door handle.

  I hold my breath.

  The footsteps move about the basement. They stop in front of the metal door. We can hear the officer grasp onto the lever. We can hear him try to push, try to pull, but the lever doesn’t budge. He stands there another moment, then walks away, starts back up the steps.

  We wait what seems like an eternity. Neither of us has moved, and because of this the motion sensor turns the lights off. For a moment I feel alone in the darkness. Something inside of me makes me reach out for Nova, and the lights flash back on.

  Just then we can hear the mechanical groan of the lift, another pair of footsteps on the stairs, these much more tentative. Atticus Caine calls, telling us it’s safe to come out now.