Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  “Maybe I was out on a date.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “Erik.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  “Okay.”

  I beckon him with my finger. He takes a step forward. I glance down the empty hallway, as if I expect a crowd to be watching, and then lower my voice.

  “My problem from last night? It’s not a problem anymore.”

  “Oh. Well … that’s good, right?”

  “Too bad you didn’t bring any beers.”

  His eyes light up.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Before he can step away, though, I reach out and hook a finger on his belt, pull him toward me into the apartment.

  Tilting my face up to kiss him, I murmur, “Let’s skip the beers.”

  Erik doesn’t object. He goes right with it, kissing me back, his hands grazing my body through the towel, and I jump up and wrap my legs around him as he holds me tight and walks farther into the apartment, absently reaching back to close the door.

  Seventeen

  Light trickles in from the part in the curtain. It’s not strong light—the streetlamp stands several yards away—but it’s enough so that once your eyes adjust you can make out the bedroom.

  We lie in my bed, Erik and I, and stare at the ceiling, both of us sweaty and spent. While we were going at it—our hands and lips exploring the familiar terrains of our bodies, my hand squeezing Erik’s bicep when he entered me—it was like any other time, a recognizable rhythm, both of us already knowing what the other liked, but this was the first time we were together in my apartment, the first time Erik has ever seen the inside of my apartment, and now a sense of awkwardness tinges the air, Erik no doubt wanting to ask why the place is so bare, why I don’t even have a TV. I’ve been living across the hall from him for nearly a year, and it looks like I’ve just moved in—or am ready to move out.

  But Erik doesn’t ask. He lies beside me, catching his breath, and then starts to sit up, twisting to place his bare feet on the carpet.

  I don’t move. Don’t even tilt my head. But I watch him in the dark, his broad shoulders rippling as he starts to stand. He thinks he’s supposed to retreat to his apartment now, because that’s what I always do once we finish. I’ve never lingered for more than a couple minutes. At first making an excuse for why I needed to leave, and then, once it became clear to Erik that I’d rather sleep alone, making no excuse at all. Just slipping out of bed, redressing, and then ghosting through his apartment to the door where I would peek out first to make sure none of our neighbors were there before darting across to my apartment.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  His shoulders twitch. Clearly he wasn’t expecting me to speak.

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  He says it without looking at me, standing to pull on his boxer shorts.

  “What time?”

  He pauses and turns his head slightly to the side, so I can make out his profile in the dark.

  “I go in at noon.”

  “What time is it now?”

  He grabs his watch from the nightstand, checks the time.

  “Almost three thirty.”

  “Good. So there’s no hurry.”

  I pause a beat, watching him.

  “But if you need to go, go.”

  He sits back down, the bed springs making their usual soft cries of protest. He twists, curling his left leg on the bed, and reaches out to run his finger down my arm. Even in the dark he doesn’t look at me, staring instead at my arm.

  “I like you a lot.”

  “I like you a lot.”

  He keeps running his finger up and down my arm, still not meeting my eyes.

  “No, I mean I really like you. I think about you all the time. When you’re not around, I …”

  But he trails off, shakes his head.

  “Never mind.”

  I say, “I know.”

  He looks at me for the first in several minutes.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of us says anything, though, nothing to further the conversation. We keep staring back at each other in the dark until Erik retracts his finger and takes a breath.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

  “I know. So let’s go get a cup of coffee sometime.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He appraises me, trying to study my face in the dark.

  “I realized the other day, despite us doing this every so often, I don’t know anything about you.”

  This, I want to tell him, is a good thing. The less he knows about me the better. He doesn’t need to know about my past life. As for my current life, there isn’t much to know. There’s a backstory, but I’ve long since stopped thinking about the cover Atticus gave me. I eventually told myself there was never any reason to use it. I was never going to get close to anybody again.

  After several seconds have passed in silence, I nod so Erik knows I heard him.

  “I know. I don’t know much about you either.”

  “To be honest with you, Jen, I want something more.”

  “So do I.”

  I’m almost as surprised as he is by the words as they slip out of my mouth.

  He says, “You do?”

  I reach out and grab his hand, give it a slight squeeze. But for some reason, I can’t say the word. Not yet. Not until I’ve come to terms with the past twenty-four hours. The thrill of holding a gun in my hand again, of squeezing the trigger. I’ve never gotten a thrill from taking lives, though I have to admit there’s sometimes been a satisfaction watching what I’ve thought of as evil people die. I’ve often questioned what kind of person that makes me. And while part of me may have felt alive tonight, another part knows that road leads to a lonely life and probably a lonely death.

  Erik keeps watching me, waiting for me to say the word.

  I wet my lips, try to speak, can’t. Clear my throat and try again.

  “Tell me something nobody else knows.”

  The request catches him off guard. A slight frown crosses his face.

  “I can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”

  “Did you grow up in Alden?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me where you grew up. Tell me about your childhood.”

  Erik watches me for another moment, still not sure if I’m being serious. Then he takes a deep breath, stares off at the thin line of light streaming in through the curtain, and tells me about his childhood.

  About how he never knew his mom. About how his grandmother raised him. About how just before his sixth birthday, his grandmother had a stroke and passed away. About how he then ended up in the foster care system, going from one family to another, never meshing with any of them, and about how as he got older he started acting out, being aggressive with his peers, stealing from the corner stores, the crimes at first petty but quickly escalating until he was thirteen and stole a car to go joyriding, and how then he ended up in a juvenile detention center for a year and when he was released he was sent to a place up north, to a woman named Ruby who took care of kids like him, kids who had no family, and there were other kids at Ruby’s house, a few other boys who also started out with petty crimes and which had snowballed into worse things, and at first Erik was defiant with Ruby, just as he was defiant with every other adult in his life, but Ruby was patient, almost too patient, wearing him down with her patience, and she was kind too, kind but strict, making it known to Erik and the other boys in the home that she had a certain set of rules and those boys were going to abide by those rules, no ifs ands or buts about it. Of course, Erik and the other boys tested those rules, tried to push the boundaries, but Ruby had a three strike policy, and the boys quickly learned she wasn’t playing and that after the third strike they were kicked out of the house, and word would often get back to the other boys still
in the home how good they truly had it, how Ruby may be strict but that she actually cared, that she actually gave a damn, and this was something Erik had never experienced, not since his grandmother passed away, somebody who gave a damn, because sure some of the other foster homes were run by good people who cared, but he never got the sense that they truly cared, that they really gave a shit. It was in Ruby’s home that Erik started learning about respect, started doing better in school, started taking care of himself, and right out of graduation Erik joined the Marines because the Marines managed to get his past charges expunged, and he spent several years in the Marines before he met a girl he wanted to marry, but something happened and that girl went away, and Ruby—whom he still kept in contact with all this time—encouraged him to forget about her, to get on with his life.

  “In the end, there wasn’t much I wanted to do. I just … wanted to disappear. And so I looked around for some jobs, and being a deputy here in Colton County was one of them, and guys I knew joked that being a black man in Texas wasn’t the best idea, but the county was the first one to call me back and hire me, and so …”

  He shrugs and looks at me for the first time since he started telling his story.

  “Here I am.”

  I reach out, squeeze his hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Telling me that.”

  He shrugs, and smiles.

  “Your turn.”

  I smile back.

  “Not tonight. Later. Maybe when you buy me that cup of coffee.”

  “Wait”—his face all at once serious—“I thought you were buying me coffee.”

  At first I smile, and then I laugh, and it feels good because I don’t remember the last time I laughed like this, a genuine, pure laugh.

  I squeeze Erik’s hand again, and I pull him toward me. He’s stronger than me, but he lets me pull him, falling back down onto the bed so he’s on his side, his head on the pillow, staring back at me.

  I whisper, “Stay.”

  He watches me for another moment, and then he leans forward, kisses me on the lips. It’s not a short kiss, and it’s not a long kiss, but it’s a kiss I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Because he doesn’t say anything afterward, and neither do I. He just lies there, and so do I, and for the first time I don’t think about my past life or the people I’ve killed or even the two men I killed tonight. All I think about is Erik, being alone with him in this bed, and it’s enough to make me feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  Safe.

  Eighteen

  The light trickling in from the part in the curtain has changed.

  It’s pouring in now, the light much stronger, the sun having started to rise an hour or so ago.

  I’ve just opened my eyes and find Erik still lying beside me in bed. I’m not sure whether or not this should surprise me. I can’t remember the last time I woke up with somebody in my bed.

  Erik’s still asleep. Lying on his side, facing me. Snoring quietly.

  Part of me wants to lean over, wake him with a kiss, but another part wants to let him sleep. He’s working later today and needs all the rest he can get. Me, I’m probably going to head to work too, but that will be much later tonight. I’ll need to give Reggie a call, tell him I’m feeling better. Hope that he isn’t pissed and decides to fire me.

  I slip out of bed, completely naked. After all, I’d answered the door last night in only my towel. It sounds sexier than it really is. If I’d known where the night would eventually lead, I would have spent a few extra minutes in the shower to shave my legs.

  As I’m dressing, Erik yawns as he stirs awake.

  “What time is it?”

  I pull a T-shirt over my head, and glance at his watch on the nightstand.

  “Almost eight o’clock.”

  His head still on the pillow, he squints up at me.

  “Do you have any coffee?”

  I don’t. I don’t even have a coffee maker or one of those Keurig machines, but for some reason I think that’ll make me seem weird—normal adults at least have a coffee maker, right?—and so I shrug.

  “Maybe. Let me check.”

  Yawning, he murmurs something about giving him five more minutes and turns himself over so his back is to me.

  I leave him to his five minutes and head for the kitchen. I don’t bother checking the fridge or cabinets. I’ve got almost nothing to eat or drink, and I’m not sure yet how I’ll explain it to Erik.

  Maybe inviting him in last night was a mistake. Instead of looping my finger on his belt and pulling him forward, I should have pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back toward his apartment. He hadn’t asked many questions last night, but he will eventually. Especially if this becomes more serious. If we do end up getting a cup of coffee. Last night, I had been so sure that was what I wanted—an actual relationship, somebody to care for, to love—but now I’m not so sure. Because I won’t be able to be completely honest with him. I’ll always be keeping secrets. And you can’t have a solid relationship without trust, right? I’m pretty sure I once saw that on a Dr. Phil episode.

  The silence in the kitchen is deeper than normal. Typically I hear my neighbor’s TV. But this morning the TV’s off, and so the silence is thick, and beyond the silence—somewhere outside—I can just make out a few car doors shutting.

  I cross over to the window, peek out through the slit in the curtain.

  The first thing that catches my eye is the red flashing lights. A second later I take in the three police cars parked out on the street, men in Kevlar vests quickly dispersing as they move into position.

  By one of the cars, surrounded by a handful of cops, Sheriff Gilbert—a man I’ve never met, have only seen pictures of in the local newspaper—motions at the apartment building.

  Points right at my window.

  I step away, suddenly holding my breath. Did they see me? I don’t think so. Even if they did, it doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that there isn’t much time.

  I close my eyes, focus on the silence.

  The soft patter of boots on the macadam outside nearing the building. The men being as quiet as they can, but my ears are attuned to certain noises, like the flick of somebody undoing the safety on his pistol. Soon they’ll enter through the door downstairs, start to creep up the steps.

  There’s only one exit from the second floor, excluding going out the window. The stairwell will be tightly covered. The men will be up here in less than a minute.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid? Maybe at the time I didn’t think I would ever be in any need to escape my apartment, but now here I am.

  I hurry into the kitchen. Pull open the drawer with the pistols and the knife. I pivot toward the table, knock the Imodium A-D and toilet paper roll to the floor, and then set the weapons down. Ejecting the magazines from each pistol, setting them on the tabletop, racking the slides to cough out a round, and laying all of the pieces on the table next to the knife.

  I hesitate a beat, listening to the silence.

  Was that a creak down at the end of the hallway?

  Maybe only thirty seconds.

  I rush into the bedroom to find Erik still on his side, facing the window.

  “Get up.”

  He grunts, mumbles something about another five minutes.

  I tear open the closet door, reach up to the top and push the pillows aside and pull down the Mossberg. Even though it’s not loaded—the box of shells is on the shelf—I pump it once as I turn and aim it at Erik.

  As a Marine and cop, Erik knows the sound of an engaged shotgun anywhere. He’s on his feet in an instant, popping up from the bed.

  “What the fuck?”

  I keep the shotgun aimed.

  “I need you to come into the living room. Right now.”

  He stands there in his boxer shorts, appraising me, then starts to scan the room, looking for something he can use to defend himself.
>
  I can’t hear the men coming up the steps, but I picture them. Their hands tightly wrapped around the grips of their pistols. Following the lead man down the hallway to my apartment door. They’ll be here any second. I’m not expecting a knock.

  I say, “Stop fucking around. Move.”

  I step back to give him space.

  Erik hesitates a moment, and then complies. Moving past me, out of the bedroom and into the living room. He pauses when he sees the weapons spread out on the kitchen table.

  Keeping his back to me, he says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Trying to keep you alive. Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head.”

  He turns his head, glares at me from the one eye.

  “Fuck you.”

  I take a step forward, keep the shotgun aimed at his back.

  “Do it now.”

  I’m worried that he won’t. That he’ll lunge for the knife on the kitchen table. Or one of the pistols, even though he can see the magazines have been ejected. I’m worried that he’ll do something stupid when those men burst through the door, and that he’ll get shot in the process. But I figure it’s better the men see us immediately upon entering the apartment, not hidden back in the bedroom, where they might think we’ve barricaded ourselves with a cache of weapons.

  Finally Erik obeys, lowering himself down onto his knees, reaching up and lacing his fingers on the back of his head.

  In the hallway, the footsteps are nearing. We have maybe ten more seconds.

  I lower the Mossberg and circle over to the other side of the living room, right next to the couch.

  I get down on my knees, set the shotgun beside me, and lace my own fingers behind my head.

  Erik stares at me, perplexed.

  I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  A second later, the door is kicked open.

  Nineteen

  The Colton County Sheriff’s Office is located roughly forty-five minutes south of Alden. That’s where they take me, but they don’t put me in one of the holding cells. Instead, they stick me in one of the interview rooms—a plain bright room with a metal table and two metal chairs and a security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling—and they shackle my wrists to a ring in the top of the table and leave me for an hour or two until the door opens again and Sheriff Gilbert steps inside.