“About what?”
“I have to go, Tina.”
My sister stares at me, biting her lower lip like she’s thinking of saying something. Then she nods and says, “It was good seeing you. We should do this more often.”
“Yeah, we should.”
We stand there then, neither one of us saying anything. Finally my sister shrugs and smiles and turns back to the coffee shop. I turn away and start to take a step but stop. I stand out on the sidewalk for a moment and watch the cars and the people going by and even though I know they’re there I feel like that crow in my sister’s painting, trapped in colors on a canvas that nobody wants to buy.
19
My apartment complex is located in Fairland, a good fifteen miles southwest of D.C. It’s a little one-bedroom on the third floor. The elevator is almost always being “serviced,” which forces me to take the stairs.
It’s no exception today.
I trudge up the steps to the third floor. I already have my keys in my hand. I’m thinking about my meeting with Tina, whether I should have gone through with it, and for an instant my mind is not concentrating on what it needs to be concentrating on.
If it were concentrating on the right thing, it would notice right away that my door is slightly ajar.
By touch I find my apartment key, start to extend it to the lock, but freeze.
Just stand there a moment. Not breathing, not moving at all.
The world suddenly takes on a fourth dimension, warbling in and out of focus, and I’m backtracking through my mind the past ten minutes—driving down Interstate 395, glancing every thirty seconds in the rearview mirror in case of a tail—and then I’m thinking about pulling into the apartment complex lot, parking, walking toward the stairs, and I can’t believe that my mind wasn’t focused like it usually is, that instead of worrying about covering my back I was worrying about what I should wear to my eventual job interview.
I reach into my purse, grab for my gun, but the gun isn’t there.
Of course it’s not there. Because today we went into the Smithsonian and they make you walk through metal detectors and so I took out my gun, placed it in the glove box, and normally I would have retrieved it right away but I’ve been so preoccupied that I forgot it and that’s where it is now, in the glove box along with the owner’s manual and CDs and my emergency ration of tampons.
I consider backing away, retracing my steps, retrieving the gun, coming back up here properly armed.
The only problem then is I lose a good sixty seconds. Not only that, if whoever is inside is a pro, they’ve heard me coming—maybe even watched me pull into the parking lot—and of course it doesn’t help that my keys jangled when I extended them, so now whoever’s inside knows I’m standing right outside.
Maybe I’m overreacting—maybe Josh just forgot to close it properly when he left this morning—but I know that’s bullshit because Josh is smarter than that, especially with other people’s stuff, and then I think maybe it’s Josh inside, having come back because he decided to dump that stupid bitch he was with and keep what we have going, but I know that’s not the case either and I know that the closest weapon I have to me right now is in the kitchen, a butcher block full of sharp carving knives.
Five seconds have passed. The world warbles back into place, losing that fourth dimension.
I raise my right foot and kick the door and immediately pivot away, place my back against the wall, waiting for a gunshot. When a second passes and nothing happens I peek inside. Nothing: all the lights off. I hurry in, staying close to the wall, keeping my breathing shallow, listening for any sound. Four seconds pass and then I reach the kitchen but I stop before I enter, crouch down to peek around the corner, because anyone watching will expect me to still be standing and will be aiming for a headshot. But my peek reveals nothing, nobody at all. I slip into the kitchen, losing my shoes so my socks are silent on the tiles. I go directly to the counter, grab the longest carving knife and turn back around.
Still nothing.
Now sufficiently armed, I start toward the doorway leading into the living room. The light here isn’t great either, not with the shades drawn, but it’s not total darkness and I have no problem spotting the person sitting on the sofa.
“Stop right there,” I say loudly, the knife held up with the tip pointed straight out.
I take a step forward, squint so my eyes adjust to the dark. Then I lower the knife. “Goddamn you, Nova,” I say.
“No lock is too small to keep me out.” He gives me a drunken smile and holds up a bottle of Cuervo, shaking it slightly so the tequila inside sloshes around. “Now why don’t you help me finish this bad boy off?”
20
“Walter’s a fucking asshole.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“He’s trying to cover his ass, Holly, that’s what he’s doing. You know what I say? I say fuck him.”
We’re up on the roof of my apartment complex, sitting on cheap lawn chairs staring out over the buildings at the setting sun. Neither of us speaks for a time, and in that moment or so the only sounds in the world are the traffic drifting up from the street and the rusty wind chimes someone placed up here long ago tinkling as they sway in the breeze.
“Walter’s not the bad guy here,” I say finally.
Nova takes a swig of the tequila, shakes his head. “No, I guess he’s not.”
I take the bottle from him. “He saved my ass a long time ago. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“I’ve heard some but never the entire story.”
“It happened in Iraq.”
“I know that part, yeah.”
I open my mouth to continue but decide now’s not the time. Also I’m not sure I want Nova to hear the story. Not because he wouldn’t understand—I know he would—but because it’s such a personal thing, the one time when I truly failed as a friend and as a human being.
“Walter says I’ve been on a gradual decline. Have been for the past two years.”
Nova says nothing, just keeps staring out at the horizon.
“What—you agree with him?”
Nova stands up suddenly. Stepping forward, he hawks a loogie and lets it fly up over the edge of the building. He watches it a moment, just watches it, and for some reason I picture it in my mind, that wad of phlegm flying down toward the parking lot, coming apart the farther and faster it goes. Maybe it hits a car, maybe it hits the pavement, maybe it hits the grass. Whatever the case, it hits something because that’s its nature, its purpose.
When Nova turns back to me he says, “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“The thing with your father was fucked up. It would have traumatized anybody.”
“Oh, I see. So now I’m traumatized?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
The breeze picks up, sending the wind chimes in a sudden frenzy, clanging and clattering.
“Look, your old man?” Nova says. “He just ... he flipped.”
“I sometimes think I should have seen it coming.”
“How?” He takes a step forward, his eyes intense. “Just how could you have seen that coming? There were no warning signs. There was absolutely nothing you could have done about it.”
“Still ...”
“Still what?”
“Still it never made sense. How he could do something like that. Why he would have in the first place.”
“Every one has his price, Holly. Sometimes I think even God would bow out for the right amount.”
The breeze dies down and the wind chimes go quiet, still swaying but not making any noise.
“You can’t bring God into the equation,” I say.
“Why not? It’s a good copout answer.”
“That’s exactly the reason.”
Nova holds his hands out, the open palms lifted toward the sky. “Then what the fuck do you want me to
say?”
I shake my head, wipe at my eyes. “I’m thinking about getting out.”
Nova doesn’t say anything.
I glare up at him. “This is the point of the conversation you’re supposed to tell me that’s a crazy idea.”
Nova looks down at his feet, looks back up. His voice suddenly soft, he says, “Holly, you have to be honest with yourself. Walter ... he is right. You have changed. That shit back in Vegas, you never would have done that before.”
“Another one of my fucking little crusades, right?”
“Holly—”
“Why do you do it, Nova?”
“Why do I do what?”
“The work you do.”
His gaze steady on mine, he says, “Work is work.”
“It’s that simple for you?”
“Why do people become accountants? Why do they become bank tellers? Why do they become CEOs of fucking oil companies? They have to do something. And me, well, I have to do something too.”
“But why killing?”
“Our work is more than just killing.”
“Answer the question.”
He stares at me, his eyes still intense. Finally he looks away, shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “It’s none of your goddamned business.”
“That’s what I thought. People like us, we’re driven to do this work. Something in our past makes us who we are.”
“What the fuck are you now, a shrink? Of course something in our past makes us who we are. It’s the same for everybody.”
“But we kill people.”
“We do more than that.”
“Do you want to know why I do it?”
“Why?”
“To save lives.”
Nova just smiles. He takes a swig of the Cuervo, tilts his head back and gargles it like mouthwash before swallowing.
“I’m serious, Nova.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“That’s how I’ve always rationalized it. We kill the bad guys so the good guys keep living.”
“And what’s changed now?”
“Apparently I’m on a gradual decline.” My voice seethes with sarcasm. “Have been on a gradual decline.”
Nova says, “What is this really about? Is this about Scooter? You feel guilty now and you’re having a fucking pity party for yourself?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you and Walter are talking about. I haven’t changed at all.”
Nova barks out a loud laugh. “That’s a good one. Got anymore?”
“Fuck you.”
“You want the truth, Holly?” He takes three quick strides until he’s standing in front of me, his face right in front of my own. “You’ve become reckless. You’ve become irresponsible. You don’t give a shit about anybody else except yourself. And the worst part about that? I don’t even think you like yourself very much.”
He hasn’t shaved in the past two days and his face is full of stubble. Normally he looks very good—hence his name, Casanova—but now his eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard.
My voice low and steady, I say, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Yes I do. I know more than I fucking want to.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Oh fuck you.” He turns away, takes another swig of the Cuervo. His back to me, he says, “Quit being a cunt, Holly,” and I’m moving before I even know it.
I come up behind him and kick at the back of his knees. He loses his balance and falls down, dropping the bottle, and with the heel of my hand I punch him in the ribs. He groans, tries to reach for me, and I grab his arm, twist it up behind his back.
“Call me a cunt one more time.”
“Cunt,” he spits.
I twist his arm even more, right to the point it’s ready to dislocate.
“Go ahead, Nova, say it again.”
But he doesn’t say it again. He’s drunk off his ass and he weighs one hundred pounds more than me but he’s not stupid, not when he’s in this position.
“I’m in control of my own life,” I whisper into his ear. “Got it? And there’s nothing fucking wrong with me.”
In one quick motion I let go of his arm and stand back up, step out of his reach. It doesn’t matter. He just stays on the ground, his face against the stones, groaning softly as he moves his arm back in place. I stand there watching him for another moment, then turn and start toward the roof door we’d left propped open with a broken piece of brick. I only stop when Nova calls my name.
“You go ahead and tell yourself that,” he says. “But ask yourself this—had the Vegas mission taken place two years ago, would you have gone out to that ranch? Would Scooter still be alive?”
I continue walking again, right to the door. I grab the brick and open the door and then toss the brick out on the rooftop, letting the door close loudly and lock in place.
21
Total silence.
They say there’s no such thing except in space, but there are moments when I’m alone in my apartment with the windows closed that I sit or stand very still and it’s like the world doesn’t exist anymore, that such things as screams and gunfire and crying are just a distant dream.
It’s well past midnight and I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and think about total silence. It’s so quiet that if a mote of dust was to float down and land on the floor it would be as loud as a firework popping.
Over the years I’ve come to crave total silence. There’s something peaceful about it, something so soothing that it almost helps me forget all the bad shit there is in the world.
It’s like a black hole, a void I can crawl into and curl up and just fall asleep. No pain. No suffering. No murder.
A car horn sounds outside, briefly, shattering the silence.
I blink, take a breath.
I imagine Zane lying in the bed next to me. He stares up at the same spot of ceiling I’m staring at. I want to turn to him, snuggle into his embrace, hold onto him and never let him go. Before him I’d felt empty, insecure, unloved. He’d helped open my eyes to the world. He had helped me understand that behind every façade, every smiling face, there is an evil just ready to make its move.
I imagine him lying here beside me and asking, What’s wrong, Holly?
I fucked up royally this time.
Why?
Scooter’s dead.
And it was your fault?
Yes.
No it wasn’t. Stop blaming yourself.
But I’m scared.
Scared about what?
But I can’t answer him, because before I do I take my eyes off that spot of ceiling and turn my head and find his side of the bed empty. A tear hatches from the corner of my eye and starts to slither down my cheek. I don’t even bother wiping it away.
The silence returns and I stare back up at the ceiling.
I think about a lot of different things.
About murder and death and how they’re wedded together, a perfect union.
About two years ago, down in Miami, on that drug lord’s yacht, a fire having already broken out, a number of the bodyguards dead, and my father and I finding the drug lord cowering below deck.
About taking the entire bottle of Valium pills concealed behind the bathroom mirror.
About dragging the drug lord up to the deck and aiming my gun at him and my dad turning to me and raising his own gun at my head.
About Karen and what she confided in me.
About floating in my tub filled with warm water and slicing the veins along my arms.
About Zane stepping out of nowhere, shouting for my dad to stop, and my dad turning his gun and firing three rounds into Zane’s chest, the bullets forcing Zane to stumble back and fall over the edge and into the water.
About going to the roof of my apartment and stepping up onto the edge and just letting gravity do its magic.
About the dry Iraqi desert.
About shooting my own father, one two three four five times in the chest, screaming as I do it, stepping closer and closer, and then while he lies flat on the deck moving in even closer for the kill shot.
About taking one of my many handguns hiding scattered throughout the apartment and placing the barrel in my mouth.
About the stench of the porta potty, the urine and shit mingled together.
About standing there with my gun aimed at my father’s face and wanting more than anything to pull the trigger, to watch his head explode.
About turning on the oven and sticking in my head like Sylvia Plath.
About opening the porta potty door and knowing who would be on the other side and ducking the punch coming for my face.
About watching my father already lying there covered in blood and knowing that the yacht would soon sink and deciding that for the moment there had already been enough killing.
About just lying here in bed and staring at the ceiling and letting days and nights pass and not getting up, not eating, not drinking, just letting my body waste away until there is nothing left.
About shaking my head at my father before turning and running away, stepping up onto the edge and diving into the water toward the place where Nova was waiting in the power boat.
About all the people I’ve killed and all the people I’ve saved because of those people I’ve killed.
About the first man I killed, the two of us alone under the clear Iraqi night sky.
About swimming toward Nova as he came toward me and being underneath the water for a few moments at a time, hearing nothing at all, floating in a void.
About Scooter dying in my arms.
About my mother, my sister and her husband and the twins.
About Casey and David, even Marilyn and Walter.
About Karen again.
About all the people I’ve killed and all the people I’ve saved because of those people I’ve killed.
About Nova helping me up out of the water just as the fire on the yacht finally reached the gas tank and the entire thing went up, momentarily lighting the night, and how he was shouting above the explosion, asking what happened, what the fuck just happened.
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 8
