No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1)

by Robert Swartwood

  The two cops approach me. Both have their weapons held at their sides.

  One of the cops says in French, “I can’t believe we found her. Just our luck.”

  The other says, “What did Xerxes say he wanted done with her?”

  “Taken out.”

  “Shit.”

  “I know.”

  There’s a silence, and then the second cop asks, “So how do you want to do this?”

  The first cop shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing was ever said to me about killing.”

  “You’re being paid, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, and so are you.”

  Still lying on the wet ground, being showered by rain, trash all around me, I try moving. But my arms, my legs, even my head, don’t want to move.

  “All right,” the second cop says. “If you’re too chicken shit to kill her, I’ll do it.”

  He steps forward.

  I look up, catch only a glimpse of his face.

  He grimaces as he raises his gun, aims it at my head.

  I don’t close my eyes.

  The shots aren’t as deafening as they were in the car, though they echo in this narrow alleyway.

  The cop standing over me jerks. His mouth falls open. His fingers relax, dropping the weapon. It clatters to the ground just as he falls to his knees.

  More gunshots, these fired at the first cop. He goes through the same body jerking motion, his mouth falling open, his gun hitting the ground the same time he does.

  The rain keeps falling. It doesn’t let up.

  My hair is soaked. My clothes are soaked. My entire being is soaked.

  Slowly, so very slowly, I push myself up into a sitting position. It isn’t easy. The pain is intense. Rain drips into my eyes, forcing me to blink them away.

  The figure stands just behind the police cruiser. The lights keep flashing, playing red and white patterns off his dark overcoat, off his black mask and black fedora.

  I can barely see his eyes.

  He raises his gun, aims it right in my direction. Even though there is thirty yards between us, I know the barrel is centered at my face.

  The moment stretches on. The rain continues to fall.

  The man keeps the gun aimed for another couple seconds before he lowers it, turns around, and runs away.

  I lay back down on the ground. I close my eyes. Raindrops cover my face. Run into my mouth. They taste like tears.

  Part III

  What Goes Around, Comes Around

  42

  When I make the turn onto Arbor Drive Monday morning, I notice a black car parked across the street from the Haddens’ house. In the black car are two men, both sitting in the front and watching me closely. I get only a glimpse, but it’s enough for me to see that one of the men wears a white bandage over his nose.

  Inside, Sylvia greets me as she always does, asking if I’d like any breakfast. She knows I’ll want coffee and already has a cup waiting, handing it to me with a smile. But the smile is short-lived when she gets a good look at my face, at the bruises that I haven’t been able to conceal. I know she wants to ask if I’m okay but I just smile and take the cup of coffee with a quiet thank you.

  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 fine, 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 too. In all honesty, the bruising isn’t terrible. From a distance you can barely even tell it’s there. But up close like this, 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 do 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 just stand there, holding the coffee cup at my side.

  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 a moment, and says, “Christ, you look like hell.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Walter.”

  “Nova had told me it was bad but ... Christ.”

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

  He doesn’t say anything else and just stares back at 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 replaced. 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, just keep staring back at me.

  “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’ club just because you wanted to see the man.” He snorts a disgusted laugh. “Just how stupid are you?”

  I look away from him a moment, then ask, “Have you talked to Philippe?”

  “I have.”

  “How is he taking it?”

  “He just found out his entire team has been working as double agents for the past two years. How do you expect he’s taking it?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “That he is.”

  “It’s not right they should take him off that detail.”

  “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 personally about what happened. Nova was the one who had found me. He was the one who had taken me to the airstrip and gotten me on one of the cargo jets 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 that saved my life.”

  “What about him?”

  I look back up. “He he
ld his gun right at my face, like he was going to shoot me. But he didn’t.”

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

  “It’s not just that. It’s ... I had the sense that he didn’t even intend on killing me. But he wanted me to see that he had the opportunity. He wanted me to understand that 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. That question why. Why did he save me from those cops? Why did he decide to keep me alive?”

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

  “Just what am I to him anyway?”

  43

  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 that. After all, their combined ages might equal ten but they are no idiots. 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 are FBI agents and that they will 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, smiling.

  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 kiddy pool. David sees some of his friends and makes his way over to them. 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 just scream police.

  When I reach the two 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 think my fictional boyfriend. “Did that bastard do this to you?”

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

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

  “I’m through with him,” I say, thanking God that 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 went to the bathroom by myself for the first time.

  “But really, 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 more 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 back at me, probably waiting for me to start up the chorus where they left off. I even open my mouth, start to say something, 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 is ignoring her.

  I tell the girls I’ll be right back. Then I start toward the kiddy pool.

  David reaches the two brats before I do. I’m forty feet away when his sister’s cries finally burro 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 has 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 kiddy pool.

  I grab David and pull him back. He tries fighting me and I do that thing where I squeeze him hard on the arm. He stops, bunches his face up in pain. Looks up at me like I’m crazy, like I should let him punch this 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.

  44

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “They were picking on Casey.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to punch one of them.”

  “But they were hurting her.”

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

  “Again, that doesn’t give you the right to punch one of them.”

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

  I glance back at Mitchell and see the agent shaking his head slightly, 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 very 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. “Could 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 this time.

  “You’re being a real brat, David.”

  He still 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.

  “Okay,” I tell David, “this is your fast five-dollar lesson. I’ll take cash or a money order.”

  He frowns at me. “What’s a money order?”

  “Never mind.”

  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?”