The dog tags were found. I was taken into custody. I was placed in a room with a table and a chair. Two MPs came in and shouted at me. They said things about prison. They called me a bitch and a cunt and a traitor. They said the death penalty would be too good for me. Then they left. I was alone for hours. When the door opened again, it wasn’t the MPs who entered the room. It was Walter.
At this point Nova allows a small smile. He says, “He offered you a job, didn’t he?”
I nod. I wonder what situation Nova had found himself in that caused Walter to walk in and bail him out just like that.
“He said he knew my father. He said he knew exactly what had happened. He said he understood. Then he asked me if I regretted what I had done. I considered lying, telling him I regretted it deeply. But I didn’t. I told him what I regretted most was that I had killed him too fast. I told him I’d wanted to make him pay first.”
I don’t bother telling Nova the rest. Not about how Walter had told me he could use my services. Not about how he would make it appear I would be taken into custody. Not about my year of intense training. Nova already knew about that; he had been through it himself.
“You can go now,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hungry? We can order a pizza.”
“I appreciate everything, Nova, but right now I just want to be alone. Really alone, okay?”
He watches me closely, considering it. I just told a story about a woman who killed herself. There is no way for Nova to know I am suicidal too. Or maybe there is. Maybe I am more transparent than I care to admit.
“Okay,” he says then, standing up. He looks down at the Berettas in each hand, looks back up at me. “Do you need an extra piece?”
“I have plenty.”
He grins. “I’m sure you do. You could probably fill an Easter egg basket with all the weapons you have hidden in this place.”
“Goodbye, Nova.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Goodbye.”
And like that he’s gone.
I wait until I hear the apartment door close before I stand up. I need some water. I need some food. I need to piss.
I start toward the kitchen when the phone rings. It’s the main line, as my cell has disappeared. I hurry into the kitchen, thinking it’s Walter with some good news, then thinking it’s Walter with some bad news.
I pause with my hand extended. My eyes once again focus on the Bazooka Joe comic pinned to the cork board.
I answer the phone.
Zane says, “What—you’re not fucking Nova now too, are you?”
52
A long moment of silence passes before Zane says, “Um, are you there, Holly?”
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk.” His voice grows soft, almost thoughtful. “Remember the nights when we spent hours on the phone just talking about nothing?”
I glance quickly around the kitchen, at all the different places I have weapons hidden. I think about the rest of the weapons—the guns, the knives, even a machete—hidden around the apartment.
“To be honest,” I say, “it barely crosses my mind.”
“Oh now, come on. That’s not fair. I hurt you a long time ago and now you’re trying to hurt me.”
If I wanted to hurt him I would tell him about our aborted child. But I don’t. It’s none of his fucking business, and even if it was I still wouldn’t tell him.
“As far as I’m concerned, Zane, you’re still dead.”
He drops the soft, thoughtful tone. “It doesn’t look like Walter is going to come through in time.”
Unfortunately this is a corded phone. I don’t even know why I still own it. It was here when I moved in and I always figured it would be here when I moved out. Now I wish I’d broken down and bought a stupid cordless so I could move freely around the apartment.
“It’s not that he doesn’t want his kids back,” Zane says. “I know he does. I know he’s fighting to get them back.”
He’s outside. I know he’s outside. How else could he have known I was with Nova unless he watched him leave?
“Anyway,” he says, “it doesn’t look like Walter is going to make the deadline.”
“You said there wasn’t any deadline.”
“Don’t be naïve, Holly. There is always a deadline.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“Because you’ve now become the wildcard. Why else do you think your old man saved your life in Paris?”
I close my eyes and remember that alleyway. I remember the rain and the patterns the red and white lights played against the brick walls. I remember the two officers and how they died. I remember the man who had killed them raising his gun and pointing it at my face like I had once done to someone else two years ago.
“We always knew you would be the key. Ever since that shit went down in Vegas and we realized it was you guys, we knew you would be the one who would come through and help us get the flash drive back.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you and my father.”
“Now, now, Holly. That’s not very lady-like at all.”
“You’re a real asshole, Zane, you know that?”
“Yet you still let me sleep with you.”
“That was only because I felt sorry for you. You and your small dick.”
A moment passes where Zane doesn’t say anything and I start to smile thinking I’ve had the last word. Then that moment passes and I realize what’s at stake here. I can’t let my emotions overtake me. I can’t let my anger blur out my focus.
“We could talk shit all night, Holly, but quite frankly we don’t have the time. Or I should say the children don’t have the time.”
“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 really 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 break your fucking neck.”
“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, “Mom? Dad? Hello? Hello? Anybody?”
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. The type of person my father has no doubt become.
“How?”
“Your car is parked three blocks away at the 7-Eleven 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.”
53
The clock is ticking, all right. The moment I slam the phone in the receiver I start the countdown in my head.
One—sprinting through the kitchen—two—sprinting to my bedroom—three—opening the bottom dresser drawer—four—pulling out my guns—five—strapping the two-shot to my ankle—six—throwing on a pair of jeans and sweatshirt—seven—sticking the remaining gun in the back of my jeans—eight—running back out into the apartment—nine—slipping on my sneakers—ten—bolting 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.
I reach out, grab the piece, rip it out of his pants, and 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 gun 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 a moment, still trying to catch my breath. Finally I say, “So 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 glance up at the dash and see the small screen sitting there.
“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 down my breathing, my heartbeat. 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 the clock on the dash. “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 has been used in a kidnapping. It even smells different, though I can’t be certain what the change is.
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 swings and shatters my left headlight.
He smiles at me, hawks and spits a loogie. It lands with a plop right on my 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 hits one of the punks and knocks him aside. He falls to the ground and once again I consider hurting him more, maybe even killing him, but instead I maneuver a quick one-eighty, pause at the sidewalk, and peel out into 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. Than I scream some more.
54
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 his 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 long 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 pull off, enough where I’m properly concealed. Making sure I have the cell phone and my guns, I get out of the car.
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, ask him what he’s doing here.
“I figured somebody would be watching your place. When 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 those kids off so much?”
“Does the name Atticus Caine mean anything to you?”
Nova shakes his head. “This his place?”
“Apparently.”
“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 behind his back to show a pair of bolt cutters. “I always knew these would come in handy one of these days.”
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 walk up to the door, Nova reaches for his gun. I tell him not to.
“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, and pushes.
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 his gun out. He walks just as slowly as I do. The floor is polished oak. Framed photographs line the hallway, what look like Ansel Adams’ 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.
Suddenly 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 is tall and pale and holds a rifle in his hands.
Nova raises his gun at the man but doesn’t do anything.
The electronic voice says, “Regarding what?”
I say, “The safety of Walter Hadden’s children.”
There is a silence. The pale man keeps the rifle aimed at us while Nova keeps his gun aimed at him.
Finally the voice says, “Are you Kenji Lin’s daughter?”
Nova shoots a quick look at me.
I say, “Yes, I am.”
“Walter Hadden’s children are in trouble?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Why are you here?”
Staring directly at the man with the rifle, I say, “We need to speak with Atticus Caine.”
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 20
