The flash drive disappears into his fist. His eyes shift down to meet mine. “You’ve just made me a very happy man, Holly.” He smiles again. “Now to thank you, I’m going to give you the chance to choose which kid dies first.”
He steps away and I try to sit back up, my body not cooperating, wanting to shut down. Zane turns back, says, “I don’t think so,” and kicks me again, the tip of his shoe connecting with my chin, sending me back to the ground.
The world goes in and out of focus. I think I can hear Atticus speaking in my ear, his voice tinny and faint. I think I can hear the children, screaming through the duct tape covering their mouths. I try to sit back up but can’t, my body completely useless. I lie there in the trash, turning my head to the left and to the right, to the left and to the right, to the left ... and stop.
The discarded two-shot is only a few feet away.
I open my mouth, attempt to speak. Nothing comes out. I swallow, clear my throat, try again.
“Zane?”
The sound of his footsteps stop. “What?”
“Did you know it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Scooter told me that.” I let loose a wild insane laugh. “A dog-eat-dog world.”
I try to reach with my hand but my hand doesn’t want to move. I try again and it starts moving, slowly.
Zane says, “Which kid do you want me to kill first, Holly?”
“Don’t you know ... what goes around ... comes around?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“If you send it”—grasping onto the two-shot, holding it tight—“you better duck.”
And I sit up, raising my arm, aiming the gun at Zane—who’s now standing there with David in front of him, his own gun at David’s head.
“You waited too long,” Zane says. “You forced me to pick for you.”
David is struggling to get out of Zane’s grasp, David’s eyes wide and full of tears.
I stare back at him, just stare, hoping that my lesson from yesterday is still fresh in his mind. Hoping that he’ll stop struggling. Hoping that he’ll go completely still and then bring his elbow back and smash it into Zane’s crotch.
“Say goodbye, Holly,” Zane says, cocking the hammer back, and I realize that I’m being unfair, expecting David to be a hero when he’s just a scared six-year-old boy and I’m his nanny, and like any nanny, it’s my job to take care of him.
So I say, “Goodbye,” and place two bullets between Zane’s eyes.
Part IV
Tu Tienes Suerte Perra
66
By the time I make the turn down Arbor Avenue, it’s almost seven o’clock and the light of the morning sun is crisscrossed by all the branches towering the street. The circus of vehicles in front of the Hadden residence is gone, all except two unmarked cars taking up the driveway. I’m forced to park along the street, in another stolen hotwired car, a Toyota Celica that I had no choice but to grab because the police had converged on the other car and the van two blocks away by the time we came out of the alley.
David and Casey are in the back, David with his arms wrapped tight around his sister who has dozed off. Now as I stop the car, turn off the engine, David nudges her awake.
She opens her eyes, blinks, looks around. I watch her from the rearview mirror, rubbing her eyes, and then she looks out the window and sees her house and her face lights up and she starts shouting, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
Marilyn Hadden is in fact outside, coming out of the front door, hurrying down the porch steps and sprinting across the lawn to the car. She must have been waiting and watching all night, she looks so tired.
But she isn’t alone.
Four other men follow her, soldiers, their weapons already drawn.
When Marilyn reaches the car she doesn’t put on the brakes; she smacks into the side, definitely hurting something, but she doesn’t show it, opening the back door, saying, “Oh my babies, my babies, are you okay?” leaning in and kissing Casey on the forehead, then David, then Casey again.
I have my door halfway open by the time the soldiers arrive. Their weapons are aimed now, right at me, and one of them tells me to freeze, show my hands, then slowly get out of the vehicle.
I do as they say and once I’m out of the car one of the soldiers grabs me and pushes me down on the hood. My arms are yanked behind my back and handcuffs are placed on them and then one of them starts frisking me and I’m barely aware of Marilyn talking to the children and the children crying now, asking what’s happening to me, and I’m barely aware that some people along the street have stepped out onto their porches to see what the fuss is about, and then I hear Walter’s voice:
“Let her go.”
The hands frisking me pause, wait a moment, then disappear.
“Take those cuffs off her, too.”
“But sir—”
“Do it now.”
The cuffs are taken off, my hands set free, but still I don’t move. I stay there on the hood of the stolen car, watching as Sylvia rushes across the yard, meeting Marilyn and the kids, Marilyn holding Casey with one arm while she holds David’s hand with the other, David looking over his shoulder at me every few seconds, Casey not taking her eyes off me at all.
“Go back in the house.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
When the four soldiers have left us, none looking too happy for the reproach, Walter tells me to stand up. I don’t. He tells me to stand up again and I ask him a question.
“How hard did you try to get them back?”
“What?”
I push off the stolen car’s hood, turn to face him. “Casey and David—how hard did you try to get them back?”
He’s wearing his uniform, only it looks worn, just like his face and eyes, the man having aged more than ever since the last time I saw him.
“They’re my children,” he says.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“You don’t understand. I was powerless. My hands weren’t tied on this. They were chopped off. I was up all night making calls, begging and pleading ...”
“They were just going to let them die, weren’t they.”
Walter can’t look at me, staring at something over my shoulder. “Our government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“That’s a sorry excuse.”
His old eyes shift to meet mine. In a voice barely a whisper he says, “Thank you.”
“Nova’s dead, you know.”
“What?” A whiteness coming into his face.
“His pickup went over the Woodrow Wilson.”
“That was him?” The whiteness suffusing back with red. “If that was Nova, he’s not dead.”
My legs start to shake. “What ... what are you talking about?”
“I’d heard about the chase on 495 last night. I’d heard about the driver of the pickup that went over the bridge too, how they got him out of the water and took him into custody.” He shakes his head. “It never once crossed my mind that it was Nova.”
“So he’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“And they arrested him.”
Walter nods.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Walter, Nova didn’t have to do what he did. I could never have done it without him.”
Looking at whatever’s over my shoulder again, Walter says, “I heard you.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And I’ll take care of it.”
I shake my head and glance at the house, then glance at all the houses down the street. Those few who had ventured out onto their porches have gone back inside, probably deciding the show is over.
I reach into my pocket, withdraw the golden flash drive and hold it up. Walter, looking relieved, reaches for it. I pull it back.
“What’s on it?”
“Holly ...”
“What’s so important on this thing they would let your children die?”
Walter opens his mouth. Shuts it. Goes back to staring at whatever’s over my shoulder.
“You don’t even know, do you?”
He says nothing.
“You’re a puppet, Walter. You just follow orders, never ask any questions. You don’t know why one person needs to die, or why another person needs to live. Shit, I can’t blame you for that, because I’m the same way. Or, at least, I was the same way.”
His eyes shift again to meet mine.
“I’m starting to see why Zane and my dad walked away from this shit. Not that that’s an excuse, but ... fuck, Walter, your own children?”
Now glaring at me, he extends his hand, the palm open. “Let me have it.”
I shake my head.
“Holly, I need it back.”
“Why? What’s on it?”
Again Walter doesn’t answer, just keeps glaring at me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Does anybody even know what’s on this thing?”
Still no answer.
I say, “Fine then, you want it back, here you go,” and I drop the flash drive on the ground, place the heel of my boot on it, and grind it back and forth until there’s nothing left.
67
“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“He was pissing me off.”
“That still isn’t a good enough reason.”
“Wait a minute. Are you actually trying to defend him?”
“No. But remember, not too long ago, I was once in his position.”
I’m headed back home in the stolen car, talking to Atticus via the transmission piece still in my ear. Now that my body is no longer active it has really become sore, and I think when I get home I’ll just drop in bed and not wake up for a couple days, if not a week.
“So now what’s the plan?”
“The plan? There is no plan, per se. All I know is that James and I need to relocate, like I told you.”
“Where will you go?”
“We won’t know until we get there.”
I pull into the gas station on the corner, park in one of the spaces off to the side. I look around but don’t see the trio of poser nitwits anywhere.
Shutting off the car, I lean over and open the glove box. I pull out the registration card and read Atticus the name and the address. I feel bad about stealing this car—not to mention the Taurus—but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make sure he’s contacted. Now get yourself home.”
I take the transmitter out of my ear, turn it off. I lock the car and start walking the three long blocks home. My apartment complex doesn’t look any different. Not even at this time of morning, where the tall business buildings block out the sun and swallow my apartment in shadows.
As I walk my hand brushes the slight bulge in my pocket. Besides Delano’s flash drive, it’s the one thing I pulled off Zane before we left that alleyway. A cell phone, his cell phone, and saved inside on the recent calls list are only three numbers: my apartment, the cell phone Zane had waiting for me in my car, and another number. This last has a 011 + 33 in front of it, meaning a foreign exchange, and it’s been taking everything I have not to dial the number and see who’s on the other end.
Despite what Atticus says, I do have some self-control.
For some reason I’m expecting the elevator to be out of service again. It’s not. I think this is a good thing, a nice reward, and even though the thing is so slow it would be faster to take the stairs, I ride it up to the third floor, my body wearing down now the closer I am to my bed, becoming heavier, weaker.
I reach for my keys but realize I don’t have them on me, that in fact when I left I didn’t even lock the door.
I place my hand on the doorknob, turn it, open the door.
I step inside, shut the door, turn around and place my forehead against the wood.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
And feel the soft cold kiss of a gun barrel as it’s placed against the back of my neck.
68
“Hands flat against the door.”
The voice is male, heavily accented with Spanish. Should have figured.
I open my eyes, take another breath, and place my hands against the door. Footsteps sound, a different pair, and then hands run all over my body, searching for a weapon. All they find is the cell phone, and that is pulled out, looked at, tossed on the table in the hallway.
“Now,” says the voice, “walk,” and I’m pulled back, turned around, and yes, there are two of them, both who I faintly recognize from yesterday, and I’m pushed forward to walk down the hall toward the living room, knowing before I even get there who will be waiting for me.
“Miss Lin, buenos dias!” Javier Diaz sits on my sofa. He’s wearing another freshly-pressed suit, one leg crossed over the other, and he smiles at me like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in decades. “Please, please”—moving aside, patting the cushion beside him—“have a seat.”
The barrel of the gun has been making love to the back of my neck this entire time. Now it’s lifted, and I turn my head, slowly, to the left, to the right, seeing the two men standing aside with weapons in their hands.
I walk to the sofa, sit down beside Javier. This close I can smell his aftershave, something that smells cheap but which is probably very expensive.
“You,” he says, wagging a finger, “are a very big pain in my ass, you know that? Lucky too, I would say. Tu tienes suerte perra—you are a lucky bitch.”
“Are you here to kill me?”
“No.”
“Then get out of my apartment. You’re not welcome.”
Javier leans forward, clears his throat into his fist. “You know, this isn’t the best neighborhood. A young woman like you should really be more careful and lock her door when she leaves, yes?”
“Get out. Of my. Apartment.”
Javier gives his men a tired, disgusted look. He leans back, crosses his leg over the other, and says, “You realize how easy it would be to kill you right now?”
“All due respect, I don’t think it would be as easy as you think.”
“Perhaps. But fortunately for you, that isn’t going to happen. At least not today. If I had my way, you would be dead already. You know this. You know how much I ... loath you. But that interest I mentioned before? Apparently he doesn’t want you harmed. He made a deal with my father, and as you can imagine, this deal does not please me at all.”
“So you came here just to tell me that? You know, an e-mail would have been easier. Or a sing-o-gram. You know, I’ve never even seen one of those.”
A brown envelope lies on the coffee table. Javier leans forward, picks it up, opens it and reaches inside. Somehow I know what’s in there—haven’t I been thinking about it since I sat down?—and what he pulls out doesn’t surprise me at all.
“Your sister and her husband have two very lovely boys, yes?”
The first photograph he places on the coffee table, right in front of me, is a snapshot taken from a distance, Matthew and Max together in their backyard.
“Even your sister is a lovely piece of work.”
The next photo shows Tina, stepping out of her car, the boys in their child seats in the back.
“And her husband”—this photo showing Ryan coming out of Markham & Davis—“is very successful at what he does. Yes?”
For some reason I think that’s it for the pictures, but it’s not. Javier pulls out more, spreads them across the photos of my sister and brother-in-law, of my nephews. Shots that are barely even recognizable of what they truly are.
“I told you I would show you those pictures, yes?”
Broken bones. Gouged eyes.
“You can keep these, if you’d like, as a ... reminder.”
Pieces of flesh. Dried blood.
“From what I’m told,
she was a strong woman. Put up quite a fight.”
Cracked teeth. Bits of brain.
“But she wasn’t strong enough, eh?”
Javier sets the envelope aside, pats me twice on the knee, then stands up. He doesn’t look back as he walks toward his men, doesn’t say anything else as he passes them and the men follow him and they leave my apartment, shutting the door so quietly behind them it’s as if they didn’t even exist.
69
A moment after they leave, I jump to my feet. The world has gone out of focus again, tears in my eyes. My hands curl into fists. I scream, lean down, brush the photographs off the coffee table, pictures of Tina and Ryan, Matthew and Max, Rosalina, floating everywhere. I hurry around the coffee table, through the living room to the kitchen, to the counter where the butcher block sits, five knives nestled into the wood. Without slowing I grab two of them, the longest, and I make a beeline straight for the apartment door, open it and step out just as the elevator down the hallway dings, its doors closing. I sprint for the door leading into the stairwell, the stairs that smells of mildew and piss, I start down the steps, taking two at a time, three at a time, holding one knife in each hand, running, running, my blood boiling, my heart racing, my entire being shaking so hard I don’t think I’ll stop, and I pass the second floor and then make it to the first floor and tear open the door, not caring if anybody else is around—which there isn’t—and I walk straight for the elevator, gripping the knives as tight as I can, so tight I think I might snap them, and I reach the elevators just as the ding sounds and the doors start to open and Javier’s men are positioned right behind them, just as I knew they would be, and they see me at the last moment but they’re not quick enough to grab for their weapons, and as I step forward I jam the blades into their throats, blood gushing everywhere, and as they fall down I pull the knives back out, step over their falling bodies, bring the knives together and push them straight into Javier Diaz’s chest. His eyes go wide. His face pales. His mouth drops open in a massive O. And I keep the knives there, don’t pull them out, don’t move them at all, as the elevator doors slide shut, hiding us from the rest of the world.
No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Page 25
