No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Read online

  Nova shouts my name.

  The woman is dead but still I want to kill her again.

  “Holly, let’s go!”

  I turn away. The gun still in hand, I sprint back to the Escalade. Nova is on his knees, holding Scooter. Somehow, Scooter is still alive. His entire chest has been ravaged by bullets but he’s still alive.

  I fall to my knees too. I say to Nova, “Start the truck.”

  “Holly—”

  “Start it!”

  He gets to his feet, runs to the Escalade and climbs inside. The engine roars to life.

  I hold Scooter, whispering to him that everything’s going to be okay. He wheezes, coughs up blood.

  Nova is back out of the Escalade, hurrying over to pick up Scooter. I run to the back, open the door and get inside to help Nova load Scooter in. Scooter is wheezing even more, and I don’t know why I kid myself, but I actually think that it will be okay. That we’ll get Scooter the help he needs. That they’ll extract the bullets, close the wounds, nurse him back to health.

  I even murmur this to him as Nova gets into the front of the Escalade, puts it in gear, spins the tires in the dirt as he does a wild one-eighty and sends us back down the drive toward the road. I hold Scooter close, Scooter who keeps wheezing and coughing up blood, and I tell him that everything will be okay, it will be okay, it will be okay, until at some point he stops wheezing and stops coughing up blood and the piece of bubblegum he was chewing falls from his lips to the floor.

  Part II

  Work Is Work

  14

  At 5:45 AM my alarm goes off. I’m already awake. I’ve been awake, just lying there on my bed, staring up at the ceiling or at the corners of my room or sometimes, when I felt courageous enough, at Josh sleeping beside me.

  He snores, a heavy, steady breathing. Like a hiccup, I wait for him to stop, but somehow find relief after each throaty breath. Despite the sixty-eight degrees I have the thermostat set at, he’s been sweating throughout the night. I can smell him—an oddly pleasant scent. His still presence gives me a disturbing comfort.

  I could have turned off the alarm but I let it buzz anyway, for Josh’s sake. He stirs, mumbles something in his sleep, and turns over on his side.

  I turn the alarm off.

  I watch Josh for a little while more, this man who is a boy and a friend but who isn’t my boyfriend. I’ve never asked him to stay the night—at least not the entire night—and it’s strange to have him in my bed this morning, snoring lightly, his body odor absorbing into my sheets.

  The only man I’ve ever let sleep in my bed is Zane.

  But no, I can’t think of Zane in the present tense. When I think of Zane it always has to be in the past tense, because Zane is gone, has been gone for two years now, never to return, having not been able to jump back from Death’s Door like I had managed all those times before. Zane my friend, my lover, someone who I actually found myself caring about, someone who I envisioned spending the rest of my life with.

  I get out of bed, walk through my apartment to the kitchen. I turn on the coffee machine, open the fridge to look at what’s inside. Not much besides V8 and leftovers and milk that expired yesterday.

  I shut the door, turn back around and look at my cluttered kitchen as if for the first time—dirty dishes in the sink, newspapers stacked on the table, nearly empty cereal and cracker boxes littering the counters—and my gaze falls on the cork board posted on the wall. Right in the corner amid pictures and Post-Its of scribbled notes, held in place by a sky blue tack, is a Bazooka Joe comic.

  Without even looking I know it’s number twenty out of fifty, Scooter’s all-time favorite comic.

  But no, I can’t think of Scooter in the present tense anymore either, and it’s this realization—what I’ve been trying to deal with for the past twenty-four hours—that finally brings it all home.

  My vision starts to blur as one tear after another fills my eyes. Then all of a sudden comes a deluge, and my shoulders hitch, my legs go weak, and before I know it I’m on the ground, holding my side as I sob.

  I sob for Scooter and I sob for Zane and I sob for Karen and I sob for Rosalina, wherever she is now. It’s been almost two years since I’ve cried and it feels strange at first, like I’m not doing it right, always having forced the tears back, no matter what, always telling myself I was strong enough to keep them away, that a woman like me shouldn’t cry, cannot cry, because crying shows weakness, vulnerability, helplessness.

  It’s Scooter I have in my mind, the guy forever chomping his Bazooka Joe, but quite suddenly Scooter’s face fades and becomes Zane’s face. Zane who taught me how to love and care and understand the world, who made me feel like I had an actual purpose.

  No, stop it. I can’t think of Zane. I can’t think of Scooter. I can’t think of any of the people I’ve lost because they are dead now and I am not and I have to worry about today, about tomorrow, about next week, I have to worry about the next mission and how I can’t make any mistakes, I have to—

  A floorboard creaks, and Josh says, “Holly, are you okay?”

  It’s such a stupid, pointless question that I want to ignore him, just stay where I am sobbing on the kitchen floor, ignore him until he goes away and never comes back.

  But he takes a step forward, leaving the doorway and coming toward me, dressed only in his silk boxers. I wipe my eyes, start to sit up, find myself leaning against the refrigerator. I lean my head back against its cool surface, my left ear grazing the Universal Studios magnet my mother brought back from Florida last year.

  Still Josh continues forward, the sleep completely wiped from his eyes, concern now on his scruffy face. He comes and bends down and places his hand on my arm, places his other hand on my face. Slowly, gently, lovingly, he wipes away my tears with his thumb.

  And right then—right at that instant—I want to sleep with him again. Right here on the kitchen floor if need be, I don’t care. I just need the closeness, the warmth of another human soul, something to remind me that I am not completely alone in this world.

  It’s why I called Josh last night and invited him over, Josh who by now knows the score and arrived within the hour. Josh who I went to high school with and who I have stayed in contact with the past ten years, always just casual friends, a nod and hello if we see each other in public. Josh who has been in love with me since eighth grade, who had more than once asked me out, and who I always turned down because even at sixteen I had never liked the idea of dating, of relationships, always seeing the entire process as a huge waste of time and energy.

  So after Zane died—was killed, I remind myself—I needed something to bring me back down after every mission, my body so pumped up, my nerves on edge, and so I called Josh and asked him over and seduced him. When it was over Josh wanted to spend the night but I told him that probably wasn’t the best idea, he should go.

  For the past two years he has known the score, not understood completely the reasons why I sometimes call him out of the blue to come over, but still he always arrives within the hour, knowing what to expect, having just showered and brushed his teeth, his underarms fresh with deodorant.

  And right now, his hands on my arm, my face, wiping away my tears, I want to seduce him again, if not for the closeness than at least to get whatever else is bottled up inside me out. Because in an hour I will be going over to Walter’s to see the kids, I will see Walter himself, and I need to be focused and clear-headed and in control of my emotions.

  But instead I take Josh’s hands, gently push them away. “It’s okay. Really, I’m fine.”

  He stands back up, looks down at me with a frown.

  “It’s just been a really stressful past couple days.” I hold out a hand and he helps me up, and then I look around the kitchen again. “Want some coffee?”

  A little while later, after having showered and gotten dressed, I come back into the kitchen to find Josh washing my dishes. He’s put back on his jeans and T-shirt, his white socks with the gol
d toes, and he’s listening to The Today Show turned up on the TV in the next room.

  “How does my face look?”

  He turns, gives me a squint, tilts his head back and forth a couple times. “Pretty good.”

  “Liar.”

  The story I had given him last night was one of the kids shattered a glass Friday afternoon, one of the shards hitting my cheek and cutting me open.

  I look around the kitchen, see that Josh has done an amazing job of cleaning it up. For a bartender/musician, he should consider doing housecleaning part time.

  I have to leave in ten minutes to beat the traffic into Arlington. During my shower I’ve been thinking about an excuse for my strange behavior, why I’d broken my only rule in allowing him to stay the night, but before I can even open my mouth he clears his throat.

  “Holly?”

  “Yeah.”

  He wipes his hands on a towel, sets its aside, walks over and pulls out a chair and sits down. When I just stand there, staring at him, he motions for me to sit.

  I sit.

  He clears his throat again. “About last night ...”

  “Josh—”

  “We can’t do that anymore.”

  I close my mouth, but in a slow, cautious way, like my teeth are filled with nitroglycerin. I just sit there, not sure what to say or do or even think.

  He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his, gives it a quick squeeze. “You know I like you a lot. And, well, as much as I’ve enjoyed our booty calls”—he smiles at the term—“I’ve met someone.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah.” Nodding now, staring at me to gauge my reaction. “Her name is Dawn and she plays the bass in this band that we opened for last month and ... I think I’m in love.”

  I try to smile, I really do, but for some reason my face won’t work, all the muscles have gone on strike, and I just stare back at Josh whose own smile starts to fade.

  “I figured you’d understand, right? Because, like, this was never anything serious. You’d told me that before and that’s what I accepted it as. Just two friends, you know, having a good time.”

  He’s right of course. That’s all it ever was. But the nasty truth is our “booty calls” were designed to help free up my tension, get me grounded, and while I hate to admit it I just always assumed that Josh would be there whenever I called, always arriving within the hour. Having a girlfriend, I guess that’s something I knew was a possibility, something that would eventually happen, but for some reason I just never worried about.

  Josh squeezes my hand again. “You’re happy for me, right, Holly? It means a lot to me that you get where I’m coming from.”

  Still I try to smile and still I fail, just sitting there in my slacks and shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I mean, I wanted to tell you last night, before ... well, you know, but I just ... I could see you really wanted to do it and I figured I’d tell you later, and I guess it means I cheated on Dawn, but if she knew our arrangement and everything, I think she’d understand, even though I’m not going to tell her, I mean, of course I’m never going to tell her about last night, but if she—”

  “Josh,” I say, and I can hardly recognize my own voice.

  He looks at me, his eyebrow raised.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I pull my hand away, start to stand back up. “Now if you don’t mind, can you lock up when you leave? I have to go to work.”

  15

  The Hadden residence is a three-story colonial just outside of Arlington. It sits in a neighborhood with several other three-story homes, many that could be considered mansions, and on a clear autumn day, when the leaves have all fallen, you can stand in the Hadden’s backyard and see the tip of the Washington Monument.

  I turn off Arbor Drive into their driveway a few minutes before seven. I park the car and hurry toward the backdoor. The backdoor lets into a foyer, the foyer into the kitchen. The moment I open the door Sylvia, standing at the dishwasher, turns to me and smiles.

  “Good morning, Miss Holly.”

  “Morning, Sylvia. How are you doing?”

  Before Sylvia can answer, David and Casey shout my name in that singsong way of theirs. They’re at the kitchen table with their mother, Marilyn dressed in one of her smart business suits, skimming the Post while she takes deliberate bite after bite of her Special K.

  I smile at Sylvia and touch her arm as I walk past her, the housekeeper going back to her duties, and then I’m at the table and Baron raises his old head off the floor, panting with his tongue lolling from the side and slapping his tail on the floor.

  I lean down and give Baron a good scratch behind the ears, the hound closing his eyes and groaning with pleasure. Then I pull out the only remaining chair and sit down, smile at Casey beside me as she busily eats her bowl of Cheerios with her Big Bird spoon.

  David says, “Holly, what happened to your face?”

  Marilyn had nodded to me briefly before, but now she pulls down her newspaper, squints to give me a closer look. Forty-four years old, she looks ten years younger, this woman with high cheekbones and blond hair, who does yoga and pilates in what little spare time she has. She works as a grant writer and deals with mostly nonprofit organizations. If I were a normal person leading a normal life, I’d want to be just like her.

  “Oh my,” Marilyn says, real concern in her voice. “That’s a nasty boo-boo. Are you okay?”

  I touch my cheek. “Yes, I’m fine. Just had a little accident over the weekend.”

  “Can I touch it?” David asks. He’s six years old and apparently acts just like every other boy his age, and while he can be a brat most times, I love the kid.

  “David,” Marilyn says, turning back to her paper, “don’t be crass.”

  Casey says, “What does crass mean?”

  “It’s the green stuff outside, stupid,” David says.

  “David,” Marilyn warns.

  “Don’t call me stupid!” Casey says, tears already threatening in her blue eyes.

  I turn to Casey just as Marilyn stands and turns to David. Marilyn does her stern mother thing while I do my gentle nanny thing. I smile at Casey and tell her she’s not stupid, of course she’s not. Then I widen my eyes, jerk my head back toward David, and whisper that if anyone’s stupid, it’s her brother.

  Casey giggles, the tears forgotten.

  Sylvia comes over to the table with a cup of coffee. “Here you are, Miss Holly, with cream just like you like. Would you care for anything else?”

  “I’m good. Thanks, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia smiles, nods and turns away, becomes part of the background like she’s paid to be.

  Whatever Marilyn said to David, it seems to have had the proper effect. The boy has his head lowered, nods once, then twice. When Marilyn steps back she says, “Now, David, what do you have to say to your sister?”

  He mumbles, “I’m sorry, Casey.”

  Casey looks at me, the ghost of a smile on her soft face. I nod at her and she looks back at her brother across the table. “That’s okay.”

  Marilyn is already sitting down, giving me that look of hers that says Just wait until you get a pair of your own. It must be a mother thing, something I’ve seen many times from other women, but the truth is I don’t plan on ever becoming a mother.

  “Oh yeah, before I forget,” she says suddenly, looking back up at me. “Walter told me he’d like to see you when you got in. Something about this month’s pay.”

  As far as Marilyn knows, all her husband ever talks to me about is my monthly rate. At the start she had wanted to hire someone with experience, who had a degree in child psychology and whatever else, but Walter had done his best to convince her that I would work out and while she had had trepidation at first, she now seems happy with me.

  God only knows what she’d think if she knew I almost always carried a gun with me while I watched her children.

  “Where is
he?” I ask.

  “He should be in his den. Don’t bother knocking. He’s expecting you.”

  16

  But I do knock. I knock and then I wait and then I knock again. Finally I hear Walter’s deep voice—“Come in”—and then I open the door and step inside.

  Walter sits behind his large oak desk, typing at his laptop. The window is behind him, letting the morning light sprinkle in, making it impossible at first to see his face.

  “Shut the door, Holly.”

  I shut the door.

  “Take a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  He looks up from his computer screen for the first time, giving me a hard look.

  I return the hard look and say, “Let’s just get this over with.”

  He stares at me for another moment, this man in his late fifties with intense eyes and somber face and gray hair shaved in a crew cut. He’s wearing his uniform with the three stars, and for an instant I’m reminded of the first time I met him and he only had two stars, the both of us on the other side of the world, when he walked into the room the MPs had locked me in after they arrested me.

  Walter keeps staring, not saying anything, so I decide to break the silence.

  “Going to the Pentagon today?”

  “I have to make an appearance once in awhile. And apparently a known terrorist was hit in Las Vegas over the weekend. I need to be briefed on that.”

  Walter typically wears suits; he only wears his uniform for special functions, meetings, or when he has debriefings at the Pentagon.

  “Well?” I say after a moment.

  “Well what?”

  “Goddamn it, Walter.”

  “Hmm.” He glances down at his screen, moves the cordless mouse around, then shuts the laptop. “‘Goddamn it, Walter.’ I guess that’s appropriate enough for the situation.”