No Shelter (12 page)

“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.
 

About two weeks later learning I was pregnant.
 

About knowing I couldn’t keep it.
 

About taking myself to the abortion clinic and then driving myself home.
 

About nobody ever knowing, not even Tina.
 

About Karen, saying in her deep southern accent, Can you keep a secret?
 

And about how sometimes when I’m in total silence, in the dark void, my unborn child is with me and we curl up together to keep ourselves warm and then just float there, mother and child, safe from evil itself.
 

22

“Holly, Holly, look at that elephant!”
 

“David,” I say reproachfully, giving him a look.
 

His smile fades a moment as he works the translation in his mind. Then, in a slow, stunted voice, he says, “
Regardez ... l’éléphant?
”
 

“
Très bon,
” I say with a nod.
 

Casey tugs at my shorts. “Can we go see the sea lions?”
 

She doesn’t ask the question in French and before I have the chance to give her the same reproach I just gave her brother, David points and says, “Hey, that’s not fair!”
 

I place a hand to my forehead, try strangling this migraine before it grows any stronger. Another night of little sleep and I didn’t do any running, any exercises, which I know I should have done this morning but which I put off anyway and now here I am with the kids in the Smithsonian’s National Zoo even though the sky is overcast and threatening rain.
 

“Holly,” David says, stressing my name in two syllables, “how come I have to speak stupid French and she doesn’t?”
 

One of my few nannily duties is teaching the kids French, Spanish, and Japanese. Tuesday we try to speak French as much as possible; Wednesday it’s Spanish; Thursday, Japanese. As can be expected Casey and David have never been thrilled with the task, but they do pretty well, especially Casey who seems to be picking up the languages very quickly.
 

But today I don’t feel like fighting with them.
 

David starts to whine again but I turn and lean down and extend my finger so it’s right in his face.
 

“I’m not in the mood right now, David,” I say, my voice low and hard.
 

His face goes serious. He nods slowly.
 

“If you two don’t want to speak French today, then I don’t care. It’s for your benefit anyway.”
 

I stand up straight and turn away. I start walking toward the Seals and Sea Lion exhibit. I don’t bother glancing back to see if the kids are following me; I know they are because I can hear the scuff of their sneakers on the macadam.
 

We’ve been to this zoo enough times that I practically have the entire layout memorized. At least once a month, if not twice, we take the metro up to the zoo. Today their vote was to come up here even though they’re calling for rain—and as can be expected the place is pretty much deserted. Still it’s summer and there are families here who drove from out of state, even day campers, and a few adults walking around with cameras and brochures.
 

By the time we get to the Seals and Sea Lion exhibit, David and Casey have caught up and are matching my pace. Casey reaches up and takes my hand; David just walks beside me, his arms swinging.
 

We’re quiet for a long time as we watch the sea lions. A brown pelican walks around behind the thick glass, opening and closing its massive beak.
 

After awhile I clear my throat and speak.
 

“David, I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I’ve just ... it’s been a bad couple days.”
 

“Is it because Jenny is getting married and you aren’t?”
 

Jenny is Blondie.
 

“No, kiddo, it’s not that.”
 

“But you don’t have a boyfriend or anything.”
 

I look down at him and grin. “What are you saying—you want to be my boyfriend?”
 

“Yuck,” he says, crinkling up his nose. “Girls are gross.”
 

Casey says, “We are not!”
 

“Guys,” I say.
 

“You are too!”
 

“Enough,” I say, my voice so loud it causes the pelican to stop its walking, for a couple of the sea lions to glance our way, not to mention a handful of people standing around us. “If you two keep it up you’ll be speaking French all day.”
 

Both stay quiet.
 

My cell phone rings.
 

I dig it out of my purse, see it’s my sister calling.
 

“Yeah, Tina, what’s up?”
 

“Tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock sharp. You’ll be meeting with Sandra Price. She’ll want your resume and a filled-out application, but the application is just for their records, so don’t sweat it. Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
 

I’m quiet a moment, not having any idea what the hell it is she’s talking about.
 

Then it hits me and I say, “I’m watching the kids all day tomorrow.”
 

“I know that,” Tina says. “David and Casey have played with the twins before. I figured I’ll take them to a movie during the interview. They won’t even know you’re gone.”
 

I glance down at David and Casey, both who are looking up at me.
 

“I don’t know what I have to wear,” I say.
 

“I’ll help you with that.”
 

“I don’t even have a resume.”
 

Tina says she’ll stop over at my apartment later with the twins to raid my closets. Later they’ll take me back to their house where she’ll make dinner and Ryan will help me with my resume and walk me through what is expected of me at an interview.
 

The kids are still watching me, so I say, “Sounds good, Tina, I’ll see you then,” and end the call.
 

I must be smiling, because David says, “Guess the week’s looking better, huh?”
 

23

It’s already raining by the time we make it back to the house. I park beside Walter’s car and David throws off his seatbelt, opens his door and bolts toward the back porch. By then I’m already getting out of the car, shouting at him, “Thanks for being a gentleman and waiting,” and then hurry around the car and open up the door for Casey who has already unclipped her seatbelt. On the drive there had been lightning, and Casey hates lightning, absolutely hates it, and for this reason alone she wants me to carry her.
 

“Thanks, Holly,” Casey says simply, kicking her feet so I will let her down once we’re inside.
 

I set her down and she scampers away, the lightning suddenly forgotten. The only evidence that David has been through here is his wet sneakers lying askew on the floor.
 

I enter the kitchen to find Sylvia cooking something on the stove. Baron lies off in the corner, watching me, his tail thumping.
 

“Smells good.”
 

Sylvia smiles at me. “Why look at you, Miss Holly—completely soaked.”