No Shelter (22 page)

“What do you think? Huh? What do you and your chinny-chin-chins think of that?”
 

His face scrunches up. He grits his teeth. He grunts as he raises his cane, swings it awkwardly at my head.
 

But my hands are now free and I bring them out, grab the cane, twist it out of Boris’s grip. I turn the cane around, so the tip’s pointed at his face, and I jam it right into his eye.
 

Boylan is already in motion. He has his seatbelt flung off, is reaching into his jacket for his gun.
 

I pull the cane back out of Boris’s eye, swing it toward Boylan.
 

And that’s when the car behind us speeds forward suddenly and smacks us in the rear.
 

41

Boylan drops his gun. I drop the cane. Before either of us can try to reach for our respective weapons, the car behind bumps us again.
 

Boylan’s gun is knocked forward to the foot well. He turns and bends down, scrambles for the gun, but by the time he comes back up with it raised I have the cane back in my hands, the bloody tip pointed at his face.
 

Like I did with Boris, I aim for one of Boylan’s eyes. But Reed swerves the car, trying to outpace the car behind us, and the tip of the cane grazes Boylan’s ear.
 

He fires wildly, shooting into the roof. Reed swerves the car again. The car behind us comes on faster, tries to bump us a third time. I lean forward and smack the gun out of Boylan’s hand, the gun falling once more to the foot well, and I elbow Boylan in the face, one two three times right in the nose.
 

One hand on the wheel, Reed reaches for his gun with his other hand. He pulls it out, raises it upside down and starts firing over his shoulder.
 

I duck down as the rear windshield shatters. A hand reaches for me and at first I think it’s Boylan but look up and see it’s Boris. The Russian is alive despite losing one eye and he’s trying to grab me, strangle me, break my neck, but the car behind us rams us again and our car jerks forward and Reed keeps shooting despite the sudden rocking and his aim gets thrown off, a couple bullets ripping into Boris’s chest.
 

Up ahead there is an intersection and a pile up of cars. Reed drops the gun in his lap, grabs at the wheel with both hands. He veers us suddenly into the opposite lane where a truck is coming at us, flashing its high-beams and blaring its horn, and then we’re up over the curb onto the sidewalk, riding this to the end of the block while the few people out in this rain run or dive out of the way.
 

Boylan regains his composure, regains the gun. He turns to shoot at me again but I grab for the gun, grip onto his wrist, try to push it away while he tries to push it toward my face.
 

The car bounces again as we make it back onto the main street. Only it’s a one-way street and we’re headed up it in the wrong direction.
 

Reed doesn’t seem dissuaded by this though; he grips the steering wheel tight and takes us forward, playing chicken with the oncoming cars that quickly realize they’re dealing with a psychopath and swerve out of his way.
 

Boylan grits his teeth, says something underneath his breath. He’s still trying to fight me with the gun and decides to let off a couple more rounds. These shatter the rear door window—my window—and the shots are deafening and the stench of cordite is bitter and I swear that it felt like one of those bullets took out the tips of my hair, just a couple, and I grit my own teeth and push his arm again, push it hard, and he fires again just as I push it down and the bullets shoot into Reed’s face.
 

Despite his seatbelt, Reed’s body leans forward over the wheel. His foot hasn’t lifted from the gas pedal, has in fact been pushed down harder, and the car begins to accelerate even more.
 

The street curves up ahead, cars parked along both sides. I see what’s going to happen and quickly jump back, grab my seatbelt, snap it in.
 

Boylan doesn’t have a chance.
 

Three seconds later we smash into a car parked along the street. Boylan, not wearing his seatbelt, is thrown through the windshield. Glass is everywhere. I quickly smell smoke, gasoline.
 

The seatbelt kept me secure, but it hurts like a motherfucker. I move slowly at first, making sure nothing has been broken or strained. I unclip the seatbelt, take it off, glance first at Boris to make sure he’s dead, then try to open my door.
 

But I can’t, no matter how hard I try. The edges of the door have been crumbled from the crash and I can’t get it open far enough for me to get out.
 

I decide to escape through the rear windshield. I have to be careful not to cut myself on the shards of glass still sticking up.
 

The rain feels like it’s coming down even harder, trying to wash away the world.
 

Drivers have stopped their cars, stepped out into the rain. A woman calls out in French, asking me if I’m okay.
 

I don’t answer her. I just crawl through the window, over the trunk, and down onto the ground.
 

Off in the distance I can hear the oncoming rush of sirens.
 

At first I figure I can just wait here for them. Philippe is technically still police, so he’ll be able to explain and bail me out.
 

Then I think what if Philippe is in this too.
 

What if he’s just as dirty as these three dead losers?
 

The sirens are closer now, maybe two or three blocks away. I start walking in one direction but stop when I remember the car that tried ramming us and figure yes, that was Philippe, coming to my aid, trying to save the damsel in distress.
 

Wasn’t it?
 

I start walking.
 

That same woman calls out again, asking me to stop. Others pick up the chorus.
 

My walk picks up into a jog.
 

The sirens are a block away. I can see their flashing lights reflected off the buildings ahead.
 

My jog turns into a sprint.
 

As it’s a one-way street I can’t help but pass the first police car coming at me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the two cops inside turn their heads, try to track where I’m going.
 

I reach the end of the block by the time the second car arrives. It screeches to a halt, quickly reverses, darts in my direction.
 

I sprint down one block, down another. The cruiser stays with me.
 

I spot an alleyway across the street. I keep sprinting on this side of the sidewalk though, pumping my arms and legs, until I’ve reached the end of the block and then I stop, pivot, start sprinting back the way I came.
 

The cruiser streaks past me, its siren still blaring. It screeches to a halt again, starts to reverse just as I cross the street, as I run into the alleyway.
 

Which happens to be a dead end.
 

A dumpster is set up at the end of this alleyway. A few trashcans are scattered about, all of them overflowing.
 

A fire escape hangs off one of the buildings. I jump for it but the end of the ladder is just too far for me to reach.
 

I grab one of the trashcans, dump it out, place it directly underneath the ladder. I climb up onto the trashcan just as the cruiser pulls into the alleyway, its high beams splashing me.
 

I grip the first rung and pull myself up. Reach up for the second rung, then the third.
 

The cruiser below me has screeched to a halt again. Both doors open. One of the cops shouts in French for me to stop. The other pulls out his gun, aims, and fires at the top of the ladder.
 

He doesn’t hit me. What he hits is the steel, enough to send a massive vibration to pass into my hands, through my arms, and into the rest of my body.
 

I let go of the ladder.
 

The fall is maybe ten feet. Not too high, but enough to knock the wind out of me when I hit the ground. My body has already been dealing with enough pain it doesn’t need this, and when I try to sit up, try to move, it’s like my body has gone on strike and refuses to do anything before it has been given a raise.
 

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?”