No Shelter (31 page)

He says, “Do your best, young man.”
 

James turns away. He goes to one of the computers. His fingers dance madly across the keyboard. He pulls out a wire, inserts something into the phone. He crosses his arms and waits exactly nine seconds before something flashes on the screen and then he steps back, a crooked smile on his face, motioning me to look at the screen.
 

I walk across the room and stand in front of the screen and murmur, “Son of a bitch.”
 

On the screen is a satellite image of my block. I don’t realize until another moment passes and I see the darting motion of traffic that the image is a live feed. A green dot appears along the street, just a block up from my apartment. Without being told I know that was where Zane’s call originated from. He called me when he saw Nova leave and then when I asked to hear the children’s voices he let me hear them, but only for a moment, because they were no doubt tied up and gagged in the van or SUV or truck or whatever had been parked there.
 

I say it again, louder this time: “Son of a
bitch
.”
 

I look up at James suddenly, point at the cell phone wired to the computer. “The next time he calls me, can you locate his position?”
 

James glances at Atticus, glances back at me. He nods.
 

“How long does it take?”
 

James glances at Atticus again. He moves his hands around quickly and, stupid me, it takes a couple seconds to realize it’s American Sign Language.
 

When James is done, Atticus says, “Should be only a matter of seconds. What he can do is clone the phone you have there, so that when Zane or whoever else calls you, we also get the call.”
 

I take this information in, shift it back and forth like a Slinky in the hands of my mind. Then I march over to the metal door, the arsenal. I open it, step inside, look around at everything that’s provided.
 

When I step back out, I ask Atticus Caine if he has any communication gear.
 

“Holly,” Nova says, “didn’t you hear what the man said? There’s no way we can take that trailer when it stops.”
 

“I’m also going to need a harness and a lot of nylon rope.” I walk back to the computer, stare again at that red flashing dot. “Nova, what are you driving now?”
 

“Holly—”
 

“What. Are. You. Driving?”
 

He sighs. “A pickup.”
 

“How many cylinders?”
 

“Six.”
 

“A large bed?”
 

Nova looks at me. Looks at the screen. Looks back at me. “You’re insane.”
 

I ask Atticus if he thinks it’s possible we can get everything together in the next hour.
 

Before Atticus can respond, Nova says, “Holly, I know the clock is ticking on this, and that a lot’s at stake, but we have to be rational here. Tell me you’re not being serious. Tell me your plan isn’t to try to take out that trailer while it’s moving.”
 

I look at Nova, stare at him, then smile. “Not exactly.”
 

57

I believe that there’s a moment every night where across the country, across the world, portions of major highways are deserted. It can be as much as a mile, but more likely it’s a half mile portion, or a quarter mile portion. For a couple seconds no vehicles pass over the asphalt. The highway has a chance to breathe. It has a chance to enjoy, if only for an instant, the calming stillness of silence.
 

From where I’m positioned overlooking Interstate 95, that moment seems to be now. Almost four o’clock in the morning, I can see a quarter mile south, a quarter mile north. No headlights coming toward me. No taillights fading away from me. In fact, there are no cars coming either east or west over the bridge. It’s an instant, only that, when the world feels desolate, destroyed, all life taken out of it except my own, only I don’t know it yet.
 

In my ear, Atticus’s voice sounds: “
Three miles
.”
 

I’m standing on the Commerce Street Bridge, facing north. Springfield Estates is off to my right; Lynbrook is off to my left. About a mile ahead is the 495 interchange, which is why we decided to set up right here on this bridge. Because just like Atticus said, the tractor-trailers run random circuits, and there’s no telling whether it will go west or east or keep going north.
 

Headlights appear over the ridge of the interstate. They’re coming from the north. A moment later headlights appear in the other direction. That moment of peace and quiet has passed and it’s time for the highway to hold its breath again.
 

I’m wearing a black jumpsuit. My hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail. I wear target-shooting glasses. I have on thin protective gloves.
 

The traffic coming in both directions have diverged and are passing each other. The steady hiss of their tires and the groan of the vehicles’ engines shatter the silence of the night.
 

I have a gun holstered to my belt. Another gun wrapped around my left ankle. A switchblade is in my pocket. A coil of nylon rope hangs at my side. I’m fitted in a harness.
 

More cars appear coming north and south.
 

Magnetic clamps hang from my belt, already threaded with the rope. A special gun hangs from my belt as well, the one Atticus gave me which is loaded with tranquilizer darts.
 

In my ear, Atticus says: “
Two miles
.”
 

The traffic below is speeding at sixty-five, seventy miles an hour. That means the tractor-trailer—that red flashing dot marked FGT-927—is less than two minutes away.
 

I stand up straight. I cross my left arm over my chest, hold the stretch for a couple beats. I do the same with my right arm. I bend down, touch my toes, keep in that position for thirty seconds before standing up straight again.
 

I’ve done the math in my head. I know how many feet there is from the top of the bridge to the asphalt of the highway. I know how tall the top of the tractor-trailer will be. I know how fast it will be going—Atticus is able to pinpoint it to the exact mile per hour—and I know, because I’ve done the math, just how much time I have to make the landing.
 

If I miss it by a second, I’m fucked.
 

“
One mile
.”
 

Continuing to stretch, moving my head back and forth, I think about Casey and David. I think about Zane and I think about my father and I think about Scooter and I think about Karen and I wonder for the very first time what if that had been me coming out of the porta potty, having no idea, just minding my own business and opening the door and then
bam
, that was it.
 

A car comes up over the bridge. I don’t even glance at the driver, doing my stretching, trying to act like it’s normal for anybody to be standing on a bridge this time of night with the get-up I have on.
 

“
Half a mile, second lane from the left
.”
 

A concrete guardrail runs the length of the bridge. I have to climb up, balance myself on the very small space provided.
 

My toes are right on the edge. Right on the very lip.
 

I close my eyes. Try to picture nothing. Try to picture complete darkness.
 

“
Quarter of a mile, still in the second lane from the left
.”
 

I start the countdown in my mind, the miles per hour, the seconds. The five-lane highway disappearing beneath the tires. The driver crouched over the wheel in the cab, watching the road.
 

I open my eyes. Glance back over my shoulder. I can see it coming, right there in the left-hand lane. Completely white. Unmarked in any way. Just like the thousands of other tractor-trailers driving across the country daily.
 

It’s coming, seventy miles an hour, seventy-five, and I think about Casey and David, I think about Zane and my father, I think about Scooter and Karen, I think about myself, and turning back so I’m facing north, my hands squeezed into fists at my sides, I take a breath, listen for the sound, the roar, the moment the grill of the tractor-trailer appears beneath the bridge.
 

And I step off the edge.
 

58

Half a second, that’s all it takes, my body in free fall, the wind whipping at my face, and I come right down on the top of the trailer, just smack, and the entire thing is shaking, vibrating, threatening to buck me off, and my body goes into automatic, grabbing for the magnetic clamps, slamming one down on the left-hand side of the trailer, slamming the second one down on the right-hand side, and then, as if on cue, the driver increases the speed and jerks the trailer just enough that I lose my balance.
 

I tilt to my left, heading toward the edge, the cold and unforgiving asphalt sixteen feet below me. The rope is already thread through the clamps, attached to my harness, and as gravity and momentum force me to the left I reach out with my right hand, grip the taut black nylon rope, hold onto it and pull myself up straight.
 

Atticus says something in my ear but it’s lost in the heavy roar of the wind. I have my left foot placed just in front of my right, and with both hands on different parts of the rope, the rope that is threaded through the clamps, I am able to keep my balance no matter how fast the driver wants to take us, no matter how many times he jerks the wheel to the left or the right.
 

They know I’m here now—or at least they know somebody is here—and right this instant a unit is being dispatched to this location; the only thing the driver and the men inside the trailer need to do is keep me busy until then.
 

Keeping my knees bent, my feet planted, my hands on the rope, I start to walk backward. I draw out more slack on the rope as I go, the coil only having a length of one hundred feet which I hope is enough.
 

When I reach the back of the trailer the driver jerks the wheel again, taking us toward the right, the off-bound ramp, and once again I lose my center of gravity, start to tilt to the left, but I hold on, pull myself forward, keep my feet planted.
 

I pause a moment, waiting until the tractor-trailer takes us the entire way up to 495, merges with the rest of the traffic. Atticus says something else in my ear I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter because I know what it is: if the driver keeps us going straight in this direction, we’ll reach Andrews Air Force Base within ten minutes.
 

I take a breath. Take another. Then, gripping both lengths of rope tightly, I lean back and look over my shoulder.
 

The door here isn’t a roll-top, where it locks and opens at the bottom and is raised up like a garage door. No, this one is like a barn door, split right down the middle.
 

I lean forward even more, squint to see whether the door is locked. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t, not with the level of security riding inside the trailer, one or two or three or more just waiting, weapons probably drawn with fingers on the trigger.
 

I take another step back, so I’m right on the edge. I readjust my grip on the rope. The wind keeps slapping at my face, howling in my ears, the air cold and sharp. And before I know it I take another step back and drop down, extending my arms above my head, still gripping the rope, holding on but not as tight so I’m lowered, going down, down, down, until my feet touch the bumper, maybe a half foot of bumper, but enough so I can put my toes there.
 

Headlights splash me. I raise my head, thinking the unit has already arrived, wondering how many seconds I have to reach for my weapon before the tractor-trailer’s driver jerks the wheel again and sends me flying.
 

But the car belongs to a civilian, just an average person heading home or heading to work. I can barely see the driver but I can imagine the expression on his face, the open mouth, the wide eyes.
 

I bring both sections of rope together, grip it tight with my left hand, then lean forward, slowly, slowly, until my right hand grasps the latch. I jerk it up and pull the door open and immediately jump back as bullets tear into the door and disappear into the night. A half moment passes where I see the car behind us has been hit, white splats marking the windshield, and the driver slams on the brakes, swerves to the right, the cars behind him blaring their horns as they swerve to get out of his way.
 

The gunshots are still heavy, unabated, and the tractor-trailer’s driver decides right then to jerk the wheel again. This time it’s to the left and the door swings open even wider and then the driver swerves back to the right and the door I’m using as a shield comes undone and opens and before I know it I’m off the bumper, hanging against the side of the trailer, holding onto the rope as tight as I can while feeling it slither between the thin fabric of my gloves, burning my hands, the highway now racing underneath my feet.
 

Hanging there by the rope on the side the trailer, I’m aware that the gunfire has stopped. I’m aware that there is light spilling out onto the highway directly behind us, light coming from inside the trailer, and there are shadows there, at least two of them, standing at the edge.
 

The driver—who must surely see me dangling there behind him on his left—jerks the wheel again, and again, and again. His purpose here is to make me lose my grip, send me to the asphalt. Like Atticus said, they will not stop the tractor-trailer until the threat has been neutralized; even when the unit shows up they won’t stop, because they would rather be a moving target than a stationary target.