No Shelter (29 page)

“Yes.”
 

“Good. Now you have exactly five minutes to get to the car before I call the cell phone. I will let it ring only five times before I hang up and kill one of the children. Do you understand that?”
 

When I say I do, he says, “The clock is ticking.”
 

53

The clock is ticking, all right. The moment I slam the phone in the receiver I start the countdown in my head.
 

One
—sprinting through the kitchen—
two
—sprinting to my bedroom—
three
—opening the bottom dresser drawer—
four
—pulling out my guns—
five
—strapping the two-shot to my ankle—
six
—throwing on a pair of jeans and sweatshirt—
seven
—sticking the remaining gun in the back of my jeans—
eight
—running back out into the apartment—
nine
—slipping on my sneakers—
ten
—bolting for the door.
 

My body has gone into overdrive. I have the vaguest sense that I’m moving faster than any human body should ever move.
 

Out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs, through the lobby, crash through the main doors, and into the night.
 

Two minutes.
 

I sprint down the first block.
 

Two and a half minutes.
 

I sprint down the second.
 

Three minutes.
 

The third block.
 

Three and a half minutes and I make it to the gas station, my body still in overdrive, the rest of the world a blur, and crowded around my car are three punks in long T-shirts and baseball caps tilted to the side.
 

When I approach them, the one wearing a Red Sox cap says, “Yo, baby, what’s the hurry?”
 

“Get the fuck off the car.”
 

“Say what?”
 

I step up close to him, breathing hard, the granules of sand in the hourglass of my head almost expired.
 

“Fuck off.”
 

He stands up straight. Looks at his boys. Looks back at me and lifts up his T-shirt to reveal the piece he has tucked into the waistband.
 

I reach out, grab the piece, rip it out of his pants, and jam the barrel right into his balls.
 

“Leave,” I say.
 

His eyes wide, he stutter-nods and then backs away, waving his confused boys to follow him.
 

I tear open the car door. The phone is already ringing. I throw the gun on the passenger seat, open the glove box, and pull out the cell phone.
 

“Just in time,” Zane says. “One more ring and either little Casey or David would have had their throat cut.”
 

I’m silent a moment, still trying to catch my breath. Finally I say, “So I made it. Now what?”
 

“Notice the GPS system installed on your dashboard?”
 

I hadn’t, not with trying to beat the clock, but now I glance up at the dash and see the small screen sitting there.
 

“What about it?”
 

“An address has already been keyed in for you. It will take you to the home of Atticus Caine.”
 

“Who’s Atticus Caine?”
 

“Walter still doesn’t tell you guys shit, does he?”
 

“Who is he?”
 

“He’s a guy who knows more than he should. If anybody will know where the flash drive is located, it’ll be him.”
 

“What if he doesn’t help me?”
 

“Then it looks like these children are never going to see their parents again.”
 

I close my eyes, try to slow down my breathing, my heartbeat. Try to take myself to that special place, that little piece of shelter where nothing can hurt me. When I speak, it’s like all the oxygen has left my lungs.
 

“I will get you the flash drive.”
 

“That’s my girl. Oh, and Holly? I’m getting impatient. You have until six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
 

I glance at the clock on the dash. “That’s barely eight hours.”
 

“More than enough time, wouldn’t you say?”
 

“How will I contact you?”
 

“You won’t.”
 

Then he’s gone and I’m left sitting there alone in a car that used to be mine but isn’t anymore. Not after what happened today. Not after it has been used in a kidnapping. It even smells different, though I can’t be certain what the change is.
 

I reach back into the glove box, extract the keys. I start the engine just as my rear windshield shatters.
 

There are whoops and shouts. The three punks have returned. While the one was packing, the others apparently weren’t, and now they’re back with metal baseball bats. One hits the rear windshield again. Another takes a shot at my taillights. The third—my boyfriend in the Red Sox cap—steps up to the front and swings and shatters my left headlight.
 

He smiles at me, hawks and spits a loogie. It lands with a plop right on my hood.
 

I consider getting out of the car. Consider kicking the shit out of these three idiots. It will be good for me, help me relieve the stress, but right now these assholes are just a distraction.
 

I place the car in reverse and punch the gas. The car jerks backward. It hits one of the punks and knocks him aside. He falls to the ground and once again I consider hurting him more, maybe even killing him, but instead I maneuver a quick one-eighty, pause at the sidewalk, and peel out into the street.
 

My hands are white around the steering wheel. My arms are shaking. Every single terrible thought and scenario is slithering their way through my brain. I feel like I’m on fire. I feel like my head is going to explode. I scream, as loud and as long as I can until my voice goes raw. Than I scream some more.
 

54

The GPS takes me north. Up 495 into Maryland, then west on 190 toward Elmer County. Nearly an hour and a half has passed. It’s now almost eleven-thirty.
 

According to the address Garmin gives me, Atticus Caine lives in a farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. A large metal gate blocks his driveway. To access it one needs a code, which I don’t have, and even if I did I doubt I would be able to make it through the gate and up the long drive to the house at the top of the hill without alerting Caine and possibly the authorities.
 

I drive a half mile down the road. I find a place to pull off, enough where I’m properly concealed. Making sure I have the cell phone and my guns, I get out of the car.
 

The night is still. The shrill of cicadas fill the air.
 

I start into the trees. I go at a quick enough pace where I won’t trip and twist my ankle. I know the direction is correct, because after ten minutes I come across a chain-link fence. Barbed wire runs across the top of it.
 

I begin to wonder what kind of farmhouse needs the protection of barbed wire when a twig snaps behind me and I draw my gun as I spin around and aim it right at Nova’s face.
 

He says, “I didn’t know you were the hiking type.”
 

I lower the gun, ask him what he’s doing here.
 

“I figured somebody would be watching your place. When I left I circled around and parked two blocks up so I could watch your building. After about five minutes I saw you come out and book down the street. I followed you to the gas station. Say, what’d you do to piss those kids off so much?”
 

“Does the name Atticus Caine mean anything to you?”
 

Nova shakes his head. “This his place?”
 

“Apparently.”
 

“Zane told you to come here?”
 

“He says if anybody would know the location of the flash drive, it’d be this Caine guy.”
 

Nova looks at the fence, at the barbed wire. He brings his arm out behind his back to show a pair of bolt cutters. “I always knew these would come in handy one of these days.”
 

It takes Nova a few minutes to cut a big enough hole in the fence. Once we’re on the other side, he says, “Now what?”
 

This side of the fence is completely bare. No trees, no bushes, no cover of any kind. The farmhouse sits less than a quarter mile away. It’s a two-story and it seems as if every light on the first floor is burning.
 

“Now that we’re in,” I say, “we might as well introduce ourselves.”
 

We head up the long slope of grass. At the porch there are both steps and a ramp. As we walk up to the door, Nova reaches for his gun. I tell him not to.
 

“Why the hell not?”
 

“I have an idea this guy’s not an enemy.”
 

“Holly, we just busted through his fence. We’re trespassing on his property. Trust me, to him we are now the enemy.”
 

I knock on the door. Wait a couple seconds. Knock again.
 

Nova says, “Fuck this,” and reaches out, turns the knob, and pushes.
 

The door opens.
 

He looks at me, shrugs, and enters the house. I follow him, walking slowly, listening to the heavy silence.
 

“Hello?” My raised voice sounds odd to me, much too strained. “Mr. Caine?”
 

Nothing.
 

Nova now has his gun out. He walks just as slowly as I do. The floor is polished oak. Framed photographs line the hallway, what look like Ansel Adams’ work.

A stairway is directly in front of us. On the left and right are two open doorways. Nova leans up close against the wall, peeks in the one room, then the other. He looks back at me, shakes his head.
 

Suddenly an electronic voice says, “Drop your weapons.”
 

Both of us freeze.
 

“The police have been called. They will be here momentarily. Drop your weapons now and surrender.”
 

The voice comes from every single room of the house.
 

I shout, “We are here to speak to Atticus Caine!”
 

A man appears in the doorway directly ahead of us. He is tall and pale and holds a rifle in his hands.
 

Nova raises his gun at the man but doesn’t do anything.
 

The electronic voice says, “Regarding what?”
 

I say, “The safety of Walter Hadden’s children.”
 

There is a silence. The pale man keeps the rifle aimed at us while Nova keeps his gun aimed at him.
 

Finally the voice says, “Are you Kenji Lin’s daughter?”
 

Nova shoots a quick look at me.
 

I say, “Yes, I am.”
 

“Walter Hadden’s children are in trouble?”
 

“Yes, they are.”
 

“Why are you here?”
 

Staring directly at the man with the rifle, I say, “We need to speak with Atticus Caine.”
 

There is another lengthy pause. Nova keeps the barrel of his gun trained on the pale man. The pale man keeps the barrel of his rifle trained on us. Then the voice speaks again, sans the electronic tone.
 

“James, lower the rifle.”
 

The pale man lowers the rifle.
 

“Now please escort our two guests to the basement.”
 

Holding the rifle lowered in one hand, James motions us to follow him with the other.
 

Nova and I look at each other. I nod at the gun, and he lowers it. Then I start forward, toward James, into the kitchen. He moves over to a door, opens it, gestures for me to go first. I start down the stairs.
 

At the bottom sits a black man in a wheelchair. He appears to be in his sixties, some gray streaking his full beard.
 

“So you’re Holly Lin.” His voice is low and deep. “And this gentleman behind you is Nova, correct?”
 

The entire basement is filled with electronic equipment. In one corner are two dozen monitors, showing different angles of the interior and exterior of the farmhouse. In every other corner are computer screens.
 

James has reached the bottom of the stairs. Still keeping the rifle lowered, he walks past us and then turns so he’s standing behind the man in the wheelchair.
 

“We’re here about Roland Delano’s flash drive,” I say.
 

“Who is Roland Delano?” When neither of us answers, the man shakes his head and says, “I don’t have his flash drive. You should know that already.”
 

“But you know where it’s located.”
 

“I don’t, but even if I did, why would I tell you?”
 

“Because David and Casey Haddens’ lives depend on it.”
 

Atticus Caine shifts his weight in the wheelchair. He glances up at James, turns his attention back to me. “Young lady, do you know what is on that flash drive?”
 

“I don’t.”
 

“Are you aware of just what kind of trouble will happen if that flash drive falls into the wrong hands?”
 

“I have an idea.”
 

Atticus Caine squints his eyes, studies my face. “You care deeply about these children.”