No Shelter (28 page)

I told Karen we would contact someone else, but she told me just to forget it. Her face was pale, her eyes red. The air was so dry in the desert that it dried the sweat off our bodies. It did the same to tears.
 

“Don’t make a big deal about it, okay?” She hugged her knees up to her chest. “I’m just going to forget it ever happened. You should too.”
 

But I couldn’t forget. Now every male soldier I looked at was a suspect. It was strange; the enemy had suddenly become the ones inside our base.
 

I started asking around. A few of the girls admitted that they had heard stories of other women being raped in the same way. None ever admitted it had been them. But sometimes I could see it in their eyes. A flicker, nothing more than that. It was the same thing I now saw in Karen’s eyes. Before there had been an energetic fire, a passion to try to give shelter to the world, undo all the front lines. But that fire had been extinguished. She became withdrawn. Detached. Distant. One time I found her behind our building, punching the wall. She’d held her broken and bloodied hand up to me and said it didn’t even hurt.
 

I called my father. He was stationed somewhere halfway around the world; I never knew the exact location. I told him the situation. I told him what the CO’s answer had been. I told him I suspected it was happening to other girls. He was quiet a moment. I could hear the static on the line and pictured a giant black hole between me and him. Then he said, “You’re a smart girl, Holly. You know how to make it right.”
 

There was only one way I knew how to make it right, but I refused to consider the option. It was just too extreme. It was just too ... unlike me.
 

Then Karen became even more detached. One of the girls found her in our building banging her head against the tiles. She was sent to the infirmary. She was given medication. It was decided she should go back home.
 

The day before she left, however, she overdosed.
 

I thought about what my dad had told me. How I was a smart girl. How I knew how to make it right.
 

I decided that night—just hours after Karen killed herself—how I was going to do that.
 

I began making nightly trips to the porta potties. I would wait inside for five minutes. It was stifling hot. The combination of piss and shit was severe. I would spend the time counting how long I could hold my breath.
 

When I opened the door I would be expecting someone on the other side, someone who would try to punch me in the nose, push me down, knock me unconscious. But there was never anybody there.
 

A week passed. Then another week. I was beginning to lose hope. I was beginning to look at the rest of the male soldiers during the day with hate. They were all guilty. They were all hiding something.
 

Finally one night during the third week someone was waiting for me. I could hear his boots crunching outside the porta potties. He was being too sloppy. He was getting away with too much and his ego had grown too big.
 

When I opened the door he was there and threw a punch at my face but I ducked it and kicked him in the balls, grabbed his neck and twisted it so hard I thought I might tear his head from the rest of his body. His body went limp in my arms. I dropped him to the ground. There was nobody around. The night was momentarily silent. The sky was clear.
 

And at once a series of impulses began to race through my mind like a line of dominoes: I wanted to kick him. I wanted to pull out my knife and stab him a hundred times. I wanted to cut off his dick and stuff it in his mouth and then leave him out for the rest of his brothers-in-rape to see (this last thought so gruesome and unlike me that for a moment I actually questioned my own sanity).
 

In the end I took his body and buried it out by the generator. I kept his dog tags. His name was Michael Blair. I had seen him around. I remembered him as one of the few men who had tried talking to Karen when she first arrived. He had a baby face. He had large hands.
 

Nobody saw me. I returned to my bunk with a great sense of disappointment. I’d wanted more. I’d wanted to keep him alive longer. At least until I’d tortured him. Until I’d gotten some names, other men who played the same game. Maybe he wouldn’t have known anybody else, but that wouldn’t have mattered. I would have tortured him until he made up a few.
 

The next day he was reported missing. Three days later his body was found. The entire base was searched. I hadn’t had time to move his dog tags. I’d placed them in the corner of my locker. I don’t know why I kept them, or why I didn’t hide them better. I think by that point I just didn’t care anymore. Before I hadn’t minded fighting in this war. Now I didn’t see the point. We were fighting against one type of evil while another type hid behind their uniforms. It reminded me exactly of what Karen had said about the front line being everywhere. It was true: there was no shelter.
 

The dog tags were found. I was taken into custody. I was placed in a room with a table and a chair. Two MPs came in and shouted at me. They said things about prison. They called me a bitch and a cunt and a traitor. They said the death penalty would be too good for me. Then they left. I was alone for hours. When the door opened again, it wasn’t the MPs who entered the room. It was Walter.
 

At this point Nova allows a small smile. He says, “He offered you a job, didn’t he?”
 

I nod. I wonder what situation Nova had found himself in that caused Walter to walk in and bail him out just like that.
 

“He said he knew my father. He said he knew exactly what had happened. He said he understood. Then he asked me if I regretted what I had done. I considered lying, telling him I regretted it deeply. But I didn’t. I told him what I regretted most was that I had killed him too fast. I told him I’d wanted to make him pay first.”
 

I don’t bother telling Nova the rest. Not about how Walter had told me he could use my services. Not about how he would make it appear I would be taken into custody. Not about my year of intense training. Nova already knew about that; he had been through it himself.
 

“You can go now,” I say.
 

“Are you sure?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Are you hungry? We can order a pizza.”
 

“I appreciate everything, Nova, but right now I just want to be alone. Really alone, okay?”
 

He watches me closely, considering it. I just told a story about a woman who killed herself. There is no way for Nova to know I am suicidal too. Or maybe there is. Maybe I am more transparent than I care to admit.
 

“Okay,” he says then, standing up. He looks down at the Berettas in each hand, looks back up at me. “Do you need an extra piece?”
 

“I have plenty.”
 

He grins. “I’m sure you do. You could probably fill an Easter egg basket with all the weapons you have hidden in this place.”
 

“Goodbye, Nova.”
 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Goodbye.”
 

And like that he’s gone.
 

I wait until I hear the apartment door close before I stand up. I need some water. I need some food. I need to piss.
 

I start toward the kitchen when the phone rings. It’s the main line, as my cell has disappeared. I hurry into the kitchen, thinking it’s Walter with some good news, then thinking it’s Walter with some bad news.
 

I pause with my hand extended. My eyes once again focus on the Bazooka Joe comic pinned to the cork board.
 

I answer the phone.
 

Zane says, “What—you’re not fucking Nova now too, are you?”
 

52

A long moment of silence passes before Zane says, “Um, are you there, Holly?”
 

“What do you want?”
 

“Just to talk.” His voice grows soft, almost thoughtful. “Remember the nights when we spent hours on the phone just talking about nothing?”
 

I glance quickly around the kitchen, at all the different places I have weapons hidden. I think about the rest of the weapons—the guns, the knives, even a machete—hidden around the apartment.
 

“To be honest,” I say, “it barely crosses my mind.”
 

“Oh now, come on. That’s not fair. I hurt you a long time ago and now you’re trying to hurt me.”
 

If I wanted to hurt him I would tell him about our aborted child. But I don’t. It’s none of his fucking business, and even if it was I still wouldn’t tell him.
 

“As far as I’m concerned, Zane, you’re still dead.”
 

He drops the soft, thoughtful tone. “It doesn’t look like Walter is going to come through in time.”
 

Unfortunately this is a corded phone. I don’t even know why I still own it. It was here when I moved in and I always figured it would be here when I moved out. Now I wish I’d broken down and bought a stupid cordless so I could move freely around the apartment.
 

“It’s not that he doesn’t want his kids back,” Zane says. “I know he does. I know he’s fighting to get them back.”
 

He’s outside. I know he’s outside. How else could he have known I was with Nova unless he watched him leave?
 

“Anyway,” he says, “it doesn’t look like Walter is going to make the deadline.”
 

“You said there wasn’t any deadline.”
 

“Don’t be naïve, Holly. There is always a deadline.”
 

“So why are you calling me?”
 

“Because you’ve now become the wildcard. Why else do you think your old man saved your life in Paris?”
 

I close my eyes and remember that alleyway. I remember the rain and the patterns the red and white lights played against the brick walls. I remember the two officers and how they died. I remember the man who had killed them raising his gun and pointing it at my face like I had once done to someone else two years ago.
 

“We always knew you would be the key. Ever since that shit went down in Vegas and we realized it was you guys, we knew you would be the one who would come through and help us get the flash drive back.”
 

“Fuck you. Fuck you and my father.”
 

“Now, now, Holly. That’s not very lady-like at all.”
 

“You’re a real asshole, Zane, you know that?”
 

“Yet you still let me sleep with you.”
 

“That was only because I felt sorry for you. You and your small dick.”
 

A moment passes where Zane doesn’t say anything and I start to smile thinking I’ve had the last word. Then that moment passes and I realize what’s at stake here. I can’t let my emotions overtake me. I can’t let my anger blur out my focus.
 

“We could talk shit all night, Holly, but quite frankly we don’t have the time. Or I should say the children don’t have the time.”
 

“You wouldn’t hurt them.”
 

“Wouldn’t I?”
 

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
 

“I guess it’s safe to assume there are two Hollys now. The Holly of Yesterday and the Holly of Today. Does the Holly of Today, now knowing everything she does, think I really wouldn’t kill these kids if I didn’t get what I wanted?”
 

“I don’t know. But the Holly of Tomorrow has something she wants to say to you. She says that when she sees you next, she’s going to break your fucking neck.”
 

“Fuck this,” Zane says. “Just remember—the children’s blood is now on your hands.”
 

“Let me talk to them.”
 

“What?”
 

“The children. I want to hear their voices.”
 

“And then?”
 

“Then we’ll talk.”
 

Zane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t make a sound. I think for a moment that the line has gone dead when I hear a sniveling voice say hello.
 

“Casey?”
 

“Holly? Holly, is that you?”
 

“Casey, it’s okay, baby. I’m—”
 

“Holly, why—”
 

Her voice fades away and then it’s David’s voice I hear, David’s frightened six-year-old voice quickly saying, “Mom? Dad? Hello? Hello? Anybody?”
 

I start to say David’s name but his voice fades away too and then it’s Zane back on the line, clearing his throat.
 

“Satisfied?”
 

“What do you want from me?”
 

“The flash drive.”
 

“I don’t have it.”
 

“No, but you can get it. And you will if you want these children to live.”
 

I don’t bother questioning him. I know he’s serious. I know he’d snap one of the kid’s necks just to hear the sound it makes. That’s the type of person Zane has become. The type of person my father has no doubt become.
 

“How?”
 

“Your car is parked three blocks away at the 7-Eleven on Vicker Street. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“The car is presently unlocked. The keys are in the glove box, along with a cell phone. When you get there I’ll call to give you further instructions. Oh, and Holly? No more being a bitch. Any flippant comment made to me will result in one of the children’s fingers being broken. Understand?”