“I need transportation.”
“Yes, I know.” Atticus pauses. “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?”
At this I can’t help but smile. “After everything that’s happened so far, you still underestimate me, don’t you.”
“I was simply asking for clarification, Holly. I would never underestimate the daughter of Jian Lin.”
The mention of my father wipes the smile off my face. I start toward the highway going southbound, stepping over roots and rocks.
“Where’s Nova now?”
“He will soon be headed back over the Woodrow Wilson.”
I wait for a lull in the traffic before running out across the asphalt to the trees on the other side. My body is sore, my muscles tight. Maybe I’m not in as good of shape as I think I am.
I enter the trees and work through them. Atticus doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I try to keep my mind clear. I try not to think about Nova and the Black Hawk. I try not to think about Casey and David and how they might already be dead. I try not to think about what my father and Zane have become, how it must have been so easy, so simple, that it could happen to anyone.
I come out of the trees into a residential area. Houses are spaced apart along the tree line, almost all of them with their lights off. A few cars sit in driveways but I don’t want to chance it. What I’m looking for now is a parking lot, something with a dozen cars, something that won’t quickly go noticed.
As I walk I pull out the cell phone. I hit a button to illuminate the screen: 4:30. Now exactly an hour and a half. And still no call from Zane.
“Talk to me, Atticus. What’s happening with Nova?”
No answer.
I stop, place my finger to my ear, make sure the transmitter is still there. “Atticus?”
He clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
“A few minutes ago his pickup went over the Woodrow Wilson. I’m afraid I’ve lost contact.”
Sixty-Three
By the time I find a car and hot-wire it—a ’99 Ford Taurus parked along the street, its doors unlocked—it’s almost five o’clock and Zane has yet to call.
I drive north on 295, passing Bolling Air Force Base, the Anacostia Naval Station. I think about Nova taking on heavy gunfire. About losing control of the pickup. About driving over the bridge into the Potomac.
I want to believe that he’s safe. That he somehow got out of the pickup in time. That he somehow didn’t drown.
And if he didn’t drown (God, please be the case), then what happened? They probably took him into custody. I know he won’t say anything. Not a word. They can torture him all day and night, he won’t break. It won’t matter, though; they know at least one other person is involved. And if the tranquilized agents come to, or the tractor-trailer driver is still conscious after his collision, one of them will be able to give a description of me. Which means right this second, half of Washington will be looking for an Asian American woman in her late-twenties.
And silly me, I’m heading right back into the lion’s den.
The owner of the Taurus seems to be a big Rolling Stones fan. Every single album of theirs is scattered across the backseat. I punch the power button on the CD player, and, I guess appropriately enough, “Sympathy For the Devil” starts up.
I punch the power button again, cutting the music off. I lean over, pop open the glove box, and am rewarded by a pack of Parliaments that I immediately light up with the help of the car’s cigarette lighter. I take a couple long drags, relishing the taste, then clear my throat.
“Atticus.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
I consider taking the South Capitol Street Bridge into the city but decide to keep driving up 295.
“About this whole thing. I mean … it’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
“Why do you use that word?”
“What—fucked? Because it is.”
“I agree with you that this situation is not ideal. In fact, regardless how this turns out, James and I will have to relocate as it seems we’re not as well hidden as we had thought. But what I mean is why do you use those vulgar words?”
The Taurus’s owner also seems to have a thing for Hawaii. Three of those hula-hoop girls are stuck on the dash, shaking their things in rhythm with the road.
“I’m sorry, Atticus. I didn’t know you’re religious.”
“I’m not religious, Holly. And based on your judgment there, it’s clear what one of your biggest problems is.”
The last thing I want to do right now is discuss what my biggest problem is. Still, I ask, “What’s my biggest problem?”
“You assume too much. You don’t take time to assess people properly. You might think you’re not making snap judgments, but you do, and because of that you are disadvantaged when it comes to truly reading someone.”
Irritated now, I say, “You mean someone like you?”
“And the vulgarities?” Atticus says, ignoring me. “That is simply a lack of self-control on your part.”
“A lack of self-control.”
“Yes. Controlling your language, what words come out of your mouth, is one of the most difficult things a person can do. They almost always speak before they think. Your father was the same way.”
I drive up the ramp for the 11th Street Bridge, taking me over the Anacostia River into Washington. Once again I’m expecting there to be a squad of police cars waiting for me. Once again I’m wrong.
“How well did you know my father?”
“Quite well. As I told you, I trained him to kill.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
Atticus doesn’t answer. Again I think something has gone wrong with the transmitter and touch my ear, just to make sure it’s still there. I glance at the dashboard clock: 5:15.
“Atticus?”
“He talked about you a lot. It was clear he loved your mother and sister very much. But you … you seemed to be the apple of
