Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

She turned to him, bright-eyed, her index finger touching pursed lips, the bracelets up around her elbow. “Okay, Daddy, we can go. But we have to leave the light on because Shmulik is scared by the monsterim.”

“Monsterim?” He was amazed. She’d fixed a Hebrew plural suffix onto an English word.

Hands on her hips, she glared up at him, her face serious, and stage-whispered, “You know — monsters.”

He nodded sagely. “Any special kind of monsters?”

“Big ones. With teeth—” She spread her hands two feet apart.

“I’ve seen those big monsters before,” he said. “I know all about them. But Shmulik doesn’t have to worry.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” He scanned the room quickly. It was Spartan: paneled walls, a single bare-bulb lamp with clip-on shade for light, an armoire where they’d hung their clothes, and, hidden by the panels’ vertical joints, a spring-closed storage closet where the extra bedding and a third cot were kept. Terry went to the section of panel where the faint outline of the storage closet could just be seen and pressed the hidden door. It sprung open. He gestured. “See? All Shmulik has to do is run in there and close the door and he’ll be safe.”

Liz scampered over and looked inside, wrinkling her face disapprovingly. “Eecch, Daddy, it’s smelly. I’d rather leave the lights on.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. Shmulik gets the lights.”

They walked hand in hand through the crowded streets, marveling at the electric lanterns that were strung above their heads. On the beachfront Terry headed toward a restaurant he remembered from their last trip, and after obtaining Liz’s approval they commandeered a table facing the water, and the attention of an overworked waiter. Terry ordered a Gold Star beer; Liz decided on Coke. Solemnly, they poured the drinks into streaked glasses and touched rims.

“Cheers, my birthday girl.”

“Daddy — it’s not till Saturday.”

“Well, it’s soon enough to say cheers.”

She shook her head. “No it isn’t. You can only say ‘Cheers, my birthday girl’ when it’s my birthday.”

She was so literal. Just like her father, he thought. “Okay,” he improvised, “cheers, my non-birthday girl.”

“You’re silly. Daddy.”

“Of course I’m silly. I’m a daddy. You know what you are?”

She shook her head.

“You,” he paused, waiting for the desired effect, “are an imp.”

Reaction achieved. “Am not. There’s no such real word like imp.”

“Oh yes there is. I can show it to you in the dictionary when we get home. Or we can call your mother and ask her to look it up.”

Inquisitive: “What does imp mean?”

“It means Liz Robinson.”

Defiant: “No it doesn’t.”

“It means Liz-who-wears-dresses-on-the-bus-and-tucks-in-her-teddy-Robinson.”

Petulant: “No it doesn’t.”

“It means Liz-who-likes-Coca-Cola-because-it-makes-her-nose-wrinkle-Robinson.”

“It means what you’re doing, Daddy. Being mischiev... mischievoonieous.”

Where the hell did she come up with the damn words? He laughed. He agreed. “When I was your age I was an imp.”

Triumphant: “You are an imp, too, Daddy.” She took her glass in two hands and slurped contentedly on Coke. “We are impim !”

They dined royally, so far as Liz was concerned, on kebab sandwiches and French fries drowned in ketchup. Terry had two more Gold Stars, Liz another Coke.

After he paid the bill they walked down the beach and Liz took off her sandals and scampered down to the water. Terry rolled his trouser legs, shed his Top-Siders, and followed. Then they went for ice cream, glida in Hebrew; coconut ice cream in a sugar cone that had, to Terry’s dismay, a bad leak. He wiped at Liz’s chin and the top of her T-shirt with an inefficient, wax-coated napkin then gave up and swabbed wholeheartedly with his pocket handkerchief.

By nine-thirty Liz was feeling tired again so they abandoned the streets for their hotel room. He peeled Liz out of her clothes, sent her to the bathroom, and waited as she brushed her teeth, then dumped her playfully into her bed, Shmulik resting comfortably in the crook of her arm.

“Daddy?”

He kissed her forehead. “What, Liz?”

“Would you stay here with me?”

“Sure, honey. Why?”

“This bed is lumpy and I’m not sure I can get right to sleep but I’m tired and I want to sleep and I—”

He cut her off. “Not to worry, imp. Daddy’s here.” He slipped onto the narrow bed and cradled his daughter. He kissed her cheeks and her forehead and held the child to him. “Not to worry. Daddy’s here.”

He was still on Liz’s bed, lying fully clothed and dreaming when the shots woke him. He didn’t know what time it was and his head was foggy with sleep but the shots were unmistakable: automatic weapons fire coming from close by.

Instinctively he rolled out of the bed. Liz, too, was awake and she started, startled, to go with him but he pushed her head gently back onto the pillow and looked her straight in the face. “Stay here, baby, stay here.”

He moved quickly to the door of the balcony, cracked it open and peered outside, wincing as the firing grew closer, bullets whining ricochets off nearby stone. There were shouts, cries, and then an explosion from somewhere down below. He looked back at the bed where Liz lay frightened. He called to her: “Lizzie, hit the deck. Get down on the floor and stay there.”

“Daddy—”

“Liz — do exactly what I say. Now!”

He couldn’t tell where the firing was coming from, or from whom, or —

More shots. Closer. Now from inside the hotel. Down the stairs. Down the hall. Were they coming — they — terrorists? Soldiers? He crawled toward the door and pressed his ear against it. Shouting.

But not Hebrew shouting. Arabic shouting.

Terrorists. Oh, goddamn to hell terrorists. Liz. Terrorists. His heart raced. They were trapped. A twenty-foot drop to hard pavement outside and maybe the goddamn terrorists were waiting for them there, too. He tried to ease his racing heart. Okay. Think. You are a goddamn professional. You are supposed to know what to do.

He went on automatic pilot. Light? No light. Dark room. Dark equals safety. He rolled to the desk and reached up (“Oh, damn, Lizzie,” as he heard the adjacent door splinter) and smashed the bulb.

Now — shelter. His mind worked in milliseconds debating the possibilities. Under the bed. No protection. Bathroom. No protection. Closet.

Closet: dark room; closet hidden. Grab Liz. Stay quiet. Wail. Roll to the left. Take Liz.

Her eyes were frightened, panicked saucers. She began to cry out and he realized that she was reflecting his own state. He forced himself to calm down. Whispered shushing noises in her ear as he held her and crawled to the paneled wall, found the hidden door, pulled the two of them inside and then, fingers searching desperately for an exposed piece of wood, clicked the door closed. Exhausted, he lay panting in the small black space, his body wrapped around the child.

He found her ear and kissed it. “Lizzie — there are bad men outside. Very bad. We have to lie here very, very still until we hear them go away.”

The child began to sob uncontrollably. He covered her mouth and whispered in her ear again. “Can’t do that, Lizzie. Can’t cry or talk or anything because if they find us they’ll hurt us.” His mind raced. All his training; all his experience — nothing to show for it. Lying in a dark place waiting to be killed. Waiting for the child to be killed. Take me — leave Liz. Hostages. Gunshot wounds. Grenades. Knives in Liz’s throat. Liz’s head severed.

Liz cried. He held her mouth tighter. “No, no, no, baby. No crying. Can’t cry.”