The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  Brett averted her eyes. “We never fought—”

  “The knife,” Caroline interrupted.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Brett turned to her. “What about it?”

  “The knife is critical. If they can trace it to James, or to you, then the case I just described to you may not be the prosecution theory. It may be your best defense. To a charge of murder one.” Caroline’s voice became quiet; she reached out, touching Brett’s arm. “Before you answer me, Brett, I need to tell you something else.

  “You asked me to believe you. I’m offering you something better.” Caroline’s voice became softer yet. “I don’t care what happened. All I care about is that you not be hurt.”

  Brett sat straighter, her eyes looking straight into Caroline’s. With equal softness, she said, “I had no reason to kill him, and I never saw that knife before. I’m innocent.”

  Four

  Wearily descending the staircase, Caroline was unprepared for Larry.

  He turned from the dining room table, a china plate in his hand. As he froze in the candlelight, Caroline saw the young husband she had known, gentle and soft-spoken, beneath the wary gaze of a man of fifty. He was still lean, gray-haired now, the kind aspect of his face tending far less to the amused irony of the graduate student who knew his choice of English lit was feckless but believed that life would somehow reward him for his foolishness, providing the job that he needed and the baby Betty so desperately wanted. For a fleeting moment, Caroline wished that she could stop that summer in midflight, so that she would not now read its end in Larry’s face.

  “Caro,” he said softly.

  She merely nodded. There was really nothing to say.

  He moved a step closer, still tentative, as if to verify her presence. Caroline gave him no help. He stopped, looking into her face until he seemed to see what was written there.

  “Why,” Caroline said in a low voice, “did you ever bring her here?”

  Larry did not flinch; Caroline saw that he had prepared himself for this. “All that matters, Caroline, is how she is right now.”

  Through his defensiveness, Caroline heard a trace of rebuke, as though the family that lived here was paying a price Caroline would never know. “Yes,” she said coolly. “I’m very sorry for you, of course.”

  Larry glanced over his shoulder. In an undertone, he said, “Caroline, please…”

  “The truth, Larry, is that I don’t know how she is. Only that she’s frightened, and smart, and trying to maintain.”

  The struggle for dispassion, Caroline realized, was costing her: some part of her felt gutted. For a moment, Larry watched her.

  “We waited dinner.” Larry’s tone held a faint apology. “You look pale, Caro. It would be good if you ate something.”

  Caroline was light-headed from weariness and hunger. Yes, she thought, that was the Larry she remembered—considerate, at pains to empathize. The one she had opened her heart to when she could no longer turn to her own family. She shook her head. “There’s been a lot today….”

  As if her admission gave him confidence, Larry reached out, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “Please. We’ve made up a room for you.”

  Caroline looked into his face. Only then did she realize that Betty watched them from the kitchen door.

  Following Caroline’s gaze, Larry turned to his wife. To Caroline, Betty’s face was an inscrutable mask.

  Larry crossed the room to Betty. “I’ll help with the pasta.” His tone strained for normality. “It’ll just be the three of us.”

  Caroline’s mind filled with dark humor, the skewed vision of a television family. Yes, she imagined Betty saying chirpily, Dad’s eating in his room tonight. He gets so overexcited whenever he sees Caroline. She realized that she was studying Betty with a grim half smile.

  Betty seemed to stand straighter. At the corner of her eye, Caroline saw Larry give her sister an admonitory gaze, form a few silent words with his lips. They vanished through the kitchen door.

  By rote, Caroline sat in the place that had once been hers.

  They ate by candlelight, the tradition of Caroline’s father and his father before him.

  It played tricks on Caroline’s memory. The light that danced on the crystal chandelier seemed to come from some other evening; the glow in the beveled mirror from Caroline’s childhood. Gazing across the table at her sister, Caroline remembered her father at the head, Betty and Caroline facing each other, Nicole Masters—small and dark and beautiful—at the end opposite her husband. To Caroline now, more sharply than it had then, the image that struck her was of Betty sitting alone, amidst her indifferent stepmother and the half-sister upon whom her father doted. She imagined that Betty’s eyes, meeting her own, still held the jealousy and confusion of the girl who—without knowing why—had lost both her mother and her primacy. But now the cost of her own motherhood was etched on Betty’s face.

  Larry broke the silence. Quietly, he said, “Thank you for coming, Caro.”

  Caroline turned, slowly, staring, at him until his gaze flinched. I’m sorry, she imagined him saying. As if to cover this, he murmured, “We know this can’t be easy.”

  What I know, Caroline thought, is that neither of you wants me here. Her sister’s face was hard. She made no move to join in Larry’s grace note.

  Caroline put down her fork. “Perhaps it’s best if we try to talk about what happened.”

  Betty was silent. After a moment, Larry said, “I was gone, Caro. Camping in Vermont.” The slightest glance at Betty. “I’d gone to a trout stream, one a friend at the college put me onto.”

  “By yourself?”

  A slow nod, and then he shook his head in wonderment. “I never thought how out of touch it left me….”

  Betty’s mouth had set, Caroline saw. Caroline picked up her glass of red wine and sipped it, studying Betty over the rim. “But you were here,” she said.

  Betty nodded almost imperceptibly. It was more than the strain of her presence, Caroline realized; both Larry and Betty appeared hollowed out by an event they still could not quite accept. When Larry reached to touch Betty’s hand, his wife seemed not to notice.

  “Who else was here?” Caroline asked.

  Betty stared at Larry’s hand as if at a foreign object. “Just Father,” she said. “Upstairs.”

  “When did Brett leave?”

  “About eight, I think.” A faint note of impatience. “I really don’t remember.”

  “And neither of you went out—you or Father?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know where Brett was going?”

  A sharp look. “Of course not.”

  “ ‘Of course not’?” Caroline repeated.

  Larry’s hand tightened on the back of Betty’s. “There were strains,” he interjected. “Over Brett’s relationship to James. Betty bore the brunt of it.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “We fought.” Betty’s voice was flat. “Over this boy’s involvement with drugs—I assume you know about that. Over this boy, period.” Betty leaned back, studying Caroline with new frankness. Did you come here, the look said, to judge me? With an edge, she said, “Being a parent is hard, Caroline.”

  Caroline saw Larry’s hand clasp Betty’s—a restraining gesture. In her most arid tone, Caroline answered, “So I understand.”

  A light flush crept across Betty’s face. More evenly, she said, “James Case was everything Brett didn’t need—self-centered and irresponsible, seeing her only as a convenience. There was failure written all over him. Failure and heartbreak. I didn’t want that for her, and I couldn’t bear to watch it.” Betty slid her hand, slowly and deliberately, from beneath her husband’s. “Brett,” she resumed with suppressed fervor, “expects the best in people, far more than she should. Instead of a vain young man who aspired to a marginal profession, she saw a damaged boy who could become better if she was only patient. He wanted her to give up everything—”

  Betty s
topped abruptly, as if she had startled herself.

  Larry’s anxious gaze moved from Betty to Caroline. But Caroline was silent, her face without expression.

  Betty faced her directly, retrieving a look of pride. “What I told her about James,” Betty said, “is that she had better hope he never became a success. Because then he would leave her. After he changed her life.”

  Caroline’s throat felt tight. Quietly, she asked, “And what was Brett’s answer?”

  Betty seemed to study her. “That she was old enough to decide what was best for her. And that she would.” Betty’s voice grew flinty now. “What she believes is that I’m an overprotective mother who can’t let go because my obsession with her is all I have in my narrow and limited existence. And what I know is that the line between romanticism and self-destruction is one that she has yet to recognize.”

  Caroline gave her a long, cool look. “Do you really think,” she asked, “that she understands herself so incompletely?”

  Betty met her eyes. “Do you think,” she answered, “that she’s a murderer?”

  Suddenly, Caroline felt off balance. “I don’t know,” she said. “But then I didn’t raise her, did I?”

  Caroline heard Larry exhale; saw Betty’s mouth open again. Caroline continued in a tone of calm she did not feel. “While you, of course, did. Which leads me to inquire whether you ever listened to her telephone conversations.”

  Betty stiffened in her chair. “What makes you ask that…?”

  “She thinks you did. Specifically, that night. When she and James decided to go to Heron Lake.”

  Betty seemed to blanch. “Why does she say that?”

  “Because she heard someone pick up a telephone.”

  Betty touched her eyes. “No,” she said.

  “No?”

  “No.” Betty folded her arms now, staring at the hard gloss of the dining table. “Why would it matter now? To her or to you?”

  “To Brett? Because twenty-two-year-olds don’t like being spied on, including this one. To me, because I can’t help but wonder if you told someone else.”

  Across the table, Betty froze. Larry placed his hand on Caroline’s arm. Voice half anxious, half brusque, he demanded, “Just what is this about, Caroline? The present or the past?”

  Caroline did not take her gaze off Betty. “The present, very much so. I’d like to know if either of you knows any way that anyone could have found out where Brett was taking him.”

  Betty met her eyes. “No,” she said succinctly. “I did not spy on my daughter.”

  Caroline appraised her. “And you have no idea,” she inquired, “how anyone else would have known she was there.”

  “No.” A brief pause. “Perhaps James told someone. Perhaps, Caroline, they were simply followed.”

  Caroline shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Betty’s voice rose. “She did not kill him.”

  Deliberately, Caroline picked up the wineglass and drained it. Betty shut her eyes; Caroline felt Larry’s gaze. The wine seemed to numb her.

  “This knife,” Caroline said. “I gather the police asked you about it.”

  Betty’s eyes half opened. Slowly, she nodded.

  Caroline turned to Larry. “And you?”

  Larry shook his head. “They haven’t questioned me yet.”

  Caroline leaned forward, her gaze sweeping them both. “Because it is very important that the knife not be traced to Brett. Or to this house.”

  Betty stiffened. “You do think she killed him.”

  “I don’t think anything,” Caroline answered sharply. “But whoever represents Brett can do without surprises. It’s quite important that there is nothing that would lead the police to believe Brett brought the knife.” Her voice became quiet. “It’s not just a matter of you or Father telling the police that you know nothing about a knife, or that no knife is missing. It’s a matter of being sure that there is no one in a position to say anything different. Or to be caught in a lie.” Caroline paused. “Do you understand, both of you, precisely what I’m saying?”

  Betty’s mouth was tight. “I understand perfectly. Brett says that she’s never seen the knife. You want to be sure that if she’s lying, we’ve thought through whether we can cover it up. Unless we don’t know better ourselves.”

  “In which case,” Caroline answered mildly, “you have no problem, do you? … Incidentally, what you just said was very foolish. Not the thought so much. But to say it aloud.”

  Betty stood up from the table, staring down at her sister. “They showed me pictures of the knife, Caroline. And I never saw it before.” She looked to Larry and back again. “If you’ll excuse me, Brett’s alone.”

  She abruptly left the room.

  In Larry’s pensive silence, Caroline heard her sister climb the stairs. She reached for the wine bottle, poured some into her glass, then Larry’s.

  Only then did she turn to him. In the candlelight, his face was lined, his eyes weary and sad and perhaps ashamed. But he did not look away.

  “So,” Caroline said softly.

  Larry exhaled, gazing narrow-eyed at the flickering candle.

  Caroline simply waited. Given her emotions, it was best.

  “For a long time,” he said quietly, “there were no teaching jobs. Finally, I took the only one I could find—at that junior college in Connecticut.”

  “So I recall from your letter. Something about finding a home, just as you told me you would.”

  Larry’s face tightened. “I know what I said to you. You needn’t remind me.” He turned to her, finishing in a lower voice. “I wasn’t good enough, Caro. I bored them, and they fired me.”

  “Yes,” Caroline answered coolly. “That much I’d worked out.”

  Larry raised his hands in entreaty. “I had no job—”

  “You had a child, and a life.” For the first time, Caroline’s voice rose. “How could you let him do this?”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Larry touched the bridge of his nose, “Your father offered me a job I could believe in—not so hard, coming from someone who’s on the board of a college so well endowed by his family that its oldest building is the Channing Library. And Betty wanted—or needed—to be close to him. With you gone, we were all he had—”

  “Precisely.”

  He turned on her. “Damn it, Caroline, I had Brett to care for. I know how you felt, and why, but those feelings weren’t mine.”

  Caroline leaned back, tenting her fingers. “Are they now?”

  “Have I paid, do you mean? Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

  “Better? Nothing would. Especially now.” Caroline shook her head. “No, the best I can work up is a certain morbid curiosity. About someone I was once quite fond of.”

  Larry flushed, turned away. When he faced her again, moments later, it was with a look of silent pain, of mute appeal.

  “Really,” Caroline said. “This is all so unbelievable.”

  Larry said nothing. Caroline folded her arms, as if against the cold. “So,” she said finally, “how has it been for you?”

  Larry seemed to study his wine. Then he sipped it, eyes still distant, and slowly put it down. “Until this happened to Brett,” he said finally, “I would have told you it was mixed. A life of quiet desperation, quietly examined. But just now, I’m coming to see the truth, if the truth about me even matters. And it begins to seem much sadder than merely being the son-in-law with tenure.”

  “How so?”

  “Because I’m a spectator in my own life. Although Channing lives upstairs now, this home isn’t mine—I’m simply the curator. And, in the ways that are most important, this family isn’t mine.” He paused, adding softly, “Just as you predicted years ago.”

  Watching him, Caroline said nothing.

  “I should have seen,” he said at length, “how it was with Betty. First he loved your mother and then he loved you. Brett was like a present she gave him, because he would never love her for herself.�
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  “Jesus…”

  “I know, I know. But I didn’t then. It’s all so complicated. Betty at once worships him and resents him. A lot of the anxiety that has alienated Brett as an adult—the intrusiveness, the overprotectiveness—began because Betty so badly wanted to give Brett the love she spent her childhood pining for. The all-loving, all-embracing parent…”

  “That’s what I had, and it nearly ruined me.” Caroline paused, finishing in a lower voice. “Perhaps, in a way, it did.”

  Larry fell quiet, as if unable to respond. “That’s the other thing Betty gave him,” he said at last. “At some point, I realized she discussed Brett with him more than me. And from the point that Channing retired, when Brett was seven, he always had more time for her.” He turned to Caroline. “That’s how the chain goes,” he finished softly. “From your mother, to you, to Brett.”

  For a long time, Caroline looked at the china, the oil paintings, the silver snifter on the table. Felt the slow accretion of pain.

  “This boy,” she said then. “What was he like?”

  Larry watched her face. “About as Betty described him, with allowances for her intensity. He was too damaged, I think, not to damage Brett if she stayed with him. What worried me—and what Betty and I could never talk about—was that Betty might affect Brett’s otherwise good judgment.”

  Caroline touched one finger to her mouth. “Could Betty have been spying on her?”

  Larry looked embarrassed. “I think she could have, yes. Although she’d feel far too ashamed to admit that, and it would be the last straw for Brett.” He paused. “Betty is angry because she’s frightened. And frightened people do a great many harmful things, including trying to control their world until they’ve made it perfect. The irony is that Betty desperately wanted Brett to stay in New Hampshire and, in my opinion, made it much more likely that she’d leave this fall, after she graduates, and settle elsewhere.” He glanced beyond Caroline, as if to see whether they were still alone, then asked quietly, “Did Brett tell you about the fight?”