The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  “It’s been good here,” he said. “All in all.”

  Caroline studied his slender frame, the sunlight catching the silver in his hair. She said nothing.

  Larry seemed to steel himself. “My only excuse, Caro, is that I wasn’t looking for her, at least not consciously. This woman came to me.”

  Caroline considered him. “I don’t believe in Kismet. In my experience, people like Megan Race always know who to find.”

  “Perhaps.” Larry turned from the window. “But in the classroom, I was the one they heard. Not like at home.”

  There was a faint undertone of self-contempt, as if Larry saw both versions of himself—the admired teacher, the deposed husband—as risible. “And Betty?” Caroline asked. “Where was she in all this?”

  “Silent, in the great tradition of your family. Which slowly became mine.” He faced her again. “In my experience, all those sex manuals miss the point. It isn’t a matter of putting tab A in slot B. It’s all the things that are unspoken and unresolved.” Briefly, Larry looked away. “A kind of gray depression seeps into your soul, almost by stealth. So that you’re so taken by how vivid someone like Megan Race can seem that you’re blinded to the obvious—that whatever it is she sees in you is not about you.

  “At first, she didn’t seem that remarkable: a blond girl in the front row, asking questions, listening to your keenest points with her body leaning forward, her face open, straining to get it all. Then you notice the way she’ll sit there for a moment when the lecture ends, a thoughtful, almost fond, half smile at the corner of her mouth. Until you begin to look for her and then, in an odd way, to count on her. Without either of you having said a word.”

  Larry paused for a moment. The sadness in his eyes seemed to go with the creases in his face and neck, the sag of a persona that had lost its vitality with the loss of illusions. “When she started coming to my office,” he said quietly, “something inside me knew.

  “It all began to fit. The way she moved the conversation from T. S. Eliot to things outside the class. The way she shut the door behind her, showed no interest in having coffee, or being in a public place. The almost reckless candor about herself and, after a few times, her sex life.

  “I watched us with a kind of fascination, like a spectator to my own seduction. The married professor, listening with placid interest to the pretty student while she segued from Dylan Thomas to things like, ‘I think sex is spiritual, don’t you—I mean, a mind that is uninhibited is more sexual than a well-toned body….’” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

  “I’ve met her,” Caroline said quietly. “You’ve developed some gifts as a mimic, Larry. She does have a certain breathless way of speaking.”

  Larry’s eyes shut. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbled. “How could I have done this?”

  “Because, as with several other things, you didn’t see the consequences. At least not all of them.”

  He turned from her. “I never imagined, Caro, that I was endangering my daughter. Merely that I was risking my marriage and perhaps my job.” His voice held a musing bitterness. “Later, I wondered if I didn’t have some wish for self-destruction. To end my life, figuratively speaking, as I knew it.

  “Whatever, I’d crossed the line. By the time Megan came to my office, to say she wanted an affair with me, I was past surprise.

  “I sat there while she proposed the rules, with this strange light in her eyes. We would only meet at her apartment. She would no longer come to my office. She’d never mention my name to anyone. She wouldn’t cause trouble in my marriage or take any more of my classes. All that she wanted was time with me.” Larry’s voice grew quiet again. “When she reached across the desk and placed the key in my hand, I could already imagine us.

  “The next afternoon, I went there.”

  Part of Caroline, the girl who had teased with her sister’s husband over twenty years before, had heard enough. But the lawyer Caroline had no good use for her own sensitivities, or the remnants of his pride.

  “Please, don’t spare me the details,” she said. “I need a picture of this woman.”

  Larry leaned against the wall. As if to himself, he murmured, “I’m late for dinner.”

  Through the window, the fading light caught the hollows of his face. Caroline did not answer.

  “The first time we were alone,” Larry said softly, “she asked me to lie on the bed, and watch her.

  “There was a full-length mirror on the wall. Slowly, she took off everything, a piece at a time….

  “Just before she was naked, she turned to see herself.”

  Larry paused, shaking his head. “Do you know what I remember? That when our eyes met in the mirror, she mouthed ‘I love you.’

  “After a moment, she bent over.

  “I understood it as she meant me to. When I was inside her, she masturbated until she came. And when I came, my eyes still open, she smiled at her own reflection.

  “ ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to,’ she whispered.

  “Suddenly, Caro, I was God. There was nothing I couldn’t have from her—nothing. And when we had done whatever I asked, she would tell me that I was the best lover she had ever imagined….”

  Larry’s voice became tired, empty. “ ‘Imagined’ was the word—I’m sure that my new prowess happened only in her head. But it also happened in mine.” He searched for words. “Part of me knew that this ‘relationship’ was arbitrary, of her own invention. But I was a sexual person again. I felt myself walk taller, smile more easily, a great lover within my secret world. Even as I lay next to Betty, frightened to death…”

  Caroline watched him steadily. “That was all there was? This meld of Intermezzo with Fatal Attraction?”

  He winced. “No. I also listened to her.”

  “About what?”

  “There were recurring themes. Her social views—which turned out to be some weird hybrid of Camille Paglia and ‘the politics of meaning.’ Literature, of course: sometimes she’d ask me to read to her.” He reflected. “And, more and more frequently, her childhood. Mostly trauma, loneliness … Her father was killed in an accident.”

  Caroline nodded. “Did something strike you about that?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Less then than now.” He faced her now. “When I broke it off, I gave Brett as a reason. What I remember now is Megan saying that I’d chosen Brett over her.” He shook his head, chagrined. “In retrospect, it was like she’d lost a father.”

  Caroline’s eyes changed. “I thought all she wanted was a little piece of your mind. And body.”

  “At first, yes. There were rules for that too: Monday and Thursday, from three to five-thirty. Until she came to my office by surprise.

  “That was the first breach of the rules.

  “She was talking before I could protest.” Larry stopped, pensive. “What I haven’t conveyed to you is any picture of her energy—the excitement, the intimacy with which she looked at you, this incandescent smile. It was like she took you over….”

  “Yes. I’ve seen some of that, too. I sensed a tinge of desperation about it.” Caroline considered him. “I assume that she wanted, or needed, something from you.”

  “To go away for a weekend.” In profile, Larry looked ashen, unable now to face her. “And then she slipped a white envelope in my hand and asked me to open it before I answered.

  “Inside was a Polaroid picture. One she had taken of herself, in front of the mirror. She had only one hand on the camera….” His voice fell off.

  “Yes,” Caroline said evenly. “I think I get it. Do go on.”

  Larry crossed his arms. “There was also a note, making me a promise. The one thing I hadn’t dared ask her to do.” He paused again. “I don’t know whether it was that, or the smile on her face when I looked up.

  “ ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I know you.’”

  Caroline felt a kind of dread. “So you went with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Betty?
”

  “When I said I was going camping, she became very quiet.” Larry gazed out the window. “I hadn’t done that since Brett was small, and Betty has this instinct for anything that threatens her, or hers. The week before I went away, we hardly spoke.

  “Megan and I drove to the White Mountains. With every mile, I felt more haunted, less safe. We had hardly pitched the tent before I made her keep her promise. But all that it meant to me was an escape from my own thoughts….

  “To Megan, it meant something more.

  “ ‘We’re different now,’ she told me. ‘No boy has ever done that to me. I was waiting for a man.’

  “Something in her voice made me cringe. Part of it was the feeling—suddenly quite clear—that she had cast me in a fantasy that was far too comprehensive. But the worst part was the contrast between the ‘man’ of her imaginings and the real man, filled with the regret and memories of a twenty-five-year marriage, fearful of being caught before he gave that his due.” He paused. “And then—and this was eerie—she started asking about Betty.”

  He shook his head. “I’d had this illusion, Caro, that I’d kept my worlds separate—that all I had to do was spend a few hours in one, and lie a little in the other. And then suddenly Megan wanted to know everything: about how Betty and I met, what she liked, what kind of home we had and what kind of mother she was, what we did in bed together….

  “It was so bizarre. I was willing to violate our marriage vows, but to violate our privacy was too great a betrayal.” His voice grew quiet again. “It was like whatever there was between us—our disappointments, our failures, our understandings, and even our silences—was Betty’s and mine. And that I could never cheapen it to feed this girl’s needs.”

  “And after that?”

  Larry turned to her. “Two more weeks, and it was over.”

  Caroline put a finger to her lips. “Did anything else happen?” she asked.

  Silent, Larry nodded. “The whole balance changed,” he said finally. “She began to fantasize about her role in my life, to advise me about my career and how to relate to Betty. She even spoke of befriending Brett….” He paused, shaking his head. “I couldn’t imagine what Brett would think of her—”

  “I can,” Caroline said coolly. “Tell me, did Megan ever approach her?”

  “Not that I know about—if Brett had ever learned about us, I’m sure I’d have gotten more than a piece of her mind. But I felt Megan coming closer to the core of my life.” Larry shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just before I broke it off, there were calls close to dinnertime, two nights running. The first one Betty answered; she said whoever it was waited for a moment, and then hung up. I just shrugged it off. But in my heart, I was afraid I knew….

  “The next night I made sure to answer.

  “We were in the kitchen. When I hurried to the phone, Betty looked up from the sink. So that she was watching my face when Megan began to speak….

  “ ‘I just wanted to hear your voice,’ Megan said.

  “Betty had turned to me. ‘I think you have the wrong number,’ I managed to say.

  “ ‘Thank you,’ Megan whispered, and hung up.”

  Larry lowered his eyes. “When I put down the phone, Betty watched me for a moment. She didn’t ask me anything at all.

  “That was when I knew that she knew. And that I had to find my way out of this, any way I could.

  “For the next two days, until our Monday, I tried to frame my excuses. Something, anything, to dampen the explosion I had begun to fear.

  “Megan sat there on the edge of the bed, hands folded in front of her, while I told her. I tried to dwell on the person with whom I thought Megan might sympathize most—Brett.” His voice turned harsh. “The whole time I listened to what a fraud I was—this cipher, inflating my role to what a real father might have. But the odd thing is that my story had been true, once—when Brett was six, before I was trapped by tenure, I imagined leaving Betty, the job, the looming omnipresence of your father and that house.” His voice softened. “Do you know what stopped me, Caro? That I’d be leaving without Brett. Because they’d never let me have her.”

  Caroline folded her arms, head bowed. For a moment she could think of nothing to say.

  “And Megan?” she asked at length.

  “Defied my expectations. There were no tears, or threats, or rage. All that she said, as if she had expected it, was, ‘You’ve chosen your daughter over me.’

  “I left as quickly as I could.

  “I was on edge for days—jumpy when the phone rang, or the door to my office opened, afraid it would be her.

  “There was nothing. Just one sad, simple letter, which, in its own way, frightened me as much. Because it described a relationship that we had never had.” He exhaled. “A meeting of souls, she called it.”

  Caroline looked up at him. “Did you keep the letter?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because I was hoping that you’d have some proof that any of this ever happened.”

  Larry stared at her. “I’ll have to testify—show how this woman must have said and done these things to get at me….” The thought stopped him, for a moment, and then he finished with calm resolve. “I’ll need to tell Betty, of course. As soon as I get home.”

  Almost absently, Caroline rubbed her temple, still gazing up at Larry. “Did you tell anyone about Megan at the time?”

  Larry’s eyes widened slightly; with a kind of fascination, Caroline watched as understanding dawned. “No,” he said in a flat voice. “I was very careful.”

  “So no one saw you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No gifts, or pictures?” Caroline’s voice softened. “Not even a Polaroid?”

  Larry flushed. “No.”

  Caroline sat back. “So now you know, Larry, how Megan expects to get away with this. Because, it appears, you did.”

  Larry lowered himself heavily into his chair. They sat there in the half-light of early evening, silent.

  “Why would anyone believe,” he said at last, “that I would concoct a story like this, and destroy my marriage in the bargain.”

  “Oh, I believe you—the whole thing sounds right to me. But the reason you’d ‘concoct’ this story is simple: to save your daughter by claiming that the key witness against her is acting out of spite. And even your version can’t explain Megan’s relationship to James, or her quite lethal claim that she was the one James was taking to California.” Caroline’s voice grew quiet. “For all Jackson Watts knows, Betty may be part of your conspiracy.”

  Larry’s mouth formed a stubborn line. “They’ll believe me.”

  “Will they? Because it’s clear that Megan was involved with James—for however long and for whatever reason—and you can’t prove that she was ever involved with you.” Caroline paused. “When did it end, by the way?”

  “Late last fall.”

  “A nice cold trail, that.” Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Then I take it this mythic camp-out with Megan was not the one you were on the night that Case was murdered.”

  “No.” Larry looked away. “Ironically, I really was alone. To think.”

  Caroline smiled without humor. “Well,” she said, “at least you’re not Megan’s alibi.”

  Across the desk, she watched as Larry’s eyes closed. Softly, he said, “How badly that summer has ended, Caro. For all of us.”

  For a long while, Caroline was silent. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “I’ll try to use this without calling you as a witness. Let me speak to Jackson first. If he’s afraid Megan is flawed enough, he may dismiss the case while he looks for more. Including more about Megan.” Her tone grew quieter still. “So you needn’t tell Betty yet, or Brett. I’ll let you know if you have to face that.”

  Larry’s eyes opened. “And Channing?”

  Caroline sat straighter, and her voice became brittle. “There’s been quite enough running to Daddy in our annals, don’t you think?” She ca
ught herself, finishing in a level tone: “I refuse, unless I must, to leave this family even worse than I found it. That might be more than even I could bear.”

  Eight

  “So,” Caroline said, “your defendant’s father was fucking your prize witness. Who strikes me, by the way, as more than a bit unstable.”

  Jackson sat next to her on a park bench near the station house. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, expression quite calm, as if she had said nothing at all remarkable. “Too bad,” he said finally. “Megan spoke so well of you. Better, it seems, than you do of me.”

  Caroline gave him a level gaze. “You have to get on this, Jackson, and you know it. The defense has come to you with critical information, which it could have used to sandbag you in court. If you go forward without an inquiry, it’s virtual misconduct.”

  Jackson turned to her. “All right,” he said. “What would you have me do?”

  Caroline looked at him intently. “For openers, send the Major Crimes Unit to interview Larry and then check out his story—there must be someone, somewhere, to whom Megan said something.” She drew a breath. “But if there isn’t anyone, I’m asking you to search this girl’s apartment.”

  “A warrant? For what?”

  “For anything that would confirm her relationship to Larry. And to explore whether she had any relationship to the victim after April.”

  Jackson stared at her. “So that’s why you came. You want the prosecutor to alienate a prosecution witness by doing what the defense has no power to do—get a search warrant to turn her place upside down.” His voice became incredulous. “Tell me, Caroline, have you had any luck with this one in San Francisco?”

  “I haven’t had this one in San Francisco.” Caroline felt herself losing any pretense of dispassion. “Megan has such obvious potential bias that she may have made this whole thing up—”

  “Not about going to California,” Jackson cut in. “And you damned well know it. Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

  Caroline folded her hands. “You might be able to explain even that. If you’d simply look in her apartment.”