The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  Larry’s smile broadened. “Caro,” he said, “you’re so beautiful when you’re annoyed.”

  Four

  It was several days before she saw Scott Johnson again, and then only because she refused to let Larry tease her out of every casual impulse.

  She had returned from sailing, determinedly alone, dismissing any idea of asking him to join her. The sail had been so good that the memory of his enjoyment made her feel a little selfish. Docking the boat, she paused and then went to find him before she gave this more thought than it was worth.

  He lived in the boathouse at the end of the Rubins’ narrow pier. From the outside, it was a one-floor layout with a deck that faced the ocean. Beneath her, water slapped at its sturdy cement pilings.

  Caroline knocked on the door.

  She waited for a moment, restless: perhaps she only imagined soft footfalls inside the boathouse. She had begun looking back toward the Rubins’ place when the door opened behind her.

  She turned to face him. “Hi,” she said.

  He peered at her through the half-opened door. Caroline realized that she had prepared herself for his reaction—wariness, or indifference, or even amusement. But what she saw was pure surprise.

  “I thought I’d give you one last chance,” Caroline went on, “to drink beer with college kids.”

  The door opened a fraction wider. His expression seemed to go through several changes—hesitancy, puzzlement, distress at being caught off guard. But the last look he gave Caroline told her how alone he was.

  “Where?” he asked.

  The Square Rigger was on the outskirts of Edgartown—a dark, smoky room with a wooden bar and walls, and tables jammed with college students working on the island. Scott seemed to have regained the persona she had seen most often—amused, somehow apart. He took in the ambience and people with a single sweeping glance.

  “The future leaders of America,” he said, “getting plastered on Budweiser. Somewhere among us may be our forty-third President.”

  His voice was half sardonic, half bemused. “I don’t mind that he’s plastered on Bud,” Caroline retorted. “I just mind that he’s a man.”

  Scott smiled. “Now that you’re here, maybe the odds have evened out a little. Shall we find a table?”

  They seized one in the corner, just as the live entertainment came on—two guys and a long-haired blond woman, who appeared, like Scott, to be in their mid twenties. Both men had twelve-string guitars; the woman stepped front and center on a low wooden platform and began to belt out “If I Had a Hammer” in a throaty voice almost as good as it was loud.

  “Holy shit,” Scott whispered to Caroline. “It’s Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

  With a fractional smile, Caroline braced herself for an evening of sarcasm, beginning to regret that she had roused him from his self-imposed exile. And then she saw the brightness in his eyes.

  “Drinks are on me,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “Scotch.”

  He seemed to have no trouble catching the eye of the waitress, a southern-accented brunette with a smile, Caroline told herself, that she could never match this side of a lobotomy. When Miss Congeniality came to the table in record time, to be greeted by a dazzling smile from Scott that Caroline had not known he possessed, she was sure that their service would be excellent.

  Gazing down at Scott, the waitress bit her lip, as if reluctant to deliver bad news. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m going to have to card y’all. The manager says no exceptions.”

  Scott pulled a face. “Caught with a minor again,” he said, and turned reproachfully to Caroline. “I knew you could never pass for twenty-one.”

  To Caroline, this burlesque was an abrupt, surprising change of character. She smiled politely and produced her driver’s license.

  The waitress scrutinized it. “Thank you,” she said, and turned expectantly to Scott.

  “Scotch,” he said firmly. “For both of us.”

  The waitress hesitated. And then Scott produced a smile more incandescent than the first; forgetful of her duties, the girl smiled into his eyes. Glancing back at him, she went to fill their orders.

  Somehow Caroline found this both curious and amusing. “Don’t you feel a little embarrassed,” she whispered to Scott, “encouraging her like that?”

  Scott made himself look innocent. “Who says I was encouraging her?”

  “I do. I mean, I was only watching, and I felt a little bit encouraged.”

  Scott’s smile, directed at Caroline, became that of a coconspirator. “I’ll smile,” he said, “and we’ll drink. It’ll help the music some.”

  They did that, for one round, and then two more.

  The ersatz Peter, Paul, and Mary were not too bad, Caroline thought; Scott watched them faithfully, first with what seemed like courtesy, then with a certain interest and even sympathy. No matter how their waitress smiled, he hardly seemed to notice her.

  “It ain’t easy,” he murmured, “singing to a bunch of drunks. Particularly horny drunks.”

  The fingers of his right hand, Caroline noticed, had begun keeping the beat.

  The room was almost sensual now—the laser voice of the blonde, the thrum of guitars, the smell of smoke and bodies close together, swaying or whispering or smiling at each other. Scott ordered a fourth Scotch. His face was becoming almost careless; he seemed to be partly with Caroline and partly in some other place, perhaps ten other places, bars and parties and student apartments in a time when he had, Caroline found herself guessing, liked himself a little better. On the platform, the blonde was getting into it, twitching and swaying with the beat until each song seemed more sexual than the last.

  “I’d love to watch her,” Scott murmured wryly, “doing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’”

  His expression was amiable and not unkind. This was not sarcasm, Caroline realized—more an amused acceptance of the singer’s humanness that somehow embraced everyone in the room. It struck Caroline that, unlike many people, Scott might actually become nicer when he drank. The thought surprised her.

  When she turned to him again, he was still keeping the rhythm, a half smile on his face. He seemed oblivious to everything but where he was. All at once, Caroline was glad to have invited him.

  They stayed until the place closed up.

  They found Scott’s car in the parking lot, a beat-up VW bug with scrapes in its black paint job.

  “Want me to drive?” Caroline asked.

  It seemed to interrupt Scott’s mood, make him conscious of himself again. He paused to contemplate the question. “I’m okay,” he said.

  Caroline hesitated. It was not too far to Eel Pond, she told herself, and Scott did not have the truculence of someone from whom she should grab the keys. She got in without argument and buckled her seat belt.

  Scott started the car, whistling soundlessly to himself.

  They took Beach Road in amiable silence, the shadows of trees by the road vanishing behind them. He was driving a little fast, Caroline thought—not out of control, but braking and accelerating to a kind of inner rhythm, taking the feel of the bar home with him like something he did not care to lose.

  The car gained speed.

  Caroline felt her tension grow, separate them. She did not need to ask herself the reason.

  Five more minutes, she told herself. The road was empty; his driving—if fast—seemed good enough to get them home. It was clear that he knew the road.

  She saw him flinch just before the first swirling stab of red flashed in the rearview mirror.

  His reaction, she thought, was almost otherworldly. He did not curse or speak or even show emotion; instead there was the sense that he had become someone else again, a sober man, a series of orderly thoughts marching through his brain as he slowed the car to a perfect stop. Only Caroline could see how pale he had become.

  The patrol car stopped behind them. Still Scott said nothing.

  The beam of a flashlight cut through th
e rearview mirror. Narrow-eyed, Scott took a deep breath, straightened in his seat, and then got out to meet the cop. He seemed to have forgotten that Caroline was there.

  Instinct told her to get out with him.

  The cop was a faceless form behind a flashlight, aimed at Scott’s intent eyes and still body. As Caroline circled the car, the cop said evenly, “I’ll be needing your license, son.”

  There was something familiar about the voice, the way the cop’s dark figure held itself, heavy in the shoulders. Scott made no move to take out his wallet.

  All at once, Caroline thought of the waitress, asking for identification.

  The cop’s voice was harder now. “Hand over your license, please.”

  Scott glanced toward the car. Suddenly, Caroline felt a delicate balance, seconds from being broken.

  Instinctively, she stepped between them.

  The cop’s flashlight made her blink. “Hello,” she said.

  She saw his head tilt, peering at her from behind the beam.

  “Caroline? Caroline Masters?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m Caroline.”

  The cop stepped forward, face suddenly caught in his own headlights. His voice was hesitant. “I’m Frank Mannion.”

  The memory came swift and strong; the image of her mother’s dark hair, swirling in the water, hit Caroline in the pit of her stomach.

  “I remember,” she answered quietly.

  She saw his shoulders relax. In the light, his face was a little pouchier but still pleasant, his red hair gray at the temples. He took off his patrolman’s hat, wiping his forehead, and stood closer to her. His voice became gentle. “I always wondered what happened with you.”

  “Nothing, really.” Her own voice, Caroline was grateful to hear, seemed close to normal. “My father and I made it through, and I’m going to law school next year. Things turned out all right.”

  Slowly, he nodded. Caroline could feel Scott’s gaze; something in his stillness made her throat tight.

  “And you?” she asked Mannion. “How did your family adjust to the Vineyard?”

  He looked surprised. “You remember that too?”

  “I remember everything about that day. Including how nice you were.”

  Mannion glanced toward Scott, awkwardly shifting his weight. “Well, we’re all fine, thanks. My oldest just graduated high school, and soon he’s off to Boston College.” He interrupted himself. “It’s been good here.”

  Caroline stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’m glad it worked out.”

  Mannion nodded, and then he seemed to remember Scott. “Mind coming over here?” he asked.

  Scott hesitated and then walked toward Mannion. His movements seemed strangely weary—the loss of adrenaline, Caroline thought.

  “Do you have a license?” Mannion asked.

  Scott did not answer. Caroline felt herself tense.

  Mannion’s tone was soft now, an inquiry. “Son?”

  Slowly, Scott slid his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He fumbled with it and finally produced a square of paper.

  Mannion gazed at it and looked up at Scott. “You’re a ways from home,” he said at last. “Where you living now?”

  Scott’s own voice was a murmur. “Eel Pond. I watch the Rubin place.”

  Mannion appeared to study him. “Then do me a favor, and yourself. Don’t drive like you’ve been drinking.” He angled his head toward Caroline. “Not with her, or without her, either. Now give me your keys.”

  As if in a trance, Scott held them out.

  Mannion took the keys and gently placed them in Caroline’s hand. “Are you all right to drive?” he asked her.

  “I’m fine.” Caroline felt a surge of relief. “Thank you.”

  Mannion did not acknowledge this. “Drive carefully, Caroline. And good luck in law school.”

  Silent, he returned Scott’s license and walked back to his car.

  Caroline and Scott got inside the VW, not talking. She worked the clutch until she had its feel, and drove cautiously away.

  Mannion’s patrol car followed them until they reached the turn for Eel Pond. Its headlights flashed past, then the red taillights, and the policeman was gone.

  In the passenger seat, Scott touched his eyes.

  They passed the Rubins’ house, parking at a turnaround above the water. The windshield filled with black ocean, black sky. Caroline could still feel the pounding of her heart.

  Softly, Scott asked, “What happened back there?”

  “I think I saved your ass.” Caroline glanced at him sharply. “From a speeding ticket, at least.”

  Scott was quiet for a time. “It was something about your mother. The accident you mentioned.”

  Caroline stared through the windshield. “She was driving.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “When it happened, only the two of us were here. Officer Mannion took me to identify her body.”

  “And she’d been drinking.”

  “Yes.” Caroline exhaled. “It was eight years ago, all right? I got over it.”

  Her tone was more curt than she’d intended. “No, it’s not all right,” he answered. “With you or with me.”

  His voice was soft with self-disgust. “Do you want to feel sorry for yourself by yourself,” Caroline said at last, “or do you feel like making me coffee?”

  For a moment, Scott seemed to hesitate. His eyes studied her with an intensity she had not seen before.

  “Come on in,” he said. “Please.”

  Five

  Hand on the knob, Scott seemed to hesitate, and then he opened the door.

  Inside was a single large room with a hardwood floor and wainscoting and a kitchen along one wall. Glancing around, Caroline saw that the room conveyed no sense of him.

  He kept it neat and spare—a couch, a coffee table, a seascape on the wall, everything picked up. The one thing that must be his—and now this did not surprise her—was a battered guitar leaning in one corner.

  “Do you play that?” she asked.

  “A little.” He smiled. “Not well enough to match this evening’s entertainment.”

  Caroline turned to him. “The bar? Or the police?”

  “Take your pick,” Scott answered, and went to the stove.

  He would not explain himself, Caroline realized; perhaps there was nothing to explain. From over his shoulder, Scott asked, “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Strong and black. Like for final exams.”

  Caroline drifted to the window. Beneath them, she heard the ebb and flow of Nantucket Sound; the sensation was not unlike standing on the prow of a ship. She remembered Scott on the night of the storm, gazing out to sea.

  “Where do you sleep?” she asked.

  He bent over the coffeepot. “On the porch. There’s a screen to frustrate bugs, and it gets the breeze at night.”

  He filled two mugs of coffee. As he gave her one, his hand brushing the back of hers, Caroline’s skin tingled. It startled her: the shared tension with the police seemed to have created a current that did not exist before. She was keenly aware of standing close to him.

  Caroline turned away. “Can I see the porch?”

  His small smile seemed part inquiry, part amusement. “I guess it’s all that’s left,” he answered, and opened a door near the stove. Caroline stepped out onto the shadowed porch.

  The steady soughing of the wind and the sea came through the screen. The air was warm and heavy and smelled of salt.

  Caroline paused, breathing deeply, and then Scott switched on a lamp.

  She turned. Out of the darkness materialized a cot, a nightstand stacked with books, a chair facing the water. There was a pen and what appeared to be a half-finished letter beneath the books, the first two of which, somewhat to Caroline’s surprise, were One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and Jack Newfield’s biography of Robert Kennedy. She found herself wondering just who it was he was writing to.

  He waved her to the chair. “Have a seat�
��I’m used to being horizontal.”

  She had a sudden image, Scott lying on the bed, and then the few things that were his own seemed to ache with his aloneness. Scott stretched out on the cot, mug cupped in his hands. “I didn’t really thank you, did I?”

  “For what?”

  “For trying to protect me from the law.” He seemed to watch her. “Funny work for a future prosecutor.”

  Caroline shrugged. “It just seemed like too good a night to end with getting busted.”

  Scott smiled a little. “Except for that, it was good. My debut in Vineyard society.”

  Caroline paused, a question forming, and then decided not to ask it. “Except for your driving,” she said wryly, “it was a real success. I even know where you can find a date.”

  Scott watched her over his smile. “Not interested,” he said.

  “Oh, well.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Speaking of society,” Scott said, “who else is over there? So far I’ve counted a skinny guy who doesn’t come out much, and a woman who walks the beach alone. But no one who looks like the patriarch.”

  This somewhat cavalier summary made Caroline bridle. And it struck her how much he had seemed to glean from very little—the predominance of her father; her relationship to Jackson.

  “The ‘skinny guy,’” she answered tartly, “is my very nice brother-in-law, Larry, who’s working on a Ph.D. The woman is my sister, Betty—who happens to like nature. As for the ‘patriarch,’ as you put it, he’s coming to inspect his holdings later.”

  He grinned, refusing to be discouraged. “So what do the three of you do all day?”

  “Oh, we perform weird and secret rituals. Play Scrabble, argue about the election.” Her tone grew solemn, hushed. “Sometimes Larry and I wash dishes. In the dark…”

  His grin became a smile, perhaps a little chastened. “Sorry. Families interest me, that’s all. I haven’t seen mine in a while.”

  This snippet of biography sounded genuine. Her sense of him kept shifting; at one moment he was flippant, the next, a lonely person with people he seemed to care for.