Lauren nodded, but hesitated.
Karen watched as her sister stood still, listening.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Lauren said.
“If you’re kidding around with me—”
“Shhh.”
“I won’t hush!” Karen said. “You’re just scaring me. We can’t let our imaginations just play games.”
Lauren ignored her sister’s small outburst and said, “Why is it so cold in here?”
“How the heck should I know?” Karen answered quickly. “Probably they turned the thermostat down when they went out this morning.”
“Can’t you feel the chill? It’s like an open window.”
Karen started to respond, but stopped.
“Maybe we should wait outside,” she said abruptly.
“I think we should look around.”
Karen looked at her sister. “I’m supposed to be the practical one,” she whispered. “I think we should just get the heck out of here.”
“Not yet.”
Lauren took a few steps toward the living room. Her sister followed.
“See anything?”
“No, but I can feel the cold air coming in.”
“So can I.”
“What should we do?”
“Keep going.”
“Where?”
“The kitchen.”
Moving gingerly, they stepped toward the back of the house. “Hold my hand,” Lauren said abruptly, and her sister seized her wrist.
“Do you hear anything?”
“No.”
Cautiously, they entered the kitchen.
“Anything?” Karen asked.
“No. But it’s freezing—”
Karen suddenly gasped: “Oh, my God!”
Lauren jumped, startled.
“Where?”
“Look!”
Karen was pointing across the room, toward a small pantry area. Lauren followed her gesture and gasped as well.
They both stood still, staring at the small alcove. A window was thrust upward, and a screen pushed in and dropped to the floor, bent by the force of the break-in. The storm window on the exterior had been shattered, and shards of glass had landed on the linoleum.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Lauren said.
“No. We should check the house.”
“Do you think—”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it could be—”
“I don’t know!”
Karen tiptoed over to a drawer next to the sink and pulled out a large kitchen cleaver. She handed it to her sister and grabbed a rolling pin for herself.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s check the upstairs.”
They maneuvered back through the house, climbing the stairs quietly. Twice they paused to listen, then they proceeded onward, once again holding hands, and brandishing their weapons. At the top of the stairs, they quickly glanced into their parents’ bedroom.
“Seems pretty straight to me,” Lauren said. She was beginning to feel more confident. “I bet whoever it was got scared off when we drove up.”
“Shhhh!” said her sister, restoring some of the fear of the moment. “Let’s check Tommy’s room. Maybe they came to get something for him.”
They walked quietly over to their brother’s doorway.
“How could we tell if something was missing?” Karen said. “Look at all this stuff.”
They crept down the hallway to their own room. The door was slightly ajar, and Lauren pushed it open further with her foot.
“Oh, no,” she cried out.
Karen jumped back, then stepped forward, next to her sister, so she could see into their room.
“Oh no,” she echoed.
The room was a mess; clothes and bedclothes were strewn about. Drawers had been dumped out. Books were scattered everywhere. Knickknacks and bric-a-brac were shattered.
Lauren was pale and started to cry. Karen’s hands shook.
“They did this to us!” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“But—”
“I don’t know.” She too felt her eyes start to fill. Karen walked over to the pile of clothing and picked up an item from the top. It was underwear. “Oh no,” she half-moaned.
“What?” Lauren asked.
“Look.” Tears started to run down her face. She held up the panties. They had been sliced and cut with a knife.
Lauren put her hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.
Then they both heard a noise. Something indistinct, yet alien. They could not tell whether it was distant or near at hand, whether it was nothing or something threatening. It was merely a noise and it catapulted them into terror, replacing the fright in their eyes with something unknown and awful in their imaginations.
“They’re here!” Lauren said.
They looked at each other.
“Run!”
Both girls turned and sprinted for the stairs. They thundered down, all stealth and caution forgotten, just trying to get outside into the increasing evening darkness. Lauren stumbled on the bottom step and almost fell, her sister catching her and thrusting her forward. Both girls were groaning with effort. Karen reached the front door first, grabbing the handle and flinging it open.
Megan stood outside.
Both girls shouted, half-screams of fear that turned to relief with recognition.
Megan, stricken instantly, reached out and seized the twins, grabbing them and pulling them to her. She dropped her keys, her briefcase, her coat, and spun them away from the front door. “What is it?” she cried. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s there!”
“They wrecked our room!”
“They broke in!”
For a few moments the three of them, wrapped together, remained on the front porch. Megan comforted the twins, all the while staring past them into the house. After the two had finished sobbing, and their breathing had returned to normal, Megan said, “All right. Show me.”
“I don’t want to go back in there,” Lauren said.
“We heard something,” Karen pleaded.
“No,” Megan said. “This is our house. Come on.”
With the twins trailing her, she entered the front vestibule. She picked up the knife and rolling pin where they had been abandoned in their rush to exit. “All right,” she said again. “Now, what did you see, and where?”
“It started back there,” Lauren said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “We found the open window—”
And then she screamed.
Megan jumped and Karen cried out.
Lauren stepped back, grabbing for her mother, who had just enough time to catch a glimpse of a man’s grinning face, looking in at them through the kitchen window from the backyard. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the apparition vanished. Megan felt a surge of violation, anger and protectiveness, and uttering a half-shout, charged the kitchen, waving the knife above her head.
The girls followed, their mother’s assault surprising them so that their own shouts and tears abruptly ended.
Megan’s heart was pumping, her head reeling.
She peered through the window, but could see nothing.
She could feel her stomach tightening, her insides draining tension. Outside, the night had taken over, covering everything with its perfect camouflage. It’s over for now, she thought. Then she realized how wrong she was: It’s still beginning.
She pulled the two girls close to her, and settled in for the long wait until her husband returned home.
A few moments before six P.M., an hour befo
re the bank closed for the weekend, Duncan stood in his office and readied himself. He had drawn the drapes to close off the glass front wall so that no one in the main office area could see in; it wasn’t typical, but it was ordinary. He wore his overcoat, and had his hat on his head. His briefcase was closed, ostensibly holding documents and memos, but actually stuffed with the items he’d purchased earlier that day. Through his open door, he could see a dozen people in line for the two remaining tellers. An assistant manager passed by, carrying a sheaf of papers for storage. There was a hum to the core of the bank, as it did its usual steady weekend business; all the folks who needed cash or who got their paychecks on Fridays, trying to make deposits. It was always a busy time, handled by a skeleton crew, a little confusing, a little hurried, as people worked quickly to get back on their course for home. It was a time when things were easy to slip. The only guard on duty was an elderly watchman whose job it was to set the alarm system when everyone had cleared the building.
Duncan saw his secretary getting ready to depart. He paused, just long enough for her to get her desk in order, then he buzzed her on the intercom.
“Doris? Still here?”
“Just getting ready to go.”
“So am I. Can you just do one thing for me?”
“Sure.”
Carrying a loan application form, he left his desk and met his secretary in the doorway. He wondered whether his hands shook, whether his voice had some telltale quiver to it. He could feel sweat dripping under his arms. She’ll smell it, he thought in panic. She’ll recognize it as fear.
He closed his eyes, breathed out slowly, and stumbled on.
“Doris, I think we’re supposed to take this thing up on Monday morning early, so could you just run the top page through the copy machine a half-dozen times? You don’t have to distribute them, just have them ready so that we can pass them out first thing on Monday.”
“Sure, Mr. Richards. Anything else?”
He handed her the papers, then, as he talked, walked back to his desk.
“No, I don’t think so. Sure hope I can shake this damn cold over the weekend. Sometimes I worry that I’m going to spend the entire winter, from December through March, sniffling and sneezing . . .”
He buttoned his overcoat and picked up his briefcase. He glanced around, like a man preparing to leave.
“You should take care of yourself.”
He forced a laugh and smile.
“Maybe Megan will make enough money selling real estate that we can move to the Bahamas or somewhere. Then I could run one of those little illegal banking operations where it’s warm and profitable. What d’you think, Doris? Ready to come along?”
His secretary grinned. “Weather report is for it to drop into the twenties tonight with plenty of frost. I think you could tempt me, as long as I can bring my cats.”
Duncan gave another laugh and stood with his secretary in the doorway. He half-closed his office door and made a big show of reaching beneath his overcoat for his keys. As he brandished them, he turned to Doris.
“You take off as soon as you do that. I really appreciate it.”
“Okay,” she said. “See you Monday.”
“Whoops, left the desk lamp on. I’ll get it. See you Monday.”
He watched as she turned and headed away across the bank to the copy room. He took a swift glance about to make certain that no one was watching him, then, taking a deep breath, he slid back into his office. He closed the door quietly and locked it. Then he crossed to his desk, turned off the lamp, and stood for a moment in the darkness, thinking, What she’ll remember is me standing there in coat and hat, on my way out the door.
The watchman will walk through the office, checking each door before arming the motion detector. Then he will hurry through the front door, double-lock it, and activate the perimeter guard. He won’t even look back at the building as he walks away, because he’ll know it’s secure. Even if someone were to beat the exterior alarm, they would still have only a half-minute to locate and disarm the interior system. Bad odds.
But no one ever suspected it could be done in reverse.
He could feel a thin line of sweat on his forehead.
It’ll work. I know it.
He took off his coat and hat and tossed them into a corner. Then he dropped to his knees and crawled into the footwell behind his desk. He wedged himself in as far as he could fit, balancing his briefcase on his lap. By the luminous dial on his watch he could see it was only a few minutes after six, and he settled in to wait. He thought of the irony of hiding in his office: I have been hiding here for eighteen years.
Then he shook his head and filled his imagination with alternating visions of what he was about to do and of his son. That galvanized him, clearing his mind, so that when his legs started to cramp after some thirty minutes, he felt only pain and no guilt.
He tried to distract himself by listening for the last few minutes of bank activity, but he couldn’t hear anything. He was afraid to move; he did not know whether the security guard would open his office door and then relock it, or just try the door handle. He guessed that would depend on whether the man had dinner waiting for him or not. He was also scared that someone outside might catch a bit of motion as they walked through the parking lot and stared back into the darkened office. He tried rubbing the cramps, then concentrated on relaxing the muscles. The pain surged, then dissipated slowly. He stared at his watch and tried to imagine what was going on outside. The last customers would be leaving and the two remaining tellers would be locking their cash drawers after running the figures through their computers. After they were finished, the head teller would close down the computer system. Then the assistant manager would double-check the locks on the safe. This would all be hurried; no one liked it when it was their rotation for Friday night. There was an impatience to the hour, as if the start of the weekend was being held off capriciously. The security guard would survey all this, then, sweeping the last people out, begin his final check.
Duncan wondered what was keeping him.
Then he froze. He could hear a hand on his door handle. The door rattled in the frame as the guard pulled on it and checked the lock.
Don’t come in, Duncan prayed. Don’t come in.
He held his breath and tried to keep his legs from twitching. He thought his heart beat so loud that it penetrated the soundproofing, echoing across the bank, bringing the guard to him.
The door stopped shaking and Duncan released his breath.
All right, now check next door. Then old Phillips’ office.
He waited, letting the time seep around him, enveloping him in a sort of liquid embrace. It must be like drowning, he thought.
He pictured the guard standing in the center, sweeping the bank with his eyes. Then he would move to the wall where the interior alarm was set.
In his imagination, Duncan could see the man punching in the seven-digit code on the key pad.
Now, hurry! Duncan said to himself. You’ve only got thirty seconds to get to the first set of doors, out to the automatic teller area.
The lights would switch off automatically when the system was armed. A master switch turned them on again at seven A.M.
Duncan waited. Lock the door. Check it. Good. Now, head outside to arm the perimeter system.
He stared down at his watch. Seven-twenty.
Wait, he said to himself. Keep waiting.
He tried to think of nothing for ten minutes.
It will be done now, he thought. The guard will have found his car and driven off. I am alone inside. Now I can move.
But he didn’t. He waited another ten minutes.
A singular calm came over him then. He wondered for an instant whether he would be able to move, now that he was certain he was alone. He tried to give orders to his legs, t
o unfold and emerge from hiding, but they would not respond. He wanted to laugh. This is where they will find me on Monday morning, he thought. Unable to move, with no suitable explanation.
Slowly he extricated himself from beneath his desk, then, crawling, he made his way to the front of his office, to the curtain he’d drawn earlier. He pulled it back gingerly, peering out, like an adolescent boy spying on his sister’s bath.
The bank was dark and empty.
For a moment he stared up into the corners, to the electric eyes that covered the tellers’ windows and to the infrared beams that detected motion. The electric cameras were not a problem, he knew. They operated on the same circuit as the bank’s lighting system. They were shut off at night. But the motion detectors were another matter. They are my enemy, he thought. He took a deep breath. They only cover the main area. But they are formidable. He knew they were equipped with sensors, so that they would sound an alarm if tampered with. The only way of beating them was to shut them off. He crawled back to his desk and found his briefcase. Sitting on the floor, he stripped off his shoes and suit, slipping into the sweatpants and shirt. He left his feet bare for traction. He rolled over onto his back and stretched his legs, trying to shake the cramps and stiffness out. You must work, he said savagely to his muscles. You must behave and do what I ask you.
Satisfied that most of his limberness had returned, he crawled back to the door.
He paused there, allowing himself to fill with one last wave of fear, tension, and dismay. Then he steeled himself and thought: There is only this way. Now, think of nothing. Just do it.
He turned the lock.
Ready, he said to himself.
Set.
Go!
Duncan thrust open the office door and sprinted across the floor. His feet made a slapping sound in the dark room. He counted to himself: One—one thousand, two—one thousand, three—one thousand, four—one thousand. Gray-blue lights from the streetlamps outside gave the interior of the bank a haunted, otherworldly glow. As he cut past one desk, his hip caught the edge and he stumbled, pain shooting through his body. He steadied himself and continued hurrying to the wall; fifteen—one thousand, sixteen—one thousand, seventeen—one thousand. He crouched down next to the electronic key pad. He stopped his hand abruptly before touching it: Get it right, get it right. He breathed in, twenty-three—one thousand, twenty-four. In the dim light it was hard to see the key pad, and he realized he’d left the flashlight back in the office. He didn’t even have the time to curse himself. He screamed inwardly: Do it! And then he punched in the code.
Day of Reckoning Page 27