Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  “Is that what I’m supposed to tell them?”

  “No.” Olivia shook her head. “I don’t need a messenger for that.”

  “Then why tell us?”

  “For him, judge.” She pointed at Tommy. “So that he never forgets.” She stared down at Tommy. “I told you at the start how important you were to all this,” she continued. “You’re going to be their reminder. So they’ll never forget.”

  The judge had a terrible thought: A living reminder? Or a dead one?

  “When will you be finished with us?” he asked quietly, trying to slide demand into his voice.

  “Soon. Hours, maybe. Tomorrow at the latest. Keep your hopes up. Maybe they won’t screw up. So far, they’ve followed every order like the good little soldiers they are.”

  She ruffled Tommy’s hair.

  “Just think positively,” she said.

  Olivia gave a little wave of her hand and left the two Tommys in the attic alone. Tommy waited until he heard the dead bolt click home and listened carefully for the soft sound of her steps receding down the hallway.

  “Grandfather,” he said shakily, biting his lip to keep from crying. “She’s lying. She doesn’t mean any of it. She hates us too much. She hates Mom and Dad too much. She’ll never let us go.”

  Judge Pearson pulled his grandson close.

  “That’s not what she said,” he reminded the child.

  “She never does what she says. She only wants to scare us more. When she says she’s going to let us go, I don’t believe her. I want to, but I can’t.” Tommy straightened out of his grandfather’s grasp, wiping away tears from the corners of his eyes. “She couldn’t stand to see us get home and be happy again. Can’t you see that?”

  Then the child plunged his head back against his grandfather’s chest, sobbing softly. After a moment, he raised his head again.

  “I don’t want to die, Grandfather. I’m not scared, but I don’t want to.”

  Judge Pearson could feel his own throat closing with emotion. He stroked his grandson’s hair, looking deep into the boy’s eyes, past the fear and hurt, the troubles that had dogged the child for so many years, seeing instead only an intensity of light. Then he said the first thing that jumped into his mind:

  “Tommy, I won’t let them. You’re not going to die. We’re going to get out of this. I promise.”

  “How? How can you promise?”

  “Because we’re stronger than them.”

  “They’ve got the guns.”

  “We’re still stronger.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Judge Pearson stood up and surveyed the attic, just as he had in the first moments of captivity. He reached down and stroked Tommy’s soft, little boy’s cheek, letting a smile run across his face, trying to transmit some confidence to his grandson. He remembered something he’d thought in the first few minutes of life in the attic. It was perhaps not a great and glorious battlefield, but if it came to it, it was a good enough place to die.

  He took a deep breath, sat down on the bunk, and pulled Tommy close.

  “Did I ever tell you how the Twentieth Maine held Little Round Top on the second day of the battle of Gettysburg? They saved the Union. Have I told you that story?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Or how the One Hundred and First Airborne held Bastogne?”

  Tommy shook his head again. But he smiled and he knew that his grandfather was answering his question.

  “Or how the Marines retreated from the Yalu?”

  “You’ve told me that one,” Tommy said. “Actually, a bunch of times.”

  The judge lifted his grandson from the cot and bear-hugged him close. “Let’s talk a bit about bravery, Tommy. And then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

  “Megan! Where have you been?” Duncan yelled, as she hurried through the front door.

  In a second he was at her side in the vestibule. She could see the strain of the day in his eyes, diffuse, barely under control. “We’ve been scared sick,” he said. “We had no idea. Dammit, don’t ever do that again!”

  She held out her arms and seized him, holding him at arm’s length, her fingers gripping his muscles tightly. She was pale, herself, and for an instant she could not speak.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, calming down.

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve found him,” she said quietly.

  Duncan stared at her, his eyes widening.

  “Where?”

  “In one of the rentals I told you about.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw Bill Lewis.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Not too far. A dozen miles out of town in the country.”

  “My God!”

  “I know.”

  “My God,” Duncan repeated.

  This time Megan merely nodded.

  “I’ve been so worried, since you called this afternoon. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. All I could do was worry.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. She did not actually believe it.

  Duncan spun away from her, pounding a fist into his palm. “Damn! We’ve got a chance!”

  He turned back to Megan.

  “She called,” he said, abruptly turning quiet.

  “And?” Megan felt her heart surge.

  “She says she’ll give them back—but that we still owe her. It wasn’t enough, she said. She said she’ll come back for more. Someday. She says it will never end.”

  Megan stood frozen. For an instant she thought she could not stand any more pain, any more hurt. She tried to breathe in slowly, collecting herself.

  “It will never end?” she asked.

  Duncan said: “Yes.” For a moment, the weight of the words made his shoulders sag, then he gathered himself.

  “Come on,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  He led Megan into the living room.

  The twins were there, uncharacteristically silent. They have had to find strength and bravery that they had no idea they owned, she thought. It saddened her. It’s hard to be thrust into adulthood. Then she went over and hugged each of them.

  “I think it’s time this ended,” she said to her daughters.

  “But how?” Lauren asked. “What alternative do we have?”

  “One,” said Duncan. “One alternative. We go and get the Tommys.”

  “But how do we do that?” Karen asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Duncan. “But we know where they’re being kept now. So we just go. We’ve got a pistol. It’s not enough, but maybe we could figure out some way . . .”

  His voice trailed off as he watched Megan rise. She walked out of the living room, through the vestibule, and out to her car. She seized one of the packages from the sporting goods store, then, oblivious to the night wind and cold, quick-marched back inside.

  Duncan was staring at her. “Megan, what is going on?”

  Before he could say anything more, she unwrapped the semi­automatic rifle, ripping away the paper cover. She held it up where they could all see it. The weapon seemed to glisten in the living room light.

  “Before I came home,” she said, “I went shopping.”

  Olivia Barrow went to the bedroom window and stared out into the darkness. She could hear Bill in the kitchen cleaning some of the mess of paper plates and cheap crockery that they had accumulated in their stay. She knew Ramon was in another room, nervously cleaning weapons. She wondered if he had the nerve to do what he said he would. She frowned, uncomfortable with the idea that she could not predict at any moment what her companions would or would not do.

  She thoug
ht: It finishes tomorrow.

  Olivia turned away from the window and glanced at the pile of money sitting on the bed. She walked over to it and grasped a handful. She felt oddly conflicted, as if the sight and feel of the cash left her unsatisfied, like the moments after a failed lover had finished making excuses.

  Methodically, she began stuffing the money into a red satchel, idly counting as she did so. Her mind wandered to Duncan and Megan, and she wondered whether they would sleep that night. She laughed slightly: I doubt it.

  Olivia finished storing the money, put a revolver on top, and closed the bag. She went back to the window. The sky was an onyx black, dotted with the light of stars. It stretched out away from her endlessly, and she thought: The night starts here with me.

  She pictured the same night closing in on Duncan and Megan, swallowing them. What will I do with them? she asked herself.

  I can kill them. I can wound them. I can ruin them.

  Just as they did to me.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to contain the success of her design. Then she unfolded slowly, stretching her arms wide. She lifted one leg, ballet-like, holding it out in front of her. She remembered her mother at night, dancing with subtle grace, before being robbed of energy and beauty by disease. Olivia lifted herself up onto her toes, as her mother once did. Then she released herself slowly.

  What will happen to the guests? she wondered.

  Bill Lewis was like a faithful bloodhound, Ramon Gutierrez an erratic terrier. Where will you put your money when they clash?

  She smiled. It makes no difference.

  Neither of them gets out alive.

  As for the two Tommys—well, she shrugged, whatever happens, happens. She searched through her heart for compassion and found none. She recognized that any result was fine. She could not see how she could lose in the morning. If they all die, that was fine. If they live, well, then she would be able to return—just as she had lied to Duncan she would.

  “I can do anything,” she whispered to the window and to the vast night. “I can do whatever I want to, when I want to.”

  Then she uttered a small laugh, and turned her imagination to warm beaches and spending the money. A fast car, she thought, a really fast car. And some expensive clothes. And then we’ll see what the future holds. Smiling, she retreated back into the room to pack the remainder of her things.

  Duncan was on the extension, holding his hand over the receiver, while the number rang. Megan caught his eyes with her own, nod­ded, and took a deep breath to steady herself. The twins sat quietly, listening.

  In a moment, the ringing stopped, and Megan heard a familiar, breezy “Hello?”

  “Barbara? It’s Megan Richards of Country Estates Realty.”

  “Megan! My dear! It’s been months and months.”

  “Oh, Barbara,” Megan barreled on, her voice filled with false jocularity. “It’s been such a tough couple of months for us. Have things been better over at Premiere Properties?”

  “Oh, I had one great sale, you remember the Halgin house that was so very, very overpriced? Couple of transplanted New Yorkers swept it up.”

  “That’s terrific,” Megan said. She pictured Barbara Woods. She was in her early fifties, with silver-gray hair that she pulled back in a bun, giving her a schoolmarmish look that contradicted the designer clothes she wore, with jewelry that clanged and jangled as she walked. She’s not an attentive person, Megan thought, she’s not aware of detail and dimension. Megan sighed and launched ahead.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you at home so late at night, but I just got a call and thought I’d touch base with you. Do you remember a listing you had this past summer and early fall for an old farmhouse off Barrington Road . . .”

  “A sale?”

  “No, a rental.”

  “Let me think. Oh, sure, of course, the old whooziwhatsit place. Brr, gave me the chills just going inside. But that writer sure seemed to adore it.”

  “Oh, you mean you rented it?”

  “Yes, to some poet from California who wanted to write a gothic novel. That’s what she said. She said she needed six months of solitude and paid the first three in cash. Well, solitude she got. That’s the one thing that old place has, and plenty of it. Did you have someone in mind for it?”

  “Yes. A couple down from Boston looking to fix up a weekend retreat.”

  “It would be perfect for renovation. Lots of renovation. Would you like for me to arrange to show it?”

  “Well, let me talk to my clients and see when they might come down. Probably this spring sometime. I’m just doing a little spadework now.”

  “Oh, fine.”

  “Say, do you think you could describe the place for me?”

  Megan looked toward Duncan, who nodded. He had a pad of paper and a pencil ready.

  “Sure,” said Barbara, hesitating.

  Come on! Megan thought to herself. Come on, you dizzy old horse. Remember!

  “. . . Well, it’s not in great shape, but structurally it’s completely sound, so you’re not into any major foundation work . . .”

  Megan closed her eyes and asked, “What’s the interior like? How is it laid out?”

  “Let’s see. Nice wide front porch. Front door leads to a vestibule. Living room to the left, dining room next to it. Passageway to the kitchen—you could turn that into a pantry—in back. There’s a back door off the kitchen, which leads out to a field. Plenty of room for a nice patio. One bathroom downstairs. Little parlor room to the right, a really nice little space you could really make something out of, then a little bedroom or study. The stairs go up from the center vestibule. There’s a landing, then up to a second floor with three bedrooms and another bath. None really are a master, so you’d need to take down a wall up there. At the end of the hallway there’s a door up to a third-floor attic. The draftiest old dusty place. Nobody ever insulated it or finished it off in any way. Just a lot of dust, but enough space to make it into a rec room or something.”

  Megan nodded. “Barbara, you’ve been a great help. Sounds like what my friends are looking for. I’ll get back to you and we can make an appointment.”

  “It’s a cold old house. Just needs some TLC. All those old farm­houses need the same. I think they’re all haunted, anyway . . .”

  She giggled. Megan thanked her again, and hung up the phone. She looked over at Duncan.

  He shook a fist in the air.

  “We have a chance,” he said.

  For a moment, Megan felt like a climber who slips on the rocks, then spins out wildly into the air. She seized hold of her emotions, like catching the strands of a rope, and snapped herself to attention.

  “We do,” she replied.

  It was late at night, the darkness mingling with cold and silence. Megan sat on the floor of the living room, with all the weapons and ammunition spread out around her. A single light from the corner of the room caught the hard ridges in her face. She shuffled through her sketches, photographs, and diagrams. Karen and Lauren sat together on the couch. Duncan was standing, looking out the win­dow. Then he turned and reached over and picked up the rifle. For an instant he cradled it in his arms, then he pulled back on the arming bolt.

  “Are we crazy?” he asked abruptly. “Have we completely lost our senses?”

  “Probably,” Megan replied.

  Duncan smiled.

  “Just so we’re all in agreement. If we do this, we’re crazy.”

  “We’re crazy if we don’t.”

  “That’s right.”

  Duncan ran his finger down the edge of the rifle barrel. He turned to his wife. “You know,” he said quietly, “for the first time in a week, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m doing something. Wrong or right doesn’t enter into it anymore.”

 
“Dad? One thing bothers me,” Lauren said. “It’s just, well, we don’t know that she won’t release them in the morning.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we could be—”

  “That’s right, too. We could be jeopardizing everything. But the chances are the same, and this way we have one powerful ally.”

  “What’s that?” Karen asked.

  “Surprise,” Duncan said.

  He looked at the three women in the room.

  “What we are going to do is the one thing that Olivia will never expect.”

  “I know one thing,” Karen said angrily.

  “What?”

  “If we continue to do what she says, we’re guaranteed a disaster.”

  “That’s right,” Lauren chimed in swiftly. “Every time we’ve done what she said, she’s twisted it somehow. She’ll do it again. I know it.”

  Both Duncan and Megan stared at their daughters with some amazement. The shadows seemed to freeze on the faces of the two girls. These are my children, Megan thought. My babies. What am I doing?

  Lauren rose up, struggling with emotions. She burst out in a half-sob: “I just want to get him back and get this over! I want everything to be like it was before.” She started to say something else, but her sister put her arm out and quieted her.

  “It’s okay,” Duncan said. There was a small silence in the room.

  Megan stood up, fingering the .45-caliber pistol. “You know what I keep thinking?” She walked over and knelt down in front of the two girls, resting her hands on their knees and speaking in a soft, steady voice. “If we do this and screw it up, then we will blame ourselves and we’ll have to live with that forever. But if we don’t do anything, if we trusted Olivia and something went wrong—I couldn’t handle that. I couldn’t live with it for a minute.”

  She turned to Duncan, but remained touching the twins.

  “I was thinking earlier—I kept picturing all the times on the nightly newscasts where you see pictures of some family caught up in a tragedy. They’re always crying and sobbing, the cameras catch them and it’s awful. But they’re always surrounded by men in suits. Policemen, firemen, detectives, lawyers, doctors, soldiers—hell, I don’t know. But it’s always somebody official who tried to do something and ended up doing nothing. It never works out. There are never any happy endings unless you make them for yourself . . .”