Ramon could feel a band of sweat on his forehead.
There was a tugging within him, half pulling toward sleep, half toward wakefulness. He wished that he had managed more than the few hours that he had. I need to be alert, he told himself. He measured the forces within him, and realized his eyes were open, watching the world about him come into dawn’s focus.
He remembered prison, and joining the movement. As with the youth gangs, the leadership had always prescribed an act for admission. But the gangs’ initiations had a practical streak. The movement had liked symbolism, bombs in particular. He had always thought them a cowardly way of killing people, but he’d understood they were a much safer organizational approach. That was what he had done; helped plant a pipe bomb in the men’s room of a government building. It hadn’t been his fault that the damn thing failed to explode on schedule.
The memory slid from his mind and he thought of the two captives upstairs. He pictured the two Tommys sitting on the bunks facing him. Then he tried to paint into his vision gunshots, blood, and wounds. He saw them stretched out on the floor, stiffening.
He realized he had never actually killed anyone before, though he had been present when murders had taken place: once during a gang war, when two rivals had been cornered in an alley; the second time after a prison meal, when the flood of convicts had gone to the exercise yards and an informant had been slaughtered in the momentary confusion that overtook the place whenever there were large movements of the inmate population; the third time was Olivia’s visit to the executive out in California. He recalled the look on the man’s face when he had recognized the inevitability of what was about to happen; a mixture of panic and anger. He had fought. He had no chance and he knew it, but he fought and that made it easier for her. He hoped that the judge and the boy would fight him. Then he could kill them in battle and it would be easier for him, too.
He cursed and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.
The weak light in the room illuminated his package of cigarettes on a rickety old table. He sneezed as he reached out for the pack. Damn this cold, old place, he said to himself. Damn it forever. I never want to see it again.
He tried to make himself think of warm climates. He encouraged himself, thinking, By noon today I’ll be flying south with a pocketful of money. He looked over at his small duffel bag, already packed and ready.
He got up and pulled his pants and shoes on. He threw a tattered gray sweatshirt over his head. It had a hood, which he pulled up, like a scarf.
Ramon listened and heard the muffled noise of Bill Lewis’s snoring coming from the next room. He clenched and unclenched his hands a few times. Then he went over to the bedstand and found his revolver. He slid it into his waistband. After today, he thought, everything will be different. He imagined it would be very warm in the bed next to Olivia.
He felt a burst of enthusiasm: We will do remarkable things together. For an instant he felt a small sadness for Lewis. He doesn’t understand, Ramon thought. Then he shrugged the idea away, replacing it with an undefined jealous anger.
Ramon stepped out into the hallway and looked down toward the locked attic door. I could do it now, while Lewis sleeps. He would be taken by surprise; so would they. It would be done and over and no one could do anything about it. Ramon realized that the gun was already in his hand, but he couldn’t remember loosening it from his pants. He looked down and saw it was cocked, but couldn’t recall doing that, either. In their sleep would be easier, he told himself. He took a step in that direction and felt his will waver. A cup of coffee first, he said. To keep the hand steady. He replaced the weapon in his waistband.
The stairs creaked slightly as he padded down toward the kitchen. The house seemed still and frozen; he hated the way the cold seeped through everything. It made the mornings utterly silent and awful. In the south, waking up was to greet friendly noise and warmth that built up into day. He shivered again as he wandered into the kitchen, turned on the hot water tap as far as it would go, and searched for a coffee cup less dirty than the others. After a moment or two, he found one that was satisfactory. He dashed two scoops of instant espresso coffee into the bottom and filled the cup from the steaming tap. He took a sip, made a face and turned around, leaning against the sink, letting the heat from the cup flow into his hands, warming him to his soul.
When he heard the small thud from the front of the house, he was at first confused. What was that? he thought. There shouldn’t be any noise. Not here. Not now.
Then, instantly, fear seared him.
His hand shook slightly as he put the coffee down.
He strained his ears, listening for another noise, but he heard none.
It was something, he thought. It was nothing. It was this old house creaking with age. It was the police getting into position. His insides shook with sudden tension, as he tried to persuade himself both that he had heard something and had heard nothing. When he looked down, he saw that his revolver had jumped again into his hand. He thought for a moment of running upstairs and crying out for Olivia. Then he thought: I am stronger than that. What do I need her for, to check out some little noise that will turn out to be my imagination playing tricks? He felt a small bit of disgust for his frayed nerves. Reproof mingled with fear.
He walked carefully, but with deliberate speed, to the front of the house. He peered through a glass panel in the front door, but he could see nothing but the front yard, glistening with the dawn frost.
It was nothing, he said to himself. You slept poorly.
It’s close to the end and you’re nervous, so you’re reacting to nothing.
Ramon shivered once. It is probably nothing, he insisted to himself. Maybe it was the wind. But he could see the trees standing bare and still against the overcast sky.
He did not want to leave the meager warmth of the old house, but he knew he had to make certain. He turned the door handle slowly, and opened the door. It was as if someone had blown a frigid breath around him. He hesitated again, reluctant to step outside.
But he did.
Shaking from the chill, and perhaps from something else, Ramon walked slowly out onto the porch. He held the gun outstretched in his hand, and his head pivoted to the right and left as he swept the yard with his eyes.
Lauren looked up at the back of the farmhouse and asked, “Do you think they’re okay?” The quiet had begun to gnaw at the edges of her confidence. She had fought off a dozen nightmare visions in the past minutes. Karen draped an arm around her, hugging her.
“Of course,” Karen replied gently. “Why not?”
“We haven’t heard anything.”
“Well, that means it’s going like it’s supposed to.”
“I wish we’d hear something.”
“Are you scared?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?”
“Only a little. I’m mad, too.”
“Yeah. Do you suppose Tommy and the judge—”
“Oh, they’re okay, I just know it. They’re probably asleep. You know how Tommy is. If he’s a little tired, you can’t wake him with a cannon.”
“I wish Mom were here.”
“So do I.”
“They know what they’re doing.”
“Of course they do.”
“Sit closer. I’m cold.”
“It’s not the cold,” Karen said, practical as usual. But still she moved closer. She looked down at her weapon. “When you can see the little red dot, does that mean the safety is on or off?”
“Off.”
“Oh. Right.” She clicked the safety catch on.
“Why are you doing that?” Lauren asked.
“Well, Dad said—”
“He said to be careful. He didn’t say to be stupid.”
“What do you mean?” the older sister said, bristling slightly.<
br />
“Well, I don’t think I could ever remember to find the stupid safety if I had to. I think we should be ready, in case we have to run up there and help.”
“They said to stay put.”
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
Karen thought for an instant. She wanted to be responsible, she wanted to behave. She wanted to make her parents proud of her. Lauren looked at her sister closely. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “I know what they said. But we’re here to help! He’s our brother, too.”
Karen nodded. “I think you’re right.”
Both girls unlatched the safety catches on their weapons. They bent forward, watching the house.
“Can you feel it?” Lauren whispered suddenly.
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s like the wind picked up or a cloud passed over, or something.”
Karen nodded. She smiled. “You know, they wouldn’t believe this at school.”
Lauren almost giggled. “Boy, that’s right.”
But the slight moment of humor dissipated in the overwhelming still of the morning. The silence swept across them again, and within it an unsettling fear of the unknown. They remained shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the farmhouse. Lauren reached over and grasped her sister’s hand. It was as if an electric charge passed through them. They could feel each other’s heartbeats, taste each other’s breath.
“It’s going to be okay,” Lauren said quietly.
“I know. I just wish something would happen,” Karen replied.
They waited, letting anxiety battle with trust.
When Megan’s foot had slipped on the frost-slick first step up to the porch, her hand, holding the pistol, had thudded down hard on the wood stairs as she caught herself. The noise had stopped her instantly. She thought it was like an explosion. Instead of stepping ahead to the front door, she had ducked back, cowering against the porch riser, hiding by the edge, waiting to see whether she had been heard.
The scraping sound of the front door swinging open scorched her will. She froze, holding the pistol, trying to wedge herself against the porch so that she could not be seen from above.
She had no idea what to do.
When she heard the first creaking step, almost on top of her, she trembled. But she lifted the weapon and insisted: It won’t end like this.
She fought the fear that gripped at her arms and legs and all her muscles and joints with a single image: Tommy. Her heartbeat quickened and she felt adrenaline surge through her. I’m coming, dammit, I’m coming for you now.
She tightened, as she heard the footsteps work closer to her hiding spot.
Duncan had seen her slip, heard the small bumping sound, and cursed. He too, had waited, his eyes locked on his wife. She seemed like some small animal, crouched against fear.
The sight of the door opening onto the porch stabbed his heart with terror.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “They heard her.”
For an instant, it was as if all his strength had been sucked from him. He felt light, almost weightless.
Then he saw Gutierrez step onto the porch.
“Oh, my God,” he said again. “Megan—watch out.” His voice was a bare whisper.
He saw the gun in Ramon’s hand.
He saw Ramon take one, then another, step toward the place where his wife was huddled.
He tried to command his racing heart to still. He thought: There is no choice.
He wanted to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry. A brief memory flashed into his eyes: He could see the street in Lodi, see himself hesitating, hanging on the van, as if touching the edge of some dark ocean, afraid of being sucked down into the depths. The years screamed at him not to wait, not to hesitate again and lose everything by doubt.
“Keep down, Megan,” he whispered.
He took a deep breath and lowered his cheek to the rifle stock. His world suddenly miniaturized, past the black sight, across the yard, over his wife’s head and directly into Ramon Gutierrez’s chest. He saw Ramon take another step and pause, no more than a foot or two from the edge of the porch, where Megan hid.
He blew out slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The pressure in his finger against the trigger seemed immense, almost painful. He gently pulled back and fired the gun. The crash of the report seem to shatter the porcelain air.
Olivia Barrow was snatched from a dream of prison. She had been back in her cell, in maximum security, only this time it wouldn’t lock properly. She had been able to open the bars at will. In the dream she could feel the sticky cold of the steel, hear the rasping noise as the gate swung back. She had seen herself step forth, alone, onto the catwalk outside the tier, free to go wherever she wanted. She had swelled with an unbridled happiness, a lightness, almost as if her feet were no longer linked to the earth, and she could fly. In the dream, she was joyously fast-walking away from the cell, when she heard a thunderous peal, and for a microsecond she thought it was a storm bursting over her head.
Then she tumbled from sleep into sudden, horrible wakefulness.
She sat up abruptly in bed, ignoring the morning chill, straining to hear.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded, her voice high-pitched.
Bill Lewis had risen next to her. In the weak morning light his skin seemed pale, almost translucent. His eyes were wide, his voice a slippery whine of near-panic:
“I don’t know. What was it? I couldn’t tell, I was asleep.”
“It sounded like a shot.”
“Where’s Ramon?”
“I don’t know. In his room?”
“Ramon? Ramon! Where the hell are you?” Olivia cried out.
There was no answer. She thought: He’s gone upstairs and he’s killing them. She swung her legs out of the bed and stood naked by the side. There should be another shot. There should be screams. There should be an answer. What is it?
“What’s he doing?” Bill demanded suddenly, his words jumbled together by fear. “Is he—what the hell—where’s he gone? What’s he doing? I don’t get it—it’s not part of the plan.”
Bill Lewis looked wildly at Olivia.
“That’s not upstairs,” Bill shouted. “That’s coming from outside. Ramon!”
Olivia’s mind raced with confusion. She screamed orders to herself: Think! Act! She snatched a machine pistol from a bedside table. Suddenly she felt a wondrous, peaceful calm, almost a child’s moment of satisfied delight, as if she were back in her dream. She felt her nakedness flush, glistening red with sudden warmth.
“What’s going on?” Bill screamed.
“Come on,” Olivia said carefully. “It’s ending.”
She strode across the bathroom to the window and peered out. She was aware that Lewis was struggling to get into his pants behind her, cursing as he fought against the stiffened jeans, and she thought how silly that was, how completely absurd, and she laughed out loud.
The noise of the first shot also ripped Judge Pearson from a dream. He had been on a beach, surrounded by his grandchildren, playing in the sand. The hot sun had warmed him, and he’d blinked back the glare. He could see Megan and Duncan riding the blue-green waves. He had turned and spoken to his wife, who had been sitting next to him. “But you’re dead,” he had told her. “And I’m alone.” She had smiled, shaking her head, and replied, “No one ever really dies. No one ever really is alone.” But then, when he turned away from her, his family was gone and the beach was the red-tinged sand of Tarawa, and he was a scared young man again. He heard a single shot race over his head and he buried himself in the sand, pressing his face down sharply as the bullet whistled in the air, only to lift back up, and in the dream say, “But that was real.”
And plummet into wakefulness.
> He spun quickly to Tommy, who was sitting up ramrod straight on his cot.
“Grandfather!”
“Tommy, it’s happening. My God, they’re coming for us!”
“Grandfather!” Tommy burst from his bed, leaping into the judge’s arms.
Judge Pearson hugged him tightly, then thrust him back.
“Now, Tommy, now! We must help save ourselves.”
Tommy swallowed and nodded. The judge swung from the bunk and seized the metal rod.
“Now,” he said. “Give me a hand.”
They heard a second shot.
“Quickly, Tommy. Just like we talked about!”
He was filled with power, with direction; he remembered a hundred terrifying, paralyzing moments in combat where, despite all the death and horror, he’d acted. It was as if his muscles were no longer aged, his bones no longer brittle and old. He felt flush with the arrogant strength of youth.
The judge lifted one of the bunks and dragged it across the room. With a great shove and crash, he sent it tumbling down the stairs, slamming up against the attic door. He jumped back and grasped Tommy’s bunk. “Now yours!” He pushed that one down the stairs, further blocking the entranceway.
Tommy was already dressed, already at the wall, smashing into the weakened area with the metal rod from the bed frame. Judge Pearson jumped to his side. He took the piece of frame and thrust it beneath one of the loosened boards. He blew out once, hard, then levered back as hard as he could. There was a cracking sound, and the creaking of splitting wood. The first board pulled back, like a broken bone. The judge shouted once; a splinter had creased his thumb and shot pain into his arm. But he ignored it and slammed the metal piece into the exposed plaster. It exploded in a dusty cloud. He smashed the opening again, and then a third time. Then, winded, Judge Pearson stepped back, ready to swing the metal again, only to hear Tommy shout:
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