Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  “Grandfather, we’re through! I can see the sky!”

  He gritted his teeth, all age, doubt, and infirmity forgotten, and attacked the wall, ripping and tearing at the crumbling plaster and rotted wood with a great cry of victory.

  Duncan’s first shot had crushed into Ramon’s chest like a heavy­weight’s punch, knocking him backward, slamming him against the front door of the house, pinning him there. He jerked once, like a spastic marionette. Then he had slithered slowly to a sitting position, almost as if relaxing. He stared out at the yard, still seeing nothing, wondering what it was that had happened to him. He wondered too, why the cold had disappeared. It was his last thought.

  Duncan’s second shot exploded in the dead man’s face.

  Megan rose up, after the second report from her husband’s gun, and stared wildly at Ramon Gutierrez’s body, awash with blood and brain matter. She took a step backward and wanted to scream at the nightmare.

  Duncan stood up behind her, back at the wall.

  For an instant, everything was quiet again, the silence filling the frozen morning.

  He could feel his throat contract, dry, as he saw his wife hesitate and he croaked out a great shout: “Go! Go, Megan! Go! Now!”

  Duncan scrambled over the stone wall, nearly dropping the rifle. He grabbed it and stood up, stumbling into a run toward her, still crying, “Go! Go! Now!”

  His wife turned crazily toward him. She saw him gesturing frantically toward the front door. Their eyes locked for an instant and he saw her nod. She turned back toward the body on the porch and gave a cry of half-rage, half-fear, and complete determination.

  Weapon in hand, she vaulted up the porch stairs and threw herself past Ramon’s body, into the house.

  “Them!” Olivia cried, a sound mingling a scream with a laugh.

  “Who?” Bill Lewis shouted, grabbing his machine pistol.

  “Who do you think?” Olivia replied. She pulled the bolt back on her weapon, arming it. She used the barrel to crash through the windowpanes. She could see Duncan running toward the house.

  “Cover the stairwell!” she yelled at Lewis.

  He hesitated.

  “Do it now, you idiot, before they get closer!”

  He spun around behind her and jumped through the bedroom door, padding toward the core of the farmhouse.

  Karen and Lauren heard the shots and gasped.

  In the silence that followed, they each felt a dizzying plunge into immediate fear, like the first moment that a car swerves on a rain-slick street, out of control.

  “Oh, my God,” Lauren whispered. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Karen replied. “I don’t know.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We have to do something!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Both girls, fighting tears and panic and the urge to race from their place of concealment, remained still, stiff with emotion.

  Megan tripped as she flung herself into the vestibule, crashing to the floor. For a second she was stunned, then she rolled over, coming up to her knees with the pistol in her outstretched hand, swinging it back and forth, ready to fire at noise, at movement, at ghosts or fears. She could hear her breathing, loud, raspy.

  She climbed to her feet and headed for the stairs, which rose up in front of her.

  She heard the footsteps above her, slapping against the wood floor, and she threw herself to the side, back against the wall, staring up the stairs. She lifted the gun to be ready, and saw Bill Lewis’s face peer over the banister. For an instant they both paused, then she saw the gun in his hands. Both of them shouted out something incomprehensible in that second; Megan fired once, then ducked back into a parlor door, while Lewis opened fire. But his momentary hesitation lost him his advantage. The bullets sprayed wildly into the plaster and woodwork, sending dust and splinters flying.

  Megan screamed as a shaft of something tore into her forearm. She reeled back, staring at the blood that welled up through her sleeve. A jagged piece of wood was sticking out through the fabric, caught in her skin. She cried out and snatched it from her arm. Blood trickled down between her fingers. Then she rolled forward, raising the .45, and let loose with a wild series of shots, feeling the great handgun buck and pull at her as she did. The world above her seemed to explode in noise and terror.

  Bill Lewis jumped backward as bullets slapped up into the ceiling above him, shielding his face from the sudden onslaught.

  He fired again, just as frantically, haphazardly stitching the air with death.

  In the bedroom, Olivia watched almost patiently, as Duncan raced toward the house. He came straight on, no zigs or zags, no hesitancy in his stride, barreling forward on a line for the front door. She thought he moved in slow motion; she was surprised, for an instant, that he was there at all. I didn’t think you had it in you, math-man, she thought. I never thought you’d try. And now, it has killed you. She could feel a massive bellow of anger rise within her, electrifying her arms, legs, and heart. She could feel her hand twitching, demanding to fire. And so she did, screaming imprecations that rose above the ripping sound of the automatic weapon.

  “Die!” she roared. But the word was drawn out and more a guttural, wordless keen. The gun in her hands seemed possessed by the same rage, bursting hot and crazily, tugging and jumping as she tried to aim carefully.

  She kept firing at the figure that persisted toward her. He was running with one hand held up over his head, as if that would ward off the shots. Through the instant smoke, she could see bullets kicking up the dirt around Duncan. The hot, acrid smell of cordite filled her nostrils.

  “Die, you coward!” she screamed again.

  Then she laughed as Duncan fell abruptly, as if tripped by some great unseen hand. He splayed on the ground directly in her line of fire.

  “I’ve got you, you bastard!”

  She aimed carefully and tried to fire again, but cursed when she realized the magazine was empty. She swirled about, seizing another clip.

  Pain flooded him.

  He could taste bitter, dry dirt, where he’d skidded in the ground.

  In that first instant, he did not know if he were dead or not. He looked down at himself and saw streaks of blood littering his legs. She’ll kill me now, he thought.

  But he realized that he had struggled to his feet.

  The front door seemed a vast ways away, completely unreachable. He wondered for an instant where the next volley of bullets was. What are you waiting for? he cried to himself. Then he saw that the kidnappers’ car was only a few feet distant, off to his left. Reaching down for his weapon and grabbing it by the barrel, he half-hopped, half-tumbled behind the car. Before he could gather his thoughts, a second burst of bullets exploded against the vehicle, screeching and whining like unhappy orphans as they ricocheted off the metal. The window glass burst above him, shattering with an explosion and raining down on his head.

  He huddled against the side, and stared down at his mangled legs. Broken, he wondered? Ruined? What? He thought of Tommy and the twins, of Megan and the judge.

  He shrugged. Can’t be helped, he thought. Got to keep moving. He pushed up to his feet, gasping with sudden flames of pain that shot through his knees and thighs. He bit back tears and tried to relax. The wave of hurt washed through his brain, making him dizzy. He bit his lip and thought of his family and felt a surge of strength. He buried his head against the side of the car and took a deep breath.

  You haven’t killed me yet. He would have laughed if he’d had the strength.

  Duncan’s mind raced with directions, orders, ideas. He recognized he couldn’t make the front
. But the side of the farmhouse beckoned with cover and he decided to head that way.

  He took another deep breath and wondered where the pain had fled. It’s there, he thought. Just hiding. Probably an illusion, he realized. He smiled.

  Not dead yet. Tommy, I’m still coming for you.

  Duncan gathered himself and rose up, lifting the rifle to his shoul­der. He pointed it in the vague direction of the upstairs room where he knew it was Olivia shooting at him. Then he started firing, squeez­ing off the shots as quickly as he could. Through his squinting eyes, he could see the bullets tearing into the window frame and crashing through the window. He kept firing as he moved away from the car, stumbling, struggling, now angling toward the side of the house, where he would be out of her line of fire, wondering how long his legs would last him and surprised that they would work at all.

  Olivia reeled back in sudden surprise as the bullets from Duncan’s weapon burst against the window and slammed into the wall and ceiling, showering her with glass, dust, and debris. She landed on the bed, sitting, rocking back and forth, not damaged, but astonished by the ferocity that filled the air. Another volley ripped the air around her, and she felt herself falling. The floor thudded against her, hard. It took her a second to realize that she was knocked down, and she picked herself up and jumped back to the window, only to see Duncan, limping, dragging his legs, but still firing his rifle, sweep around the corner of the farmhouse. She fired off a last barrage toward him, cursing as she leaned out of the window.

  Then she turned back to the room.

  It’s just them, she thought. It’s just the two of them.

  She could hear the gunfire from the stairwell and she thought of the captives in the attic.

  The high-pitched ripping sound of the machine pistol stopped, replaced by a flurry of deep-throated roars from Megan’s gun. Olivia looked down and saw her red satchel, filled with money. She closed it quickly and threw the carrying strap over her shoulder. She looked up and saw Bill Lewis in the doorway.

  “Give me another clip!” he shouted.

  She tossed him a clip of cartridges, which he dropped, then bent over to pick up.

  “Kill them,” Olivia whispered.

  He stared at her.

  “Go kill them up in the attic,” she said in a normal tone of voice, but firmly, the way one would reprimand a small child who knew no better.

  His jaw dropped.

  “Kill them!” she shouted, her voice rising.

  “But—”

  She screamed, her voice soaring into a high-pitched siren demand: “Kill them! Kill them! Kill them both! Do it now, dammit! Do it now! Kill them!”

  He looked wide-eyed at her. Then he nodded and disappeared through the door, trailed by Olivia’s screamed commands. She followed him to the hallway, turning toward the stairwell, readying herself for Megan’s assault. Behind her, she could hear Lewis fumbling with the lock.

  Megan, kneeling behind the cover of the doorway between the vestibule and the sitting room, was trying to reload the .45 when she heard Olivia’s screams rise above the ringing in her ears. The words froze her and electrified her at once, filling her with desperate, wounded mother-anger. She pushed herself to her feet. Her own mouth opened in a great shout of despair and determination:

  “No!” she cried. “Tommy!” Filling with rage and hurt, Megan charged up the stairs, oblivious to any pain and harm that might befall her, thinking only of her child, firing as she ran.

  The sudden ferocity of her assault took Olivia by surprise and she fired a useless, wild burst toward the banshee battle cries. The bullets slapped angrily into the wall above Megan’s head. The explosions knocked Megan to the floor, but did no other harm than slow her down, which she realized instantly could be the greatest harm of all.

  She picked herself up again and crawled forward insistently, hug­ging the stairs, ready to fire.

  Olivia was screaming now: “Kill them! Kill them!” over and over. She turned back and saw Lewis struggling against the door.

  “Something’s in the way!” he yelled.

  “Shoot it out!”

  “What?”

  Before she could answer, she heard the crash of Megan’s weapon, fired from a few feet away. The bullet exploded into the wall next to her head, creasing her cheek, ripping the lobe of her ear. Olivia tumbled backward, as if struck by a great blow. She was instantly dizzy, confused: She can’t have killed me, she thought in utter shock. It’s not possible. Olivia put her hand to her face and felt a sticky streak of blood welling between parted flesh. Scarred, she thought. She scarred me. She shouted again, and fired a burst toward Megan, but her own shots were wildly ineffective, because at the same time she was stumbling back into the bedroom.

  Judge Pearson took a final savage blow at the hole in the wall and turned to Tommy, breathless, and asked, “Can you get through there?”

  “I can, but, Grandfather—”

  The judge quickly looked out, catching a glimpse of the forest and the sky, stretching out endlessly. Then he pulled back inside.

  “Just go, Tommy, go! Drop to the roof. Get away! Get away, now!”

  In the second that the child hesitated, they both heard Olivia’s voice screaming her commands to Bill Lewis. The words seemed to fill the air about them, reverberating in the old attic, icy now with winter air.

  “Grandfather!” Tommy yelled.

  “Just go! Dammit, now!”

  “Grandfather!” Tommy seized Judge Pearson’s hand.

  Judge Pearson heard Bill Lewis pushing at the door. He heard the door open, and crash against the bunk barricade. “Now, Tommy—please!”

  He grabbed his grandson and thrust him, squirming feet first, through the small hole. For an instant it seemed the boy would be caught; then, gloriously, he popped through. The judge could see ­Tommy’s hands, gripping the edge of the hole, as he maneuvered for his leap to the roof.

  “Go, Tommy, go!” he yelled. Behind him he heard Lewis swearing and pushing against the door. Tommy’s hands disappeared, and the judge heard a thump as the boy landed on the roof below. He leaned forward, just to see that his grandson was safe, and yell again, “Get away!” Then the judge turned and picked up the metal rod. He summoned a battle cry from his chest and charged toward the attic entranceway, swinging the metal piece above his head.

  As he threw himself against the barricade, the world seemed to explode around him. Bill Lewis had sprayed the door with the machine pistol, and bullets, chips of metal and feathers from the pillows, and wood splinters from the door all howled and screeched in a death song around him. He spun around, as if caught in a sudden gale, knocked to the floor by the force of the wind. He knew in that moment that he was hit, once, twice, perhaps a hundred times. His body screamed commands to him, raging at the insult of red-hot metal piercing cold flesh. A wave of shock and injury washed through him, luring him into immediate unconsciousness. But he fought it off. I can breathe, he thought. I am wounded badly. But I am not dead yet. He pushed himself halfway to his feet, and threw himself forward, trying to use his body to jam the door further.

  But his weight had no bulk. He felt himself helplessly being shoved aside.

  “Go, Tommy,” he whispered. But unconsciousness still did not find him. Instead, black pain clouding his eyes, he looked up and saw Bill Lewis standing over him, oddly hesitant.

  Lewis waited for the judge’s eyes to lock onto his.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  “He’s out,” the judge replied. “He’s safe.”

  Lewis hesitated again.

  “I didn’t want it . . .” he said, “I wouldn’t have . . .”

  Judge Pearson did not believe this. He turned his head aside, waiting for death.

  After Olivia’s last haphaz
ard volley, Megan had struggled up the stairs and saw her adversary fall back into the bedroom. In almost the same moment, she saw Bill Lewis’s back squeeze through a door.

  In that instant, she knew that was where they were.

  She knew she had to get there. She knew she could let nothing stop her. She ran forward, dashing past the bedroom, only peripherally aware that Olivia was standing naked and bleeding a few feet away. Megan charged, screaming like some berserk Valkyrie urged forward by a battle shout of rage and need.

  Megan threw herself inside the attic entranceway, tripping and thudding down. She looked up and saw Lewis standing above her a few feet away, holding the machine pistol, frozen in place, like a schoolchild caught misbehaving. He was standing over the judge’s body. She screamed and fired wildly.

  The first bullet picked Lewis up and dumped him backward onto the seat of his pants. Scarlet blood instantly spread across his chest. He looked strangely at Megan, as if she’d done something unexpected.

  She fired again, and this time he spun around and landed in a twisted, misshapen heap in the corner of the attic, his sightless eyes locked onto the hole in the wall.

  “Tommy!” Megan called. “Tommy!”

  She saw the judge try to lift himself, gesturing at the hole.

  “Out,” he rasped. “Safe. We did it.”

  “Dad!”

  “Get him, dammit, get him now!” the old man cried, his voice just a bare whisper above death. “Leave me! Get the boy!” He saw Megan nod, and he closed his eyes, satisfied. He did not know whether death would find him in those minutes, or whether he would live, but he swelled with an ineffable pride and breathed slowly, carefully, willing to wait for whatever outcome should arrive. He could sense his heartbeat, pumping steadily within his chest and thought: It’s strong. He thought of all the men he’d known who’d fought and died on all the beaches of his youth. They would be proud, he realized. He thought of his wife: I did it, he said to himself.