Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  He waited easily.

  Olivia saw Megan flash past her, and squeezed on the trigger, only to have the weapon click uselessly on another empty clip. She seized the final filled magazine from a table, and grabbed the red satchel with the money. Escape, she thought. It’s over. She took one tentative step toward the door, then another, flinging herself forward. Run! Get away! Fight another day. Her bare feet seemed light, as if winged. She plunged out of the room and ran down the corridor, leaving Megan struggling to get past the blocked attic door, Olivia grasped the banister and leaped down the stairs, heading toward the back of the house. She nearly fell at the bottom, catching herself as she slid on a throw rug. She dodged past the furniture, angling through the house for the kitchen. She paused there, taking stock for a single moment, using the time to reload her weapon. She was warm, her entire body tingled with combat. She tasted the blood on her lips and looked down and saw that it had flowed from her cheek freely, smearing her breasts like war paint. She roared out, not in pain or anger, but in a sort of exultant fury. She looked about to fix everything in her memory and thought: Goodbye to all this. I need nothing. I am completely free. She remembered the clothing waiting in the judge’s car and thought: Escape now. For an instant she figured she would simply be their plague forever, never really eradicated, simply hiding, waiting to surface in the future, whenever she was ready. “You can’t beat me!” she yelled out at the top of her lungs. “You can never beat me.” She paused hoping for a response, but when none came, felt an uncontrollable anger. She hesitated, staring down at her loaded weapon, struggling with the urge to race back upstairs and continue fighting. It took her a moment to compose herself. You win by escaping, she insisted to the side of her that raged on. She laughed once, loudly, falsely, hoping Megan would hear it, then she burst through the back door, carrying the machine pistol in one hand, the money satchel in the other, her mind filling with a vision of freedom.

  Tommy clung to the roofline, trying to keep his balance on the steeply pitched surface. The frost from the night before made it slick, and it was hard for him to move. He heard the last flurries of gunfire, and started to crawl away. The cold breeze tugged at him, and he forced himself not to think of his grandfather, and not to hesitate. He had heard his mother’s cries, and he knew she was there, somewhere, waiting for him. He battled against tears and confusion, biting back all doubt, and maneuvered toward the edge of the roof.

  Megan fought her way back into the upstairs hallway, only to hear Olivia’s shouts of defiance coming from the downstairs. She ignored them. She could think only of Tommy, almost overwhelmed with the need to see him and hold him. She raced into a bedroom and went to the window. It overlooked the roof.

  “Tommy!” she screamed.

  She suddenly saw him, perched on the edge like a resting bird, as if preparing to jump out into the free air.

  “Tommy!” she screamed again. “I’m here!”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, and cried out, “Mom!”

  Megan could see a great, joyous light in her son’s eyes. She tore frantically at the window frame. The sash would not budge. She pivoted and saw a chair in a corner. She seized it and raised it high, then crashed it into the glass and wood. She kept yelling at the top of her lungs, “Here I am, Tommy. Here I am!”

  The glass exploded outward. She pushed the remaining jagged edges out and jackknifed through the opening. Her hands were cut in a dozen places and bleeding profusely, but she paid no attention. No hurt, no pain, no agony whatsoever could penetrate the swelling of emotion as she saw her son scrambling up the roof toward her. She reached out, crying, “Here, Tommy, here!” filling with volcanic release.

  And then she saw Olivia, behind her son. She was standing on the ground outside the back door, staring up at the small figure crawling across the roof.

  Black fear enveloped her.

  “No!” she screamed. She stretched out her arms for her son’s.

  As she had dived through the back door, Olivia had heard the scraping noises made by Tommy’s feet as he fought for purchase on the roof.

  The sound had made her pause in her flight, look back curiously. She had spotted the child at almost the same moment that Megan had. As she watched, she saw Megan throw the chair through the window and then reach for her child.

  Olivia stepped back a few feet farther from the house to give herself a better angle for firing. She pulled back the machine-pistol bolt and took careful aim at the two figures in her line of sight.

  Duncan had crawled around the side of the house, each foot trav­eled filling him with searing pain. He felt like a wounded dog struck by a car, too scared and too stupid to realize its legs were crushed, as it tried to run away from the agony, whining its life away.

  He had nearly blacked out twice, each time fighting off the se­ductive urge to slip away into dreams.

  When he saw Tommy on the roof, he tried to call out to him, but his voice was dry and barely audible. He dragged himself farther, finally managing to cry out, “Tommy! I’m here!” His voice sounded strong and steady, and this surprised Duncan. He felt a surge of encouragement within him, and some renewed strength propelled him forward, shakily, but steadily.

  And then, he too had spotted Olivia.

  He watched, stopped in his tracks in utter terror, as she raised the gun and he recognized what was about to happen. He screamed out: “No! No!” lifting his rifle simultaneously. He fired, panic-stricken, in her direction. He fired again, kept firing, kept screaming, eyes almost closed with pain and outrage.

  As she was about to pull the trigger, the first of Duncan’s crazed shots scorched the air above her head and the second whined inches beneath her nose. For a moment she thought she had been hit, and she fell back, catching herself before she tumbled down. She inadvertently loosed a burst that ripped up uselessly into the sky. She bellowed in immediate fear and anger, whirling about, facing him. She could see him stretched out, prone on the ground, partially hidden by the side of the house, a poor target. She could see the muzzle of his rifle flash.

  Another wild shot ripped the air just above her head.

  Olivia fired at Duncan, spraying his position with bullets until the gun clicked emptily. She tossed the weapon aside and furiously grabbed at the red satchel. She tore open the top, exposing the money and the large handgun. Seizing the pistol, she looked back at Duncan’s position, and saw that most of her shots had crashed into the side of the house above his head. She cursed in immediate frustration. Then she pivoted back, searching the roof, only to see Tommy’s hand grasped by Megan’s. For just an instant, as she hesitated, the two seemed to move in slow motion. Then, as she gathered herself to aim and fire, they suddenly began moving with lightning speed, and before she could act she saw the child tugged off the roof, through the window, his feet kicking for an instant in the air like a swimmer plunging into the surface of a pond, before disappearing from her sight.

  She felt abruptly empty. She turned back to Duncan.

  He must be dead, she thought. She crouched and took one step toward him. But then she saw the rifle muzzle rise again, staring directly at her. She ducked fast, and another shot crashed past her.

  Megan pulled Tommy toward her with every last remaining bit of strength she could muster, giving a great groan of effort, and the two of them fell back in a pile onto the floor of the house. Megan rolled over, to cover his body, and protect him from any last shots. She heard him grunt, and after a few seconds, he pushed her off him. They sat up, and she pulled him close to her. She realized that she was sobbing his name, hugging him, her own body racked with great tidal waves of joy and relief. After a moment, she felt his own tears on her face, but he pushed her back slightly. She cupped his face in her hands, unable to say anything, her lips quivering with happiness.

  He wiped his eyes, suddenly all little-boy tough. “Come on, Mom, I’m oka
y.”

  She nodded gratefully.

  Duncan had seen Tommy fall through the window into his moth­er’s arms and felt a wild, great joy burst past all the pain within him. We did it, he thought. Oh my God, we did it.

  Then he saw Olivia standing across from him. He could see that she had thrown one weapon aside, and now held another. He loosed another shot in her direction and saw her spin away, starting to run. For an instant he watched her back.

  He took a deep breath and tried to aim the rifle one last time. For a millisecond Olivia’s naked back danced in front of him, directly in the gunsight, and he tugged on the trigger. But there was no report. He too was out of ammunition.

  It makes no difference, he thought.

  We did it. We are all alive and we did it. We won.

  He rolled back and struggled to a sitting position against the side of the house. He took a deep breath and forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that seemed to have come alive within him again. He lifted his arm to wave to his wife, to signal that he was all right, which he knew was debatable. He stared down at his bloody legs. They can be fixed, he thought. Everything broken can be fixed. He closed his eyes and put his head down to rest. He did not think about the bank, about the money, about the past or the future. He felt a completeness within him. He wanted to sleep. He did not realize in which direction Olivia was heading.

  Olivia ran.

  Naked, bloody, her hair streaming behind her, long legs devouring the ground, arms pumping, like a sprinter who sees the finish line, she dashed down from the back of the farmhouse and started across the long sloping field toward the forest line. Her bare feet kicked up small explosions of white frost from the earth as she raced against the cold and the onset of day, angling for the dark shadows of the trees which would hide her, allow her to escape. She gripped the pistol in one hand, the red satchel of money in the other. She opened her mouth wide, drinking in great draughts of icy air, filling with a wild strength: I’m free, she cried to herself. As the wind flowed past her, she saw herself in the car, in the airport, in a plane headed south, forever loose and unfettered. She gave in to a surge of defiance and success that coursed within her, and sped on, letting the downward momentum of the hill force her faster, in a great sweeping flight toward safety, her bare feet making slapping sounds against the earth that rose up into the gray morning sky.

  Karen and Lauren had seen Tommy’s struggling dance on the roof; seen Olivia take aim, and seen their brother pulled to safety. They had surged forward once, only to fall back amidst the cover of the rocks. They saw Olivia spray their father with machine-gun bullets, and they had gasped and shouted with fearful rage. But they had seen, too, that he was unhit, and as they had watched Olivia turn and race toward them, they saw their father raise an arm and wave up to the window where Tommy and their mother were.

  Their own shouts and cries had been lost in the forest shadows and the insistent racket of gunfire from the house.

  They were confused, afraid, in tears.

  “What do we do?” Lauren yelled.

  They saw Olivia flying directly toward where they were concealed. They saw the streaks of blood that creased her nakedness; she seemed some half-demon, bent on assaulting them.

  “I don’t know!” screamed Karen.

  But then, in the same moment, they both did know.

  They rose together, their weapons held up to their shoulders, held steadily, aiming straight ahead, precisely as they had been instructed by their parents.

  Olivia saw the two girls rise out of the earth before her like apparitions.

  She felt a momentary confusion, but did not slow her headlong charge toward the twins. She lifted her own weapon, aiming at them. What is happening? she wondered crazily. It can’t be. It’s not supposed to be. I’m free. I’m safe. She tried to hold herself back, to slow down and steady herself, to be able to take aim and save her life, but her momentum pushed her forward inexorably.

  Karen and Lauren said nothing, but felt the same indestructible, electric memory inside, a feeling deposited within them so many years earlier, when they were still in their mother’s womb and they were the reason she was escaping to a different life. Wordlessly, they fired together; two great blasts that reverberated in the sudden winter still air and closed forever the door to childhood past, innocence, and the simple dreams of youth.

  The twin blows picked Olivia Barrow up and dashed her back onto the cold ground. The satchel of twice-robbed money was torn from her grip, tossed aside by the force of the shots, flying through the air. She could feel her weapon ripped from her hand as if by some powerful force. She could see the sky swirling dizzily above her, hear her breath rattling around in her broken chest. The chill from the earth seemed to seep into her and around her like an unwanted embrace. She shivered deep into her core. She remembered her lover’s eyes from a different time, when Emily looked at her up from the dusty death street. But it’s all wrong, she thought. All wrong. No, I made it. I’m free.

  And then death’s currents swept her into black oblivion.

  The brace of shots from the twins’ weapons had penetrated the icy air and lifted Tommy from his mother’s embrace. He jumped across the room and stared past the stray shards of glass through the broken window, out across the field, down to the woods. For an instant he had trouble making out his sisters; their camouflage outfits blended with the browns and grays of the forest line. But in a moment his eyes picked them out; they stood stock-still in the echoes, as if seized by the frozen morning light. Then, as he watched, he saw the two of them come alive, and leap out from the woods. Like a pair of frightened deer, they raced across the field, bounding up toward the house. Tommy could see that neither sister glanced at the body that lay sprawled on the ground as they ran past.

  Behind him he heard his mother, scrambling through some of the debris in the room. She was talking to herself: “Dammit, where’s the phone? Where’s the phone?” There was an edge in her voice, a pitch that he’d never heard. “Tommy! Where’s a telephone!” she cried out. He glanced away from the window for just an instant, and saw that she had located the telephone in a corner beneath a bedstand. She was dialing numbers rapidly.

  He returned to the window and from his vantage point saw Karen and Lauren dash up to the house and embrace his father. He leaned out and waved, but said nothing. They didn’t see him, but he didn’t care, filling instead with a great, wild sense of something that he couldn’t put a word to, but which completely charged his insides, like an electric current lifting him and reminding him of the way the first waking moments on Christmas morning thrust him, fighting off sleep, from his bed. He could see the twins positioning themselves under his father’s arms and helping him maneuver toward the house. In that moment he wanted to fly toward them and help them as well.

  His mother had finished dialing, and he heard her give an address and say, “Please send help immediately. Ambulances. Gunshot wounds. Please hurry.” The tone of her voice rode an edge of panic and frustration.

  It was in those words that something dark and horrid penetrated his heart. For a second, he felt all the warmth and joy flood away from him, and a dizzying blackness swept across his sight. He gasped and turned abruptly away from the window and raced past his mother, as she continued to speak into the telephone, repeating her plea for help. She reached out as he swept past, then drew back her arm and let him go. “Please hurry,” he heard her say, but then he flew on down the hallway, back toward the attic where he’d been held cap­tive. He squirmed past debris and pushed aside the jumble of bedding that still partially blocked the door. Then he took the steps two at a time, oblivious to everything except the dread that swirled within him.

  The judge had pulled himself up to a sitting position against a wall. But his eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow and forced when Tommy found him. The boy gasped at the sight of the
old man’s wounds. He wanted to throw himself down on his grandfather, but was afraid he would somehow injure the old man further. For a moment, he simply hovered indecisively next to the prone figure. Then the boy gently dropped to his knees beside his grandfather. He was scared to touch him, scared not to. The judge’s eyes fluttered when he heard his grandson take up the spot beside him.

  “Grandfather?”

  “I’m here, Tommy.”

  Tommy took a deep breath to control his frightened heart.

  “Don’t die, please. Mom has called for help and they’ll be here soon. You’ll be all right.”

  Judge Pearson didn’t reply at first, but when he did, his voice seemed distant. “Well,” the old man said, “we made it, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everyone—”

  “Dad got hurt, but he’s walking okay. Mom’s okay. Karen and Lauren are here, too, and they’re okay.”

  “And?”

  Tommy didn’t answer.

  “Good,” said the old man. “Your mom got that one before he could get me for sure.” Tommy followed the judge’s gaze and he spotted Bill Lewis’s body contorted in a corner. The boy quickly turned away. “It’s all right,” the judge said. “Couldn’t be helped.” After a second, he added: “Well, we did it. I told you we would, and we did.” This time the old man’s voice seemed firmer, and Tommy hurriedly blurted out:

  “You’re not going to die, Grandfather?”

  Judge Pearson didn’t answer. Tommy could see the old man’s eyes roll closed.

  “Please open your eyes, Grandfather,” he said. He was aware that tears were flowing from his own eyes and he wiped at them without thinking. He raised his voice a bit, finding a command: “Open your eyes. Please.”

  The old man blinked and looked at his grandson.

  “I just wanted to take a rest,” he said.

  “Please. Just keep talking to me.”

  “I’m tough,” the judge said, as if speaking to ghosts. “A lot tougher than they thought.”