The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  Later, she understood that Channing—who, as a judge, could not himself serve—helped pick the selectmen, the police chief, the school board, the vestrymen for his church, and, of course, the minister. He never said this to her; it was simply known. It was not a privilege but a duty; his interest was in finding men of probity and judgment. But the men whom Channing Masters picked treated him differently than they did others. Sitting here next to him, it had seemed to Caroline that her father watched over the town.

  Caroline doubted that had changed much. In this pocket of New England, time moved slowly. Channing, with his dislike of fashion in thought or dress, found that right. Caroline’s mother had not.

  Rising, Caroline gazed up the mountainside, and then she resumed her climb.

  At the top of the mountain, Caroline found her father sitting on a fallen log.

  Channing Masters looked up at her. Caroline saw him fight several emotions at once—pain, thwarted love, instinctive pleasure in seeing her, anger that she should catch him unprepared. His voice, attempting simple gravity, caught the edge of something more.

  “Caroline,” he said.

  She stopped some distance away, preserving space they both seemed to need, fought the numbness seeping through her as she saw the work of time: the piercing eyes looked deep and bruised; harsh lines etched his mouth; the forehead rose to midskull; gray cloaked his hair and mustache, the bushy eyebrows. Age had brought a closeness of skin to bone, and the rawboned frame seemed to stretch his body to a painful thinness. But his jawline was still clean, his black gaze alert and almost fierce. He was as she had imagined him.

  She could not bring herself to call him “Father.”

  “You wanted me here,” she said. “So I am.”

  He gazed at her, as if wishing to open what was closed to him. Quietly, he asked, “What were you doing on Martha’s Vineyard, staying in our home?”

  “Sailing.” She paused. “Why else would I be there?”

  Caroline saw him wince at the wall between them. In that moment, she seemed to recover her balance.

  She walked to the far end of the log and sat several feet away, gazing out at the sweep of hills and valleys, which seemed less to end than to vanish. When she was ready, she turned to him. “You summoned me here as a lawyer. In every way but that—and perhaps that too—it’s the very worst thing for all of us.”

  Channing turned to her. “Brett is innocent.” Suddenly, his voice was stern. “You’ll think of me as you like. But she won’t be just another case to you.”

  Caroline studied him. “You may come to wish that she were.”

  He seemed to consider her meaning. With equal quiet, he answered, “You have better judgment than that.”

  Caroline felt the familiar weight of childhood, his expectation stated as certainty. “Then I should tell you that I don’t know if I’m staying past tomorrow. Let alone if I’ll defend her, should it come to that.”

  His eyes filled with astonishment. “How can you not…?”

  “How can you not understand?” Pausing, Caroline spoke more softly. “I would have thought you learned from me what emotion does to judgment. I won’t visit that on her.”

  Channing gave her a stoic look. But in his eyes she read both hope and apprehension. “You’ve met her, then.”

  Caroline drew a breath. “No. I haven’t.”

  His gaze narrowed. “She’s been waiting—”

  “And I’d like to know what the police know. Before I invite her to tell me whatever story leaps to mind.”

  His face went hard. “She’d never do that—”

  “Frightened people do that,” Caroline cut in sardonically. “Even the occasional innocent one. And I’m quite certain that you know far more about what the police know than she does.”

  A first faint smile at the corner of her father’s mouth, remembered pleasure at the cut and thrust of their minds. Then the expression vanished, and he was grave, almost respectful. “Where would you care for me to start?”

  “With the first call from Jackson. After he saw that it was Brett they had in custody.”

  Channing folded his hands in front of him, pensive. “Jackson called around dawn,” he said at length. “Betty answered. She was already up, and worried.”

  “Where did she think Brett was?”

  “With him, I assume.” His voice went flat. “Long ago, Brett became quite sanguine about staying out all night, without feeling the need to explain herself….”

  He paused abruptly; only then did Caroline feel the chill smile on her face. Their eyes met, and then her father continued in a subdued tone. “Betty was too shaken to make sense of it. Moments later, I had to call Jackson back. He gave me only the barest details: the body, Brett’s condition, the blood and knife and wallet, that she’d made some sort of statement. Then he agreed that we could come for her in exchange for her passport.”

  “Which puzzles me. Can it be possible that Jackson doubts she killed him? Or is it that he expects she’ll make some mistake?”

  Her father gave her a sharp look. “Jackson knows our family, knew Brett as a child, though she couldn’t quite remember him. He can’t easily believe this.” He paused. “But, of course, he can tell me nothing.”

  Caroline cocked her head. “And the chief of police?”

  He gave a small shrug. “Told me, as a kindness, that Jackson is waiting for the crime lab results—blood type, fingerprints, and the like—while he checks on this dead boy’s background. I believe what bothers Jackson is that Brett waited to tell them what had happened. Or where.” His voice turned cold again. “But then James Case had fed her wine or marijuana. Neither of which she was used to.”

  Caroline found his anger an irritant; it was hard to keep her own thoughts clear. “That’s some comfort,” she answered in an arid tone. “It also cuts against premeditation.”

  He stood abruptly, looming over her. His voice filled with anger. “Brett did not do this, damn you. She’s compassionate to a fault, from stray animals to this stray boy.”

  Caroline stared up into his face, her own face hard, her tone even. “I once defended a serial killer, who cut his victims’ throats and then raped them while they bled to death.” Her manner became almost conversational. “After that, he went home and slept with his English spaniel. His biggest fear when they caught him was who would feed the dog.”

  There was a tremor in his voice now. “This is your own flesh and blood—”

  “And I’m a lawyer now. That’s why you asked me here, I assume. So spare me the childhood stories, please. This is painful enough.” Standing, Caroline faced him. “When we meet, I’ll show Brett all the compassion her aunt Caroline should. In the meanwhile, let’s return to the problem at hand. For example, have they traced the knife?”

  He turned from her, gazing out at the mountains. The rain of midday had become a mist, Caroline saw, settling into the valleys. “Not that I know of,” he said at last.

  “Did they search the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And found?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing they took.”

  “What about witnesses?”

  He turned back to her. “As I understand it, no one in the area saw anyone come in or go from that trailhead, nor any car or truck. Not even Brett’s.”

  Caroline smiled a little. “Your friend the chief is not exactly a sphinx, is he?” she said, and then her smile faded. “They questioned all of you about the knife, I assume.”

  “The state police did. I told them I had never seen it.” He paused for a moment. “Plainly, they assume Brett brought it there.”

  Caroline shrugged. “For them to assume otherwise would be to assume that someone happened to be in the neighborhood, decided to butcher James Case in a particularly intimate way, and then left his knife as a calling card. Which assumes a great deal, if you’re the police.”

  Channing stood straighter. “That’s not how it happened. Someone followed them.”
<
br />   “Into the woods at night? To my old lot?”

  His mouth compressed. “It belongs to Brett now, Caroline, and it’s been a long time since you lived in New Hampshire. We don’t have random killings here. Someone wanted to kill this boy and waited for a time to do it.”

  Caroline’s head had begun throbbing. She rubbed her temples. “That’s a tough sell without some evidence. Brett took him there, to an isolated place, owned by our family. To them, it may mean premeditation—”

  “If Brett had not gone swimming, Caroline, she might be dead as well. She’s fortunate she startled him—”

  “Who, damn it?”

  Channing slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps a vagrant, who picked up the dead boy’s wallet and dropped it at the sound of Brett. Perhaps, as she said, it was trouble over drugs.”

  “Does she know who his supplier is?”

  “Of course not.”

  This time it was Caroline who shook her head. “Professionals don’t kill over a few thousand dollars.” She paused a moment. “Tell me, is there any evidence that someone was there? Other than Brett’s word, that is.”

  He did not bridle, Caroline noticed; for the moment, he seemed to put anguish aside and accept that they were dealing with facts. “We don’t know yet. The crime scene search was done by Jackson’s people—the state troopers.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “The Resolve police. Two young patrolmen, checking the trails.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Only what the local people told me. The two policemen happened on the body, promptly searched the immediate area. Finding nothing and no one, they called the EMTs and the state police, both of whom came to the scene. The EMTs pronounced Case dead, and the state police called Jackson at his home in Concord. After which he and the Major Crimes Unit got a warrant to search Brett’s property and person—with humiliating thoroughness—and then took her statement.”

  Caroline could see it all. “By which time,” she amended, “four or five amateurs had been stumbling all over the crime scene, leaving footprints, handling the body, and generally making a mess. Not to mention, quite possibly, blowing Brett’s Miranda warnings.”

  “True enough.” Folding his arms, Channing paused for emphasis. “But the state police are excellent, and so is Jackson Watts. Don’t assume that he’s still the boy you dated.” Another pause. “Or, for that matter, jilted.”

  Caroline did not rise to this. “How is Jackson these days?”

  “Smart and unassuming, which is part of his appeal. He’s chief of the attorney general’s homicide unit, and—prospectively—a judge of the Superior Court. Which, in other circumstances, would please me greatly, as he’s a very decent man.” His voice became sad, almost valedictory. “In fact, I wish he were already on the bench. As, I’m sure, does he.”

  He looked ashen, Caroline saw; his thin shoulders had slumped, and the passion had vanished. “Perhaps,” she ventured, “Jackson won’t handle the case.”

  Channing slowly shook his head. “He’s never owed me anything, Caroline. Except, perhaps, to remain the man I always knew that he’d become.”

  Caroline searched his tone for second meanings, a mute reproach. But all she heard was the throbbing in her temples. Almost gently, her father said, “You look tired, Caroline.”

  I didn’t sleep, she almost said. Instead she answered, “The flight, and then the drive, made for a long day. And it’s not over yet.”

  Channing caught the reference. “You’ll like her, Caroline.” His voice was still soft. “Even under these circumstances.”

  She rubbed her temples. “Tell me, what was he like—James Case?”

  “Very handsome.” He paused, then his tone hardened. “But he was one of the unstable ones, weak and selfish, with that narcissistic self-involvement women seem to find so attractive.”

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “How often did you meet him?”

  “For more than a moment? Twice, perhaps three times.”

  She looked at him askance. “And you perceived all that,” she said in a flat voice. “As well as how he affected Brett.”

  Channing seemed to blanch. “That’s kept you going, all these years, hasn’t it? And now it’s about to make you a judge.”

  Caroline felt her face freeze; something in her eyes made her father hold up one hand, for silence. “Whatever your differences, Caroline, Betty has been a good mother. And because of it, Brett is a good person—”

  “And one is, after all, only as good as one’s mother.”

  He did not flinch. “You can be cruel, Caroline. But I never felt that. Not then, and not now.” His hand fell to the side, and then his voice gentled in entreaty. “You will help her, won’t you?”

  Caroline gazed at him. “By staying,” she finally answered, “or by leaving.”

  “Stay, Caroline. Please. I’m asking you for peace. Only for a time, and not for me—or Betty. But for her.” He stood straight again. “I know my granddaughter, in a way you never can now. Most of all, I know she’s innocent.”

  Three

  At the door of the house, Caroline paused, picturing the young woman inside. Silent, Channing Masters opened the door, and Caroline entered her father’s house.

  She stopped in the living room, hands jammed in her pockets, looking about.

  All was as she remembered—the antique furniture, the Chinese carpets, even the smell of things from another time. In the foyer was the grandfather clock, made in the 1850s. Oil paintings of ancestors hung in the living room, portrayed in the heroic convention—a general, a senator, a lumber magnate, a clergyman with beetling eyebrows. Her father’s books remained in his library: the original Kipling and Poe, complete editions of Dickens and Henry James, Pliny’s letters. It was where he had always read to her.

  What was she doing here…?

  Slowly, Caroline walked to the dining room.

  Her family had eaten every meal at this same polished mahogany table, on china drawn from the beveled-glass cabinet. After Betty had left for Smith, and then Caroline’s mother had died, for a few months there had been only the two of them—Channing and his youngest daughter, dining alone, discussing his work or her studies or the news of the day. It was more than conversation, Caroline remembered. It was a tutorial in politics and human nature and how they intersected, with lessons drawn from a scale as large as history—Jefferson, the economics of slavery—or as small as the village of Resolve, the foibles of its affairs and its citizens laid bare by Channing’s discerning but not uncharitable eye.

  Caroline had basked in it. All that she had wanted then was to settle here as a lawyer, to follow her father’s path as far as she could. On the eve of her departure to boarding school, at Dana Hall, Caroline could feel his loneliness, read the sadness in her father’s eyes. Grasping his sleeve, Caroline asked him again if she could stay. He shook his head. “They will attend to your education now,” he said. “Better than I or any school nearby. Children do not always live to please their parents, or parents to please themselves….”

  It was that, more than anything, that had made her wish to please him.

  He was standing next to her, Caroline realized. The house felt empty.

  Softly, Caroline asked, “Where is she?”

  “Her room’s upstairs.”

  Caroline did not turn. “Which one?”

  “Yours.”

  Alone, Caroline walked to the staircase, still feeling her father’s gaze.

  She paused, hand on the rail.

  Turning her head, Caroline faced the music room, imagined her mother, sitting at a piano that was no longer there.

  Even then, before Caroline knew how it would end, her mother had seemed miscast—febrile, high-spirited, too mutable and vivid for this place. Caroline remembered her mother planning trips they somehow never took, until she simply stopped; recalled how her parents began to argue over politics. Nicole had conceived an unreasoning passion for
Adlai Stevenson and then John Kennedy, both anathema to her Republican husband. Barely an adolescent, Caroline had sensed this conflict as a metaphor for a conflict too deep to be spoken easily: her mother’s desire to leave a life that never quite seemed hers.

  She had begun to notice nights when her father grew remote. When her mother, retreating to the music room and the lacquered grand piano, sang Edith Piaf in the breathy French she had never bothered to teach Caroline, that no one in their home could speak or understand.

  But even this language, Caroline came to know, was not quite her mother’s own. History had left her without family or country, or any home but this.

  Even her mother’s “La Vie en Rose,” Caroline remembered, had the sound of irony. Dark head poised, eyes nearly shut, Nicole Dessaliers Masters would sing with a faint half smile….

  Turning from the music room, Caroline slowly climbed the stairs, to Brett’s room.

  Brett sat facing the window. At first, Caroline could see only her back—the first impression of slimness, brown curls. And then she turned, a quick twist of her body, startled from thought.

  Caroline gazed at her for what felt uncomfortably long, though it could only have been seconds. Saw a delicate chin, full, even mouth, slender face and high forehead. Saw that Brett was more than pretty. Saw the smudges above her cheekbones, the hours without sleep. But the green eyes—startlingly alive—gazed at Caroline with uncanny directness.

  “You’re Caroline, aren’t you? My aunt.”

  Her voice was soft, yet clear. For an instant, Caroline replayed the sound of it. “I’m Caroline, yes.” Closing the door, she forced herself to stop looking at Brett, to glance around the room at the mishmash of early womanhood—a red pantsuit slung over a chair; some CDs by the singer Tori Amos; Susan Faludi’s Backlash on top of a stack of paperbacks. After a moment, she managed to say, “This isn’t quite how I remember it.”

  “This was your room, wasn’t it?”

  From birth, Caroline thought, until the day she had left. Every night of her childhood, her father would climb the stairs and kiss her on the forehead. And then there were those much rarer nights, surprising and priceless, when Nicole Masters would read to her, a faint smell of claret on her breath, her lively French-accented English lending each story a touch of the exotic. Turning out the lights, Nicole bent her face to Caroline’s….