The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  Still she did not leave. She stood there, listening. The night was cool and quiet.

  Through the half-open door, Caroline heard a hollow pop.

  Her eyes shut. In the aching, awful silence, she could not bring herself to move.

  But there was no one else. As she had said to Betty, this was hers to do.

  Slowly, Caroline turned and walked back through the door.

  She stopped, stiff and silent. No sound came from her throat.

  Her father had been kind, she saw. His face and head were intact; the wound, fresh blood still spreading, had been to the heart.

  The gun lay by his hand, near the letter and the bag of clothes. His eyes stared up at her, unseeing. They would never see her again.

  Caroline knelt, and closed them.

  As she did this, she looked into his face. Within moments, she knew, the humanity would leave him, and his body would have the waxen otherness of death. But there was color in his face yet, and his skin was still warm.

  Slowly, she removed her hand.

  She stayed one more moment, the beating of a heart. And then she stood, turning away, and went to call Jackson. She never looked at her father again.

  Three

  A few yards from her, the headlights stopped. The motor cut off. A car door slammed, and then Caroline heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  In the darkness, Jackson stood in front of her. There was something unready about him, as if he was still startled from sleep. But his eyes were quite clear.

  “He’s in there,” Caroline said.

  Jackson did not move. Silent, he watched her face.

  “Please,” she told him. “Just take care of this for me. I can’t do it, anymore.”

  But Jackson did not leave her; perhaps he knew that some part of her did not wish him to leave. He took both her wrists, and asked, “What has all this been about?”

  “Too many things.” Caroline paused, then looked into his face. “Brett’s my daughter, Jackson.”

  His eyes were still. Softly, he murmured, “Sweet Jesus Christ.”

  He did not let go of her wrists.

  When the EMTs came, the two of them had not moved. Behind the ambulance was the flashing light of a police car.

  All at once, Caroline thought of Brett. “Go ahead,” she told him. “You’ll need to see what he left. Before they screw it up.”

  He looked at her, understanding now, and slowly nodded.

  Motionless, Caroline heard him enter the cabin. Stood there as the EMTs and police, barely noticing her, rushed past in the driveway.

  Below the cabin, she remembered, was a bench that faced the lake.

  Taking the steps her father had built, Caroline went there. She sat gazing at the lake, a sheet of glass on the windless night.

  There was little sound, only voices from the cabin, sometimes Jackson’s. Caroline wished that she could feel something. But all she felt was emptiness, her emotions at bay.

  He was dead, she told herself, and Brett was free. Why did she feel nothing?

  It was a moment before she heard Jackson Watts behind her. “I’ve called the state police,” he said. “I’m getting you out of here. They can do the rest.”

  She did not look up. “There are others to call,” she answered. “Betty…”

  “She can wait.”

  Caroline did not argue.

  The drive to Jackson’s fishing camp was perhaps ten minutes. Caroline sat in the passenger seat; Jackson glanced over from time to time, but said nothing. Entering his cabin, Caroline saw the fireplace, registered that they had once made love here. It seemed years ago.

  Jackson led her to the screened porch. She sat on a couch; through a clearing in the trees, the lake was a dark oval. Caroline stared at it, unseeing.

  “Do you want something?” he asked.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Sitting in a corner of the couch, Jackson did not touch her. The one sensation Caroline had was of her separateness.

  “You can talk to me,” he said at last. “Or you can go on the way I think you must have, for years.”

  Caroline did not look at him; even speaking was an effort. “I’m not sure I know how,” she answered. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Anywhere, Caroline. The first thing that comes to you.”

  She was too weary for defenses; in silent answer, against her will, Caroline’s mind broke free. The first startling image that came to her—black hair swirling in the water—constricted her chest.

  “My mother,” she heard herself say, and then she could not finish.

  Caroline felt his arms around her. “Tell me.”

  In a monotone, before she could stop to think, Caroline told him everything.

  Her mother, and how she had died. Falling in love with David. Her sister’s betrayal, and then her father’s. How Brett had come to be born, and given up. Why Caroline had returned.

  And then, because he must know, the events of the last three weeks. The missing knife. Breaking into Megan’s apartment. The pattern, half fact and half intuition, through which she had divined her father’s guilt. Their last confrontation. The moment, twenty-three years late, when she learned that David was dead.

  When she had finished, Caroline could not look at him.

  “Do you know what Father told me?” she asked dully. “That he was afraid of losing me.”

  She felt Jackson’s arms close tighter. “Well,” he said at last, “you didn’t lose me. Just misplaced me for a while.”

  Caroline felt something move inside her. She turned to him, looking into his worn, kind face, and then quite suddenly, helpless to prevent this, she began crying, convulsively and uncontrollably, as she never had since the night that David had vanished.

  Jackson simply held her.

  The first light broke on the lake.

  Exhausted, Caroline lay on the couch in Jackson’s arms. It was, she thought, cruelly like a normal day.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  He was quiet for a moment. “That you were right not to tell me, in a way. I could never have understood, then.”

  “And now?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  If only, Caroline thought, she could stay here with him. And then the image of her father came to her again.

  As if knowing this, Jackson said, “We have things to do this morning. Starting with Fred Towle, who’s expecting us in court.”

  Through her weariness, Caroline felt the lawyer part of her stir again. She sat up. “How should we handle that?”

  “I will.” Jackson slid away, facing her. “I’ll tell Fred that your father’s dead. And that I’m dismissing the case without prejudice….”

  “Without prejudice?”

  “It’s all I can do, Caroline. Until we’ve had an autopsy and completed our inquiry. I won’t tell Fred or the media what’s happened until you and I have worked out what to say. But I’ll make sure Brett’s kicked loose this morning.” Jackson paused, and then finished evenly. “Your job is to explain all this to her. At least as much as you care to.”

  Silent, Caroline nodded.

  Jackson watched her. Then, quietly, he asked, “Does Brett think that she’s their daughter?”

  Caroline looked away. “Yes.”

  Walking to the edge of the porch, he stood there, gazing at the lake, hands in his pockets. “Do you mean to tell her the truth?”

  Somewhere in her subconscious, Caroline realized, she had asked this of herself. “I don’t know, Jackson. I’m in no shape to do that now. Or even to decide about it.”

  Jackson turned to her, studying her face. “But our world goes on, doesn’t it? Perhaps today, that’s a mercy.”

  Caroline thought of Betty. For a moment, she felt too weary to stand.

  Slowly, she walked to Jackson’s telephone, to tell Betty that their father was dead.

  Four

  Caroline’s car was still at her father’s camp. Jackson made telep
hone calls, arranged for its release; when he dropped her there, the yellow tape marking the scene had been cut at the head of the driveway, and a trooper was waiting. Her father’s body was gone; for Caroline, the false cheer of morning had a bleak, pitiless quality.

  She turned to Jackson. “Thank you.”

  He nodded but did not touch her. They were professionals once more.

  “Call me,” he said. “After you’ve seen Brett. Among other things, we’ll need to work on a statement.”

  “Sure.”

  She sounded all right, Caroline thought, and she would need to be. But watching Jackson leave, she felt alone.

  She walked to her car, got in. Sat there, gazing through the windshield at her father’s cabin. And then she remembered the photographs.

  They were still on the car seat. Numb, she looked at them again, the faces she had asked Joe Lemieux to capture as they entered the courthouse.

  Megan. Betty. Larry. Her father…

  He was climbing the courthouse steps, stiff-gaited, refusing to look down. Gaze straight ahead, the last effort of an old man’s dignity.

  Caroline’s eyes filled with tears again.

  Brett, she knew, should never see these. Before she started the car, Caroline placed the photographs beneath the seat.

  When the woman trooper brought her to the booking area, Brett looked stunned. Her first steps toward Caroline were tentative.

  For a moment, Caroline could not speak. The reality had hit her; the young woman in front of her, David’s daughter, had been given back her life.

  “It’s over,” Caroline said. “You’re free.”

  At Brett’s first, uncertain smile, Caroline looked away.

  “What happened?” Brett asked.

  Caroline took her hand. “Let’s go outside.”

  As they left, Brett looked over her shoulder. In the sunlight, the large brick building appeared bland, even benign. But its shadow, Caroline suspected, would never quite leave either of them.

  Brett turned back to her. “How did you do this?” she asked.

  Silent, Caroline walked ahead of her, and sat on the grass. Brett stopped, looking down at her; Caroline could see her own expression register in the girl’s green eyes. She knelt, still watching Caroline.

  Caroline drew a breath. “Your grandfather is dead. He shot himself.”

  Brett’s face seemed to twitch. And then it fixed in a queer, hurt look, the struggle to absorb and understand. “James…”

  “Yes. Father killed him.”

  It was a day, Caroline thought, for tears.

  When Brett’s came, they were silent. Even as they ran down her face, her eyes remained on Caroline, as if searching for a reason.

  It’s been too much, Caroline thought. She took Brett’s hands in hers. And to her surprise, Brett asked, “Tell me how it happened.”

  Caroline considered her, and then, without emphasis or inflection, told her as much as seemed right.

  “He wouldn’t have left you here,” she finished. “But he couldn’t face you, either.”

  Brett winced; Caroline imagined her remembering the moment she found James dying. A moment now much farther from healing, or even comprehension.

  As if aware of this, Brett’s thoughts flickered to Caroline. “You found Grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  “My God…”

  “I’m all right.” Caroline paused, correcting herself. “No. I’m not all right. But I wanted to tell you myself.”

  The answer seemed to push Brett’s thoughts back to herself. Where, Caroline thought, they should be. She did not want this girl’s compassion, much less when it was not for the truth. It was enough that Caroline was here.

  Arms folded, Brett stared at the grass between them. “I loved Grandfather,” she said at last. Beneath the pain in her voice, Caroline heard the fear of something too enormous to bear. “I’m sorry … I don’t know what to do. About him, or any of this.”

  Caroline felt the words pierce her. It was a while before she spoke. “Some things—terrible things—are like that. There’s no lesson to be learned, no explanation that will help. Sometimes no explanation, period. In the end, all you’re left with is yourself. And, if you’re lucky, the understanding of a friend or two.”

  Tears filled Brett’s eyes again. “You’re talking about you, too.”

  Caroline hesitated, and then she nodded. “I’m not even sure when I’ll next sleep through the night. But I’ve been here before, so I know the way back. Perhaps I can help.”

  Brett reached out for Caroline’s hands again; her fingers, curled in her mother’s, felt warm. “Can we stay here?” she said at last. “I don’t want to see them yet. Or anyone.”

  Caroline looked at her, filling with a silent ache. David is dead, she wanted to tell her, your father is dead. But she could not. At least for now, for better or for worse, Brett had a father, the one whom Caroline had given her. Caroline did not know how to replace him with a memory that was hers alone.

  “I’ll stay with you,” she answered. “As long as you want.”

  Five

  Jackson had been right, Caroline thought: today the law’s demands were a kindness.

  She had driven Brett to Masters Hill. Larry and Betty waited on the porch; dropping Brett off, Caroline did not go in. As Brett looked back at her, Caroline had the irrational, bitter sense of having deserted her once more. Then Betty pulled Brett into her arms, and Caroline drove away.

  Now she worked with Jackson at Carlton Grey’s office. Again, Jackson was the consummate professional. His press release required little editing.

  Retired Judge Channing Masters, it said, was an apparent suicide. A preliminary inquiry had uncovered substantial evidence—including a written confession—to suggest that he had killed James Case. Pending full investigation, the indictment against Brett Allen was dismissed. A more complete statement would be forthcoming as the facts were known.

  Caroline’s statement was equally terse. It confirmed that Channing Masters was dead. On her family’s behalf, she expressed understanding that the evidence had led to a mistaken judgment, and thanked the Attorney General’s Office for Brett’s prompt release. Except to state relief at Brett’s exoneration and sadness over the circumstances of Judge Masters’ death, the family would have no further comment. Now, or ever.

  Jackson read it. “Very gracious. At least to me.”

  “Of course.”

  He pushed his chair back, gazing at her across the desk. “I’ll do the press,” he said. “Go hide.”

  Afternoon became evening, and then night. Caroline stayed in her room, not hungry, unable to sleep. Betty was dealing with the prosaic details of a nonprosaic death: scheduling a service, arranging a burial, trying to fathom what a clergyman might say. As she should be, Brett was with them; like Caroline, they were not answering any but the most pressing messages; unlike Caroline, they could retreat into the circle of family. There was nothing for Caroline to do.

  Far too tired to sift her own thoughts, she lay there, far from sleep.

  There was a knock on the door.

  What could it be? Caroline wondered. She had refused to answer any calls from the press; one after another, slips of paper had appeared beneath the door, to be filed in her wastebasket until the moment—if ever—that further comment was helpful to Brett.

  Gingerly, Caroline opened the door.

  It was the night manager, a shy man with a cowlick and a look of perpetual bemusement. “It’s another telephone call,” he said. “This man says he’s the President. Problem is, the man sounds like the President.”

  For a moment, Caroline did not know what to say. “I’d like to hear this,” she answered. “Put him through.”

  A minute later, the telephone rang in her room.

  “Caroline?”

  “Mr. President?”

  “Well, I’m glad I reached you.” His voice, Caroline realized as he paused, was a mixture of warmth and discomfort. “They
brought me a wire report, not long ago. It’s obvious you’ve suffered a tragedy, and we wanted you to know how much we sympathize. About your father, and about how you must be feeling.” Another pause. “It’s not too early to call, is it? This must just be sinking in.”

  Caroline found herself strangely touched. “No. It’s not too early. Actually, this is a help to me.”

  “Then there’s something else I ought to say, for whatever little it’s worth in circumstances like these. That you were right to believe in your niece, and stand by her no matter what.” His voice grew quieter. “They say a lot of us ought to be disqualified from office for wanting it too much. I don’t know about that. But the choice you made reflects well on you, as a person and a prospective judge. And it’s sure not any disqualification.”

  All at once, the irony of this came over her. There was never any choice but to stand by Brett; not knowing that, the President admired her for something she could not help. But she was far too tired, and too grateful for the misperception, to say this.

  She simply thanked him, and got off.

  Two nights later, her life in suspension, Caroline ate with Jackson at his fishing camp. It slowly dawned on her that he had remained here, taking a few vacation days, because of her. But she did not know how to acknowledge this.

  Caroline ate a juicy piece of T-bone steak, washed it down with Cabernet. “I just couldn’t tell him,” she said.

  It continued a conversation dropped before dinner. But Jackson, looking at her over his wineglass, knew at once that she meant the President. “I expect,” he answered, “that you didn’t really want to.”

  Caroline felt defensive. “As I said before the hearing, I’ve stopped wanting to be a judge. After all this, why on earth should it matter to me?”

  Jackson gazed at the fire. “Over the years, Caroline, you became someone. You don’t stop being that person just because you’ve had to face the reasons for it.”

  Who would she be, Caroline remembered asking herself, if not a judge or a lawyer? “It’s not just that. Or even the time it will take to process what my father did. It’s that I broke into Megan’s apartment.” Her voice turned flat. “That’s not the kind of thing that judge-type people do.”