Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  “I would indeed, Tommy. Put her away so that she couldn’t frighten any more little boys.”

  Tommy smiled through his tears.

  “Will the police come?”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Will they hurt her?”

  “Only if she tries to fight back.”

  “I hope they do. She hurt you.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Judge Pearson lifted his hand to his temple and felt a swollen contusion. Not too bad, he thought. No real damage.

  “There are three of them. Two are men.”

  “That’s right, Tommy. But there may be more, whose voices we haven’t heard, so let’s be careful. We’ll keep ourselves alert and try to figure out how many there are.”

  “If she hits you again, I will hit her.”

  “No, Tommy, don’t do that.” He hugged the boy again. “Don’t fight her yet. Wait until we know more about what’s happening. The important thing is for us to do what will help us to get free.”

  “Grandfather, what’s happening?”

  “Well, usually in a kidnapping they ask for money. She’s probably calling your mom and dad now to tell them we’re okay and that she’ll let us go when they pay her some money.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Couldn’t we just pay her and go home?”

  “No, my darling boy, it doesn’t work quite like that.”

  “Why didn’t she take Karen and Lauren instead?”

  “Well, I guess she figured out how much your mommy and daddy love you, and she realized they would pay a lot to get you back.”

  “What if they don’t have enough money?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Your dad can always get some at the bank.”

  The boy seemed to think then, and Judge Pearson awaited his next question.

  “Grandfather, I’m still scared, but I’m also hungry. They had baked cheese at the cafeteria today and I didn’t like it too much.”

  “Dinner will be here. You’ll just have to hang on.”

  “All right, but I don’t like it. Mom would probably have made stew, and I like that a lot.”

  Judge Pearson wanted to cry himself. He looked down at his grandson and ran a hand through the boy’s tousled hair, then cupped his face in his old hands. He saw the blue lines of old veins and brown age spots on the backs of his hands against the pale young skin of his grandson’s cheeks. He breathed in deeply, held his grandson closer, and thought: Don’t you worry, Tommy. This old man won’t let them do anything to you. He smiled at Tommy and the boy smiled back. They don’t know that you have your entire life ahead of you and I will let nothing steal that from you.

  “All right, Tommy. We’ll be soldiers together.”

  His grandson nodded.

  The old man looked about briefly, starting to survey the attic room where they had been placed. There were no windows, just a dusty low-ceilinged room with a pair of steel-frame cots. It was barely larger than a prison cell, as the woman had said, and just as grim. The ceiling followed the pitch of the roof, giving the room a triangular shape. There was a pile of blankets on one bed, but the room itself was warm. He walked over and stared down the stairway to the only door in and out. He could see a modern, brand-new dead bolt lock had been installed. His quick search through the room showed nothing else of note. But that’s not the case, he thought. A room such as this always has secrets. It just takes time to find them out.

  He looked down at the barracks beds and the pile of olive drab blankets, and remembered where he’d seen them before. It was another life, he thought. He remembered wading through the warm water that felt like blood, and tasting the sand when he threw himself down on the beach, too busy being scared to think of the death that surrounded him. I was young then, little more than a child, and I did eleven landings under fire. He remembered a drill sergeant screaming, “If Marines die there, then it’s worth fighting for!” He had not understood what the man was driving at until he fought for the first forlorn beachhead in the Pacific. The names came back to him: Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Okinawa. He remembered thinking each time that it would be the last, and forcing himself over the side of the troop carrier and into the droning, pitching landing craft. I always thought I would die there, that I would never get home, except in a box. He remembered his surprise at surviving the war. Well, he thought, I didn’t fight my way across the Pacific as a kid just to be executed like some stupid cow in a slaughterhouse when I got to be an old man.

  He gripped Tommy’s shoulder tightly.

  “All right, Tommy. We’re going to start making some plans.”

  The boy nodded.

  Judge Pearson thought: It’s not much of a battlefield, but if it comes to it, it’s a good enough place for me to die.

  Olivia Barrow shut the door behind her and threw the dead bolt lock. It made a sound that seemed to summon all her years of hatred together and lock them in the room. She cautioned herself: This is only the beginning. Play the hand out.

  She felt excitement rush through her.

  It’s working, she said to herself. All the time and effort and plan­ning, and it’s working. I have been thinking about these moments for eighteen years, and now they’re here and I love it.

  She bounded down the stairs, and found Bill Lewis in the kitchen, making sandwiches. “You suppose they want mayonnaise or mustard?” he asked. Their eyes met and they both burst into laughter. Still laughing, he turned back to the counter to finish making the sandwiches. “I’ll make them some soup, too,” he said. “It’s important that they know we’re taking care of them. We have to make them realize that we’re completely in charge.”

  Olivia stepped behind him and pressed her body against his back.

  “We are in charge,” she whispered.

  He put the fixings down and started to turn toward her.

  “No,” she said, moving away. “Later.”

  She ran a finger down his chest, over his pants buckle and then his zipper. He stepped toward her, but she held up her hand.

  “There’s too much to do.”

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “It’s been so many years.”

  She quieted him with a sharp look. “Where’s Ramon?” she asked.

  “He walked back down the road a piece, just to make sure no one was around.”

  “Good. I’m going to go make the phone call. He can drive me.”

  “What about our guests?”

  “You’re in charge.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  “Probably won’t take that long.”

  She left Bill Lewis, whom she no longer called Ché, by the counter opening a can of tomato soup. She picked up a small duffel bag that she’d prepared earlier, and went outside into the cool early night air. She peered through the darkness, looking for Ramon Gutierrez. She could hear his footsteps moving on the gravel driveway, and waited for him to approach her. He was a wiry, short man, with a glistening, thick black mustache and curly hair. He even moved in an oily fashion, she thought. He had been recruited by Bill, who once had been his lover, years before, when they had both been running underground. Ramon had been with the Puerto Rican Nationalist movement, but had been abandoned by the organization after an incident with the ten-year-old daughter of one of the movement’s leaders. He was a nervous man, filled with criminal experience and jail savvy, a victim of his own warring sexual desires. He had once done a stretch for raping an old woman. A child, an old woman, a fling with another man—it had been these weaknesses that had attracted him to Olivia. Olivia knew that as long as she anticipated his eroticism and took pains to control it, she could manipulate him into doing anything. He wants me, she thought. Bill wants me. Now I own them both.r />
  “Ramon,” she said brusquely, “get the keys. We’ve got to make that phone call and we need to go get the old pig’s car before someone spots it.”

  He smiled. “You got this all planned out good,” he said.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’ve been planning this for years.”

  In the car, he said, “I did not like hitting the old one, but it just came over me. I was thinking about all the brothers and sisters that he probably sent to prison, and I just hit him. It would be wrong if he was hurt. We’ll need him.”

  “What you did was fine. But you must always remember control. What screws this kind of thing up is lack of control. Everything fits into a plan. We know this, but they don’t. That’s why we always hold the upper hand. We must always keep them off-balance. Both our guests and our targets.”

  They drove in silence for a few moments. There were other cars on the roadway, their headlights cutting through the early evening darkness. They are all heading home from work, she thought. A nice dinner, maybe a little television afterward. Perhaps they’ll crack a beer and watch a ball game, or else a sitcom or two, then some private eye or cop show. A little violence before the news and maybe some routine bit of spread-legs push-and-grunt under the covers before sleep. They’re all so complacent, so ordinary. They don’t know who is here, right amidst them.

  “You make it sound so easy,” he said with admiration.

  “It has been. So far. And you know something?”

  “What?”

  “It will get easier. Like starting right now.”

  The car was pulling into the town’s main street. They passed the post office and the police station, the College Inn and some restaurants. She saw knots of students cruising towards pizza joints and sandwich bars, business men and women, in overcoats, heading toward parking lots, carrying briefcases. It was all so small-town, benign.

  She gestured to a phone booth on the corner across from a modest modern office building. She pointed down the street toward a gasoline station. “You drop me here and take care of the car while I make the call.”

  “This is the place?” Ramon asked. There was an edge of nervousness in his voice.

  “This is the place.” She laughed at him. “That’s right. He’s right in there. And he doesn’t know what is about to hit him.”

  Ramon nodded and swallowed.

  “I’ll fill up the car,” he said. “We should always have a full tank.”

  “Correct,” she replied.

  She saw her breath vapors in the dark air, looking like smoke. She watched as Ramon pulled the car away from the curb, heading to the self-serve station, giving her a little wave as he drove away.

  He has no guts, she thought. When he acts, it is out of fear or weakness. Remember that.

  Then she put the thought away and started to concentrate on the task at hand. She walked into the phone booth and put a quarter in the slot. She had memorized the phone number, and dialed it swiftly. It was just five P.M. She was not certain whether the secretary would still be there or not. The phone rang twice, then she heard the voice that she had waited so many years to hear.

  “. . . Hi. Look—I’m pretty much on my way now,” he said, without introduction.

  Her reply was out before she could even think:

  “Really? I think not. I don’t think you’re on your way anywhere. Not anymore.”

  Her heart leaped with delight as the line grew silent.

  He knows! she thought. He knows!

  I knew it. I knew it all along.

  And in those few seconds while Duncan Richards swallowed the instant panic of memory, it was as if eighteen years suddenly evaporated for her. She could scarcely contain herself.

  In the attic, Judge Pearson had heard the car start up and then pull down the gravel road. They’re going to make the call, he thought. They’re smart enough not to use their own phone. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding Tommy close. Then he straightened quickly.

  An opportunity, he thought. Maybe.

  He stood up rapidly.

  “All right, Tommy, we’re going to try something. You get down behind the bed. Keep your head down, in case there’s some trouble. Quick now.”

  Tommy nodded and wedged himself down out of sight. The judge moved over to the attic door and knocked sharply on it.

  “Hey! Hey, out there! Help!”

  He listened for sounds.

  “Hey, somebody! Come on! Help!”

  He hesitated, then pounded on the door again. He noted that the door lock seemed strong, but the entire frame shook slightly when he knocked. The door itself, he realized, was not solid, but, like many modem doors, pressed wood with an empty space between.

  “Hello out there!”

  He waited and finally heard footsteps coming up the stairwell.

  “What do you want, old man?”

  Number Two, Tommy thought. He crouched down further, but kept his head up so that he could see his grandfather and hear what was going on.

  “Listen, I’ve got to use the can. I’ve got this bladder condition, and all this”—the judge hesitated—“excitement has made it act up.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  “Christ!”

  “Look, one of you can come with me, one can watch the boy, but please—”

  “No, no, not right now.”

  He’s alone! the judge realized with sudden electricity. There are only three, and two went in the car. The thoughts tugged at his heart.

  “Look, use the damn bucket,” Bill Lewis said.

  “What bucket?”

  “Shit, there’s no bucket in there?”

  “No.”

  “Christ!”

  Bill Lewis looked around and spotted in the hallway corner the bucket he’d meant to place in the attic earlier that day. He cursed himself quickly. Dammit, he thought, I don’t like this at all. I don’t trust this old guy one bit. Where the hell’s Olivia?

  Judge Pearson felt a surge inside.

  He’s alone, the judge thought with finality. The others did go in the car and they left him. He’s inexperienced and scared and unsure of himself.

  He took a deep breath. Now, he thought. Now.

  If he opens the door to take you to the bathroom, or to give you this bucket, now is the time. No matter what kind of weapon he waves in your face.

  The old man coiled himself, talking to all the ancient muscles: Legs, you must spring forward. Arms, seize the man. Hands, choke the life from him. He flexed and poised, crouched over, ready for the door to open.

  Bill Lewis hesitated.

  It’s been so long, he thought. And I’ve never done anything exactly like this. His heart seemed to contract with sudden doubt. Then he dismissed the thought and told himself: This is what you’re here for. You’re going to be rich. Don’t screw it up.

  For one wavering instant he wondered whether he was lying to himself.

  Then he swallowed hard and picked up the weapon he had slung over his shoulder when he’d first heard the old man’s calls. It was a small machine pistol and he double-checked to make sure the clip of cartridges was properly seated. He flipped the safety catch off and pushed the small lever on the side forward to full automatic. He wished he’d had an opportunity to use the weapon more than once. He fingered the trigger apprehensively.

  He put his hand on the door lock.

  “Please, I have to go . . .”

  Judge Pearson was knotted behind the door, ready to launch himself. He listened to the mock tremor in his voice as if it were coming from someone else. He closed his eyes once, readied himself, and prepared to throw himself upon the person outside.

  “All right,” Lewis said.

 
; But instead of opening the door, he hesitated once again. “Look,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Old man, know this: I’m armed, and I won’t allow you to fuck around. I’m going to place the bucket by the door. Then I will unlock the door. You wait until I give you the command, then you open the door and take the bucket.”

  He took a deep breath and moved the bucket close to the attic door.

  “Listen very carefully, old man. I will kill you. I will kill you dead so quickly you will not even have time to realize you’re on your way to hell. You make any move that I don’t like, and you will be dead.”

  He paused, letting the words sink in.

  “And we’ll still have the kid.”

  Bill Lewis waited, hand on the door lock.

  “Let me hear you, old man. I want to hear you.”

  “All right,” Judge Pearson said. He froze in position.

  “Listen to this,” Bill Lewis replied.

  He pulled back on the action of the automatic weapon, fully arm­ing it.

  “Do you know that sound?”

  “No . . .”

  “That’s a machine pistol being armed.”

  He paused again.

  “It’s a messy way to die. All bullets and blood.”

  “All right.” Doubt crept into Judge Pearson’s heart. He could feel a release of his muscle tension. He argued within himself: Now? Is it right? He’s alone, can you take him? Do it! No, wait. Wait. No, now is the best time! Do it!

  It was as if two unfamiliar voices screamed within him, each demanding his attention.

  He straightened up. A third voice, his own stentorian tones, re­membered from so many rulings following so many arguments before him, spoke:

  No. Not now. Wait.

  “I couldn’t miss. Not with this weapon.”

  “I understand,” the judge said. For an instant he felt the weight of all his years, a great sad slackening.

  Bill Lewis shouted, “Are you ready, old man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, I’m ready for the bucket!”

  As Judge Pearson was speaking, Bill Lewis took his key and threw the dead bolt lock and stepped back. He figured the old man would be distracted by the shouting. He raised the weapon to his hip, pointing it at the door.