Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  “Mom!”

  “Do it!” she commanded.

  Duncan saw Karen tug at her sister’s sleeve. They turned toward him, and he nodded. They seemed glum and disappointed, but they stood and went into the kitchen without further complaint.

  Duncan turned toward Megan. “So,” he asked, “what do we tell them?” His voice gathered momentum. “Do we start by telling them their dad’s a criminal? That the police out in Lodi, California, would still dearly love to put their hands on his sorry hide, even after eighteen years? Or maybe we start by saying he’s a coward who left his comrades to die in the street when he turned tail and ran. How about the fact that they were conceived before we were married? I’m sure that will rearrange some of their emotions. How do we tell them that the lives we’ve been living are all a lie, a cover-up for something that ought to be ancient history?”

  “They aren’t!” Megan shouted back. “Our lives aren’t a cover-up for anything. This is who we are. We aren’t the people we were. No one is!”

  “Olivia is.”

  That stopped Megan short.

  “She is,” she repeated with dismay. Then she thought hard: Is she? We don’t know. Not yet.

  “So,” Duncan said, “where do we start? How do we explain it to them?”

  “I don’t know,” Megan said. “I guess we just start.”

  Duncan’s anger fled as suddenly as it had arrived. He paused, then nodded.

  “All right,” he replied. “We tell them and hope for the best.”

  But in that instant, both expected the worst, though they couldn’t envision what that might be.

  Olivia Barrow stood in the parking lot next to the judge’s car, feeling the coolness of the night wrap around her. Her eyes searched through the darkness. When she saw no one, she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel of the judge’s expensive sedan. For an instant she stroked the leather seats. Then she fired up the engine and put the car into gear, listening to the transmission’s solid thunk.

  She drove swiftly, but carefully, across Greenfield’s night. The town seemed slowed, hesitant; there were few people out on the streets. Even the neon signs from the fast-food restaurants and stores seemed diminished.

  Within a few moments she was cutting away from the center of town, passing through a residential section. She barely looked at the trim houses and suburban order, keeping her eyes dead ahead, as she swept into the greater blackness of the surrounding countryside.

  She turned swiftly down one country road, then another, until she saw the turnoff to her house and slowed down. She pulled past it some fifty yards, finally turning onto a half-dirt, half-grass old farmer’s trail that cut into the woods. She slowed, letting the big sedan bump and thrust itself through the forest vise. Tree branches and scrub brush screeched against the sides of the car, sounding like so many animals in heat. After a few moments, she found the spot that she’d discovered walking the property weeks earlier. Making certain she did not stick the tires into some bog, she turned the car about.

  She shut off the engine and picked up a small duffel bag and checked the contents: a change of clothing, some toilet articles, some false identification, a hundred dollars in cash, phony credit cards, and the .357 Magnum pistol.

  Satisfied, she closed up the duffel and slid it down on the floor of the passenger side. Then she got out of the car, leaving the keys inside. My safety valve, she thought. Just in case.

  Then she started to maneuver her way through the dark trees and brambles, quickly covering the short distance up to the farmhouse.

  Tommy spooned down his soup eagerly, the warmth making him forget his surroundings. His mind filled with thoughts of home, and for a moment he wondered whether his mother and father and sisters were all sitting down around the table and eating dinner. Then he realized that they probably weren’t because of Grandfather and him, and he wondered what they were doing. Are they scared, too? He pictured his sisters, and wished they were there with him. He guessed they wouldn’t be such good soldiers as him and his grandfather, but they would know games they could play to help pass the time. They always played with me, even when the other kids wouldn’t, even when they laughed and called me names, it never mattered to them. He remembered a time when there was a snowfall and he’d stood outside for an hour trying to catch a single snowflake on his hand. The other neighborhood kids had teased me, and said I couldn’t, but then Karen and Lauren came out and tried to help me and pretty soon all the kids were trying too. And there was that kid who used to live up the block who used to punch me on the arm so hard, until Karen punched him back and he stopped. The memory made Tommy smile. She really smashed him one, he thought; it made his nose bleed and she wouldn’t apologize. He thought of nights when the darkness scared him, and how Karen and Lauren would bring their sleeping bags into his room and sleep on the rug until he’d fallen asleep and they could leave. But I knew it when they left, he thought, only by then the night wasn’t so scary anymore. He looked at the sandwich in his hand. They would have made it for me with tomatoes and lettuce and some chips. And Lauren would have snuck me an extra chocolate chip cookie from the high shelf where Mom keeps them.

  They will come for me, he thought. So will Mom and Dad. And Dad will hit that woman who scares me and arrest her so that Grandfather can put her in jail which is where she belongs.

  I hope that Karen and Lauren remember to bring some cookies.

  He paused to drink some milk, which would have tasted better with chocolate syrup in it, and take a bite from a sandwich. As he chewed, he saw his grandfather, sitting on the edge of the other cot, staring out blankly.

  “Grandfather, you must eat some soup. It’s good,” he said.

  Judge Pearson shook his head, but smiled at the boy.

  “I’m not too hungry right now,” he replied.

  “But we need to be strong, both of us, if we’re going to fight.”

  Judge Pearson smiled again. “Did I say that?”

  “You did.”

  Tommy put his empty plate aside and moved next to the old man.

  “Please, Grandfather,” he said, as a slight tremor crept into his voice. “Please eat.” He grabbed his grandfather’s hand. “Mom always said that you can’t run on an empty stomach. You can’t play or anything.”

  Judge Pearson looked down at the child and nodded.

  “Everything you say, Tommy, makes eminently good sense.”

  He pulled his own plate toward him and started to slurp down the soup. To his surprise, it did taste good. He kept eating, as his grandson watched each mouthful disappear.

  “You’re right, Tommy. I feel stronger already.”

  The boy laughed and half-clapped his hands.

  “Tommy, I think I should put you in charge. You should be the general and I’ll be the private. You seem to know what’s best for the army.” Judge Pearson started chewing on the sandwich. Not enough mayonnaise.

  My God, he thought, it has been years since I had milk, soup, and a sandwich. A child’s meal. I wonder if they think it will reinforce our dependency—that they can make me less an adult by treating me more as a child.

  For the first time, it occurred to Judge Pearson that it might take more than force to find a way out of the attic. He resolved to consider the psychological ramifications of his confinement at a later time. But first, he thought, some action.

  “Tommy, do you realize that it has been several hours since we were first captured and we still haven’t surveyed our prison cell?” He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was after nine P.M. They weren’t smart, he thought. They should have seized the watch. It would have disoriented us further. But now we know the time and we know it has almost been five hours since they took us. That gives us something to hold on to.

  “What do you mean, Grandfather?”

  “What
do we know about where we are?”

  Judge Pearson stood up. He could feel energy shifting about within him.

  “It’s an attic,” Tommy replied.

  “Where do you think we are?”

  “In the country somewhere.”

  “How close to Greenfield?”

  “We can’t be too far, because we weren’t in the car that long.”

  “What else do we know?”

  “It’s a long driveway down to the house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I counted to thirty-five when we turned off the highway.”

  “Good boy.”

  “So Mom and Dad don’t have that far to come get us.”

  He smiled. “Probably they’ll take us to them. Usually that goes with the deal.”

  “Okay. I wish they’d hurry. Grandfather, do you think we’ll go home tonight?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Dad could write them a check.”

  “They probably want cash.”

  “I have almost fifty dollars in my bank at home. Do you think they’d take that?”

  Judge Pearson smiled again. “No. You’ll still have your money. Were you saving up for something?”

  Tommy nodded, but said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “You’ve got to promise not to tell Mom.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  “I want a skateboard.”

  “Aren’t they a little, I don’t know, dangerous?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll always wear a helmet and kneepads, like the older kids at school.”

  “But you have a nice bike. Remember when your dad and I went to pick it out with you?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing . . . it’s just, well . . .”

  “You want a skateboard.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I won’t tell anyone. And tell you what, once we get home, I’ll give you a five-dollar bill which you can add to your bank.”

  “Great.”

  Judge Pearson glanced around the attic again. There was a single bright light bulb hanging from a center ceiling outlet. They con­trolled the light with a switch by the attic door. “Tommy, I think it’s time we got to know our attic a bit better.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said, getting up.

  “Just slip off those shoes,” the judge said quietly. “Don’t drop them on the floor, just put them on the bed. Then walk real softly, okay?”

  “Why, Grandfather?”

  “No sense in letting the people downstairs hear us moving around up here.”

  Tommy nodded and did what he’d been told.

  “All right,” Judge Pearson said. “Let’s start.”

  The old man and the boy started feeling around the edge of the attic then. “What are we looking for?” whispered the boy.

  “I don’t know. Anything.”

  They went down one wall and Tommy found a long, two-penny nail gathering dust on the floor. He handed it to his grandfather. “Good, good,” the old man said, putting it in his pocket. They continued around the side. Suddenly the old man stopped. He put his hand on the wood planking. “Feel this.”

  “It’s cold. It’s cold all along here.”

  Judge Pearson pressed a hand against a cold spot.

  “We might be able to break through here. There’s no insulation. I wonder. Maybe a window once that’s been filled in?”

  They kept moving. When they reached the attic door, Tommy pointed out that the nails holding the door to the hinges were not seated completely.

  They also inspected the two army cots. On one frame, one of the long metal braces was loose. Judge Pearson loosened it further. “I can get that off,” he said. Then he sat down on the cot and replaced his shoes. Tommy did the same.

  “We didn’t find too much,” the boy said.

  “No, no, no, you’re wrong there. You found the nail and we found a weak spot that might lead outside and a piece of metal that we could make into a weapon and we learned something about the door, though it’s too early to tell what value it has. We did better than I thought. Much better.”

  The optimism in his voice buoyed the boy.

  “Oh, Grandfather,” he said, after a moment, “I’m tired and I wish I were home.” He climbed up and put his head in his grandfather’s lap. “I’m still scared, too. Not as much, but still a bit.”

  The boy closed his eyes, and Judge Pearson silently wished him to sleep. He stroked the boy’s forehead, and realized that his own eyes were clouding. He wondered where his alertness had gone. He could feel his body tugging toward rest, arguing against the tension and fear. He put his head back.

  Suddenly, Tommy bolted upright. “They’re coming!” he said.

  Judge Pearson threw his eyes open.

  He heard footsteps in the hallway and a hand grasp the door.

  “I’m here, Tommy. Don’t worry.”

  What a silly thing to say, he thought. But he could think of nothing else.

  Olivia Barrow threw open the door and entered the attic. She noted that her charges seemed to have shrunk back against the wall, and she saw apprehension ridged on their faces.

  “Have you finished eating?” she demanded.

  Both Tommy and his grandfather nodded.

  “Good. You must remain strong,” she continued, unconsciously echoing Tommy. “No telling how long this will last.”

  She approached the pair.

  “Old man, let me see your forehead.”

  “It’s all right,” Judge Pearson said. I’m not going to let her push me around, he thought. Not this time.

  “Let me see it!”

  “I said it’s fine.”

  She hesitated. “So, you want to play, huh?”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t you understand at all, you old bastard?”

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question!”

  “Understand what?”

  “How terribly vulnerable you are.”

  “Look,” said Judge Pearson, mustering all his irritating reasonable judge’s tones together into a lecture. “You’ve got us. You grabbed us without even giving us a chance. You hit me and scared the boy. You’ve thrown us into this attic hole. You’ve probably scared the daylights out of his parents. You’re in charge, bully for you. Now why don’t you go on about your business. What are you, some sort of amateur operation? Let’s get on with it, lady. Let’s stop messing around. There’s no reason this has to be dragged on one minute longer than necessary. Extort your damn money and let us go home!”

  Olivia smiled.

  “Ah, judge, you don’t understand.”

  “Stop talking in riddles.”

  She shook her head, as if laughing at some internal joke.

  “Old man, you are so innocent. You think that you can retain all sorts of control by fighting back. Not physically, but intellectually. Argue with your captors. Get them to bring you things—like a bucket. Manipulate the arrangement. Next you’ll probably demand extra ­blankets—even though it’s plenty warm enough in here—”

  “Well, we could use some more, and some extra pillows—”

  “Or complaining about the food—”

  “Actually, soup and sandwiches is hardly adequate—”

  “You’ve had five hours and your initial shock has worn off. You’ve had a bit of time to assess the situation. It doesn’t seem too bad. Neither of you is hurt. The attic is not the worst place you’ve ever seen. Your captors, well, perhaps they seem a little erratic, but you think you can deal with them. You’re familiar with the circumstances a bit—you probably listened to
kidnap testimony in some trial, no? All in all, things could be a lot worse. So you get to thinking, right?”

  “Get to your point.”

  Olivia took out a large handgun and waved it in the air. “The point is to get me to threaten you again. I know your sort, judge. All jailers are the same. They think that they can outmaneuver force. They know that control is more important. It works that way in prison, judge, although you’ve probably never been inside one. Hundreds and hundreds of the toughest, meanest, most violent cons follow orders given by a few uniformed guards. It’s all in the head—authority, strength, power. It works the same here. I’m the guard. You’re the prisoner. I must keep you under control. You seek little ways of maintaining your identity. Really, on this score I’m way ahead of you.” She grinned, pointing the gun at them, then moving it away, almost playfully. “But don’t you see? I’m an expert.”

  She looked suddenly down at Tommy.

  “Here’s a threat, judge. I’ll take the boy.”

  “What?”

  “Simple, judge. I can see that the two of you get strength from being together. Maybe I’ll split you up. There’s a basement, too, you know. We thought of putting you guys down there, but it seemed too cruel. Really. Worse than any hole I was ever put in. No lights. It’s kind of cold and damp, musty. Has a backed-up sewer smell, too. Very depressing place, filled with sickness and God knows what else. Maybe I’ll just tie the boy down there for a while.”

  “Please, no! I want to stay here!” Tommy half-shouted. Judge Pearson could feel his grandson’s body immediately start trembling.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll do what you ask.”

  “Your forehead.”

  “Go ahead, take a look.”

  Olivia put away her revolver and produced a small medicine box. She dabbed at the contusion on the judge’s forehead with Betadine.

  “Any headaches?” she asked.

  “None other than what you’d expect.”

  “Well,” she said, “let me know if you have any dizziness.”

  “I will.”

  She put the medicines away and straightened up. “You’ve got to understand something, judge.”