Olivia Barrow kept the engine running, the car’s exhaust billowing like smoke behind her. It was sticky warm inside the rental, and she loosened her coat slightly. She bent the mirror toward her and adjusted her hat and her long, red-haired wig. She checked up and down the street, watching the other cars pull from driveways, heading off toward town. Then she looked at herself in the mirror once again, and rubbed a smudge of makeup from the corner of her lip. She was dressed in a nice skirt and white shirt, and wore an expensive woolen overcoat. She had a briefcase on the seat next to her, stuffed with worthless papers. It was part of the disguise. I fit in perfectly, she thought. I look exactly like some typical hausfrau who has seen her kids get into junior high and is now on her way to her job. This place is so wonderfully suburban and predictable. Mortgages and prime rates and stock options and getting ahead. Neo-colonial and white picket fences and foreign cars and private colleges. All they’re missing is some drooling golden retriever shedding all over the place.
She glanced down the street toward Megan and Duncan’s home. There wasn’t even the smallest sign of a police presence. No oddly indistinct cars parked close by. Nobody dressed as workmen outside. No telephone linemen pretending to fix the lines, but actually installing sophisticated equipment that might lead the police to her next phone call. They would stick out in this neighborhood so easily, I would have to be blind not to spot them. Good going, Duncan and Megan. You’ve followed the first rule. So far, so good.
The sunlight glared off the car’s hood, and she slid dark glasses onto her face. She glanced at her watch. Come on, Duncan, she thought. Time to get the day moving.
As she spoke to herself, she saw his car back down the driveway.
“Good morning, Duncan,” she said.
She laughed as she watched his car disappear down the street.
“Have a nice day.”
She put her car into gear.
“Just have a fucking wonderful day, Duncan.”
5
WEDNESDAY
MIDDAY
Duncan waited.
Throughout the morning, he’d felt a surge of anxiety and excitement every time his telephone had rung, only to be thrown into dismay when the caller turned out not to be the kidnappers, but local businessmen and other loan applicants. He’d dealt summarily with every request, performing his job with robotic ease. One person, surprised at his abruptness, had asked him whether he wasn’t a bit under the weather, and he’d replied that he thought he was coming down with the flu. He’d repeated this diagnosis to his secretary, who had asked whether or not he was feeling well after he’d acted distracted when she tried to fill him in on some upcoming bank meeting. She had asked him whether he was going to go home, and he’d had the presence of mind to say no, that he had too much paperwork to catch up on, but that he might be a bit erratic with his hours over the next day or so, and that she should cancel any outstanding appointments. She had nodded, all solicitude and understanding, asked if he wanted some chicken soup from the coffee shop down the street.
For an instant he’d been struck by what a wonderful excuse “the flu” was: In the Northeast, people were willing to accept it as the root cause for almost any sort of aberrational behavior. Then he’d returned to his waiting, more anxious than before. As each hour passed, he had grown more concerned. He could not understand why the kidnappers were delaying matters. Wasn’t speed their natural ally? He had expected Olivia to move promptly with her demands; by all rights, hers should have been the first call of the morning. For her to stretch the process out even one minute longer than necessary baffled him. Delay was the one thing for which he hadn’t prepared himself, he thought, and then reconsidered: In reality, he hadn’t managed to prepare himself for anything.
Each minute is the same sixty seconds for everyone in the world, he thought. Time is no slower or faster for any person. But he didn’t believe it.
Everything is okay, he told himself.
She will call shortly.
Tommy is fine. Frustrated and scared, but fine.
The judge is angry and cantankerous, but fine.
She is just making me stew a bit, because she wants me to be off-guard and unbalanced.
Everything will be all right.
He rocked back and forth in his chair, letting the squeaking of the springs serve as a rhythmic backdrop for his thoughts. He stared at the phone on his desk. It was one of the modern types, all Italian skinny design. It weighed only a few ounces and had no heft to it. He wished he had an old-fashioned telephone, one with a dialer that went clickety-clickety-click when he turned it and a good solid ring, instead of the tiny beeps and buzzes that he’d grown accustomed to.
They’re alive. They have to be.
He heard a slight knock on his door, and it swung open, revealing his secretary.
“Mr. Richards, it’s almost one and I’m going out for a sandwich with some of the others. Are you sure I can’t bring you back something?”
“Thank you, Doris, but no. Please tell the switchboard I’m still here, and to let any calls ring through.”
“All right. You sure? I mean, it won’t be any trouble and you’re looking a bit pale.”
“No, thank you. See you later.”
“You should go home and take care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Doris.”
“All right, but I warned you.”
“Thank you, Doris.”
“A little flu can turn into pneumonia.”
“Thank you, Doris.”
“Okay, Mr. Richards. See you in an hour or so.”
“Take your time.”
She closed the door and he looked outside the window. The morning sunlight had been pushed aside by a thick covering of gray clouds. The wind was steel-hearted and steady, filling the air with a raw dampness that insisted upon winter. He shivered in his seat and hoped that Tommy was someplace warm. He tried to remember what his child had been wearing the day before: jeans and sneakers, with a turtleneck and old red sweatshirt with the logo of the New England Patriots. It celebrated a championship several years past. Tommy had worn a hat and gloves as well, and last year’s parka, which was frayed about the edges, but would still keep him warm. No, it had been rainy in the morning and Tommy might have taken his raincoat instead, which was yellow and not very warm. Duncan pounded a fist into his palm and turned angrily in the chair. I don’t want him to be cold.
Where is she? He stood up and paced through the small office. Where is she and what is she doing?
He had a sudden vision of Olivia the last time he’d seen her, struggling with Emily Lewis in the street outside the bank, dragging themselves toward the elusive safety of his van.
How she must hate me. All these years in prison, thinking of me and filling herself with hate. The sins of the fathers. He walked to the window. If you are a coward once, he wondered, are you a coward forever? He looked out at the naked branches of an oak tree as they fought against the cold breeze.
Behind him, the phone on his desk buzzed and he jumped across the room to snatch it from its cradle.
“Yes—Duncan Richards!”
“Duncan, it’s Megan. I just haven’t heard . . .”
“Neither have I,” he interrupted. “Nothing yet.”
“Oh, God,” Megan half-moaned. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. Just . . . don’t speculate. Try not to let your imagination run your emotions. That’s what I’ve been doing all morning, hanging on and waiting it out . . . Everything will be okay, you’ll see.”
“You think so?” Megan’s voice spoke of disbelief.
“Yes, I do. Just keep a tight grip on yourself and we’ll be okay. As soon as I talk to Olivia or whomever she’s got helping her, I’ll let you know. Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about us. I’m f
ine, really, just hate the waiting, that’s all, and I needed to hear your voice.”
“What about Karen and Lauren?”
“They’re fine. You know them. They just can’t stand being cooped up.”
“Well,” he replied, “they’re going to have to.”
“We’ll be okay.”
“Good. I’ll talk with you when I know something.”
He hung up feeling worse.
Duncan glared at the telephone: Where are you, dammit?
Then it buzzed again. He seized the telephone.
“Yes—Duncan Richards!”
“Mr. Richards?”
His heart fell. It was the voice of the bank receptionist. His secretary must still be at lunch.
“Yes,” he replied, defeated again.
“Your one-thirty appointment is here. Are you ready now?”
“My what?”
“Your one-thirty appointment.”
“Oh, God, hang on . . .”
Duncan tossed papers about, searching for his appointment calendar. Damn! he thought. I told Doris to cancel all appointments. Damn her! I just can’t go through with it now.
He found the small leatherbound book, but couldn’t find any notation indicating an appointment. He slammed it shut. I’ve told her a dozen times she has to keep that book up to date. Dammit to hell!
He took a deep breath. All right. Let’s extricate yourself gracefully. Just give them two minutes, then pass them on to one of the other bank officers. He stiffened himself, preparing to make polite conversation, praying that the phone wouldn’t ring in the short moments that he had to deal with whatever contractor or developer this was.
“All right,” he said to the receptionist. “Send them back.”
He grabbed the papers cluttering his desk and swept them all into the top drawer. He straightened his tie quickly, ran his hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses, then glanced around the room, looking for any outward sign of the disaster in which he was caught. Seeing none, he turned toward the door as it opened. He saw the receptionist opening the door and ushering in his visitor and he got to his feet rapidly, his speech set in his mind, halfway out his mouth:
“Hello, I’m sorry, I seem to have misplaced our . . .”
And then he stopped short.
“Hello, Duncan,” said Olivia Barrow.
She turned to the receptionist.
“Thank you so much.”
The young woman smiled and closed the door, leaving them alone.
Olivia waited while Duncan stared at her.
“Aren’t you even going to offer me a seat?” she asked.
Megan paced about the house, finally finding Karen and Lauren sitting in the kitchen, working on schoolwork. Karen was working on a paper about Oliver Twist and Lauren was kibbitzing. For a moment, Megan wanted to shout at them, caught up in something so ordinary, when everything else was so disjointed and out of whack. But instead, she took a deep breath and realized that perhaps they were showing far more sense than she was.
“Mom,” said Lauren, looking up, “has Dad heard anything?”
“Not yet.”
“What do you think that means?” Karen asked.
“I don’t know. The important thing is to realize it may not mean anything at all.”
“I’m worried about Tommy. Suppose he gets a cold or something.”
“Everything’s going to be okay. You just have to believe that,” Megan said.
Karen got up from her seat and went and put her arms around her mother. Lauren came and held her mother’s hand. Megan felt her daughters’ warmth flood her. She thought: Be steady, girls.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Karen said. “We’re here and Tommy’ll be fine.”
“I bet Grandfather is giving them hell right now,” Lauren said. “Whew! They sure took the wrong guy when they grabbed him. He’ll snort and complain and ruin their fun, Mom, you just know it.”
Megan breathed in, trying to lift the scent of the girls’ confidence and pour it into her own heart.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said.
The girls squeezed her, and released her.
“You know, Mom, we’re totally out of milk . . .”
“And there’s no diet soda left, either.”
Megan paused. “I was going to go to the store today. But I can’t.”
“We’ll go,” said Karen. “Just give us a list.”
“No. I want you girls where I can keep an eye on you. We don’t really know anything about these people. If they were to try and grab you girls, well, I don’t think your father and I could handle it.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s crazy.”
“How do you know?” Megan snapped.
The girls were both quiet. They watched their mother carefully.
I suppose this is some sort of test, Megan thought. How much do I trust them? How adult do I think they are?
She hesitated. They don’t really understand anything. They really are still children. They don’t have a grip on what is happening because it isn’t real to them yet. All they know is that something has happened and yet they’re still here, and life still seems to be going on.
“All right,” Megan said, finally. “Milk, soda, some sliced meats and a loaf of bread. That’s it. Oh, some instant coffee, too. I’ll give you a twenty and you can drive over to the convenience store on East Prospect. Straight there, straight inside, then straight home. Don’t talk to anyone or stop for anything. If you think someone’s acting suspiciously, I want you just to stop whatever you’re doing and come straight home. Got it?”
“Mom . . .”
“Got it?”
“Okay, okay, okay. Can we at least get some magazines?”
“And a newspaper,” Megan said. “Sure.” She found her pocketbook and extracted some bills from her wallet. “No gum,” she said. “Not even sugarless.”
She handed the money over and felt foolish for being worried, then foolish for not being more worried. When the girls left by the front door, she jumped over to the window, and watched them get into their car. She saw Lauren get behind the wheel, which comforted her, because the younger was the better driver. Karen waved, and then the car sputtered and rolled off down the street.
Megan turned and went back to the kitchen.
“I’ll be damned,” said Bill Lewis out loud, though he was alone in the rental car at his vantage point down the street. He watched as the girls’ red sports car rolled past where he was parked. “The other kids are going someplace. Well, I’ll be damned.”
He thought quickly about what that presented: Megan alone in the house. The two twins heading someplace unknown. Olivia had told him to maintain what she called loose surveillance on the house; parking for a few minutes, driving past every forty-five minutes or so. Just frequently enough so that he would be able to tell if something had changed at the house, not so often that someone would pick him out, or think he looked suspicious. He wore a suit and tie, which minimized the chance that anyone walking through the neighborhood would think twice about his presence there. He had known that he was looking for official activity, the cops or the FBI. He had not suspected that the family would head in different directions.
He realized that he had an opportunity, and for an instant wondered: What would Olivia do?
He smiled to himself and made up his mind.
Duncan couldn’t speak.
His eyes were fixed on Olivia, standing in front of him. It’s her, he told himself. He swallowed hard, and gestured toward a chair, wondering for an instant why he didn’t spring across the room, seize her by the neck and throttle her. He watched as Olivia settled into her seat and then motioned at him to sit down. He was barely aware of his muscles responding—one instant he
was standing, the next, sitting, watching her across the expanse of his desk. It was as if she were some character from Alice in Wonderland, one instant right in front of him, so close he could reach out and touch her, the next, widely distant, as if miles and miles away. His head spun and his mouth was dry, so when he was able to speak, the words rushed forth in a bullfrog croak:
“Where are they? Where’s my boy?”
“Not too far,” Olivia replied, as if responding to idle small talk about the weather.
“I want . . .” he started, but she cut him off.
“I know what you want,” she said. “And it is only barely relevant. Like the hair?” She touched the corner of her red wig.
Duncan blinked. It was the first he’d noticed it.
“It’s red,” he said.
She laughed.
“That it is.”
“It’s not how I remember it.”
Her smile faded.
“Nothing is how you remember it. Except for one thing: I am in charge and you are going to follow my orders. Only this time, you’re not going to screw up—are you, Duncan?—because the stakes are a little higher. It’s not your sorry hide this time. It’s your son’s. And the old man’s, too. Don’t forget about him. Think about it for a moment, Duncan. Think about how much I must hate everything that that old bastard represents. About how easy it would be to off him, just like the bastard judges tried to off me.”
“Where’s my boy?” Duncan choked out.
“I told you. Close. In my grasp.” She made a little hand motion, as if dismissing his concern.
“Please,” he said.
She held up her hand and he stopped immediately.
“Duncan, keep a grip on yourself. It will make matters much easier.”
He nodded again and tried to control himself. He could hear his own heartbeat, feel the pressure throbbing in his temples.
Olivia sat back in her chair and settled in comfortably. She smiled at Duncan.
“Time for a bit of negotiation, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Whatever you say.” Duncan took a deep breath and sat up straight. His eyes narrowed and he put his hands into his lap, beneath the desk, so that she couldn’t see how they shook.
Day of Reckoning Page 14
