She looked at him, then she let a small smile flit into her eyes.
“All right, Duncan, you’re the banker. You’re the expert on loans, values, appreciation and depreciation. You’re the one who knows what things are worth in the current market, given the current conditions, economic ebb and flow.”
He dreaded where she was going. “Yes,” he replied hesitantly.
“Well, you tell me: How much for the boy? How much for the old fascist pig?”
She laughed raucously.
“How much will they bring in the current market?”
Panic flooded him. He felt a rush of heat to his forehead.
“How can I—”
“How much, you bastard! What’s a life worth, Duncan? You’re the fucking banker, you tell me. How much for the old man? He doesn’t have so many years left, anyway. You ought to depreciate him . . . But the boy, well, he’s strong, he’s got a lot of time left, so I suppose he would fetch a premium price, don’t you think, Duncan? Come on, Duncan, don’t you think? But shouldn’t he be discounted a hit? After all, he’s had a few problems so far, hasn’t he? A little bit of undetermined anxiety-inducing stress, right? Maybe shave off a bit because of that. Lots of potential, but slightly damaged goods. Damaged in transit, perhaps, huh, Duncan? What do you think, Duncan, what do you think?”
“You bitch!” he whispered.
“Sticks and stones,” she said in a mocking voice.
“How can you ask me to put a price on my own child?”
“You did. You put a price on my life, on Emily’s, on all the others. You put a price on your own freedom eighteen years ago. It wasn’t so hard for you then, Duncan. So you do it now.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Time is a-wasting,” she said. “Last call.”
She took the phone and dialed.
When she heard Ramon’s answer, she said: “Almost finished.” But she kept her eyes on Duncan. She replaced the telephone receiver, moving with deliberate slowness, all the time letting her anger flow through her eyes and burrow into his heart. Then she reached inside her purse and pulled out an ordinary white envelope. She handed it to Duncan.
“Inside the envelope is a message, Duncan. It will explain to you how serious I am. It will also explain precisely what I will do if I don’t get satisfaction. If you”—she froze him with her smile—“default.”
She stood up.
Duncan saw her rise and filled again with confused panic.
“But how much, when . . . I don’t know . . .”
She raised her hand and cut him off.
“Duncan, here is what I’ll tell you. The when part is simple. Today is Wednesday. It will take you the rest of the day, probably, to decipher my little message, which I recommend you get cracking on forthwith. It will clear up any questions about my sincerity . . .”
She glared at him. “I’ll give you one day . . .”
“One day! I can’t—”
“Okay, Duncan,” she said, with her Cheshire cat grin. “I’m reasonable. I’ll give you two days. That seems fair. Two business days to come up with . . .”
She hesitated.
“That’s what’s making this interesting, isn’t it? How much will you come up with? Will it be enough? Maybe you’ll get back just one, and not the other. Maybe it’s going to just be a down payment of sorts, and we’ll have to keep at this. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe I’ll get scared. You know, Duncan, please don’t underestimate how little I want to go back to prison—and how much I will do to avoid it. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes. I guess.”
“I’m saying, at the first sign that you’re not playing this hand out alone, they die.”
She paused.
“Die. Die. Dead. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“So, Duncan. Get the money. Get a lot. Get it all. Just do it.”
“But you don’t understand, it’s not like I have cash lying around. It’s stocks, property, investments—I can’t simply liquidate everything in two days and hand it over. I will, but it takes time. I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can, you bastard.”
She stared at him.
“You still don’t understand, do you?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Duncan, I don’t expect you to be able to sell your property within two business days. I can’t expect you to get the money from stock sales, and cashing in your retirement and all that stuff. That’s unreasonable. You couldn’t possibly manage that in two days.”
She smiled at him. “No, I don’t expect that.”
“But how?”
“The answer is so simple, Duncan.”
“I don’t—”
“Duncan. Steal it.”
He rocked back in his seat. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t speak. She leaned forward over the desk, so that her face was only inches away. Her breath was hot and it poured over him.
“Steal it, you bastard. Rob the bank.”
She stood up, peering down at him.
“Finish the job we started eighteen years ago.”
She took a step back, and gestured toward the entire bank.
“Steal it,” she said.
Then she was gone.
6
WEDNESDAY
AFTERNOON
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
Duncan remained rooted at his desk after Olivia’s departure.
He didn’t know how long he stayed locked into position; five minutes, fifteen, perhaps a half-hour. Time suddenly seemed malleable. He felt as if he’d been overtaken by a subtropical fever; his face was flushed, he could feel sweat on his forehead, he looked down and saw his hands palsied and shaking.
Steal it!
His reverie was violated by the telephone buzzing on his desk. He stared at it uncomprehendingly as it summoned him back to reality. He started to reach out to grab it, then stopped, letting it buzz again like an angry hornet. When it persisted, he finally put his hand on the receiver and slowly picked it up.
“Yes?” he said, vacantly.
“Duncan!”
“Yes?” he replied again, as if awakening from a dream. “Megan? What is it?”
“Duncan, he was here!”
“Megan, what is it, who was there?”
He was bolt upright by his desk now, driven to his feet by the anxiety in his wife’s voice.
“Bill Lewis! I thought he’d died! He’s helping her, Duncan. He’s got Tommy, too.”
“Bill Lewis?” Duncan felt as if the meager threads of control that held him together were twisting apart, one by one.
“He said he would kill Tommy. He said he would kill the girls, he would kill you, if you didn’t do what Olivia asked. He’s with her. I couldn’t believe it. He looked the same, only different. It was like—”
“Bill Lewis? But I thought he’d disappeared.”
“He was here! He was terrible. He wasn’t at all like he used to be . . .”
“He’s with Olivia?”
“Yes. Yes. They’re in it together.”
“My God! Who else?”
“I don’t know,” she moaned.
“Bill Lewis is a savage.” Duncan had a vision of Lewis, sitting at the kitchen table in Lodi, pointing an emptied .45 caliber pistol at him and pulling the trigger. He remembered the echoing click of the hammer and Lewis’s derisive laugh when he’d jumped, and screamed angrily at him. “Bill Lewis was a psychopath and a coward,” Duncan said without thinking of the impact of his words. “He’d shoot anyone, as long as their back was turned.”
“No, no, no, he wouldn’t, Duncan. He was confused, we all were back then, but he wasn’t such a bad guy . . .”
“You just said he w
as terrible . . .”
“He was, he was. God, Duncan, I’m sorry, I’m so turned around.”
“What did he say?”
“He broke a picture of Tommy. He said he’d kill him.”
“Not with Olivia there. We don’t have to worry about that. She’s always had him under her thumb. He always did exactly what she said.”
“Duncan, I didn’t think I could get more scared, but I am. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Megan, get ahold of yourself. Where are the girls?”
“They went out for milk.”
“They what?”
“They had to go out, and I didn’t think, it was before he showed up, and—”
Duncan took a deep breath and controlled his racing heart.
“It’s okay. When they get back, keep them there until I get home. Don’t open the front door to anyone unless you know them personally . . .”
He paused, thinking what a silly admonition that was: That was the trouble; they knew all their tormentors personally.
“Are you coming now?” Megan asked.
“Soon. I have something I have to do . . .”
“What?”
Duncan picked up the envelope that Olivia had left on his desktop.
“She left me some sort of message. I have to decipher it. That’s what she said. I don’t know what it is or how long it’ll take.”
“Did she tell you how much we have to pay to get the Tommys back?”
“Sort of.” He hesitated, listening to the frantic tones of his wife’s voice. “I’ll explain it when I get home. Just collect the girls and keep a grasp on yourself. I’ll be home shortly.”
“Please hurry.”
“I’ll hurry.”
He set the telephone down and picked up the envelope. She’s on the verge of hysteria, he thought. He did not know what he would do if his wife couldn’t handle the pressure.
He shook his head and silently asked himself what he would do if he couldn’t stand the pressure. He took a deep breath.
“All right, Olivia,” he said out loud. “I’ll play your fucking game.” It was easier to act bravely when she wasn’t staring him in the face, he noted ruefully. I can always think of the perfect rejoinder after she leaves.
He opened the envelope and let its contents fall onto his desk. First he spotted a photograph. It was of the two Tommys. He looked into his son’s scared eyes, and it was as if someone had stabbed him with an icepick. He held the photo unsteadily and forced himself to study it: It was taken with an instant camera. The judge was holding up the morning newspaper. It was posed, like other pictures he remembered from evening newscasts. He tried to decipher what he could about where they were being held; it appeared to be an attic somewhere; he could just make out the brown wooden slats that angled up into the peaked roofline.
At least where they are seems clean and dry, he thought.
He noted the blankets, which reassured him. He studied the judge’s face for stress and was relieved to see only discomfort and displeasure. He allowed himself a revolutionary thought: You old, imperious, demanding son-of-a-bitch, give them hell. He was torn between wishing the judge would rip them apart verbally, and on the other hand, knowing how dangerous that would be, especially considering how fragile Lewis’s personality was, and how dangerous. Bill Lewis laughed at the wrong moments, he remembered, and sometimes cried at the most ridiculously maudlin things, like unhappy endings in films. He had a psyche that seemed to ebb and flow like a tidal pool.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead, as if trying to feel the lines gathering there. He tried to look at Tommy again, and only allowed himself to see that his son appeared healthy, but apprehensive. He forced himself to be reassured by that observation alone. He would not measure the sadness and lost-little-boy confusion that he could see marking his son’s face. But it was too hard for him, and he took a deep breath and said to himself, as if he could transmit his feelings across the airwaves to the room where his son was held captive: I’m trying, Tommy, I’m trying. I’m going to do my best. I will get you back.
He put the photograph down and wondered whether he should show it to his wife or not. Then he picked up the only other item that had fluttered from the envelope. It was an undated newspaper clipping, a death notice cut from the obituary page of an unidentifiable newspaper. He read it through twice, in growing consternation:
MILLER, ROBERT EDGAR, 39, at home on September 5, 1986. Beloved husband of Martha, nee Matthews, and loving father of his two sons, Frederic and Howard. He is survived by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. A. Miller of Lodi, his uncle, Mr. R. L. Miller of Sacramento, a brother, Wallace Miller of Chicago, two sisters, Mrs. Martin Smith of Los Angeles and Mrs. Wayne Schultz of San Francisco, and numerous nephews and nieces. Memorial service will be held at Our Mother of the Sacred Redemption Church at 1 p.m. Friday, September 8th. The deceased will lie in repose at the church at noon. The family requests that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to the Viet Nam Veterans of Orange County Outreach Center. Funeral under the direction of the Johnson Funeral Home, 1120 Baker Street, Lodi.
Duncan did not know who Robert Miller was, and what conceivable connection he might have to Olivia and himself. He could see that the man had obviously died more than two months earlier and that his age made him a contemporary. He was a Lodi man, and that put him in the same town that they’d lived in before the bank job, but it told him nothing else. He gathered, also, that the man had been a Viet Nam veteran, but he could see little else in the notice that linked him to the situation at hand. Duncan rolled the man’s name over and over in his mind, trying to find some connection. He stared at the piece of paper and asked: Who are you?
What do you mean to me?
How did you die?
Why?
At first he had no idea how to find out. Then Duncan picked up the telephone and dialed information in California and obtained the number for the funeral home. He hesitated for an instant, trying to invent some fiction that would explain his searching for details. As he dialed the telephone number, he realized that it was the first time in eighteen years he had telephoned the state. For a moment he felt fear, as if, simply from the tone of his voice, someone would be able to tell what he had done there in 1968. A woman’s voice answered on the second ring.
“Johnson Funeral Home. How may we help you?”
“Hello,” Duncan said. “My name is, uh, Roger White, and I have just been told about a funeral you folks handled back in September, and I, I’m not sure whether this fellow was an old friend or not. I’ve been out of the country and out of contact for so long, and uh, it was quite shocking—”
The woman interrupted:
“What was the name of the deceased?”
“Robert Miller, back in—”
“In September, oh, yes, I remember that one. What did you say your connection was?”
Duncan guessed: “Viet Nam.”
“Oh, of course. Another veteran. Let me just go through my files here. You know, I don’t recall that the police have made any arrests in the case.”
“The police?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, didn’t you know Mr. Miller was murdered?”
“No, no, it’s the first I’ve heard about it.”
“Well, I don’t really have the details about that part. I know it was a robbery of sorts. You might try calling Ted Reese at the local paper. He covered the case.”
Duncan wrote the name down, as he heard the woman shuffle some papers.
“. . . Anyway,” the woman said, “he was with the One Hundred and First Airborne in Viet Nam from nineteen sixty-six to late nineteen sixty-seven. He won two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star for valor. He was active in the local Elks Club and both the Little League and the Pee Wee football league. He was a member o
f the Society of Security Professionals. A lot of former policemen and types like that came to the funeral.”
“It was a large service?”
“Oh, yes. He was a very popular man. Very well known hereabouts. The man at the paper could tell you more. Is this the Mr. Miller you knew in Viet Nam?”
“Yes,” Duncan lied. “It was.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Duncan hung up, holding his hand down on the hook for an instant to break the connection. Then he called the newspaper office and asked for the reporter. He still did not understand what message Olivia was trying to give him, nor did he see the connection between this murdered man and himself.
“Reese here.”
“Hello,” Duncan said. “Listen, my name is White and I’ve just returned to the country after six months, only to find out that an old friend was murdered. The folks at the funeral home said you could tell me what happened to Robert Miller.”
“Oh—the security executive?”
“Yes.”
“You say you were a friend of his?”
“From the war. One Hundred and First Airborne.”
“Oh, sure. Well, I’m sorry to have to fill in the details for you . . .”
“What happened?”
“Just bad luck for him, I guess. Lucky for his wife and kids, though. They had gone away for the last week before school started, so he was home alone. Anyway, as best the cops can figure it, someone knocked on the door and he opened it and let them in. Forced him to open up his safe, which they ransacked. They tore up the house pretty good. This guy had a pretty good collection of weapons, too, including some automatic rifles. Had a damn permit for the things, if you can believe it. You know what the cops say you can sell one of those things for on the black market? Thousands. Anyway, a little bit later, they blew him away with a machine pistol, right inside the house. Made a helluva mess . . . oh, sorry . . .”
“That’s okay,” Duncan said quickly. “Go on, please.”
“Well, not too much to add. He was apparently going for his desk, where he kept a gun hidden. He wasn’t the type to go out without trying to make some kind of fight, everyone said that. Guess they left shortly after they tore up the place. Stole a few other things in addition to the guns, including, get this, his wife’s red wig. Guess they got almost seven grand. He always kept a lot of cash around, which wasn’t smart. But he was an executive with a security firm—hell, he’d worked himself up from being a guard on a truck—and he had state-of-the-art protection on the house. Only thing was, all those electronics don’t work worth a damn if you open your front door to your killer. That’s what’s got the cops so stumped. They can’t figure out why he would do that.”
Day of Reckoning Page 16
