“Maybe he knew the killer.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone’s guessing, but so far all the likely suspects have alibis. Also, he was one of those guys that was worth more to his family alive than dead, you know? He wasn’t carrying a lot of insurance or anything.”
“Didn’t anyone see or hear anything?”
“Well, he lived in a pretty nice subsection and the houses are pretty spread out. And one cop told me that those pistols hardly make a sound, anyway, so they wouldn’t necessarily have heard anything. Just a little burping noise, kinda like someone tearing a couple of sheets of paper real fast. It was night, too.”
Duncan didn’t know what to ask. His mind formed a single picture of Olivia standing at the doorway to the man’s house, patiently waiting for him to open up and let her in. She knew he would: Who could refuse a nice-looking, well-dressed, middle-aged woman, even in the middle of the night, even if she was a stranger? You would look through the peephole and then you would open the door, wondering what it was that had brought her to the threshold of the house. You wouldn’t think twice about it.
But he still drew a blank as to why she would be there. He heard the reporter’s voice droning through the earpiece.
“. . . It’s a real shame. Imagine that. Making it through a couple of years in Viet Nam, coming home and getting yourself shot up in a bank robbery, finally making it to an executive position, only to end it all because some home-invasion outfit learns you keep cash about. Let me tell you, people were pretty scared when this happened, because if a guy like Miller could get it, then anyone could . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Duncan said abruptly, “what did you say?”
“I said it’s a real shame.”
“After that.”
“Well, the guy does his tour of duty in Nam, then gets shot up in a bank robbery—”
Duncan interrupted: “In a bank robbery.”
“Sure—back in sixty-eight. Made the headlines for a few days. Bunch of hippie crazies tried to rob a bank and jeez, a couple of bank guards got killed, and Miller got shot in the leg. Couple of the crazies bought it as well. Miller got a Governor’s Medal for bravery—”
“I remember,” Duncan said.
“Sure. It was a big story for about ten minutes that year. Every story in sixty-eight was bigger than the next. It was that kind of year.”
“I remember,” Duncan said.
His shoulders slumped and he felt nauseated. For an instant he wasn’t sure whether he could keep from vomiting in fear.
I know, he said to himself. I know now. He bit back the bile in his throat and asked: “The police have any suspects?”
“Well, lots of theories. Mostly they think it was this gang that operates out of San Francisco. Apparently there have been a couple of other home invasions in the past few months. But he was in the security business, and who knows what sort of characters he might have run across over the years. You gotta remember: This is California. Anything goes.”
“Thanks,” Duncan said, his voice a bare whisper.
“Hey, you know anything about the case that might help the cops? There’s a twenty-grand reward put up by his company.”
But Duncan hung up.
He sat back in his chair and thought about who Robert Miller was: the man who killed Emily Lewis on the street in Lodi in 1968.
And Duncan knew why he had died.
Revenge.
Judge Thomas Pearson watched his grandson.
The boy seemed to have lost some of his nervousness, as his familiarity with his surroundings grew. But Tommy still jumped visibly whenever any sound from the downstairs penetrated the confines of the small room. He could see that the boy was growing increasingly frustrated by the combination of fear and boredom that had descended upon them. He would pace about for a moment, then curl into a ball on the bed, in the fetal position, only to unwrap himself after a few minutes and start pacing again. Tommy had shrugged off all his grandfather’s efforts to distract him. They had spent the morning hours alone together, wondering what would happen next; then, after Olivia had taken their pictures, the afternoon had passed with no news, just a complete silence. The judge had wondered several times whether they were alone in the house; but even if they were, had not known what to do.
He stared about the room. What a devilish trap this is, imprisoned by walls and by responsibility, too. If I were to lose Tommy, I could never face Duncan and Megan again. It would kill me to live.
He looked down at his wristwatch and saw that dinner was late. It is night, he thought. Our second night here. Outside it is growing deep black and the sky has covered itself with a shroud. It is growing colder, with the leftover warmth of the day skulking away into the shadows.
He gestured to Tommy to come and sit by him, wrapping his arm around him when the boy took his seat.
“It’s so quiet, Grandfather,” the child said, echoing his own thoughts. “Sometimes I’m not sure that they’re still here.”
“I know,” the judge replied. “Then, just when you think we ought to take the bed and try to knock down the door, you hear a little noise, and you realize they’ve been there all along.”
“How long do you think we’ll have to be here, Grandfather?”
“You’ve asked that before, and I don’t have the answer.”
“Guess.”
“Tommy, what good will guessing do?”
“Please.”
He could feel the boy’s tension and didn’t know whether to lie or tell the truth. Isn’t that always the problem with children? he thought to himself: We are never completely sure whether adult truths will free them or burden them. He had a sudden memory of driving with his wife and children, many years before, on a family vacation. Megan had been close to Tommy’s age. “How much farther?” she had asked piteously, over and over. “Until we get there,” he’d answered. “But how much?” she’d persisted. “Miles and miles,” he’d answered. “But how much?” Finally, after twenty minutes of this, he’d thought: Tell her the truth. “Megan, it’s at least another two hours, so just try to relax and look out the window or play a counting game with your mother or something, but stop asking how much farther.” She had howled in frustration: “Two hours! Two hours! I want to go home!” And he’d gritted his teeth as she cried.
But that was only a little truth that backfired. What about big truths? Like what are our chances? What about living and dying?
“Well, Tommy, I suspect we’ll be here at least another day.”
He could see the boy’s lip quiver.
“Why?”
The boy’s body shuddered massively as he asked his question.
“Well, I suspect they’ve asked your dad for some money, and it will take him time to collect it. I explained that before.”
Tommy nodded his head, his body still shaking.
“I want to leave,” he said. The judge saw tears welling up in the boy’s eyes. “I want to go home,” he continued, his voice rising, punctuated by sobs. “I want to go home, home, home, home . . .”
His grandfather wrapped his arms around him tightly.
But the boy, instead of dissolving into the comforting arms, exploded, knocking Judge Pearson back.
“I want to go! I want to go! I want to go!” Tommy started scream ing. He stamped his foot in rage on the floor. Then the boy jumped across the attic floor and started pounding on the door with his flat hand, making a resounding crash, like a bass drum. “I want to go!” he screamed.
The judge jumped up and seized the boy by his shoulders. He tried to pull him away, but Tommy fought free.
No, Judge Pearson thought, no, please, Tommy, not now. Please, not now.
The boy tore himself from his grandfather’s grasp a second time and threw himself against the locked door, wh
ich creaked with the great smash of the boy’s body.
“Out! Out! Out! Out! Home! Home! Home!” Tommy screamed.
When Judge Pearson tried a third time to grasp him, Tommy wheeled and flailed away at the old man with his fists: “No! No! No! Mine! Mine!”
The judge fell back, surprised by the strength of the boy’s assault.
Oh, my God, the judge thought. He’s losing it. I can’t hold him, I know I can’t hold him. It used to take Duncan and Megan both to hold him when he went wild. I can’t do it alone.
Tommy was slamming his fists against the door again. The noise seemed to shake the entire house, booming like thunderclaps through the old wooden boards.
The judge could hear the sound of feet running through the hallways and stairways toward them. Oh, my God, he thought, they’re coming!
“Tommy, stop! Stop! Please, stop!” he pleaded, trying to hold the boy back, but as successful as if he were standing holding his hands up against the winter wind.
“Let me go! Let me go!” the boy cried hysterically.
“Tommy! Tommy! It’s me—please—Grandfather . . .” Judge Pearson tried again to tear the child away from the door. He saw Tommy’s hands were bleeding and the sight of blood terrified him. “Tommy!” he shouted. “Tommy!”
“No! No! NOOOOO!” screamed Tommy, as he felt the judge’s hands on his shoulders again.
The judge could hear the sound of the dead bolt lock being turned, and he tackled the child, pulling him momentarily back from the doorway.
Tommy let loose a long, drawn-out cry that seemed barely earthly and which echoed in the tiny room, overpowering the small space and filling it with terror. The cry reverberated throughout the entire house.
Olivia Barrow and Bill Lewis, both brandishing handguns, stepped through the door, their faces riven with their own confusion and a touch of panic. They stared down at the twisting, struggling child, locked in his grandfather’s grim hold.
“I want! I want! I want!” screamed Tommy. “Let me go! Go! GO! GO!”
“Shut up!” shouted Bill Lewis.
“Quiet!” Olivia yelled.
It had no effect upon Tommy, whose eyes were closed and whose body arced like an electric current.
“I can’t hold him,” the judge suddenly called out, as he felt the boy slipping from his grasp.
He released his grandson rather than break the child’s arms. Tommy flung himself toward the door, oblivious to the two adults with their pistols who blocked his path.
“Jesus!” yelled Bill Lewis, as he caught Tommy, staggering backward under the child’s assault.
The child continued screaming, trapped by this new set of arms. Tommy fought madly, wildly, punching and kicking away with demonic strength.
“I’ll shoot him! I’ll shoot him!” Lewis screamed at the judge.
“He can’t help it—just hold him!”
“Don’t move!” yelled Olivia, training her gun on the judge.
“Christ! Give me a hand!” shouted Lewis, who let out a yelp of his own as he tumbled over onto the floor, trying to hold back Tommy’s rage. His weapon clattered to the corner, as Lewis tried to keep the boy from biting him. “Jesus, Olivia!” he screamed.
“Nobody move!” Olivia yelled again.
“Fuck you,” said the judge, throwing himself onto the tangled, twisted pair on the floor, trying to help Bill Lewis control the boy. Within a few seconds, each adult had hold tightly of Tommy’s limbs, and together they had him pinned to the floor.
“Nobody move,” Olivia called again, but this time it was a moot command, as they were all frozen in position, locked by the straining child’s muscles.
The judge looked down and saw that Bill Lewis’s pistol was on the floor within reach.
My God, he thought, the gun!
He hesitated. His hand twitched slightly forward.
But he heard Olivia’s steady, even voice, spoken now in normal tones, which after the screaming seemed a whisper: “You’ll die, old man. I see it and you’ll die.”
The judge closed his eyes for an instant and thought, How many opportunities will I miss?
But he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Bill Lewis, oblivious to the moment that had passed between Olivia and the judge, looked at Judge Pearson and whispered, “Thanks. I couldn’t have held him.” He gritted his teeth as Tommy surged again.
Then, abruptly, Tommy’s body suddenly went limp in their arms.
“Christ!” Bill Lewis exclaimed. “What the hell is it! Have I hurt him? Is he dead?”
“No,” Judge Pearson said, slowly relaxing. “It’s a sort of fugue state. He goes into it after an episode like this. Help me get him onto a bed.”
Tommy’s eyes were wide open, his breathing slow and shallow.
“Come on,” the judge said. He looked at Olivia. “Clear the way— hurry up.”
She hesitated, then jumped up and arranged a space on one of the cots.
“Will he be okay?” Bill Lewis asked. “Christ! That was something . . .”
“He’ll be okay when he gets out of here.”
Judge Pearson looked over at Olivia, pointing a finger at her. “Now, get some Betadine and Band-Aids for his hands, which are all cut up. You knew this, didn’t you? You had all this planned out and you knew he had these spells, didn’t you?”
“I knew he was a special-education student, but I didn’t—” she started. Then she glared at the judge. “Tough. Sorry, but it’s just tough fucking luck. It’s your job to keep him under control.”
“I’ll do what I can,” snapped the judge.
“Well, does he need some medication or something? I mean, we can always get him whatever he needs . . .” said Bill Lewis. He stood by the bed, staring down at the boy. “Shouldn’t you cover him with a blanket?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the judge, still glaring at Olivia.
“I’ll get it,” said Bill Lewis. “Never seen anything like that.”
Olivia looked at Lewis. “You go get the medical kit,” she said. “Fix up the kid.”
Then she turned and exited, leaving the judge sitting by the bed, waiting for Lewis to return.
Ramon Gutierrez parked some three blocks away from Megan and Duncan’s house and stepped out into the dark and cold. He pulled his parka closer to his body when he felt the first touch of the evening on his skin. He thought of winter nights in the South Bronx when he was young, where the cold mingled with misery, and he imagined that those times were much worse because they had no hope. He tried to remember Puerto Rico and imagine the tropical warmth that covered the island, but he was unable to. He had come to the United States as a child, and only returned to the island once, when he was a teenager, for a visit with his uncle. The movement to make the island independent had grown up in the ghettos of New York City; he had joined first out of a sense of curiosity, then because he discovered that he would be accepted by the group if he performed a particular political role. Having felt ostracized through much of his teen age, first by family, then by the neighborhood, it had come as a pleasant surprise to him. He had embraced the political rhetoric of the movement wholeheartedly, without even the slightest amount of sincerity.
As he walked briskly past the dark trees and well-lit houses toward Megan and Duncan’s home, he thought of his old neighborhood. It was always too warm or too cold. He thought of a young junkie who’d inhabited an empty shell of a building on the end of his street. The man had frozen to death one night when the temperature had plummeted and the wind had stormed through the holes and gaps in the building. Ramon and some of the other boys had found him, curled around a broken washstand, stiffened by death. The man’s brown skin had turned a lighter color and looked like mud that had frozen on a field. His face had seemed like a Hallo
ween mask.
He shook his head.
I will never go back there.
I will never have to go back when this is over.
He paused to admire a Cadillac in a driveway, then paced on, remindful of Olivia’s admonition simply to check on the family, make sure they were all at home, and that, once again, there was no police presence. A six-block walk, she’d said: Park, get out, don’t hesitate, simply walk by, keep walking, go around the block, back to the car, get in, drive by once more and return to the farmhouse.
He forced himself to think of the money that they would get, as if that might keep him warm. He wished she had let him take one of the weapons with him, but he understood her reasons against it. Still, he thought, I wish I had my gun.
He wondered for a moment whether any of the people whose shapes and forms he could see moving behind the windows of the houses he passed had ever been inside a prison. Life is always a prison, he thought. When I was in Attica it was no different from where I grew up in the South Bronx. He laughed to himself: The only change was that at Attica the locks on the doors worked; at home, they never did.
If the lock had worked, I wouldn’t have had so much trouble.
The embarrassment of his memory almost made him stop. She said she was thirteen. How was I to know she was only ten? For an instant he remembered the smooth olive skin that had fluttered beneath his hands. I did not know she was retarded, he thought angrily, and what difference was that, anyway? He dismissed the memory from his mind, clearing away the picture of his mother screaming in Spanish, a torrent of obscenities and abuse, and his father, unbuckling his garrison belt and winding it ominously around his fist.
Day of Reckoning Page 17
