Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  Lewis seemed to be staring directly at the loosened boards. From his seat, Judge Pearson could see the scratch marks and telltale splinters of wood that rendered their plan obvious. He froze, not knowing what to say.

  There was one terrible second, then Tommy spoke up:

  “But why didn’t you just go home?”

  “What?” Bill Lewis pivoted away from the wall, still shaking with anger.

  “Why didn’t you just go home?” Tommy insisted.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Home! Just go home! Why not?” Lewis laughed and shook once, his entire body convulsing. For an instant he seemed to be glowing with rage. Then, just as abruptly as the storm had blown up, it fled. He sighed, like a balloon releasing air. The judge thought he could actually see the man’s anger dissipate in the hot attic.

  “I wish I could have,” Lewis said quietly. “I didn’t have a home like yours, Tommy.”

  Lewis dragged himself back to the bed. He stared disconsolately at the plate of sandwiches. “Can I have one?”

  “Sure,” replied the judge.

  Lewis took a large bite, then looked over at Tommy.

  “I didn’t have a home like yours,” he repeated.

  “You didn’t?”

  “Nope. My folks didn’t want to have too much to do with me or with Emily. They pretty much kicked us out. My old man was career army, you know. A drill sergeant. He didn’t like hair and he didn’t like education and he didn’t like radical politics, and I had a lot of all those things.”

  Lewis smiled.

  “Especially hair.”

  He fingered the red scar on his throat.

  “The old bastard gave me this when I was seven. About the same size as Tommy, there. I didn’t follow some order quite fast enough, and he was standing there with an old garrison belt. Wham!” Lewis clapped his hands together suddenly, startling both Tommys. “My old lady even called the military police when she saw all the blood. They carted me off to the base hospital, stitched me up, and that was that.”

  Lewis smiled.

  “We all have our scars,” he said. “This is just the most obvious.”

  That, Judge Pearson agreed, was true.

  The two men continued eating the food, as if oblivious to the explosion that had just taken place. The judge relaxed and said, “Well, you make good sandwiches, at least. I suppose one ought to be grateful.”

  Bill Lewis nodded. “I really apologize about all this, you know. I mean, I’ve got nothing against you or Tommy, really. But a plan’s a plan, judge. You know, you got to stick with the procedure. You know that better than anyone. That’s what a courtroom is, right? Procedures.”

  Judge Pearson chewed and swallowed.

  “You’ve got that right. Ever been in one?”

  “Nope. Except for traffic court, down in Miami. I’ve been lucky.”

  Bill Lewis smiled.

  “You know the really stupid thing about all this? Back in sixty-eight, when we were all together in the brigade, I wanted Duncan and Megan out. I didn’t think they had the right stuff, to borrow a phrase. I didn’t think they were really committed to the plan or to the philosophy. I wish I’d insisted.”

  “That’s life. I’d guess that in maybe sixty percent of the cases I handled there was something, some moment, where the people could have changed everything, if maybe one thing had happened. But it did or it didn’t and so they ended up in front of me.”

  “Capricious fate,” Bill Lewis said. He grinned.

  The judge nodded.

  As the two men were talking, Tommy put his half-eaten sandwich down. He slid away from the judge, moving gingerly to the end of the bed. His mind was divided into two sections, the first screaming instructions to him, the other shouting at him to ignore those com­mands. Do it! said the first. Sit still! called the other. Go! Stop! Go! Stop!

  He was unsure if he was the only one aware that Bill Lewis had not locked the door behind him when he delivered the luncheon.

  Tommy turned and wondered whether he could make himself invisible, whether he could rise so silently that no one would notice his parting, and tread so lightly that his footsteps would make no sounds.

  He saw Bill Lewis stretch toward the tray of food, turning his back ever so slightly away from him.

  Now! The command seemed to startle him with its force. Now! Go now!

  Tommy could feel his muscles twitch. His head spun dizzily, as if he were caught in a sudden undertow at the beach, pulling him beneath the waves, his breath deserting him.

  Now!

  He jumped up.

  “Hey!”

  “Tommy!”

  His grandfather’s and Lewis’s surprised voices seemed distant. He was aware only that he thought himself flying across the attic space.

  He dove toward the stairs, nearly falling down in his flight, bumping savagely against the wall to regain his balance. He threw himself at the attic door, scrambling for the handle, only vaguely aware of the two men leaping up behind him.

  “Stop!”

  Bill Lewis’s voice was high-pitched and panicked.

  “Stop, stop, stop right there! Goddammit, Tommy, stop!”

  Tommy seized the door handle and flung open the unlocked door, a few feet ahead of the hands that reached for him.

  “Christ! Olivia, Ramon! The kid! Help!” Lewis bellowed.

  Tommy thrust himself through the door, trying to outrun Bill ­Lewis’s cries for help. He heard his grandfather yell behind him:

  “Go! Go! Run for it, Tommy!”

  “Get him! Get him! Help! Help! Goddammit! Stop! Stop!”

  Lewis was a half-step behind and Tommy swung the door back hard, crunching down on the man’s outstretched arm.

  “Shit! Goddammit! Help!” Lewis’s powerful voice seemed to fill the air around Tommy, buffeting him like a wild wind.

  “Run, Tommy, run!” he heard his grandfather calling far behind him. “Just go! Go! Get away!”

  Tommy dashed down the hallway, past doors, past the bathroom, heading toward the stairway. Things flashed in and out of his vision, a washstand, a bedroom, a pile of dirty clothes, some weapons and ammunition on a bed. He disregarded them and flew on, hearing only the scraping sound of his feet as they fought for purchase on the wood floors. He could sense Lewis behind him, knew, without seeing, that the man’s arms were reaching for him frantically. He dodged back and forth, grabbed the banister, and swung himself around the corner, feeling Lewis’s fingers rip free from his sweater. There was a thudding sound and more obscenities as Lewis slipped and fell. He looked down and saw Olivia and Ramon, weapons drawn, racing up the stairway toward him. He turned and saw Lewis scramble back to his feet and bear down hard on him from behind. He ducked and slithered past Lewis, who pivoted, slipped again, and continued screaming obscenities. Tommy headed back down the hallway toward a bedroom, slamming the door as he passed through, angling for the window.

  Behind him he heard Olivia yell, “I’ll shoot, dammit! I’ll shoot!”

  But he ignored her and fought for the window. He reached it and frantically tried to throw the sash up. He could see down to the next roof story, then caught a glimpse of a distant line of dark trees and a wide, gray, overcast sky. He could hear his breathing, loud, panicked, as if it were coming from somewhere else. He realized that bodies were piling up behind him in the doorway and he felt their rage precede them.

  Then there was an immense explosion as one of the weapons was fired. Tommy recoiled, knocked to the floor by the sound, as plaster and wood chips exploded in the wall next to his head, raining down upon him.

  I’m dead, he thought, then instantly realized he wasn’t. He could hear his grandfather roaring in fury: “Leave him alone! You sadist! I’ll
kill you if you hurt him!” And he heard Olivia’s measured shout in reply: “Out of my way, old man, or I’ll shoot you instead.”

  All the voices seemed jumbled, screams of pain and rage and insult all filling the small room, mixing with the cordite smell and the reverberations of the shot. He suddenly realized that he too was shouting, a single high-pitched word that penetrated all the rest: “Home!”

  He scrambled to his feet, dodging the hands that reached for him, and picked up a chair. He aimed it at the window, thinking: Break it! Jump! But he felt a hand seize his collar and jerk him back. Another set of hands grabbed at his arms and pinned them down, the chair slipping from his hands and crashing to the floor. Hot angry breath ran over his face like blood.

  He was aware he was being shaken, pummeled about, tossed like an unwanted rag, punched and kicked.

  Tommy caught one brief glimpse through the window of a sliver of blue sky that seemed to break through the cloud cover for just the barest of moments before being swallowed up. And he thought it worth it, just to see that, no matter how hard and terribly they beat him. He curled up, trying to protect himself from the blows flailing at him, shutting his eyes, closing his hands over his ears, so that he could not hear all the voices screaming at him. He said to himself, They’ll kill me now. He hoped that his grandfather would tell his family that at least he had tried to escape, and he figured they would be proud of him. In the midst of all the noise and tumult, he picked out his grandfather’s deep voice, trying to defend him, which comforted him just a tiny amount, as his eyes rolled back and he slipped away into a darkness of his own creation.

  Megan rocked in her chair at her office, unable to sit still, thinking of Olivia.

  She remembered Olivia’s voice, which had an unusual depth to it, a throaty masculinity which intimidated the women and entranced the men. She remembered her leonine mass of hair, and imperious beauty. She understood Olivia’s true genius: She could concoct the most harebrained plot and make it seem routine and simple and something you would want, no, need to be a part of.

  Megan wanted to pound on her desk in sudden anger. How could I have been so obtuse? she thought.

  Because I was still a child.

  She pictured their house in Lodi. I should have walked out and made Duncan follow me. I should have spoken up. But Olivia had all the answers and she always knew all the questions ahead of time. It was as if she never contemplated anyone else having any input into her scheme; it had to go precisely as she planned it or it wasn’t worth doing. Megan remembered going with Olivia over the escape route, back and forth, once, twice, a dozen times, until she knew everything, even the timing on the stoplights. She had tried, feebly, once, to suggest a different street, but Olivia would hear nothing of it. But, Megan thought, it was all wrong. We practiced the wrong things. We studied the wrong designs. We really didn’t know what we were doing, no matter how well planned and careful Olivia made it seem. It was all an illusion.

  There was a knock on the door, and it swung open. A pair of the other realtors in the office were pulling on overcoats in the hallway. One spoke up: “Meg? Would you like to join us for lunch?”

  Megan shook her head.

  “No, thanks. Just yogurt here at the desk today.”

  “You sure you don’t want to come along?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  The door closed and she sat in the quiet with her memories. She thought again of the house in Lodi. It was a hateful place, dirty and decrepit and wretched, and we all thought it was someplace special because we were able to deceive ourselves constantly. She remembered driving with Olivia to the landlord’s office, where Olivia had paid him two months’ rent in cash and behaved slightly coquettishly. Megan remembered how Olivia had insisted on appearances; they were to seem to be a couple of hippie girls with hippie boyfriends. She had insisted that Megan remove her bra and wear a loose-fitting paisley shirt to the man’s office. Harmless children, all caught up in benign peace, love, and flowers, with their most dangerous act perhaps smoking marijuana or dropping the occasional tab of acid. It was part of the disguise. She recalled how Olivia had lectured them all on pretending to be something other than what they were. It was the keystone of the scheme. She remembered the landlord, a middle-aged, friendly man, who blushed right up to his bald pate when they flirted with him, and who seemed to adore the attention of a pair of jiggling young women. He was completely bamboozled.

  Megan sat up suddenly in her chair.

  Fragmented memories and bits of conversation stampeded through her head.

  Why Lodi? Why was staying there so important?

  That was where the bank was.

  Why that house?

  Because Olivia insisted on being located where the robbery was going to happen. She demanded a base of operations close to the scene.

  Why?

  To study. To learn everything she could about the bank and the money delivery from the chemical plant.

  Why?

  So that Olivia would always be in control. She would be able to anticipate everything. It was of critical importance to her.

  What does that mean?

  It means she knows everything. She’s been planning right here. She knows Duncan’s routine at the bank and when the twins come home from school. She had to know when the judge picked up Tommy at the end of the day and which days he rode the bus. She knows where my office is and where I go to lunch. She knows all these things because she hasn’t changed. She’s the same Olivia. Only we’re the bank job this time, and she’s been studying us.

  So where is she?

  She’s in a house like the one in Lodi. A house she rented two or three months ago, and paid cash for, and where she pretended to be someone else.

  She’s close. Not quite close enough for us to see her, but close enough for her to see us. She’s in a house where she can reach out for us when she wants to, and feel safe when she doesn’t, where the judge and Tommy can be hidden, but not far, not far at all.

  Megan stood up, as if in a trance, overcome by the obviousness of it all. She walked over to the bookcase in the corner of her office and pulled out several large loose-leaf binders. Each was embossed with gold block writing: GREENFIELD MULTIPLE LISTING SERVICE—­Greenfield, Westfield, Deerfield, Pelham, Shutesbury, Sunderland and rural areas—JULY/AUGUST, SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER, NOVEMBER/DECEMBER. RENTALS AND SALES.

  She sat down slowly at her desk, opened the top drawer, and reached in for a detailed area map, which she spread out on her desktop. Then she very carefully took a sharpened pencil from a holder next to the telephone. She touched the point gingerly, imagining it was a sword. She slid a yellow legal pad in front of her, paused, poising the pencil above the pad. For an instant she waited, letting the quiet surround her.

  You’re right here, Olivia. I know your mind like I know my own, I just didn’t realize it. You haven’t thought of everything, like you think you have. You haven’t factored in one element of the equation:

  This is my territory.

  She opened the book and started in with the available rental listings for late in the summer just past.

  At their last free period of the day, Karen met Lauren in the high school library. It was a low-ceilinged room, with fluorescent lights and long, uncomfortable tables. The only person in the room was the assistant librarian, a middle-aged woman busily sorting books behind a central counter. She looked up and smiled at Karen as she came through the door, and whispered, probably out of habit, because there was no one else to disturb: “Your sister’s back in the stacks.” She gestured to the rows of shelved books that surrounded her.

  Karen walked back and saw Lauren weighted down with a half-dozen thick books. Lauren jerked her head toward a table in the corner. Karen hurried to her side.

  “Do you think you’ve found it?” she asked excitedly.


  “I don’t know, but if it’s anywhere, it’ll be in one of these.”

  The two teenagers spread the books in front of them. Karen picked one up and opened it haphazardly. A photograph sprung out at them: six helicopters in formation angling low over rough jungle terrain. The choppers were outlined against a dull gray dawn sky. They could see a green-suited soldier hanging out the side of the lead helicopter, firing a machine gun down at the ground. The tracer bullets appeared as red-yellow streaks in the photograph. Karen turned the page and saw another picture, this time of a helmeted police officer lifting a truncheon above his head, ready to bring it crashing down on the skull of a demonstrator. She stared at the picture for an instant, caught by the look of madness in the policeman’s eyes. Karen saw that the demonstrator was a young woman, probably not much older than herself. She handed the book to her sister, who turned the page to a photograph of a city street burning behind a flak-jacketed National Guardsman; then a long-haired student, wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigar, sitting at a university president’s desk. She kept flipping through the pages, past photos of Russian tanks rolling through Czechoslovakia and athletes at the Olympics standing with their heads bowed and their fists raised during the national anthem; past pictures of swollen-bellied babies, dying of starvation in Biafra, and stricken leaders, dying of assassins’ bullets.

  After a moment, Lauren sighed. “You know,” she whispered, “I see these and I just don’t understand.”

  Karen didn’t reply. She picked up a large, thick reference book entitled: Book of the Year—1968. “It will have to be in here,” she said. She glanced up at a clock on the wall. “We don’t have much time,” she whispered. “Mom’s expecting us.”

  Lauren nodded. “You look in there. It should be late in the year. I’ll keep checking, see if I can find some pictures.”

  For a few moments, the two of them were silent as they searched through the pages. Karen finally stiffened, and nudged her sister with her elbow. She pointed down at a small block of text. Lauren leaned over and read: