She watched and waited.
After an hour, Duncan knew Olivia wasn’t coming, but he felt powerless to move. He waited a second hour, until his feet lost all sensation and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back through the inkiness that surrounded him.
He finally stood up.
For an instant his head spun about, and he felt a drunk’s insecurity.
The tears on his cheeks had dried.
The hollowness inside him seemed vast, endless.
His mind was a blank of despair.
Duncan moved steadily, robotically, across the field, back to where he hoped his car remained. It was as if the time spent dashing across his town, then finding this particular lonely spot, had happened years before, somewhere in his memory, not mere hours beforehand.
He slipped and fell headfirst once, lying for an instant in the damp, scraggly field. He could taste blood on his lip. Then he picked himself up and tried to wipe some of the wet mud from his body. He stumbled on, finally picking out the stone wall, which seemed at first to be a dark wave rushing toward him. Clutching the briefcase, he scrambled over the top. He spotted his car a hundred feet up the road, and trudged toward it.
He did not know what he would do when he got home.
For a few moments, as he opened the door and strapped himself in, he thought: This was just like her. A test, just to see what I’d do. His anger was so immense that he felt not rage but a great vacuum inside.
He started up the car and put it in gear. He did not have any idea what he would say to Megan and the twins. The car’s tires spun momentarily, as he turned it around, and he thought: That’s all I need, to get stuck out here. He drove slowly back down the road.
I wonder if she’ll call tonight. Or tomorrow. He tried to imagine what sort of arrangement she would want to make to get the money, but was unable to invent a scenario. This time I will insist, he thought, I will demand the trade take place. The Tommys for the money. Perhaps that is what she has intended all along, but he doubted it.
He slowed down as he approached the fork in the road. He thought of the disappointment that Megan would have, and he tried to think of something to say to her that wouldn’t mimic the despair he himself felt. He wondered what Karen and Lauren would think. They’ve been through the wringer, too. I’ve got to do something for them. He breathed out slowly, and started to turn to his left, keeping the directions in mind, backtracking from oblivion.
Then he screamed.
Headlights blinded him suddenly and he threw the wheel hard to avoid an onrushing car that emerged from the darkness like a wraith, heading right at him. He could hear the sound of the car’s engine, and the noise of its tires fighting for purchase on the loose-packed gravel as it swooped in attack toward him. He plunged his foot down on the brake and felt his car swerve, fishtail, and finally slam to a halt. It stalled with a shudder.
He held his hand up, trying to ward off the light that flooded his windshield. Then his door was ripped open.
He twisted in the seat and saw Olivia.
She thrust a revolver into his face and cocked the hammer back with a solid, sickening click.
“Money, Duncan. Give me the money.”
He could hardly speak, and he croaked, “My boy . . .”
“Give me the money, Duncan, or I will kill you right here.”
“I want my boy,” he said, voice quivering.
“Kill him!” came a voice from the darkness. “Just kill the pig now!”
Duncan grabbed the briefcase.
Olivia’s voice remained absolutely calm.
“Think, Duncan. Get a grip on yourself. You could die out here and it would all be over and they’d never get home. You could fight or refuse and die and it would all be for nothing, wouldn’t it? Give me the money, Duncan, just hand it over and live. It’s your only chance. It’s the boy’s only chance.”
Another voice cut into the blackness: “Come on! Olivia, hurry!”
Duncan knew the voice. It was Bill Lewis and he stared out into the darkness, wildly, searching for him.
“Just blow the fucker away!” said the other voice.
“Duncan, use your head,” Olivia said quietly. She did not grab at the briefcase, but she pointed at it deliberately. “Just hand it over. Can’t you see that I can just take it if I want to?”
He handed her the briefcase, and she dropped it behind her, keeping the gun trained on him.
“Good,” she whispered. “Smart, Duncan.”
She reached past him and snatched the keys out of his ignition. “I’ll drop these about fifty yards up the road,” she said, “when you see me tap the brake lights. They’ll be right in the center of the road, and you’ll be able to find them if you’re careful.”
“Tommy . . .” Duncan moaned.
“I’ll count the money and be in touch. Just stay cool, Duncan. You’ve almost made it. No one’s dead yet. No one has to die. Think about that. Think about it real hard. No one has to die . . .” She emphasized the word “has.”
She hesitated. “But they might,” she whispered.
Olivia stepped back, picking the briefcase up from the spot where she’d dropped it. Duncan half-fell from his car, trying to keep up with her. She whirled and brought the pistol to bear on his chest.
“Play the game, Duncan,” she said.
He stopped in his tracks, hands outstretched, in half-supplication, half-despair. Olivia abruptly turned her back on him, with a snort. He watched as she got back into her car. The headlights that had blinded him were suddenly extinguished, but the engine surged and Duncan had to leap backward as it roared toward him, scorching past where he stood. He pivoted and saw it stop fifty yards away. As she had said, she tapped the brake lights. He could see that the headlights were turned on past the spot where he might have read her license number or made out the make of car. Then it accelerated into the darkness. Duncan started to run after it, his breath coming in gasps and gulps, but the car disappeared around a corner, the lights vanishing. Duncan stood for an instant, staring at the endless night.
Then, with absolutely nothing else to do, he got down on his knees and started to hunt for his keys.
10
SUNDAY
It was well past midnight, but Duncan continued to search through the basement, muttering to himself as he delved into the dusty accumulation of boxes, old tax returns, bundled magazines, and scarred furniture that littered the shadowy room. Megan sat on the steps, beneath a bare hundred-watt bulb, watching her husband, not precisely certain what he was looking for. She felt drained and wretched; in the hours since he had returned home muddy, half-frozen, and alone, they had passed through tears and shouts and recriminations to a stunned silence that had been interrupted when Duncan abruptly rose and said, “Well, I know one thing that isn’t going to happen again.” Then he had tromped down to the basement, without explaining his cryptic statement. She had been watching his search for half an hour, without speaking—scared to speak, actually—because every word seemed to insist on the horror of their position.
“Dammit, I know it’s here somewhere,” Duncan said as he shifted a box. “Christ, what a mess!” As he moved, his misshapen shadow slid across the floor.
Megan put her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands.
“Duncan,” she said quietly, “do you think they’re still alive?” She wanted to snap the words back as soon as she said them.
He paused, shifting a cardboard container, then in a sudden, violent move, threw the container against the wall, where it crashed and exploded in dust.
“Yes! What kind of question—”
“Why?” she whispered.
“What reason would she have to—” he started.
“One hundred and forty-one thousand seven hundred and
eighty-six reasons,” Megan said glumly.
Duncan stopped and stood, waiting for his wife to continue.
“She has the money. She’s probably ruined our lives, as well. What’s to prevent her from killing them and simply walking away, richer, satisfied, and free as a bird?”
Duncan did not answer for several minutes. He stood thinking, preparing his words carefully.
“You’re right,” he said, “It makes absolutely no sense for her to leave witnesses. It makes no sense for her to hang around here for one more instant than she has to. She knows that Monday morning the bank will be swarming with cops. She knows that she’s pushed us to our limits. Sticking around only endangers her more. What would make sense is to shoot the Tommys and get the hell out of here.”
Megan fought tears.
“Which is why,” Duncan said, “she won’t do it.”
“What?”
“She won’t do it. She won’t do what makes sense.”
“But—how—I can’t see—” Megan stuttered.
Duncan took a deep breath. “You know, it’s funny, I said it the other day. Was it Thursday? Wednesday? God, it seems like it was forever ago. Anyway, I said it and then I forgot it and I shouldn’t have: It’s not the Tommys. It’s not the money. What she wants is us.”
Megan opened her mouth to respond, then stopped.
They both remained quiet for a moment. Then Duncan said it again: “Us. Understand? That’s why she’s still here. That’s why she won’t leave, not quite yet. No matter how much sense it would make to get out. Not while there’s still a card or two left to play.”
“What cards do you think are left?”
“Just two,” Duncan said softly. He pointed first at Megan and then himself. “King and Queen of trumps.”
Megan nodded.
“Do you think she means to kill us?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Make us suffer? Torture us? That’s what she’s been doing. I don’t know; I just feel sure that she means some crushing act, something she can see and taste and feel. Something she can savor for years. Maybe she means to kill us. But maybe it’s something else, something that we would have to live with every day, the way she did.” Duncan shuddered. “I’m not sure. But I know the Tommys are alive.”
Megan realized that she was again dipping her head in agreement. She’d wondered why Olivia hadn’t killed Duncan earlier, out in the lonely countryside. She’d had a perfect opportunity. Except I wasn’t there.
“Do you think there’s any chance she might just return the Tommys? After all, if it’s us she really wants—”
Duncan cut her off. “No. Absolutely none.”
Megan nodded. “You know, it’ll sound crazy—”
“Nothing sounds crazy right about now.”
She smiled wanly. “—but I think if he were dead, I would feel it somewhere inside of me. Like something would break or go off.”
Duncan nodded. “I think so, too. Whenever he’s been sick or troubled, I always thought I could feel it inside . . .” Duncan let his voice trail off. He spotted something in the corner of the basement and suddenly reached down for it.
“So,” Megan said with an abrupt firmness that surprised even herself, “what do we do? Where do we go from here? How do we fight back?”
Duncan straightened up, holding a shoebox-sized metal container. “I knew I could find it,” he said. He shook his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”
“Do we go to the police now?” Megan asked.
“I never knew what to do with it,” he said.
“No,” Megan answered her own question. “No. I know what we do.” She thought of the list up in her briefcase, with the area map. “It’s what we should have done at the beginning.”
She realized that she was on her feet, that her voice had an unfamiliar tone. There was an edge and harshness to her words that she barely recognized, but it was welcome.
Duncan paced over to where she stood. The bare light bulb threw their shadows across the basement, making their images on the wall seem gigantic. He tugged at the latch on the tin box and it came free. Megan craned to see what it held, and then remembered as she spotted the piece of stained oilcloth that had covered the contents for so many years.
“Will it still work?” she asked.
“It did in nineteen sixty-eight,” Duncan replied. “I never knew what to do with it,” he repeated. “I suppose I should have thrown it away when we first ran back here, but I didn’t and then I just never got rid of it. We’ve hauled it everyplace we’ve moved.”
He held the .45-caliber pistol up to the light, inspecting it for rust and age. He slid a clip of cartridges from the handle, then reached up and snatched back the chambering action, cocking the empty pistol with a harsh, metallic noise.
“Do you remember how she would call us?” Duncan asked. “What did she call it? The morning prayer.”
“We are the new America,” Megan intoned.
She took the pistol from Duncan’s hand and sighted down the barrel. “We are the new America,” she repeated. She pulled the trigger, and the hammer clicked down on the empty chamber with a sharp sound that echoed in the basement and resounded in their imaginations.
Megan let Duncan sleep.
He had paced the floor of the living room until past three in the morning, wound up with a hundred ideas, finally falling exhausted into one of the armchairs, nodding off with the .45 in his lap. The twins had discovered him in that position when they awakened; Lauren had gently lifted the weapon from his hand, while Karen put her hands on his shoulders so that he would not awaken startled. Moments later Megan had joined the twins in the kitchen, where they’d placed the weapon in the center of the kitchen table, and were staring at it as if it were something alive.
“Where did we get that?” Lauren asked.
“And what are we going to do with it?” Karen added.
“We’ve had it since sixty-eight. We just never had a need for it . . .” She was only slightly taken aback by the twins’ attitude, spoken in matter-of-fact tones; they seemed neither shocked nor scared to discover the handgun in their house.
“Until now,” Lauren finished her mother’s statement.
“Until now,” Megan repeated.
“Are we really going—” Karen started, but her mother held up her hand.
“Is there a plan?” Lauren asked.
“None yet. No.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“Right now?” Megan looked at the twins. “You guys are going to stay here and keep an eye on your father. No one is to do anything. If the phone rings, wake him up. It could be them. They said they were going to be in touch.”
“I hate this waiting,” Lauren said with sudden force. “I hate this always waiting for things to happen to us! I want to do something.”
“We’ll have our time,” said Megan. “I promise.”
Lauren nodded, satisfied. Her sister eyed her mother.
“What are you going to do now?” Karen asked.
Megan took the pistol off the table and put it in her briefcase.
“You’re not going to do anything silly all by yourself, are you? I’ll wake up Dad,” Lauren admonished. “We’re all in this together.”
Megan shook her head. “No, I won’t. Don’t worry. All I’m going to do is look at some real estate,” she said. “That’s what realtors do on Sundays. They inspect properties.”
“Mom!”
“Mom, you can’t just head off alone. Dad will go crazy.”
“I know,” Megan said abruptly. “I know he will. But I’m going to do this myself.”
“Why? And what are you going to do?”
“What I’m going to do is take a stab in the dark,” Megan re
plied carefully. “I’ve taken a guess at some possible places that they might have rented. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find the Tommys.”
“Yeah. And maybe you’ll get unlucky and get in trouble,” Karen muttered.
“Mom, this is crazy—” Lauren started.
Megan nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose so. But at least it’s something and that’s better than nothing.”
“I still think you should wait for Dad,” Karen insisted.
“No.” Megan shook her head. “He did what he had to do, by himself. Now I’m doing what I have to do, by myself.”
She looked at the two girls carefully. She wondered for an instant why she was so dogmatic—but she knew that she had to get out of the house before Duncan awakened. He would be reasonable and practical, she knew, and he would be frightened for her. He would prevent her from taking this chance, and that would be worse than all the danger she might face. She felt her insides churn with conflict. I have done nothing, she thought. And now it is time for me to do something.
“Mom, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Lauren asked.
“Yes,” Megan replied. “No. What difference does that make?”
She put on her jacket, a hat and scarf. “When your father gets up, tell him I’ll call in an hour or two. Tell him there’s nothing to worry about.”
She left the twins, neither of whom believed her for an instant, hovering protectively about Duncan, who slept on, driven by exhaustion.
Outside the front door, Megan paused, breathing in a draught of cool air, letting the damp cold seep into her head, clearing her thoughts. She allowed herself a single twinge of guilt, thinking of how furious Duncan would be when he awakened. Then she dismissed the sensation and forged ahead. She walked steadily to her car, searching the area for any signs of Olivia or her crew. She peered up and down the street and saw no one except the neighbors. She watched as one family took seats in a station wagon and backed gingerly out of their driveway. They had loaded up the car with hockey sticks, and skates, and wore bright red and blue jerseys. She saw another neighbor sweeping some dead leaves out of a pathway. Up the street she saw an elderly couple packing mulch around a flowerbed in anticipation of the first snow of the season. For an instant she was almost overcome by the normalcy of it all. A car cruised by and she recognized one of the other realtors from her office, who lived down the block. Megan waved with a jocularity that sickened her. But she used the opportunity to let her eyes follow the neighbor’s car, inspecting the street. When she was satisfied that there was no one waiting for her, no one watching the house, she slipped behind the wheel. But before starting the engine, she checked her supplies: Map. Addresses. Paper and pencil. Binoculars. Instant camera and film. Gun. She wore tall waterproof boots and a dark parka, and she had one of Duncan’s knit ski hats, which she could pull down over most of her face. She turned the ignition, took another deep breath, and headed out.
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