“What the hell are you talking about? The girls said you were out looking for the Tommys.”
“Duncan—don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’ve just been scared silly.” He paused. “Of course I’m angry. I’m fucking furious! Suppose, suppose—”
“I’m okay.”
“So far. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You wouldn’t have let me go.”
He was quiet for an instant. She heard him sigh and regain some sense. His voice finally picked up again, modulated and even. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have.”
“I just felt like I had to do this. Alone.”
He was quiet again. “Look,” he finally said. “Please just be careful. And don’t stay out much longer. I don’t think we could stand it after dark.”
“I’ll be home soon. Keep an eye on the girls.”
“If I haven’t heard from you by, say, seven, I’m coming looking for you.”
“I’ll be home by then,” she said.
“Seven,” Duncan insisted.
Megan got back into her car and checked the next address on her list. Something quickened within her, some sense of internal impetus, and for an instant she had to fight a dizzying sense of fear and excitement. You’re here, she thought again. She reached over swiftly and checked the pistol, which she moved underneath some papers on the seat next to her. She worried wildly that the old ammunition might not fire properly. But then, she realized, if she had to use the weapon, all was probably lost anyway. She pulled Duncan’s watch cap down on her forehead and pulled out of the parking lot.
Within a few moments she was tucked away in the folds of the wooded countryside. She drove a few miles through the intermittent light and shadows, finally spotting the first of the remaining houses on her list. It was set back fifty yards from the quiet road. Possible, she thought immediately. Very possible. She slowed her car. Are you there? She couldn’t see any activity as she cruised past, so she pulled her car to the side. I’ve got to check, she thought. I must be certain. She turned in her seat and saw that the road seemed empty, so she got out of the car and walked a few yards back to the entrance-way to the drive. She stared up at the house, past some bushes and a large oak tree that reminded her for an instant of one in her own yard back in Greenfield. Are you in there? she wondered again, hesitant to go closer, driven to know for certain. She took a small step toward the house, trying to spot some way of approaching it stealthily, aware suddenly that she was standing out in the middle of the road. Then, as she hesitated, she heard a car approaching.
It took her a moment to decipher the sound, but when she did, it threw her into panic.
She quickly searched for a place to hide, and saw none.
She took a few tentative steps toward her car, then broke into a headlong run, scrambling for the safety of the vehicle. Behind her, she could hear the engine noise growing in her ears. She grabbed at the door and threw herself behind the wheel, not knowing whether she had been spotted or not.
If they have, she thought, end it here.
She gritted her teeth and fought for control.
Megan reached for the pistol, lifting her eyes up so she could see into the mirror, expecting to see Olivia and a gun. But instead she saw a gray sedan pull into the driveway behind her. She could not see the occupants.
She pivoted in her seat, to try to catch a better glimpse, but could not. She turned back and started the engine, jamming the car into reverse, backing up with a flurry of spinning tires and rattling gravel. She slammed on her brakes by the entranceway to the house and searched the location quickly.
Her heart fell instantly.
The first thing she spotted was a pair of young women carrying bags of groceries. She saw two young men taking more packages from the trunk of the car. They were laughing, oblivious to her presence. Students, she thought abruptly. Probably two graduate couples sharing the house.
She realized that her hands were shaking on the wheel.
She calmed herself, glancing over at the house and then the car long enough to see a large, red University of Massachusetts decal on the window.
She breathed out, both relieved and frustrated.
Go on to the next, she told herself.
And keep control. And keep hidden.
But the next house was right on the roadway, and she could see immediately that it was occupied by another family. The front yard was littered with toys, all in various states of disrepair. In a way, she thought, this was fortunate. She stopped the car on the country road and waited. In the few minutes she was there, she managed to regain her composure.
She drove on, aware that the day was fleeing about her. The wan sunlight that penetrated the trees seemed to have lost its edge and she could sense the cold gathering for its evening assault. Come on, she said to herself. Come on.
She checked the addresses and the locations on the map. Two remained. She drove swiftly in the direction of the closest one, turning down one country road, then another. She came to a crossroads, and followed an old, faded sign.
She found herself cutting down a beaten road, swaying from frost heaves in the highway, occasionally dipping the car into a pothole. No tax money spent on this road, she thought. It was a realtor’s observation, and it froze her. She saw it then with another set of eyes. No traffic. No prying eyes. Rural oblivion. No neighborhood. No contact with anyone. She slowed the car and started checking the numbers on mailboxes. Her pulse speeded up as the number approached the one she was hunting.
She spotted the gravel drive curving into the woods, before she saw the mailbox number, and she knew it was the one. This time, however, she pulled quickly past, not even daring to glance through the woods toward where the house might be. Some fifty yards past the drive, she spotted a secondary road, a sparse, rutted dirt path, cut through the brush, leading back into the woods. An old fire road, she thought. Or maybe a farmer’s tractor trail down to a lower field. She fought off the urge to pull in there, thinking: Too close. She kept driving. A mile away, she saw another empty track, this time leading off into the opposite direction. She pulled her car in there, hiding it from the road.
Megan swallowed hard and collected her kit. She took the sketch pad, camera, and binoculars and put them into a haversack. The gun she tucked under her coat.
She got out of the car and walked back to the roadway. She wedged her cap down and started jogging slowly back up the road.
When she reached the secondary road, she ducked off it and slid into the forest. She could see her breath in front of her. For an instant she paused, letting the darkness seep over her. She maneuvered along the edge of the forest, sticking close to the farmer’s trail, hoping it was leading her toward the other drive and the house. She had no way of knowing this for certain; but the angles felt right to her, and she could sense her heartbeat beneath her coat. Underbrush snagged at her parka, but she tugged free, moving as quietly as possible. She thought she was making a racket; each broken twig sounded to her like a gun blast, each sucking step in a mud hole, like a missile launch. She pushed on, pressing through the pines, searching for the house.
She hesitated when she spotted light. She crouched down and stepped forward stealthily.
She had a sudden fear of dogs, but then dismissed it. She thought: If I’m wrong, I’ll surely owe some poor farmer an explanation. But she crept on.
She could see an old stone fence, bordering the edge of the forest, and she got down on her knees and crawled to it. She laid her cheek against a moss-covered rock, letting the cool sensation calm her. Then, slowly, she lifted her head.
She looked up at the old, white clapboard farmhouse. The evening mist seemed to gather about it. She could see no activity. For an instant she cursed the growing darkness, aware that it both helped hide her and helped hide what she
was searching for.
She pulled out the binoculars and focused them on a car parked in front of the house. Her heart raced when she spotted a rental sticker. No farmer drives a rental car, she thought. No student, either. But I remember one person who does. That’s just like her.
She swung the glasses around and trained them on the house. She could see little that distinguished the farmhouse. Like so many, it had three stories up, Cape style, with each level looking out over the others. She thought: Living room, dining areas downstairs, bedrooms on the second floor, then attic up top. It would be right.
Megan quickly put the glasses down and sketched what she could see of the location, making a rough map. She was situated by the side of the house, able to see the front and back. She could see a long, sloping field that ran away from the rear of the house, down to a line of trees. She wondered whether that was where the secondary road went and suspected it was. She could see that the drive curled into the front of the house, where there was a porch. There was a bit of old lawn, so that anyone approaching the house from the front would have to cross fifty yards of open space. She picked up the camera and took several quick pictures. They were dark and blurry, but they were something she could show Duncan.
She put the camera and sketch pad away, and lifted up the glasses. The darkness was closing in and she worried for an instant that she might get lost trying to make it back through the woods. Then she dismissed the fear and again trained her eyes on the house. Are you there, Tommy? She tried to concentrate, to see within the walls, to feel her son’s presence. Give me a sign, dammit. Show me something. She wanted to call his name, but she fought it off, biting her lip hard, until she could taste blood. She saw a bit of movement in one room and peered in that direction. A light was switched on inside and for a millisecond, she saw a figure.
It was Bill Lewis. She knew it instantly: the man’s unmistakable, gangling shuffle. Then, just as quickly, the figure passed from sight.
She wanted to scream.
She dropped the glasses, grabbed the pistol, and started over the stone wall, oblivious to anything except the certain knowledge that her son was inside the farmhouse.
I’m coming, her heart shouted. I’m coming!
But she stopped herself just as she flung her leg over the wall. She pitched back and forth for an instant, rocking in a firestorm of desire and reason. Then she pulled back and threw herself down behind the wall again. She was hyperventilating, and it took her a moment to calm herself. She tried to rationally assess her chances against the three armed kidnappers, and realized, even with the element of surpise, they would be minimal.
She closed her eyes for an instant, searching for the will to leave. She wanted desperately to find some way of telling her child that she would be back for him, but knew there was none.
She opened her eyes and saw her pictures and her sketches and picked up her pencil. Stay calm, she warned herself. Take things of value. You will be back here. She raised her head and drew in every detail of the surrounding land she could make out, sketching a map as accurately as her excited hand and encroaching night would allow.
Then Megan picked up the binoculars and searched the house another time. She couldn’t see anyone moving inside, but that told her nothing. I know you’re there, she thought.
She whispered this to herself: “Tommy, I’m coming.”
She tucked the gun back under her parka and collected her things. She forced herself to start crawling backward through the scraggly underbrush and near full darkness. But as she moved, she spoke quietly to herself, hoping the force of her words would rise through the sky, and penetrate the walls of the jail, slip unheard past his captors, and search out her child and echo gently in his ear: “Tommy, I’m coming. Do you hear me? I’m going for Daddy and we’re going to come back and bring you home. We’re coming.”
Megan retreated through the woods, alone, determined, and filling swiftly with the juices of battle.
11
SUNDAY
NIGHT
Duncan paced angrily through the house. His feet felt as if they were mired in quicksand. He wanted to pull free, to do something other than remain waiting. He felt waves of dread tug at his stomach. He glanced at his watch, at the idle telephone, out the window at the fleeing daylight and the encroaching night blackness, then back toward his daughters, who sat wordlessly watching him.
“Where the hell is your mother?” he said.
Karen and Lauren didn’t reply.
“I can’t stand it,” he said. “She’s left us hanging here, and Christ knows what’s happened.”
“She’s okay,” Lauren said. “I know she’s okay.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Karen said. “She’ll be back.”
And where the hell is Olivia? he thought. He was struck by the irony. I’m waiting for the two women left to me: Megan and Olivia. Trapped between the two.
He felt something unraveling inside of him, as if the tension were suddenly about to break loose. He breathed in deeply.
And then the phone rang.
Both twins jerked, startled.
Duncan picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Ah, Duncan, so good to hear your voice.”
“Olivia. I want—”
She ignored the start of his plea, rambling on in a mock-friendly voice.
“So, math-man. You’ve probably been toting up the seconds into minutes and the minutes into hours. Figuring the interest on time. Your waiting compounded daily, huh?”
“Olivia—”
“I guess in this case, math-man, time really is money.”
She laughed hard at her joke.
“Olivia, I held up my part of the bargain.”
“Spoken like a moneyman, Mister Banker. You’ve been counting up minutes. I’ve been counting up dollars.”
“I want them back now!” Duncan shouted into the telephone.
“Stay cool, math-man,” Olivia replied softly. Menace, as always, swirled around her voice. “Maybe I should just hang up and make you wait a bit more.”
“No!”
“Duncan, you have no patience. You should learn to control yourself. I have. I’ll call back later. Maybe.”
“No, please!” Duncan cut his voice in half. “I’m here. What now?” He was immediately angry with himself: Every time we’ve talked she’s pulled the same threat, to cut me off and leave me hanging. And every time I fall into her little head-trap without thinking. He gritted his teeth, grinding them angrily.
But in the moment he waited, with the silence growing between them, he realized that she hadn’t mentioned Megan. That meant that his wife was okay. Somewhere, but okay. The thought filled him with relief.
After a few moments he heard her breathe out slowly. When she spoke, her voice hissed barely above a whisper:
“It’s not enough,” she said.
Duncan’s heart felt as if someone had grabbed it and twisted it.
“I can’t believe—”
“It’s not enough!” she insisted.
“I’ll get more,” he replied instantly.
“That was fast,” Olivia said, laughing quietly.
“I don’t know how. I’ll get it,” he said. “Just let the Tommys go.”
“You don’t understand, do you, Duncan?”
Duncan didn’t know what to say and remained quiet.
“Perhaps what we need is a relationship,” Olivia said.
“Olivia, please, what the hell are you talking about?”
“What I need is a banker. My own personal banker and my own private account. Just like I said the other day. Well, math-man, you’re going to be my account. When I want more, I’m going to come back and get it. And you’ll just give it to me, won’t you?”
He t
hought: It will never end.
But he said: “Yes.”
Olivia burst out with a raucous, unforgiving laugh.
“That was too quick, Duncan. Much too quick.”
He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“You won’t know, you see. It could be six months. It could be six years. But I’ll be back. A long-term debt relationship, I suppose. Isn’t that what you’d call it? A mortgage on your life, Duncan, that’s what.”
Duncan thought again: It will never end.
“I agree and?”
“You get them back.”
“Then I agree.”
“So quick and easy,” Olivia said. “Don’t think that you can prepare for me, Duncan. You’ll never know when. Don’t you see the beauty of it all? You make money, and occasionally I take some. Your family gets to live in peace. No bullets in the back. If I wanted to, it would be so easy. Perhaps one of the kids walking out of school one day. A high-powered rifle fired from some distant car. Or Megan off to some realty appointment that turns out to be something else. Assassination is simple, Duncan. It’s a real American tradition. Surely you remember that? Our year together was quite a famous one for murders.”
Is this real? Duncan thought.
“Whatever you want. How do I get my son and the judge?”
“You sure you want the old bastard back, Duncan? He’s been the most contentious guest. What about inheritance? Don’t you stand to make a bit of cash when the old guy checks out? Wouldn’t you rather have me waste him now?”
She laughed again.
“I want them home.”
“That’s up to you.”
“How?”
“Remember the field you waited in?”
“Yes.”
“Think you can find your way back there again?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Tomorrow morning at eight A.M. Don’t be early. Don’t be late. Someone will be watching you. Don’t screw up. I see any other car, any other people at all, even some lost fucking farmer on a tractor, and terrible things will happen, Duncan. And let’s make it the two of you, okay? You and Megan, in the middle of that field at eight in the morning.”
Day of Reckoning Page 33
