Rough Draft

by James W. Hall

  Dear Son:

  I was shocked and sorrowed to receive your E-mail. I can only think that your mothers destructive influence holds you in its power. This is too bad. This worries me greatly. I wonder if I can trust you still with the secret we share. Please write me immediately and assure me that I have nothing to fear. For if I thought my own son would turn against me and tell terrible stories to the authorities, I do not know what actions I might be forced to take.

  Your father.

  Hannah sat back in her chair. She was shivering and the breath wouldn’t fill her lungs.

  She managed to lift her hands to the keyboard and opened Randall’s final reply, a desperate plea.

  Dear Dad:

  I promised, didn’t I? I haven’t told anybody what you did to Granddaddy and Nana, but if you don’t stop bothering me, I’m going to tell Mother. I will. I’ll tell her everything. So just leave me alone.

  And in an instant the story she’d been telling herself for these last five years dissolved. And the new scene played before her, complete and vivid, as if she were witnessing it firsthand.

  Five years ago, Pieter Thomasson, her ex-husband, must have been hovering on the edge of their lives, watching, waiting. The coward didn’t have the nerve to try his stunt with her around. Then early one morning after Hannah left for work, he showed up at the Kellers’ door. Entering through the kitchen, confronting Martha Keller first. Making demands. He was going to take his son away with him to Oslo. He was the boy’s rightful father. This was all Ed Keller’s fault anyway, for taunting Pieter in the courtroom that morning, provoking him to such rage before the judge that it wrecked his chances for shared custody.

  Pieter was carrying a pistol. He expected Ed and Martha to simply cave in. Wave the pistol in their faces and watch them cringe. But Martha didn’t react as he expected. She would have none of it, this craven man trying to abduct her grandson. She would have told Pieter exactly what she thought of him. He was sick and deranged. A man who preyed on young girls. A pedophile, as far as Martha was concerned. And in a sudden rage, Pieter must have fired. Ed heard the shots and came running half-dressed from the back of the house.

  But the shock of seeing his former son-in-law standing in his living room, made Ed Keller falter for a second, just long enough for Pieter to unload his weapon.

  And where was Randall and what did he see? Hannah knew now that he was not on the seawall as he’d claimed. That was a lie, part of the story he concocted to protect his father. So he must have been inside the house. Perhaps eating his cereal in the kitchen, and eyewitness to his father’s savagery. And when the last of the shots were fired, what happened between father and son?

  Maybe Randall managed to hide. And his father must have searched, frantic, calling out for him. Two bodies on the floor and the killer, the boy’s own father, was stalking through the house speaking to his son, trying to cajole him out into the open. Maybe that, or maybe Randall stood face-to-face with the man and refused to leave with him. Refused to be dragged outside and taken away. And his father, shaken by what he’d done and by his own son’s repudiation, finally took flight.

  No wonder Randall could not speak for weeks. Terrified, full of guilt. Afraid to incriminate his father, afraid for his own life and that of his mother. Locked in a horrible standoff with his own emotions.

  Then with every passing year, Pieter’s worry grew. His son could incriminate him, send him to prison, the gallows. Even though Randall’s cover story held up, Pieter must have been haunted with dread. Three men in a white van, dressed as house painters. An invention of Randall’s. A story that had deceived everyone. But Pieter’s anxiety grew. When his son reached maturity, would his silence be broken? Would Randall’s sense of right and wrong finally outweigh his loyalty to his father?

  It must have been that worry that drove Pieter to contact the boy, engage him in these secret exchanges. Test his devotion. And when Randall could take his disturbing presence no more and raised the possibility of revealing the truth to Hannah, Pieter had no choice but to act.

  Pieter Thomasson was the tourist from Norway who’d reported his rental car stolen. Pieter Thomasson was the shooter outside Garcia’s Café. That was, after all, the simplest solution to his dilemma. With Hannah dead, no further legal action would be necessary. Randall would be terrified, totally alone. And Pieter would simply step forward and repossess his son and spirit him away. Murderer and eyewitness living unhappily ever after.

  Hannah stared at Randall’s words on the screen.

  “I promised, didn’t I? I haven’t told anybody, but if you don’t stop bothering me, I’m going to tell Mother. I will. So just leave me alone.”

  But he hadn’t confided in hen Randall continued to harbor his secret. Corrosive, vile, poisonous, it had burned holes in the boy’s soul. The guilt of what he knew but could not tell was more than he could stand. The shame, the terror, the agonizing bewilderment he lived with every day. No wonder he had retreated into his room, and into the safe, electronic universe.

  This was the true story. She was almost certain of it.

  But it was entirely possible Hannah would never be absolutely sure. This might well be the only version she would ever know. For even if she managed to get Randall home safely, the task of extracting the truth from him about the events of that July morning might prove so damaging, so hurtful that it would be impossible to carry out. She might never know. She might only have this imagined account.

  Hannah sat staring blankly at the screen, eyes stinging with tears. She dropped her head into her hands, but just as she began to weep, J. J. Fielding’s voice filled the room.

  She wiped her eyes quickly.

  She took a long breath, then put her hand on the mouse and killed the E-mail screen, moving back to Fielding’s hospital room. The old man was talking. He was not apologizing anymore. His lips were moving and he was speaking in the same frail voice, but with fresh words now. Words that, by God, had to work.

  “Hey, listen to this,” Misty said. She tapped the volume button.

  Hal was filing his thumbnail. The point was dagger-sharp. He set the file down and tested the nail against the palm of his left hand. A dot of blood jumped to the surface of his skin. He wiped the blood on the steering wheel.

  “Listen to this, Hal. Listen. This is it.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Frank Sheffield was at his desk at the north Miami field office, cleaning out his drawers, doing it now when the building was nearly empty and when he was fueled by righteous anger and three margaritas from Paco’s on the beach. He had his computer switched on, set to Deathwatch.com. J. J. Fielding’s final minutes on earth.

  Frank had bummed an empty Jack Daniel’s box from the bartender at Paco’s and he’d decided when he filled that one box to the brim with his desk stuff, he was going to declare himself done. Whatever bullshit was left he’d donate to the Bureau’s national museum. They could display the stuff in the Hall of Shame wing. Along with the wax statues of all the other idiot agents who’d administered unsanctioned uppercuts to the bellies of U.S. senators.

  Frank was sitting in his familiar green leather swivel chair with the nasty squeak in the hinges. Over the years Sheffield must’ve unloaded three cans of WD-40 on that chair, but the squeak was still there, louder than ever. Now the Bureau could fucking well find the squeak themselves. Pass Frank’s chair on to some junior agent, an industrious kid fresh out of Quantico, a squeak specialist.

  Frank dumped a handful of yellow pencils into the box, then he opened the flap on a paper envelope full of snapshots, a couple of rolls he’d taken last summer of a few of his three-week romances. Mostly middle-distance shots at the tiki bar, the ladies sloshed, sitting there in the sun, in their bikinis, giving Frank a variety of sloppy grins.

  Sheffield dropped the envelope in the trash can, which was already overflowing with a lot of other sentimental crap. All that was left in the middle drawer was a sheaf of departmental stationery. He was pulling tha
t out to toss it too when an old glossy of Hannah Keller fluttered out. One of her publicity shots from way back when. A leftover from the murder investigation of her parents. He must’ve stashed it and forgotten.

  Frank rocked back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and gave the photo a careful appraisal. Didn’t take him more than a second to see she’d gotten better-looking over time. Lost the baby fat in her cheeks, the softness around the eyes, the mechanical smile. Five years later and the lady had a hard-edged elegance about her, a no-nonsense stare, eyes that could nail you to the fucking wall and keep you there. She had a better haircut now, did her makeup better, the whole look these days was more natural, more real. As luminescent as Ingrid Bergman but still with a street-tough edge. Somebody you could take home and show your mother and dad, if you had a mother and dad.

  A burst of static on his computer speakers woke him from the daydream.

  Fielding was talking again. Frank straightened. He could tell immediately that something about Fielding’s voice was different. Sheffield leaned forward, rolled up the volume knob.

  “I wanted so very much to talk to you in person, Hannah. I was hoping you would come to my bedside so I could take your hand in mine, ask for your forgiveness. But it’s clear now that my little plan has failed, and you’re not going to make it here in time. I’m dying, Hannah. They tell me I only have a few hours left.”

  Frank peered at the screen. This wasn’t Helen Shane’s script. Fielding’s mouth was moving, a little out of synch with his words as always. Although the voice sounded somewhat like his, the words were totally different from what Frank heard when he’d reviewed the tape last weekend.

  “So what I’ve done, Hannah,” Fielding said, “I’ve taken the liberty of making certain financial arrangements on your behalf. I’ve spoken to my lawyer just now, and he’s drawn up the appropriate documents naming you as the sole proprietor of my estate. The money will be yours, Hannah. Yours and your son’s to do with what you will. I have instructed officials at the Grand Cayman National Bank to put the account in your name. The full amount is being transferred as I speak. To ensure safety, since I’m communicating with you in this public way, I’ve sent the account number and identification procedures to your son’s E-mail address. These numbers are encrypted, though it is my understanding that Randall, your boy, has the sufficient computer skills to access these files.

  “I want you to know, Hannah, that I’m not trying to buy your forgiveness. You may do whatever you want with the money. Whatever your conscience dictates. I simply wanted you and your son to have some small offering, a compensation for the great harm I’ve done to you and those you loved.”

  “Hey, Frank.”

  Sheffield’s chair squeaked harshly as he rocked back. Marta Veetro was in the door to his office, giving him one of her big southern smiles. Recently transferred from Atlanta, a thirty-something special agent who’d somehow managed to resist Frank’s charms for the last few months.

  “I heard your operation shut down.”

  “Ssshhhh.”

  He held up his hand and turned back to the monitor. But Fielding was finished now. He was drinking water, mopping his face with his washcloth. Every movement was a struggle. His head dropped back against his pillow and he closed his eyes. In a few hours he would breathe his last.

  Frank was on his feet.

  “Jesus Christ, she doctored the video. She set a goddamn trap.”

  “What?”

  Marta stepped back out of Frank’s way.

  “Hey, Sheffield, wait!”

  He was sprinting down the corridor toward the alley exit. She yelled after him.

  “Somebody called you, Frank. Something urgent from Miami PD.”

  Frank slid to a stop at the exit door. Marta hurried after him.

  “Lieutenant Romano,” she called. “Homicide.”

  Frank waited for her.

  “Something about a kidnapping. A kid named Randall.”

  “Now aren’t you glad we didn’t kill the kid?”

  “It’s a trap,” Hal said. “I can feel my needle quivering.”

  They were parked on the shoulder of the road a half a block from Hannah Keller’s house. It was dark. No moon. A strong breeze full of moist, yeasty scents, blowing from the west, like maybe there was a storm in the Everglades heading this way.

  “What needle?” Misty said.

  “The needle in my chest. When it quivers, something’s wrong. And it’s quivering now. Quivering a lot.”

  “Fuck,” she said. “So what do we do?”

  “We just drive away.”

  “Leave the money?”

  “The needle’s quivering. This isn’t right.”

  “Hey, this is my goddamn inheritance we’re talking about. You’re just going to let him hand it over to that bitch?”

  Hal looked out into the darkness.

  “Let me think,” he said. “Give me a second of quiet.”

  “Jesus, Mother of Mary,” she said. “You’re just like every other guy I’ve ever known. Everything’s peachy nice until push comes to shove. Then when it really matters, you’re going to make the decision all on your own, not even listen to me. Like I don’t count. But that’s my money in there, Hal. That’s my birthright. You don’t get to decide what happens with that. I don’t care how much your fucking needle is quivering. You hear me? You hear me, Hal?”

  “I hear you.”

  “What’re you, stupid? We’re this close. All we have to do is walk across the street, have the kid get the numbers off the computer, we’re home free.”

  “I’m not stupid,” he said. “I’m not mentally retarded.”

  “Well, then stop fucking acting like it. This is my money. Stop acting like some gutless moron and let’s go get what belongs to us.”

  He looked across at her. His face was different. Bland like it had been a couple of nights ago when he showed up at her bedside, pinched her nipple. A burst of icy air washed across her neck.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said.

  “Inconvenience? What the fuck are you talking about now?”

  But as Misty asked the question, she saw his hand come through the dark. The right hand, the one with the barb on the thumb. She saw it snake toward her and felt his fingers seize her throat. For a second Misty thought it was a joke, a little playful tussling. The roughhousing some guys resorted to when Misty stung them with her acid tongue. But that impression only lasted a second, then she felt the power in his grip, the cold iron fingers, his hand as sleek as marble clamping off her air.

  “I’m not stupid,” he said quietly as if he were speaking to someone else, someone far away in his memory. “I’m not retarded or slow.”

  Little starbursts twinkled inside Misty’s eyes. A spray of red and green dots. Brain cells winking out. The handheld computer tumbled from her lap. Her father lay on the floor mat at her feet, sad old man gasping for air. Just as she was gasping.

  “I knew it was a lie,” he said. “Love and God and fun. A bunch of lies.”

  She could feel her eyes rolling up, she could hear the snaps and splinters of tissues and tendons in her neck. But through the haze, a thought was forming in her head. No, not a thought, more like a word. A single word. She felt her eyes close, felt her body slump against the car door. Her hand fumbling at her pocket. The word was clear now. A single word. An old friend.

  Derringer.

  Hannah heard a sharp pop, like a thick branch snapping in the rising wind.

  She sat at Randall’s desk. His place of power, the one spot on earth where he felt truly safe.

  She listened to the wind strain against the house. Listened to the quiet cracklings of the old wood structure as it stood its ground. That wood was heart of pine. Ancient, dense, and heavy. Carpenters dreaded it. Their drills burned out trying to penetrate its grain, their best nails bent double against its iron surface. It was the only organic thing Hannah knew that grew stronger over time. It was tougher on t
his particular night than it had ever been in its history.

  She listened to the old timbers creak and pop.

  She had told her story now. Beginning to end. Her words displacing Helen Shane’s. And if she was going to see her son alive again, it was because her story had won out. Because it seemed sufficiently real. That was the only trick she knew. Words, words, words. Her story against theirs.

  She heard the planks creak, a harsh chirp in the floorboard. She heard the rustle of the avocado leaves, the dry, papery rattle of palms. She smelled the freshening air, a sugary current passing through the house, leaving a ripple across the flesh of her neck. She felt the quietest of shifts in the barometric pressure and knew they were here. They were inside the house.

  She kept her eyes on J. J. Fielding. Once more she watched the old man die. The tension in his face relaxing, the slow unraveling of his breath.

  They were coming down the hallway. Their quiet passage, their faint disturbance of the atmosphere. She willed herself to relax, to keep her eyes on the screen. She felt die flutter in her gut, the warm, rising pressure in her blood.

  They were at the doorway behind her, poised.

  She took an even breath and swiveled her chair around. Aimed the .357 at the doorway.

  “Well, look what we have,” the girl said. “A standoff.”

  She had a small silver pistol pressed to the side of Randall’s head.

  “Hold on, Randall, it’s going to be all right,” said Hannah. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  The boy opened his mouth to reply but no sound escaped him and he shut it again. He was swaying as if to music only he could hear.

  “Put your piece down now,” Misty said. “Or I’ll drop the boy.”

  Randall’s gaze drifted left and right as though the music he was hearing was sending him into a swoon.

  Hannah turned and set the pistol beside the keyboard.

  “Did my old man send you the money or didn’t he?”

  Hannah said nothing. She was watching Randall, watching his loose-jointed waver, his limber dance.