Day of Reckoning, Page 2

  For a second he stared at the eyes, and saw his late wife instead, then his daughter, then finally, his grandson.

  “Hi, Grandfather. I knew it would be you.”

  “Hi, Tommy, I knew it would be you, too.”

  “I’m almost ready to go. Can I just finish my drawing?”

  “If you like.”

  “Will you come watch me?”

  “Of course.”

  The judge felt his hand seized by his grandson’s and he thought of the tenacity of a child’s grip. How they hold on to life, he thought. It is adults who cheapen it. He allowed himself to be pulled into the classroom. He nodded to Tommy’s teacher, who smiled back.

  “He wants to finish his drawing,” Judge Pearson said.

  “Good. And you don’t mind waiting?”

  “Not at all.”

  He felt his hand released, and waited as his grandson slipped into a chair at a long table. A few other children were drawing as well. All seemed preoccupied with their work. He stood and watched as Tommy seized a red crayon and scratched away.

  “What are you drawing?”

  “Leaves burning. And the fire is spreading to the forest.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t know what to say.

  “Sometimes it’s disconcerting.”

  He turned and saw Tommy’s teacher standing next to him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s disconcerting. We’ll set the children down for drawing or art, and the next thing we know they’ve come up with a battle scene, or a home burning down or an earthquake toppling an entire city. One of the others drew that last week. Very elaborate. Very detailed. Right down to the people falling into a crevasse.”

  “A little . . .” He hesitated.

  “Macabre? Sure. But most of the kids in this section have so much trouble with their feelings, we encourage any fantasy if it brings them closer to what they’re really afraid of. It’s really a pretty simple technique.”

  Judge Pearson nodded. “Still,” he said, “I bet you’d prefer pictures of flowers.”

  The teacher grinned. “It would be a change.” Then she added, “Would you please tell Mr. and Mrs. Richards to call me, so that I can set up an appointment with them?”

  The judge glanced down at Tommy, who was busy with his paper. “Something wrong?”

  The teacher smiled. “I suppose it’s human nature to assume the worst. On the contrary, he’s been making great progress all fall, just as he did in the summer. I want him to join the regular third graders for a couple of classes after the Christmas holidays.”

  She paused. “Oh, this will still be his main room, and he’ll probably have a setback or two, but we were thinking that we might challenge him more. He’s really very bright, it’s just when he gets frustrated—”

  “—He gets out of control.” The judge finished her sentence.

  “Yeah. That hasn’t changed. He can still get pretty wild. But, on the other hand, it’s been weeks since he had one of his vacant spells.”

  “I know,” the judge said. He thought how frightened he’d been the first time he’d seen his grandson, as a toddler, simply stare off into space, oblivious to the entire world. The child would remain like that for hours on end, not sleeping, not speaking, not crying, barely breathing, as if away in some other place, only to return abruptly a few hours later, acting as if nothing had happened.

  He looked down at Tommy, who was finishing the drawing with great, bold streaks of bright orange across the sky. How you terrified all of us. Where do you go on those trips?

  Probably a better place than here, he thought.

  “I’ll tell them. They’ll call right away. It sounds like good news.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  They walked out the front door of the school, and for a moment the judge was struck by how swiftly the end-of-the-schoolday excitement dissipated. There were only a few cars left in the parking lot. He felt a cold breeze that seemed to reach through the front of his overcoat, penetrate his sweater and shirt and chill his skin. He shivered, and buttoned his jacket.

  “Button up, Tommy. These old bones feel winter in the air.”

  “Grandfather, what are old bones?”

  “Well, you have young bones. Your bones are still growing and getting bigger and stronger. My bones, well, they’re old and tired because they’ve been around so long.”

  “Not so long.”

  “Sure, almost seventy-one years.”

  Tommy thought for a moment.

  “That is long. Will mine grow that long?”

  “Probably longer.”

  “And how come you can feel things with your bones? I can feel the wind on my face and hands, but not with my bones. How do you do that?”

  The judge laughed. “You’ll know when you get older.”

  “I hate that.”

  “What?”

  “When people tell you to wait. I want to know now.”

  The judge reached down and took his grandson’s hand.

  “You’re absolutely right. When you want to learn something, don’t ever let anyone tell you to wait. You just go ahead and learn it.”

  “Bones?”

  “Well, really it is just a figure of speech. You know what that means?”

  Tommy nodded.

  “But really it means that when you get old, your bones are brittle, and they don’t have as much life in them anymore. So when a cold wind comes along, I can feel the chill, right inside of me. It doesn’t hurt, it just means I’m more aware of it. Understand?”

  “I think so.”

  The child walked along in silence for a few paces. Then he said, more to himself, “There’s a lot to learn,” and he sighed. His grandfather wanted to laugh out loud, thinking what an extraordinary observation that was. But instead, he gripped his grandson’s hand tighter and they proceeded through the grayness of the afternoon to his car. He noticed a late-model sedan parked next to his, and as they approached, a woman got out from the rear seat. She seemed middle-aged, was tall and very sturdy, and wore a large, floppy black hat. Striking red hair flowed down in unruly sheets from beneath the brim, and she wore a large pair of dark sunglasses. They made the judge momentarily uncomfortable: How could she see out? He slowed and watched as the woman approached them briskly, with a businesslike solidity.

  “Can I help you?” the judge asked.

  The woman unbuttoned her tan raincoat and slowly reached inside. She smiled.

  “Judge Pearson,” she said. “Hello.” She looked down at his grandson. “This must be Tommy. Well, aren’t you the spitting image of both your mother and father? A regular little chip off the old blocks. I can see them in your face.”

  “I’m sorry,” the judge started. “Do I know you?”

  “You were on the criminal court bench, weren’t you?” the woman asked, ignoring his question. She continued to smile.

  “Why yes, but—”

  “For many years.”

  “Yes, but I beg your—”

  “Well, then I’m sure you came to be familiar with devices like this.”

  She slowly removed a hand from inside her coat. She gripped a large revolver. It was leveled at his stomach.

  The judge stared at the gun, confusion filling him.

  “This is actually a .357 Magnum,” the woman continued. The judge noticed that her voice had a steadiness that spoke only of rage. “It would make a large hole in you. An immense hole in little Tommy there. And I’d do him first, so your last seconds would be filled up knowing you’d cost him his life. Don’t make everything end here, before it’s begun. Just quietly get into the back of my car.”

  “You can take me, but don’t—” the judge started. His mind automatically began to search throug
h the volumes of cases he’d had, decisions rendered, sentences passed, wondering where was the one in which the standard threat had cascaded past reason, where was the one who had sought him out for revenge. He saw the faces of a hundred angry men, eyes scarred with age and crime. But he couldn’t remember a woman. And certainly not the woman who gently prodded his ribs with the barrel of the handgun.

  “Oh no, no, no,” the woman continued. “He’s essential. He’s the key to all this.”

  She gestured with the gun.

  “Nice and slowly. Remain as calm as I am. Don’t move suddenly, judge. Think how silly it would be for the two of you to die here. Think of what you would be stealing from your grandson. His life, judge. All those years. Of course, you’re familiar with that. You’re the type that stole years easily. Pig! Just don’t do it.”

  He realized that the car door had been pushed open, and there were people inside. A hundred ideas flooded his head. Run! Scream! Call for help! Fight back!

  But he did none of them.

  “Do what she says, Tommy,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m with you.”

  A pair of strong hands seized him and he was flung abruptly to the floor of the car. For a moment he smelled shoe leather and dirt mingling with the acrid smell of nervous sweat. He saw blue jeans and boots, then a black, suffocating cloth bag was thrust over his head. He suddenly imagined it was like the bag an executioner used on his subjects, and he started to struggle, only to feel a pair of powerful hands grip him and push him down. He felt Tommy’s light body land on his, and he grunted. He tried to speak to him, his mind forming the reassuring words: Don’t be scared, I’m here—but only groans came out. He heard a male voice calmly, but bitterly, say, “Welcome to the revolution. Now, go to sleep, old man.”

  A weight crashed against the side of his head, then darkness exploded about him and he passed out.

  THREE: Duncan

  His secretary knocked lightly on the glass door panel, then stuck her head around the corner, into his office: “Mr. Richards, are you expecting to work late again today? I mean, I can stay, but I need to call my roommate to pick up the groceries . . .”

  Duncan Richards looked up from the spreadsheet in front of him and smiled. “A little bit, Doris, but you don’t have to stay. I just want to finish the paperwork on the Harris Company’s application.”

  “You sure, Mr. Richards? I mean, it’s no trouble . . .”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been working late too often,” he said. “We’re bankers. We ought to work bankers’ hours.”

  She smiled. “Well, I’ll be here until five, anyway.”

  “That’s fine.”

  But instead of returning to his paperwork, Duncan Richards leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. He pivoted so he could see out his window. It was almost dark, and the cars leaving the parking lot had turned on their lights, carving small white spaces from the blackness. He could just make out the line of trees on Main Street that rose up against the last gray light of day. He wished for a moment that he was still in the old bank building, up the street. It had been cramped, and the office space was inadequate, but it had been set back from the road, up a small rise, and he’d been able to see much farther. The new building was all architecturally sound and soulless. No view, save of traffic. Modern furniture, state-of-the-art security. Things had changed since he had started. Greenfield wasn’t a little college town anymore. Businessmen, developers, money people from New York and Boston, all moving in.

  The town is losing its anonymity, he thought. Maybe it means we all are.

  He considered the application in front of him. It was one he’d seen a half-dozen times in the past six months; a small construction firm wanting to buy a tract of farmland that had a view of the Green Mountains—twenty-four acres would become six spec houses. Fill the houses at nearly three hundred grand each and the small construction firm would instantly be a medium-sized firm. The numbers seemed fine, he thought; we will write the purchase loan, then the construction loan and probably end up holding the mortgages on the houses when they sold. He didn’t have to use a calculator to see the substantial bank profit. He was more concerned with the builders themselves. He sighed, thinking how strapped they would be. Take a chance, mortgage everything, become a success. The American way. It has never changed.

  But a banker must be old-world cautious. Never hurried, never pressed.

  That’s changing, too. Little banks like First State Bank of Greenfield were being pressed by the megabanks. Baybanks of Boston had just opened an office down Prospect Street and Citicorp had purchased Springfield National, which used to be the major competition.

  Maybe we’ll be bought, too. We’re an attractive target for takeover. The next-quarter figures will show a real jump. He made a mental note to exercise a stock option, just in case. But there haven’t been any rumors, and there usually are. He wondered whether he should ask old Phillips, the bank president, then thought against it. He’s always looked out for me, since the first day. He won’t stop now.

  He remembered walking through the bank door for the first time eighteen years earlier. Megan’s father had held the door open for him, as he’d hesitated. His new haircut had bothered him, and he’d kept running his hand through his hair, feeling like an amputee must in the days after an operation.

  His stomach tightened as he remembered his fear and how hard he’d struggled to hide it that long day.

  Why am I thinking this?

  He looked back out the window, and despite trying to refuse the memory, it still intruded on his imagination. It had been morning, and bright. The bank had been busy. Filled with sunlight and people and activity so that my nervousness hadn’t been noticed. I had thought that I would never have the strength to walk into a bank again. Phillips said I could start out as a teller because Judge Pearson vouched for me. They were golfing buddies. My hands shook when I first handled the money and every time the front door swung open, I thought it was over. I expected sullen men in nondescript suits. That they had finally come to get me.

  He wondered when he’d lost that anxiety. After a week? A month? A year?

  Why am I thinking this?

  It’s gone. It was eighteen years ago and it’s gone.

  He could not recall the last time he’d thought of his start in the banking world. Certainly not for years. He wondered why it should come back to him now, and he rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, as if trying to erase a bitter taste. And I will not remember it again, he promised himself. Everything is different now. He picked up the spreadsheet, staring at the numbers. Conditional approval, he thought. Run it past the board and see what they think. No builders going belly-up now, not like the early eighties. But the Fed had raised the prime a half-point that morning, and maybe they ought to have a real discussion at the next staff meeting. Get the forecasting boys to do their job. He made a note on his calendar.

  The phone on his desk buzzed and the intercom switched on. It was his secretary.

  “Mr. Richards, Mrs. Richards is on the phone.”

  “Thanks.”

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Now listen, Meg, I’m not going to be home late. I’m just finishing up now—”

  “Duncan, did Dad say he was going to take Tommy out? They’re not back yet, and I wondered whether he said anything to you.”

  “Not back?”

  Duncan Richards glanced at his watch. Almost an hour late. He assessed the concern in his wife’s voice. Minimal. Not scared, just bothered.

  “No.”

  “Well, did you call the school?”

  “Yes. They said Dad was there right on time, as usual. He stayed a bit while Tommy finished up some project, then they left.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’d get too bent out of shape. He probably took him over to
the mall to play video games. Actually, they haven’t done that in a couple of weeks, so I suspect that’s where they are.”

  “I asked him not to do that. It gets Tommy too stimulated.”

  “Oh, c’mon. They have such a good time. And anyway, I think it’s your old man who likes playing the games.”

  A touch of release slipped into her voice. “But I made a special dinner, and he’s probably feeding him greasy cheeseburgers.”

  “Well, you can talk to your dad, but I doubt it’ll do any good. He likes fast food. You’d think after seventy-one years he’d know better.”

  She laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  He hung up the telephone, pulled out a legal pad, and started to rough out a few thoughts for presenting the loan to the committee. He heard a rap on his glass partition and saw his secretary waving. She wore her coat. He waved back, and thought, finish this tomorrow.

  The phone on his desk buzzed again, and he picked up the receiver, expecting his wife’s voice.

  “Hi. Look—I’m pretty much on my way now,” he said, without introduction.

  “Really?” said the person on the other end. “I think not. I don’t think you’re on your way anywhere. Not anymore.”

  It was as if in those few words, those sounds and tones that tore with horrible familiarity into his memory, that everything around him shattered and was suddenly, abruptly, blown away by a great wind. He seized the edge of the desk to steady himself, but felt his head spinning nonetheless and knew instantly: It’s all lost.

  Everything.

  FOUR: Megan

  Megan Richards hung up the telephone, more irritated than concerned. Duncan always has so many damn reasonable explanations. He’s so levelheaded, sometimes I could scream. She walked through the house to the living room, pulling back the curtain so she could see down the street. It remained black and empty. She stood still, watching, until frustration forced her aside. After a moment, she thrust the curtain closed and paced back into the kitchen.