The Final Judgment (29 page)

She froze. The footsteps were heavy, a man’s. They came closer; for an instant, Caroline imagined that they had stopped at Megan’s door. Then the next footstep fell, and another. After a moment, she could not hear them. For a time, Caroline told herself, she was safe. Caroline looked around again. She had expected color, vivid posters, perhaps pictures of Megan herself. But the apartment was bland, impersonal—the furniture looked institutional, the walls were bare cinder block. There was little sense that anyone lived here, Caroline thought—young or old, man or woman. She went to the bedroom, handkerchief still draped across the fingers of her left hand. Inside, on the door to Megan’s closet, was a full-length mirror. Just as Larry had described it, the mirror faced the foot of Megan’s bed. All at once, Caroline was certain that Larry had told the truth. Her watch read 8:25. Swiftly, Caroline went through the drawers of Megan’s dresser. She found nothing but slacks, T-shirts, bras, and underpants—all thrown together in a chaotic mess. Wiping clean the drawer handles, she went to the closet. It was generous in size, with sliding wood doors. One door was off its tracks; arduously, Caroline pushed it to the side and then peered into the closet. There were dresses, a parka, boots and shoes. But what stopped Caroline abruptly was a large open box. On top of the box was a Polaroid camera. Caroline knelt, carefully putting the camera aside. Beneath was a spiral notebook. Written on the cover was the name of Larry’s course. Caroline opened the notebook. The notes she read were detailed, less the practical jottings of a college student than something almost reverent, as literal a rendering of lecture upon lecture as the hurried scrawl could make it. But nothing more.

And then Caroline saw the calendar. It was from the year before. The months of October through November, the time of their affair, had been ripped out as if in rage. Wedged to the side was a map of the White Mountains. Caroline opened it. Toward the bottom, circled in pen, was the campsite that Larry had described to her. For a moment, Caroline was still. She was right, Caroline now knew—at least about what Megan was,-as well as who she had been to Larry. But none of what she had found so far would prove anything in a court of law. Even if she could leave with it. Carefully, Caroline placed each item back in the box and closed the closet door. It was 8:43. Caroline turned, facing the bedroom. The sole piece of distinctive furniture was a light oak rolltop desk. There were a few books on its shelf. All dealt with psychology, Caroline saw: the family, dysfunctional or not; only children; the relationship between fathers and daughters. But there were no clues—here or anywhere—to Megan’s real family. Caroline slid open the desk drawer. Inside were two expensive pens and a red leather-bound journal with a green ribbon coming from between its pages. The journal fell open in her hands. The entries were dated from the beginning of Megan’s sophomore year. Hurriedly, Caroline began reading. The first pages were an unsettling jumble—vague spiritual yearnings, descriptions of sex acts without names or faces, a paradoxical hostility to men as a group. The entries seemed to gain in extravagance, or vehemence, as Caroline worked toward the middle. And then Caroline turned a page and found the ragged remnant of a ripped-out entry. The months of September through December were missing.

Without much hope, Caroline resumed in February. The handwriting seemed jagged now, the sprawl of emotion on the page. But Caroline saw no mention of Larry. She turned another page and then stopped abruptly. She read the page, read it again. With trembling fingers, she scanned the entries, until she got to May. Caroline stopped again, staring at the page. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud.

Caroline read again, more carefully, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She could feel her heart race. When she had finished, she sat with the journal in her lap, trying to collect her thoughts. Her watch read 9:15. There was no way to copy these pages, return the journal to its drawer as if she had never been here. The only conceivable place to Xerox was the library at Chase College, and there were too many traps: that she would be seen there; that she might not be able to reenter the building or Megan’s apartment; that she would be caught if she tried; that Megan herself could find her. Caroline stared at the journal in her lap. Whatever the consequences, she could not leave without it. The time was 9:22. Fighting her nerves, Caroline systematically reviewed where she had been. Then she put down the journal, went to the living room with her handkerchief in hand, and began to retrace her steps. At every point—the light switch, the inside knob, the door to Megan’s room—Caroline wiped the surface clean of fingerprints. Sometimes she leaves work early, Lemieux had said. Hurriedly glancing at her watch, Caroline saw that it was 9:31. There was still much to do.

She went to the bedroom, wiping the dresser drawer handles and then the sliding door to Megan’s closet. The biggest problem, she realized, was the box. Pulling it from the closet, Caroline wiped all that she could remember touching: the camera; the cover of the notebook; its edges; the corners of the map; the box itself. As she did this, she listened for sounds. But all she could hear was the faint sound of the television in the apartment next door. It was 9:51 when Caroline shoved the box back inside with the toe of her shoe. Turning, she gazed at the journal on the floor. It was the moment of decision, she knew, the final chance to return the journal to its drawer and leave. She could feel her own hesitancy, the premonition of ill consequence. Caroline walked across the bedroom and wiped away the final fingerprints on the rolltop desk. It was 9:54. Within fifteen minutes, Megan would return. There was no more time to decide. Caroline went to the center of the room, picked up the journal, and turned to leave. There was a sudden sound, the rattle of keys outside the door. For an instant, Caroline froze. She did not know what saving instinct told her, just before the door opened, to scramble to the wall and switch off the bedroom light. As Caroline faced the darkened room, Megan closed the door behind her. Caroline sensed, but could not see, the door to the closet. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Quickly, Caroline moved forward, hoping not to trip on something. She found the crevice of the closet door as Megan’s footsteps crossed the living room, coming closer. Pushing with one palm, Caroline forced open the reluctant door. As she stepped inside, the door softly squealed, then slid into place. With crabbed steps, Caroline turned. Megan’s footsteps entered the bedroom. The light switched on. Megan stood there, peering about. In profile, she looked wary and unhappy, consumed by secret thoughts. If she faced the closet, Caroline knew, Megan would see her. Caroline was utterly still. Walking to the middle of the room, Megan pulled off her sweatshirt. With a kind of fascination, Caroline watched—afraid, as Megan slipped off her blue jeans, that she would hang them in the closet. Megan left them in a heap. When she was naked, Megan turned to the mirror. She studied herself intently, critically. And then she tilted her head, eyes opening wider, as if imploring the mirror for compassion. One finger grazed her nipple; she stood there like a statue, caught in her aloneness. Caroline held her breath. Megan turned from the mirror. For a moment, she gazed at the floor, pensive. Caroline could see her full face now; all that Megan needed was to look up, and her eyes would meet those of the woman who watched her. Slowly, Megan turned from the closet and moved toward the dresser, slipping from Caroline’s view. There were only sounds now—a drawer sliding open, hands sifting clothes. And then Megan, wearing a T-shirt, crossed the bedroom and disappeared again. Caroline hesitated. If she stayed here, Megan would surely find her; even if she did not, Caroline could not chance crossing the bedroom later in the hope that Megan slept. Megan’s footsteps grew lighter.

Please, Caroline begged her, go to the kitchen. Caroline slid from the closet and stole across the bedroom, holding the journal. Her feet made no sound. At the bedroom door, she peered into the living room. No one. As Caroline stepped into the living room, she heard the rattling of silverware. Caroline tried to remember the layout of the kitchen. The sink and cabinets, she recalled, were on the wall; to use them, Megan could not face the living room. Caroline took a deep breath and headed, swiftly and silently, for the door. A few feet farther on, Megan would be able to see her. Caroline reached the space. As she swiftly turned, half expecting to hear a cry, she saw Megan bend over the sink, a tea bag in her hand. Soundless, Caroline crossed the living room. She paused at the door, hearing Megan stir a spoon inside a cup, and took the handkerchief from her pocket. Fingers draped on the handkerchief, Caroline turned the knob. The door groaned slightly. Abruptly, the sounds from the kitchen stopped. Panicky, Caroline peered into the hallway, saw no one. She slid quickly through the door. It shut behind her, of its own weight, with a soft click. Caroline hurried for the stairwell. She did not care about noise now. Heart racing, she pushed open the door, jerking it closed behind her. Through the glass window, she saw Megan peer into the hallway. Caroline ran down the stairs, through the alcove, and into the cool night.

The drive was surreal. The mundane became the mirror of Caroline’s fears—headlights were police cars; the old man sitting on the porch of the inn had peered at the journal in her hand. She hurried to her room.

She sat on the end of the bed. Now you know, she told herself, how it feels to commit a crime. There was nowhere, Caroline knew, that she could hide the journal. In her briefcase was a flat manila envelope. As the idea took form, Caroline saw that there was no choice: by now, quite possibly, Megan had called the police. From the briefcase, Caroline took the Magic Marker she used to red-line pleadings. On the face of the envelope, she printed her own name. Beneath that she wrote to Betty Allen,” the address of Masters Hill, and the words “personal and confidential.” Her painstaking block letters were not Caroline’s own but those of a child. She took a roll of stamps from her purse and applied six stamps to the envelope. For a last moment, she looked at the diary. Then she placed it inside the envelope, licked the flap, and sealed it tight. When she left her room, descending the stairs, the man no longer sat on the porch. The main street of Resolve was dark and empty. Alone, Caroline wandered the streets of her childhood. In the quiet, a flash of memory came: Caroline and Jackson Watts in a convertible he had borrowed, careening through the streets on a warm summer night, a six-pack of beer in the back. In that moment, the years vanished, and her life was new again. But now only Bret’s life was new. There was no sound but crickets, the soft fall of each footstep on asphalt. At the bend in the street was the old general store. As Caroline approached it, she could make out the dark shape of a blue postal box. Caroline opened the metal lid. For a last minute, she considered her choices. Then she dropped the envelope down the chute, consigning Bret’s future, and perhaps her own, to the mercies of the U.S. mail.

There was one more thing to do. Caroline walked to the bridge. Beneath, she could hear the soft murmur of the brook, see her outline reflected in the moonlight. She took the Magic Marker from her pocket and gently dropped it in the water. It made no sound at all.

“I thought I’d deliver these,” Caroline said, “in person.” She had found Jackson on the dock of his fishing camp, repairing an outboard motor. He wiped the grease on his jeans. “What are they’?” he asked. “Subpoenas—five, actually. For your various people and, of course, for Megan Race. Unless you’d prefer that I serve her myself.” Jackson hesitated. “No. I’ll make sure she’s there.” Caroline studied him. “Somehow you don’t sound confident of that.” Jackson took the subpoenas from her hand. He perused them, eyes narrow, and then gazed at the lake, glistening with midmorning sun. “Megan called me yesterday,” Jackson said at length. “She believes that someone broke into her apartment. The night before last.” Caroline raised her eyebrows. “Believes? Either someone did, or they didn’t.” Her voice turned arid. “Tell me, is there any sign of a break-in? Or is this a particularly rich chapter in Megan’s fantasy life?”

Jackson turned to her. “She thinks you sent someone, Caroline. A professional.” Caroline gave a short laugh. “I didn’t ‘send’ anyone.” Jackson looked at her hard now. “I assumed that, Caroline, even without your saying so. But I couldn’t help pondering how intently—and how recently—you were pushing me to search her place.”

Caroline considered him. “Why do you even believe her? Is she missing anything?” Jackson frowned. ‘I don’t know. But whatever she thinks happened seems to have spooked her quite a bit.”

“Perhaps it’s a guilty conscience. Rather like Lady Macbeth.” Caroline smiled faintly. “If Megan starts mumbling ‘Out, damned spot,’ I’d commence to worry.” Jackson placed his hands on his hips, staring down at the dock. “Caroline,” he said softly, “what do you know about this?”

“Is that an accusation?” Jackson looked at her sideways. “Then let me put it another way,” he said at length. “As one professional to another, is there something more that I should know?” For an instant, Caroline wished to talk with him. But this was now impossible; the impulse died, leaving a residue of sadness. “As you so succinctly told me, Jackson, Megan is my problem now.” She paused a moment, and then finished softly, “Just have her there, all right? I’d hate for Megan Race to miss her moment in the sun.” ,

‘I have a plan,” Caroline said quietly, “to deal with Megan.” Brett tilted her head. “But you won’t tell me.” Caroline looked at Brett intently. “You asked me once to believe in you. Now I’m asking you to believe in me—at least that I’ve done everything I can. And that there’s a good reason I can’t tell you what that is.” Brett slowly shook her head. It was strange, Caroline thought, how isolated she felt; it was as if she had crossed into a place she could share with no one. “I don’t want you to go to prison, Brett. ‘For that to happen is unacceptable to me.” Something in Brett’s face changed, showed a quality of openness. “I believe that,” she said at last. “Maybe it’s a choice I’ve made, like people who decide to believe in God. But I’ve had endless time to think about you, Caroline. I don’t