The Final Judgment by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online

the minister. He never said this to her; it was simply known. It was not a privilege but a duty; his interest was in finding men of probity and judgment. But the men whom Channing Masters picked treated him differently than they did others. Sitting here next to him, it had seemed to Caroline that her father watched over the town. Caroline doubted that had changed much. In this pocket of New England, time moved slowly. Channing, with his dislike of fashion in thought or dress, found that right. Caroline’s mother had not. Rising, Caroline gazed up the mountainside, and then she resumed her climb. At the top of the mountain, Caroline found her father sitting on a fallen log.
    Channing Masters looked up at her. Caroline saw him fight several emotions at once—pain, thwarted love, instinctive pleasure in seeing her, anger that she should catch him unprepared. His voice, attempting simple gravity, caught the edge of something more. “Caroline,” he said. She stopped some distance away, preserving space they both seemed to need, fought the numbness seeping through her as she saw the work of time: the piercing eyes looked deep and bruised; harsh lines etched his mouth; the forehead rose to midskull; gray cloaked his hair and mustache, the bushy eyebrows. Age had brought a closeness of skin to bone, and the rawboned frame seemed to stretch his body to a painful thinness. But his jawline was still clean, his
    black gaze alert and almost fierce. He was as she had imagined him. She could not bring herself to call him “Father.”
    “You wanted me here,” she said. “So I am.” He gazed at her, as if wishing to open what was closed to him. Quietly, he asked, “What were you doing on Martha’s Vineyard, staying in our home.”?”
    “Sailing.” She paused. “Why else would I be there.”?” Caroline saw him wince at the wall between them. In that moment, she seemed to recover her balance. She walked to the far end of the log and sat several feet away, gazing out at the sweep of hills and valleys, which seemed less to end than to vanish. When she was ready, she turned to him. “You summoned me here as a lawyer. In every way but that—and perhaps that tooit’s the very worst thing for all of us.” Channing turned to her “Brett is innocent.” Suddenly, his voice was stern. “You’ll think of me as you like. But she won’t be just another case to you.” Caroline studied him. “You may come to wish that she were.” He seemed to consider her meaning. With equal quiet, he answered, “You have better judgment than that.” Caroline felt the familiar weight of childhood, his expectation stated as certainty. “Then I should tell you that I don’t know if I’m staying past tomorrow. Let alone if I’ll defend her, should it come to that.” His eyes filled with astonishment. “How can you not ... ?”
    “How can you not understand?” Pausing, Caroline spoke more softly. I would have thought you learned from me what emotion does to judgment. I won’t visit that on her.” Channing gave her a stoic look. But in his eyes she read both hope and apprehension. “You’ve met her, then.” Caroline drew a breath. “No. I haven’t.” His gaze narrowed. “She’s been waiting—”
    “And I’d like to know what the police know. Before I invite her to tell me whatever story leaps to mind.”
    His face went hard. “She’d never do that—”
    ”Frightened people do that,” Caroline cut in sardonically. “Even the occasional innocent one. And I’m quite certain that you know far more about what the police know than she does.” A first faint smile at the corner of her father’s mouth, remembered pleasure at the cut and thrust of their minds. Then the expression vanished, and he was grave, almost respectful. “Where would you care for me to start?”
    “With the first call from Jackson. After he saw that it was Brett they had in custody.” Channing folded his hands in front of him, pensive. “Jackson called around dawn,” he said at length. “Betty answered. She was already