The Wrong Man (29 page)

“It also seems to make sense. Maybe what she needs right now is someone looking over her.”

Scott and Sally glared at each other, clearly revisiting some moment from their past.

“My mother,” Hope said, interrupting.

“Your mother?”

“Yes. Ashley has always gotten along well with her, and she lives in the sort of small town where a stranger coming to ask questions would be noticed. It would be tricky for O’Connell to follow her there. It’s close enough, but far enough. And I doubt he could figure out where she was.”

“But her school…” Sally said again.

“She can always repair a screwed-up semester,” Hope said briskly.

“I agree,” Scott said. “Okay, we have a plan. Now we just need to engage Ashley in it.”

Michael O’Connell was listening to the Rolling Stones on his iPod. As Mick Jagger sang, “All your love is just sweet addiction…,” he half-danced down the street, oblivious to the stares of the occasional passerby, his feet tapping the drumbeat on the sidewalk. It was a little before midnight, but the music brought flashes of light into his path. He was letting the sounds guide his thoughts, imagining a rhythm to what his next step with Ashley would be. Something that she didn’t expect, he thought to himself, something that underscored for her just how total his presence truly was.

He did not think she fully understood. Not yet.

He had waited outside her apartment until he saw the lights all go out and he knew that she had gone to bed. Ashley didn’t understand, he thought, how it is far easier to see in the darkness. A light only carves out a specific area. Far wiser, he believed, to learn to pick shapes and movement out of the night.

The best predators work at night, O’Connell reminded himself.

The song came to an end, and he stopped on the sidewalk. Across the street, he saw a small, art-house-type cinema, showing a French film called
Nid de guêpes.
He slid back into a shadow and watched people come out of the theater. As he expected, they were mainly young couples. They seemed energized, not that uniquely somber,
I’ve just seen something meaningful
look that so often accompanies people emerging from what O’Connell contemptuously considered artsy cinema. His eyes settled on one young couple that came out arm in arm, laughing together.

They immediately irritated him. He could feel his heart rate accelerate slightly, and he watched them closely as they passed in front of a neon light on the sidewalk opposite him. His jaw clenched tightly and he had an acid taste on his tongue.

There was nothing remarkable about the couple, and yet, they were completely infuriating. He saw the young woman lean into the boy, taking his arm in hers and linking the two of them together, so that they became one walking down the street, their footsteps in unison, a moment of public intimacy. He picked up his own pace, moving parallel to the couple, assessing them more directly, as a misshapen anger within him grew unchecked.

Their shoulders rubbed together as they walked, and they were each hunched slightly toward the other. O’Connell could see that they alternated between laughter, smiles, and intense conversation.

He did not think that they had been together long. The language of their movements, their gestures toward each other, the way they listened and laughed at what each other said, spoke to a newness and an excitement, a courtship that was just taking root, where they were still coming to know each other. He saw the girl grip the boy’s arm tighter, and he told himself that they had already slept together, but probably just once. Each touch, each caress, each moment of exploration, still had the electricity of adventure and the heady drug of potential.

He hated them utterly.

It was not difficult for O’Connell to imagine the rest of their night. It was late, so they would decide against sticking their heads into a Starbucks for coffee or Baskin-Robbins for a scoop or two of ice cream, although they would pause outside each and make a show of considering the decision, when, in actuality, what they wanted to devour was each other. The boy would keep up a chatter about movies, about books, about courses at whichever of the colleges he was at, while the girl listened, occasionally interjecting a word or two, while all the time listening more to who he was, and what he might mean to her. The boy would need no more encouragement than the pressure of her arm. They will get to the apartment laughing. And, once inside, it would only be seconds before they found the bed and threw their clothes aside, any fatigue from the long day instantly gone, overcome by the freshness of their lovemaking.

He was breathing hard, but quietly.

That’s what they think will happen. That’s what is supposed to happen. That’s what is designed to happen.

He smiled. But not this night.

He moved in tandem with the couple, keeping his eye on their progress from the opposite sidewalk. At a corner, when the yellow
WALK
light flashed on, he instantly moved rapidly into the crosswalk, heading directly for them, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down, aiming just to their side. They started moving toward him, so that they were like a pair of ships in a channel, destined to come close, but slide past. O’Connell measured the distance, counting down the space in his head, noting that they were still conversing and not paying full attention to the surroundings.

As the space between him and the couple narrowed to only a few feet, O’Connell suddenly lurched sideways, just enough so that his shoulder came into hard contact with the boy’s. The solid thump reassured him, and he abruptly spun toward the couple and shouted, “Hey! What the hell are you doing! Watch where you’re going!”

The couple half-turned in O’Connell’s direction.

“Hey, sorry,” the boy said. “My fault. Sorry.” They continued on after only a momentary glance in O’Connell’s direction.

“Asshole,” O’Connell said, loud enough for them to hear, but turning away from them rapidly. They had just gotten enough of a look.

The boy pivoted, still grasping the girl’s arm, obviously thinking of replying, then choosing against it. He didn’t want to say or do anything that might interrupt the mood and turned away. O’Connell counted to three slowly, giving the pair just enough time to put a little distance between them, their backs to him now, then he started following them. The sudden blare of a horn caused the girl to turn just barely, looking back over her shoulder and seeing him. He could see a small look of alarm on her face.

That’s it, he thought. Walk a few more feet, assessing the surprise, imagining a threat.

As soon as he reached the sidewalk and saw that the girl was speaking rapidly to the boy, O’Connell ducked into a darkened storefront, shoving himself out of their sight line. Disappearing into the small space, he wanted to laugh out loud. Again, he counted to himself.

One, two, three…

Time enough for the boy to hear what the girl was saying and stop.

Four, five, six…

Turning in his place and peering back through the shadows and arcs of neon light.

Seven, eight, nine…

Straining against the darkness and night, but not seeing him.

Ten, eleven, twelve…

Turning back to the girl.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

A second glance, just to make sure.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

They start off again.

Nineteen, twenty…

An extra, unsettled look back over the shoulder to reassure himself.

O’Connell stepped out of the shadow and saw that the young couple had picked up their pace and were nearly halfway down the block. He followed quickly, crossing the street so that once again he was parallel to them, half-running until he came abreast of the two of them.

Once again, it was the girl who spotted him first.

He imagined the shaft of anxiety piercing her.

Across the street, the girl stumbled, twisting, and O’Connell fixed his eyes on her, so that when she looked in his direction, he was staring hard. With nothing but anger on his face, their eyes met across the road.

The boy turned toward him, but O’Connell had anticipated this, and he abruptly started to run forward, toward the end of the block, moving ahead of the pair. The sudden, abrupt, erratic behavior delighted him. It was not something they would have expected, and he knew it would throw them into confusion.

Behind him, the young woman and the young man would be debating. Go forward, in the direction of their apartment, or turn back, find a different route. Once again, he pushed himself back into a shadow and caught his breath. He took a quick survey of his surroundings and saw that the side street behind him was lined with small apartment buildings, not unlike Ashley’s street, where tree branches stretched out into the ambient city light, giving them a ghostly appearance. Cars were parked tightly in every available space, and wan light flowed from building entranceways.

He slid from the shadows and rapidly walked three-quarters of the way down the street, taking up a position in another dark space, waiting. There was a streetlight at the beginning, and he guessed they would pass through its arc as they closed in on their apartment.

O’Connell was right. He saw the young couple come around the corner, pausing momentarily, then moving rapidly forward.

Scared, he thought. Not certain that they were actually safe. But starting to relax.

He pushed himself out, hunched his shoulders forward, and, moving at a quick march, angled across the street to intersect them.

They saw him almost simultaneously. The girl gasped, and the boy, gentleman that he was, pushed her slightly behind him and squared himself toward O’Connell. The boy clenched his fist and positioned himself like a fighter ready for the bell to sound.

“Stay back!” he said. The young man’s voice had risen, high-pitched with uncertainty. O’Connell heard the girl choke.

“What do you want?” the boy demanded, trying to keep himself between O’Connell and the girl.

O’Connell stopped and looked at the boy. “What are you talking about?”

“Stay away!” the boy said.

“Just chill, buddy,” O’Connell said. “What’s the problem?”

“Why are you following us?” This was the girl speaking, her voice a panic-laced half shriek.

“Following you? What the hell are you talking about?”

The boy kept his hands clenched, but looked surprised and even more confused.

“You folks are crazy.” O’Connell quickly began to move past them. “Nut jobs.”

“Leave us alone,” the boy said. Not very convincing, O’Connell thought. When he was about a half dozen paces past, he stopped and turned. As he suspected, they were still wrapped together, defensive, staring after him.

“You two are lucky.”

They eyed him with astonishment.

“Do you know how close you came to dying tonight?”

Then, not giving them a chance to reply, he spun about and moved as swiftly as he could without running, from shadow to shadow, leaving the young couple behind him. He suspected they would remember their fear from this night far longer than they would remember the happiness that they’d started it with.

“I think I need to know more about Sally and Scott, and then, about Hope, too.”

“Not Ashley?”

“Ashley seems young. Unfinished.”

She frowned. “True enough. But what makes you think that Michael O’Connell didn’t finish her?”

I didn’t know how to answer, but I felt a distinct chill in her words. “You told me that someone dies. Surely you’re not saying that it was Ashley…”

My question hung in the air between us. She finally said, “She was the one at greatest risk.”

“Yes, but—”

She interrupted, “And I suppose you think you already understand Michael O’Connell?”

“No. Not fully. Not nearly enough. But I’m searching about for my next step, and I was wondering about the three of them.”

She paused, fiddling with her glass of iced tea, again turning her head to stare out the windows. “I think about them often. Can’t help myself.”

She reached for a box of tissues. Tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes, but she wore a small smile. She took a long, slow breath of air.

“Do you ever consider why crime can be so devastating?” she asked abruptly.

I knew she would answer her own question.

“Because it is so unexpected. It falls outside ordinary routines of life. It takes us by surprise. It becomes totally personal. Utterly intimate.”

“Yes. True enough.”

She stared at me. “A history professor at a snobbish liberal college. A small-town attorney, expert in barely contested divorces and modest real-estate transactions. A guidance counselor and coach. And a head-in-the-clouds, young art student. Where were their resources supposed to come from?”

“Good question. Where?”

“That’s what you need to understand. Not just what they figured out, and what they did, but where the intelligence and the strength came from.”

“Okay,” I replied slowly, drawing out the word.

“Because eventually they pay a heavy price.”

I didn’t say anything.

She filled the silence. “In retrospect, it always seems so simple. But when it is happening, it’s never so clear-cut. And never quite as neat and tidy as we think it should be.”