The Wrong Man (44 page)

Ashley nodded. She wanted to be persuaded, told herself to be persuaded, but agreement came slowly.

“Anyway, the young man professes to love you, Ashley, dear.
Love.
I fail to see what nearly driving us off the road has to do with love.”

Again, Ashley remained silent, although she thought she knew the answer to that question.

They drove the remainder of the trip in relative silence. There was a long gravel-and-dirt drive up to Catherine’s place. She hoarded her privacy within her four walls, while she blustered and badgered everyone in the community outside her home. Ashley stared at the dark house. It had once been a farm, dating back to the early 1800s, and Catherine liked to joke that she had updated the plumbing and the kitchen but not the ghosts. Ashley stared at the white clapboard and wished they’d remembered to leave some lights on inside.

Catherine, however, was accustomed to the dark welcome and launched herself from the car. “Damnation,” she said abruptly. “I hear the phone ringing.”

She grunted loudly and added, “Too damn late for phone calls.”

Ignoring the night, confident in her understanding of every dip and ridge on the walkway to her front door, Catherine left Ashley scrambling behind her. Catherine never locked her doors, so she burst inside, flicking on the lights as she made her way to an ancient rotary-dial phone in the living room.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“Mother?”

“Hope! How nice. But you’re calling late.”

“Mother, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, why?”

“Is Ashley with you? Is she okay?”

“Of course, dear. She’s right here. What is the matter?”

“He
knows
! He may be on his way there.”

Catherine inhaled sharply, but kept her wits about her. “Slow down, dear. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

As she said this, she turned toward Ashley, who was standing frozen in the doorway. Hope started to speak, but Catherine heard little. For the first time, she could see abject fear in Ashley’s eyes.

Scott drove red-line hard.

The small car leapt with enthusiasm, easily pushing past one hundred miles per hour. He could hear the engine roaring behind him as the night swept past, a blur of shadows, stately pine trees, and black, distant mountains. What should have taken close to two hours from Scott’s house to Catherine’s he expected to do in half that time. He was unsure whether this would be fast enough. He was unsure what was happening. He was unsure what O’Connell was doing. And he was unsure what the night held. He knew only that some odd, misshapen danger was directly in front of him, and he was determined to throw himself between the threat and his daughter.

As he drove, hands gripping the wheel tightly, he was almost overcome with images from their past. All the memories of raising a child flooded him. He felt an utter cold, crippling chill within him, and as each mile slid behind him, he could hardly fight off the sensation that he was a mile per hour too slow, that whatever was about to happen, he was going to miss it by just seconds. And so, he jammed his right foot down on the accelerator, oblivious to anything except the need to move quickly, perhaps more quickly than he had ever moved before.

Catherine hung up the telephone and turned toward Ashley. She kept her voice low, steady, and extraordinarily calm. She selected her words carefully, giving them an antique formality. Concentrating on her words helped her fight her growing panic. She breathed in slowly and reminded herself that she came from a generation that had fought much bigger battles than those presented by this fellow O’Connell, and so she layered her words with a Roosevelt determination.

“Ashley, dear. It appears that this young man who seems most unhealthily attracted to you has actually learned that you are not in Europe, but here, visiting with me.”

Ashley nodded, unable to respond.

“I think that what might be wisest is if you were to go upstairs to your bedroom and lock the door. Keep the telephone handy. Hope informs me that your father is driving up here, even as we speak, and that she is also intending to summon the local police.”

Ashley took a step toward the stairs, then stopped.

“Catherine, what are you going to do? Maybe we should just get back in the car and get out of here.”

Catherine smiled. “Well, I doubt it makes sense to give this fellow another shot at us on the road. I imagine he already tried once tonight. No, this is my home. And
your
home, as well. If this fellow means you any harm, well, I think we’d be better off dealing with it here, where we are familiar with the territory.”

“Well, then I won’t leave you alone,” Ashley said with a burst of false confidence. “We’ll both sit and wait together.”

Catherine shook her head. “Ah, Ashley, dear, that is most kind of you to offer. But I believe I would be far more comfortable waiting here, knowing that you were behind a locked door upstairs and out of the way. Regardless, the authorities should be here shortly, so let us be cautious and sensible. And sensible, right now, means please to do what I ask you.”

Ashley started to protest, but Catherine waved her hand.

“Ashley, allow me to defend my home in the manner I see fit.”

The impact of Catherine’s sturdy use of language was immediate. Ashley finally nodded. “All right. I’ll be upstairs. But if I hear anything I don’t like, I’ll be down here in a flash.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by
anything I don’t like.

Catherine watched as Ashley bounded up the single central stairway. She hesitated until she heard the distinctive sound of an old-fashioned key in a door lock clicking shut. Then she walked over to a small wood closet, built right into the wall next to the large open-hearth fireplace. Jammed behind fire logs in an old leather case was her late husband’s shotgun. She had not brought it out in years, not bothered to clean it in as long a time, and was not completely certain that the half dozen shells rolling free in the bottom of the case were still capable of being fired. Catherine imagined that there was about an equal chance that the old weapon might explode in her hands if she had to pull the trigger. Still, it was a large, intimidating weapon, with a gaping hole at the end of the barrel, and Catherine hoped that that might be all that was necessary.

She took the shotgun out and sat down hard in a wing chair beside the fireplace. She fed all six shells into the magazine, then cocked the weapon and sat back, waiting, the gun across her lap. The weapon was greasy, and she rubbed her fingertips against her slacks, smearing them with dark streaks. She didn’t know much about guns, although she knew enough to click the safety catch off.

Catherine rested her hand on the stock as she heard the first small sounds of movement, just beyond the windows, closing in on the front door.

She continued to stare out the window, and I could imagine that she was chewing over one thought or another, then she abruptly turned back toward me and asked, “Have you ever actually thought you could kill someone?”

When I hesitated before answering, she shook her head. “That’s probably the answer right there. Maybe a better question for you to consider is how we romanticize violent death.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said slowly.

“Think of all the ways we express ourselves through violence. On the television, or in movies. Video games for kids. Think about all those studies that show that the average kid grows up witnessing how many thousands of deaths? Many thousands. But the truth is, despite all that education, when we are actually confronted by the sort of rage that could be fatal, we rarely know how to respond.”

I let her step away from the window and move back across the room to where she took a seat without replying.

“We like to imagine,” she said coldly, “that we will always know what to do in the most difficult of situations. But in reality, we don’t. We make mistakes. We fall prey to errors in judgment. All our flaws come flooding out. What we think we can do, we can’t. What we need to do is beyond us.”

“Ashley?”

She shook her head. “Don’t you think fear cripples us?”

30

A Conversation about Love

C
atherine took a single deep breath and lifted the shotgun to her shoulder, tracking the sounds from outdoors. She counted the steps to herself. From the window, to the corner of the house, past the flowerpots arranged so carefully in a row, to the front door. He will try the front door first, she told herself. Although her tongue seemed swollen, she shouted out roughly:

“Just come on in, Mr. O’Connell.”

She did not have to add,
I’m waiting for you.

There was a momentary quiet in which Catherine listened to her own labored breathing, which was nearly drowned out by the throbbing of her heart. She kept the shotgun lifted to her shoulder and tried to calm herself down as she sighted down the barrel. She had never shot anything in her life. Indeed, she had never fired a gun, even in practice. She had grown up a doctor’s daughter. Hope’s father had grown up on a farm and served as an enlisted man in the marines during the Korean War. Not for the first time, she wished he were at her side. After a second or two, she heard the front door open and a set of footsteps in the hallway.

“Right in here, Mr. O’Connell,” she spat out hoarsely.

There was nothing tentative in the sound of his steps as O’Connell came around the corner and stood in the entranceway. Catherine immediately leveled the shotgun, pointing it at his chest.

“Hands up!” She couldn’t really think of anything else to say. “Freeze, right where you are.”

Michael O’Connell neither stayed completely still nor did he raise his hands.

Instead, he took a small step forward and gestured at the weapon.

“You mean to shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

“So,” he said slowly, eyeing her carefully, then letting his vision sweep around the room, as if he were memorizing every shape, every color, and every angle. “What would make you
have to
?” He spoke as if they were sharing a joke.

“You probably don’t want to have me answer that,” she replied archly.

O’Connell shook his head, as if he understood, but disagreed. “No,” he said slowly, edging a little farther forward, “that’s exactly what I need to know, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Are you going to shoot if I say something you disagree with? If I move somewhere? If I get closer? Or if I step back? What will make you pull the trigger?”

“You want an answer? You can get one. Probably the hard way.”

O’Connell moved a step closer. “That’s far enough. And I would like you to raise your hands.” Catherine coughed out the words calmly, hoping that she sounded determined. But her voice felt flimsy and weak. And perhaps, for the first time, genuinely old.

O’Connell seemed to be measuring the distance between them.

“Catherine, right? Catherine Frazier. You are Hope’s mother, correct?”

She nodded.

“Can I call you Catherine? Or do you prefer something more formal. Mrs. Frazier? I want to be polite.”

“You can call me whatever you wish, because you aren’t staying long.”