The Wrong Man (65 page)

43

The Open Door

S
cott’s survey of the neighborhood several days earlier had told him where to wait.

He knew he had to be inconspicuous; if anyone saw him and made the connection between the figure dressed in dark clothes watching the O’Connell house from the shadows, and the man in the suit and tie who had been asking so many questions, it would create a significant problem. But he needed to be able to see the front of the house, in particular the dirt driveway. He needed to do this without raising the interest of any neighborhood dogs or residents. The spot where he chose to wait was perhaps a little distant, but it accommodated his needs. The battered onetime barn with half its roof caved in was now nothing more than an eyesore. From the corner, where he crouched, he could just see the entranceway to the O’Connell home. He was counting on Michael O’Connell to be driving fast, maybe even squealing the tires as he came around the last corner, spitting gravel and dirt when he turned into the place that was once his home. Make noise, Scott whispered to himself, as if he could encourage O’Connell’s recklessness. Make sure someone sees your arrival.

Lights were on in the adjacent houses. Scott breathed in the cold air. He could see an occasional form flit by a window and the ubiquitous glow of television screens.

He lifted his hand and held it in front of his face, to see if it quivered. Maybe a little, he imagined. But not enough to make a difference.

Lots of answers this night, he told himself. Any lingering questions he might have had about who he was, or who Sally was, or even who Hope was, were destined for responses.

He thought about Hope for an instant. He felt a surge of near panic.

I don’t know her, he thought. I have only the barest grasp of who she is.

But everything in his life suddenly pivoted on her capabilities.

Scott breathed in hard, tried to imagine what made him think even for the barest of moments that the three of them could pull off something that was so alien to their lives. In that brief second of doubt, he heard the sound of a car rapidly approaching.

By this time, Sally had returned to the Boston area. She headed to a particularly fancy shopping area in the Brookline area. Her first stop was at an ATM machine right outside the collection of stores, where she used her card to obtain $100 in cash. She made certain, right after the machine spat out her money, to lift her head so that the security camera clearly recorded her face. She made a point of placing her time-stamped receipt in her pocket.

Then she walked into the mall and made her way to a fancy lingerie store.

For a second, she hesitated amid the racks of silk and lace, until she spotted one of the younger saleswomen. The girl was probably no older than Ashley.

Sally approached her. “I wonder if you might help me with something.”

“Of course,” said the young woman. “What are you looking for?”

“Well, I wanted to get something for my daughter, she’s about your height and size. Something special, because she’s had a rocky time the last couple of weeks. Broke up with a boyfriend, you know how it is, and I wanted to get her something that would make her feel sexy and beautiful, when some jerk boy has made her feel just the opposite. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Do I ever,” the salesgirl said, nodding. “You’re being thoughtful.”

“Well, what’s a mother to do? And, you know, I’d like to get something nice as a gift for a special friend, as well. Someone I haven’t been, well, very nice to lately. Maybe some silk pajamas?”

“I can help with that, too. Do you know the size?”

“Oh, yes. These would be for a very special friend. We share a lot together, out in western Massachusetts, where we live. And things have been very up and down of late, and I’d like to try to make up for that. Flowers are always nice, but when you have a special relationship, sometimes it’s better to come up with something that will last longer, don’t you think?”

The salesgirl smiled. “Absolutely.”

Sally thought the mention of western Massachusetts—with its reputation across the state for accommodating women with partners—would underscore what she needed to get through to the young woman. She followed her toward the racks of expensive undergarments, thinking that she had already said enough so that the young lady would remember her. Sally reminded herself to use a credit card as well, because that would also put her in the location. She thought she might also make a point of speaking to the store manager before she left, just to compliment her on her choice of employees. That was the sort of conversation that was always recalled, if necessary, at a later point.

Sally thought she was on a stage, reciting lines invented by necessity.

“These are some of our nicest things,” the salesgirl said.

Sally smiled, as if what she was doing were the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, yes. Indeed.”

At more or less the same moment, Catherine and Ashley were in a Whole Foods supermarket less than a mile from Hope and Sally’s home, wheeling a cart that they filled with a variety of fancy, organic foodstuffs. The two of them had been silent throughout the shopping expedition.

When they turned down an aisle near the front of the store, Ashley spotted a large display of fresh pumpkins built into a tower, decorated with dried cornstalks. It was a Thanksgiving-oriented theme, with a row of walnuts and cranberries and a paper turkey in the center. She nudged Catherine and gestured toward the display.

Catherine nodded.

The two of them pushed the cart close to the display. Just as they swung next to the edge of the table that served as the foundation, Catherine loudly said, “Oh, damn, we forgot the bean dip.”

As she said this, they swung the cart so that the front wheel caught the table leg. The entire display teetered for an instant, and Ashley let out a small yelp and bent forward, as if she were trying to keep it from tumbling, when, in actuality, she grabbed at one of the largest foundation pumpkins.

Within seconds, the entirety had tumbled in a loud crash, dried gourds, Indian corn, scooting across the floor, while yellow pumpkins and squash started rolling about haphazardly.

Catherine gasped. “Oh my goodness!” she shouted loudly.

Within a few seconds, several stock boys and the store manager had descended upon the mess. The stock boys set to repairing the display, while Catherine and Ashley profusely apologized and insisted upon paying for any damage. They were turned down by the manager, but Catherine reached into her pocketbook and withdrew $50, which she thrust toward the manager. “Well, then at least make sure that these nice young men who have cleaned up the mess Ashley and I have made are properly rewarded for their assistance.”

“No, no,” the manager said. “Really, ma’am, that’s not necessary.”

“I insist.”

“Me, too,” said Ashley.

The manager, shaking his head, took the money, to the great relief of the stock boys.

Then Ashley pushed their cart into the checkout line, while Catherine pulled out a bank card to pay for the items. Both women made sure that they, too, turned directly toward the store’s security cameras. There was little doubt in their minds that they would be remembered that particular night. That had been Sally’s final message to the two of them:
Make certain that you do something public that establishes your presence at home.

This they had accomplished. They did not know what was happening in some other part of New England at the same time, but they imagined it was something truly dangerous.

Michael O’Connell’s car headlights cut across the dim front of his onetime home. The lights reflected off the polished side of his father’s truck. A car door slammed loudly and Scott saw O’Connell striding toward the entrance to the kitchen. The urgency in Michael O’Connell’s pace seemed to light through the darkness.

O’Connell’s anger was critical, Scott thought. Angry people don’t notice the small things that could later be important.

He watched as O’Connell grabbed at the side door and disappeared inside. He hadn’t been in Scott’s sight line for more than a few seconds. But every motion that Scott had seen told him that whatever Ashley had said to him, it had driven him single-mindedly right to the house.

Taking a deep breath, Scott hunched over and ran across the roadway, trying to keep to the shadows. He sprinted as quickly as he could up the drive to where O’Connell had left his car. He ducked down and reached inside the backpack, first removing a pair of surgical gloves, which he slipped on. Then he pulled out a hard-rubber-headed mallet and a box of galvanized roofing nails. He took a single glance toward the back of the house, breathed in sharply, then drove one of the nails into the sidewall of Michael O’Connell’s rear tire. He bent down and heard a slow hiss of escaping air.

He then took another couple of the nails and tossed them haphazardly around the driveway.

Moving as stealthily as he could, Scott made his way to the back of the elder O’Connell’s truck. He left the rest of the box of nails open in the back. He also left the mallet nearby, just another one of the many tools that cluttered the back of the truck and the carport.

His first task completed, Scott turned and walked steadily back to his hiding spot. As he crossed the street, he heard the first raised voice, electric with anger, coming from inside the house. He wanted to wait, to make out the precise words, but understood he could not.

When he reached the decrepit barn, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

It rang twice before Hope picked it up.

“Are you close?” he asked.

“Less than ten minutes.”

“It’s happening now. Call me when you stop.”

Hope disconnected without a reply. She pushed down on the gas, picking up her pace. They had figured on at least a twenty-minute lag time between Michael O’Connell’s arrival and her own. They were pretty close to schedule, she thought. This did not necessarily reassure her.

Inside the house, Michael O’Connell and his father stood a few feet apart, in the bedraggled living room.

“Where is she?” the son shouted, his fists clenched. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?” his father replied.

“Ashley, God damn it! Ashley!” He looked around wildly.

The father laughed mockingly. “Well, this is a hell of a thing. A hell of a thing.”

Michael O’Connell pivoted back in the older man’s direction. “Is she hiding? Where did you put her?”

The older O’Connell shook his head. “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And who the hell is Ashley? Some girl you knew back in high school?”

“No. You know who I’m talking about. She called you. She was supposed to be here. She said she was on her way. Stop screwing with me, or so help me God, I’ll…”

Michael O’Connell raised his fist in his father’s direction.

“Or you’ll do what?” the father asked, a sneer filling his voice.

The older man remained calm. He took his time sipping at a bottle of beer, staring across the room at his son, eyes narrowed. Then he deliberately walked over to his lounge chair, slumped into it, took another long pull on the beer bottle, and shrugged. “I just don’t know what you’re getting at, kid. I don’t know anything about this Ashley. You suddenly call me up after being out of touch for years, start screaming about some piece of tail like you’re some punk in junior high school, and asking all sorts of questions I got absolutely no idea what the hell it is you’re talking about, then you all of a sudden show up like the whole world’s on fire, demanding this and that, and I still don’t have no clue what’s going on. Why don’t you pop a beer and calm down and stop acting like a baby.”

As he spoke, he gestured toward the kitchen and the refrigerator.

“I don’t want a drink. I don’t want anything from you. I never have. I just want to know where Ashley is.”

The father shrugged again and held his arms wide. “I have absolutely no goddamn idea what and who you’re talking about. You ain’t making any sense.”

Michael O’Connell, steaming, pointed at his father. “You just sit there, old man. Just sit there and don’t move. I need to look around.”

“I ain’t going nowhere. You want to take a look around? Go ahead. Ain’t changed much since you moved out.”

The son shook his head. “Yeah, it has,” he said bitterly as he pushed across the small living room, kicking some newspapers out of the way. “You’ve gotten a whole lot older and probably drunker, too, and this place is more of a mess.”

The father eyed his son as Michael O’Connell swept past him. He didn’t move from his seat as the younger man entered the back rooms.

He went first into the room that had been his. His old twin bed was still jammed into a corner, and some of his old AC/DC and Slayer posters were still where he’d tacked them up. A couple of cheap sports trophies, an old football jersey nailed to the wall, some books from high school, and a bright red painting of a Chevrolet Corvette filled the remaining space. He paced across the room and flung the closet door open, half-expecting to see Ashley hiding in the back. But it was empty, except for an old jacket or two that smelled of dust and mildew, and some boxes of out-of-date video games. He kicked at the box, strewing its contents across the floor.

Everything in the room reminded him of something he hated: what he was, and where he came from. He saw that his father had simply thrust many of his mother’s old things onto the bed—dresses, pantsuits, overcoats, boots, several painted boxes filled with cheap jewelry, and a photo triptych of the three of them on one of their rare vacations at a camping ground up in Maine. The picture stirred up nothing but terrible memories: too much drinking and arguing and a silent ride home. It was a little as if his father had simply dumped everything that reminded him of his dead wife and his estranged son into the room, kicking it away, where it collected dust and the smells of age.