The Wrong Man (71 page)

In the street just in front of her car was a storm drain. She dropped Mrs. Abramowicz’s key between the grate spaces, hearing it plop into muddy water at the bottom.

Not until she got into her car, closed the door, and pushed her head back did she feel tears welling up within her. For a second, she believed it would all work, and she told herself, She’s safe. We’ve done it, Ashley is safe.

And then she remembered Hope and a new panic set in. One that seemed to rise up out of some black space deep within her, rushing forward inexorably, threatening to sweep her up in some new, shapeless fear. Sally gasped out loud, catching her breath. She reached for the cell phone and punched the number for Hope’s phone.

Scott felt relief as he pulled into his driveway. He tucked the truck back behind the house, to its usual spot, where it was hard to see from the roadway, or by any of the neighbors. He grabbed all his clothing from that night, got into the Porsche, and pulled back out into the street. He revved the engine, making sure that he made enough noise to be noticed by anyone still up and watching television or reading.

In the center of town was a pizza restaurant favored by students. This late—it was closing in on midnight—the presence of a professor was likely to be noted. It wasn’t that unusual—teachers correcting papers were known to seek out the occasional late-night burst of energy. It was as good a place as any to be seen.

He parked directly in front, and the sports car caught the attention of some of the young men seated at a counter by the window. The car always got noticed.

He bought a slice of grilled-chicken-and-pineapple pizza and deliberately used his ATM debit card to pay for it.

If asked, he would not be able to account for his presence earlier that night.
Home, grading papers,
he would say.
And, no, I don’t answer the phone when I’m going over student work.
But it would not have been possible for him to drive from O’Connell’s father’s home, all the way to Boston, and then back to western Massachusetts in the relevant time.
Kill someone and then buy a slice of pizza? Detective, that’s absurd.
It was not the best of alibis, but it was at least something. It was dependent, in more than a small way, upon Sally doing what she had promised she would with the weapon. So much hinged on that gun being discovered in the same spot that Scott almost coughed out loud as he choked with tension.

He took his slice over to an empty spot at the counter and ate slowly. He tried not to think of that day, tried not to replay every scene in his head. But a picture of the murdered man slid into his consciousness as he stared at his pizza. When he thought he smelled the unmistakable odor of gasoline, and then the equally sickening scent of burning flesh, he almost gagged. He told himself, You were at war again. He breathed in, continued to eat, and concentrated on what remained for him to accomplish. He had to drop off every item of clothing that he’d worn inside O’Connell’s father’s house at the local Salvation Army clothing dump, where it would disappear into the maw of charity. He reminded himself not to forget the shoes. They might have blood on their soles. He recognized the double entendre that had inadvertently scoured his mind: we all might have blood on our souls.

He looked down at the slice and saw that his hand trembled as he lifted the food to his mouth.

What have I done?

He refused to answer his own question. Instead, he found himself thinking about Hope. The more he envisioned her situation, the wound in her side, the more he understood there was a long way to go before he could breathe easily again.

Scott looked around the restaurant wildly, staring at the other late-night diners, almost all of whom kept to themselves, their eyes dutifully fixed ahead, looking beyond the window or gazing at the wall. For a moment, he thought they would all be able to see the truth about him that night, that somehow he wore guilt like a vibrant streak of crimson paint.

He felt his leg twitch spastically.

It will all fall apart, he thought. We are all going to prison.

Except Ashley. He tried to keep a vision of her firmly in his head as a way out of the overwhelming despair that threatened to overcome him.

The pizza suddenly tasted like chalk. His throat was dry. He desperately wanted to be alone, yet did not, both at the same time.

He pushed the paper plate away.

For the first time, Scott realized that everything that they had done, designed to return certainty to Ashley’s life, had thrown all of them into a black hole of doubt.

Scott slowly walked out of the restaurant, returned to his car, and wondered whether he would ever be able to sleep peacefully again. He did not think so.

Hope was still seated in her rental car, but the engine was off, the lights were extinguished, and she was resting with her head against the wheel. She had pulled into the deepest part of the small parking lot at the entrance to the seaside park, farthest away from the main road, as hidden as she could manage.

She felt light-headed, but exhausted, and she wondered whether she would have the strength to complete the night. Her breathing was shallow and labored.

On the seat next to her, she had the knife that had done so much damage, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a sheet of paper. She ransacked her mind, trying to think if there was anything else that might compromise her. She saw the cell phone, told herself that she had to get rid of it, and as she reached out, it rang.

Hope knew it would be Sally.

She picked it up, lifted the phone to her ear, and shut her eyes.

“Hope?” Sally’s voice came across the line, scratchy with anxiety. “Hope?”

She did not reply.

“Are you there?”

Again, she did not answer.

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

Hope thought of many things she could say, but none would form on her tongue, pass through her lips. She breathed in heavily.

“Please, Hope, tell me where you are.”

Hope shook her head, but did not say anything.

“Are you hurt? Is it bad?”

Yes.

“Please, Hope, answer me,” Sally pleaded. “I have to know you’re all right. Are you heading home? Are you going to a hospital? Where are you? I’ll come there. I’ll help you, just tell me what to do.”

There’s nothing you can do,
Hope thought.
No, just keep talking. It’s wonderful to hear your voice. Do you remember when we first met? Our fingertips touched when we shook hands, and I thought we were going to catch on fire, right there, in the gallery, in front of everyone.

“Are you unable to talk? Is there someone else around?”

No. I’m alone. Except I’m not. You’re here with me now. Ashley is with me. Catherine and my father, too. I can hear Nameless barking because he wants to go to the soccer fields. My memories are surrounding me.

Sally wanted more than anything else to panic, to give in to all the fear that blew around her with hurricane force, but she managed to grip tight to something within her, containing all the winds of tension.

“Hope, I know you’re listening to me. I know it. I’ll talk. If you can say something, please do. Just tell me where to go, and I will be there. Please.”

I’m at a place you will remember. It will make you smile and cry when you understand.

“Hope, it’s done. We’re finished. We did it. It’s all past us. She’s going to be safe, I know it. Everything will go back to being how it was. She will have her life and you and I will have our lives together, and Scott will have his teaching, and it will all be as it was when we were happy. I’ve been so wrong, I know I’ve been awful, I know it has been hard on you, but please, together, we will go forward from this point on, you and I. Please don’t leave me. Not now. Not when we have a chance.”

This is our only chance.

“Please, Hope, please. Talk to me.”

If I talk to you, I won’t be able to do what I have to do. You will talk me out of it. I know you, Sally. You will be persuasive and seductive and funny, all at once, the way you used to be; it’s what I loved about you from the beginning. And if I allow myself to talk to you, I won’t be able to argue with all the reasons you will use to dissuade me.

Sally listened to the silence, racking her brain for what it was she could say. She could not put what was happening into words; it was far too black and nightmarish. She knew only that there had to be some phrase, some concoction of language, that she could utter that might change what she was afraid was happening.

“Look, Hope, love, please let me help.”

You are helping. Keep talking. It makes me stronger.

“No matter what has happened, I can get us out of it. I know I can. Trust me. It’s what I’m trained to do. It’s what I have my expertise in. There is no problem too big that we can’t extricate ourselves from, working together. Didn’t we learn that tonight?”

Hope reached over and brought the piece of paper and pen in front of her. She crooked the phone between her shoulder and her ear, so that she could continue to listen.

“Hope, we can manage. We can win. I know it. Just tell me you know it, too.”

Not this. Too many questions. We will all be in jeopardy. I need to do this. It’s the only way I can be sure we’re all safe.

Sally was quiet, and Hope wrote on the page,
There is too much sadness in my life.

She shook her head. The first lie of many, she thought. She continued writing.

I have been unfairly accused at the school I love.

Sally whispered, “Hope, please, I know you’re there. Tell me what is wrong. Tell me what to do. I’m begging you.”

And the woman I love no longer loves me.

Hope shook her head slightly as she wrote these words. She bit down on her lower lip. She needed to find some way to indicate that this was all a bunch of lies, find a way to say this so that only Sally would know the truth, not the park ranger who would find the note, nor the detective who would read it.

So I have come to this place that we once loved, so that I could remember
what it once was like, and what I know the future would be, if only I were stronger.

Sally, tears flowing down her face, gave in to something that went way beyond terror. It was the sensation of inevitability.
She wants to protect us.

“Hope, love, please,” she coughed out the words between gasps of complete despair. “Let me come be with you. Always, since the first, we relied upon each other. We made each other right. Let me do that again, please.”

But, Sally, you are.

I tried to stab myself with a knife but that only made me bleed all over the place, and I’m sorry. I wanted to stab myself in the heart, but I missed. So, I’ve chosen another route.

There it is,
Hope thought.

The only route still open to me. I love you all, and trust you will all remember me the same way.

She was exhausted.

Sally’s voice had diminished to a whisper. “Look, Hope, my love, please, no matter how badly you are hurt, we can just say that I did it to you. Scott said you were cut. Well, we’ll just tell the cops I did it. They’ll believe us, I know it. You don’t have to leave me. We can talk our way out of this, together.”

Hope smiled again. It was a most attractive offer, she thought to herself. Lie our ways out of all the questions. And maybe it would work. But probably not.
This is the only way to be sure.

She wanted to say good-bye, wanted to say all the things that lovers and partners would whisper to each other in the dark, wanted to say something about her mother and Ashley and everything that had happened that night, but she did not. Instead, she merely touched the
END
button on her cell phone to disconnect the line.

In her car, still parked on the street outside Michael O’Connell’s apartment building, Sally gave in to all the emotions cascading within her and sobbed uncontrollably. She felt as if she were shrinking, that she had abruptly grown smaller, weaker, and was only a shadow of the person she had been at the start of the day. Whatever they had done, she wasn’t sure that it was worth the cost that had been paid. She bent over, kicked her feet, and pounded on the wheel, flailing her arms about wildly. Then she stopped and moaned as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, slinking down in her seat, in total agony, and completely oblivious that Michael O’Connell, cursing loudly, openly enraged, glowing with red anger and black bitterness, and blinded to the world around him, had passed by only a few feet away as he stomped his way toward his own front entranceway.

“So, Do You Want to Hear a Story?”

“I see,” she said a little cautiously, “you managed to meet with the detective who investigated the case?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It was most enlightening.”

“But you have returned because you have a few more questions, correct?”

“Yes. I still think there are other people I need to speak with.”

She nodded, but did not reply at first. I could see that she was calculating carefully, trying to measure details against memories.

“This would be the same request, would it not? To speak with Sally or Scott?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I do not think they would speak with you. But regardless, what would you expect them to say?”

“I want to know how it worked out.”

This time she laughed, but without humor. “Worked out? What a truly inadequate phrase to describe what they went through and what they did, and how it might have impacted their lives in the days that followed.”

“Well, you know what I mean. An assessment.”

“And you think they would tell you the truth? Don’t you imagine that when you knocked on their door and said, ‘But I need to ask you some questions about the man you killed,’ that they would simply look at you as if you were completely crazy and then slam the door in your face? And even if they were to invite you in, and you were to ask, ‘So, how
have
your lives been since you got away with murder?’ what incentive would they have for unburdening themselves of the truth? Can’t you see how ridiculous that would be?”