John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

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.