John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” Hope interjected.

“Do we have that right?” Sally asked, speaking rapidly. “She’s a grown-up. She’s not a little girl anymore.”

“I know that,” Scott replied testily. “But if we are reasonable-”

“Is any of this reasonable?” Hope asked abruptly. “I mean, why is it fair for Ashley to run back to her home at the first sign of trouble? She has the right to live where she wants to, and she has the right to her own life. And this guy, O’Connell, doesn’t have the right to force her to flee.”

“True. But we’re not talking about rights. We’re talking about realities.”

“Well,” Sally said, “the reality is that we will have to do what Ashley wants, and we don’t know what that is.”

“She’s my daughter. I think that if I ask her to do something, she damn well will do it,” Scott replied stiffly, an edge of anger in his voice.

“You’re her father. You don’t own her,” Sally said.

There was an unhappy silence in the room.

“We should determine what Ashley wants.”

“That seems like a pretty wishy-washy, politically correct, and generally wimpy thing to do,” Scott said. “I think we need to be more aggressive. At least until we really understand what we are up against.”

Again they were quiet.

“I’m with Scott,” Hope said abruptly. Sally spun in her direction, a look of surprise on her face.

“I think we should be, what? Proactive,” Hope continued. “At least in a modest fashion.”

“So, what are you two suggesting?”

“I think,” Scott said slowly, “we should find out a bit about Michael O’Connell, at the same time that we get Ashley away from his immediate reach. So, we do what we’re all capable of. Maybe one of us should start looking at him.”

Sally held up her hand. “We should engage a professional. I know a private investigator or two who do this sort of inquiry routinely. Moderately priced, as well.”

“Okay,” Scott said, “you hire someone and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime, we need to get Ashley physically away from O’Connell.”

“Bring her home? That seems juvenile and cowardly,” Sally said.

“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!”