John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

The couple half-turned in O’Connell’s direction.

“Hey, sorry,” the boy said. “My fault. Sorry.” They continued on after only a momentary glance in O’Connell’s direction.

“Asshole,” O’Connell said, loud enough for them to hear, but turning away from them rapidly. They had just gotten enough of a look.

The boy pivoted, still grasping the girl’s arm, obviously thinking of replying, then choosing against it. He didn’t want to say or do anything that might interrupt the mood and turned away. O’Connell counted to three slowly, giving the pair just enough time to put a little distance between them, their backs to him now, then he started following them. The sudden blare of a horn caused the girl to turn just barely, looking back over her shoulder and seeing him. He could see a small look of alarm on her face.

That’s it, he thought. Walk a few more feet, assessing the surprise, imagining a threat.

As soon as he reached the sidewalk and saw that the girl was speaking rapidly to the boy, O’Connell ducked into a darkened storefront, shoving himself out of their sight line. Disappearing into the small space, he wanted to laugh out loud. Again, he counted to himself.

One, two, three…

Time enough for the boy to hear what the girl was saying and stop.

Four, five, six…

Turning in his place and peering back through the shadows and arcs of neon light.

Seven, eight, nine…

Straining against the darkness and night, but not seeing him.

Ten, eleven, twelve…

Turning back to the girl.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

A second glance, just to make sure.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

They start off again.

Nineteen, twenty…

An extra, unsettled look back over the shoulder to reassure himself.

O’Connell stepped out of the shadow and saw that the young couple had picked up their pace and were nearly halfway down the block. He followed quickly, crossing the street so that once again he was parallel to them, half-running until he came abreast of the two of them.

Once again, it was the girl who spotted him first.

He imagined the shaft of anxiety piercing her.

Across the street, the girl stumbled, twisting, and O’Connell fixed his eyes on her, so that when she looked in his direction, he was staring hard. With nothing but anger on his face, their eyes met across the road.

The boy turned toward him, but O’Connell had anticipated this, and he abruptly started to run forward, toward the end of the block, moving ahead of the pair. The sudden, abrupt, erratic behavior delighted him. It was not something they would have expected, and he knew it would throw them into confusion.

Behind him, the young woman and the young man would be debating. Go forward, in the direction of their apartment, or turn back, find a different route. Once again, he pushed himself back into a shadow and caught his breath. He took a quick survey of his surroundings and saw that the side street behind him was lined with small apartment buildings, not unlike Ashley’s street, where tree branches stretched out into the ambient city light, giving them a ghostly appearance. Cars were parked tightly in every available space, and wan light flowed from building entranceways.

He slid from the shadows and rapidly walked three-quarters of the way down the street, taking up a position in another dark space, waiting. There was a streetlight at the beginning, and he guessed they would pass through its arc as they closed in on their apartment.

O’Connell was right. He saw the young couple come around the corner, pausing momentarily, then moving rapidly forward.

Scared, he thought. Not certain that they were actually safe. But starting to relax.

He pushed himself out, hunched his shoulders forward, and, moving at a quick march, angled across the street to intersect them.

They saw him almost simultaneously. The girl gasped, and the boy, gentleman that he was, pushed her slightly behind him and squared himself toward O’Connell. The boy clenched his fist and positioned himself like a fighter ready for the bell to sound.

“Stay back!” he said. The young man’s voice had risen, high-pitched with uncertainty. O’Connell heard the girl choke.

“What do you want?” the boy demanded, trying to keep himself between O’Connell and the girl.

O’Connell stopped and looked at the boy. “What are you talking about?”

“Stay away!” the boy said.

“Just chill, buddy,” O’Connell said. “What’s the problem?”

“Why are you following us?” This was the girl speaking, her voice a panic-laced half shriek.

“Following you? What the hell are you talking about?”

The boy kept his hands clenched, but looked surprised and even more confused.

“You folks are crazy.” O’Connell quickly began to move past them. “Nut jobs.”

“Leave us alone,” the boy said. Not very convincing, O’Connell thought. When he was about a half dozen paces past, he stopped and turned. As he suspected, they were still wrapped together, defensive, staring after him.

“You two are lucky.”

They eyed him with astonishment.

“Do you know how close you came to dying tonight?”

Then, not giving them a chance to reply, he spun about and moved as swiftly as he could without running, from shadow to shadow, leaving the young couple behind him. He suspected they would remember their fear from this night far longer than they would remember the happiness that they’d started it with.

“I think I need to know more about Sally and Scott, and then, about Hope, too.”

“Not Ashley?”

“Ashley seems young. Unfinished.”

She frowned. “True enough. But what makes you think that Michael O’Connell didn’t finish her?”

I didn’t know how to answer, but I felt a distinct chill in her words. “You told me that someone dies. Surely you’re not saying that it was Ashley…”

My question hung in the air between us. She finally said, “She was the one at greatest risk.”

“Yes, but-”

She interrupted, “And I suppose you think you already understand Michael O’Connell?”

“No. Not fully. Not nearly enough. But I’m searching about for my next step, and I was wondering about the three of them.”

She paused, fiddling with her glass of iced tea, again turning her head to stare out the windows. “I think about them often. Can’t help myself.”

She reached for a box of tissues. Tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes, but she wore a small smile. She took a long, slow breath of air.

“Do you ever consider why crime can be so devastating?” she asked abruptly.

I knew she would answer her own question.

“Because it is so unexpected. It falls outside ordinary routines of life. It takes us by surprise. It becomes totally personal. Utterly intimate.”

“Yes. True enough.”

She stared at me. “A history professor at a snobbish liberal college. A small-town attorney, expert in barely contested divorces and modest real-estate transactions. A guidance counselor and coach. And a head-in-the-clouds, young art student. Where were their resources supposed to come from?”

“Good question. Where?”

“That’s what you need to understand. Not just what they figured out, and what they did, but where the intelligence and the strength came from.”

“Okay,” I replied slowly, drawing out the word.

“Because eventually they pay a heavy price.”

I didn’t say anything.

She filled the silence. “In retrospect, it always seems so simple. But when it is happening, it’s never so clear-cut. And never quite as neat and tidy as we think it should be.”

The more Scott read, the more terrified he became.