John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“She’s still pretty shaky.”

Catherine nodded. “Don’t blame her. I’m still a little shaky, as well.”

“You hide it better.”

“More experience.”

“I wish…” he started, then stopped.

Catherine smiled out of the side of her mouth wryly. “I know what you wish.”

“I wish you’d blown him straight to hell.”

She nodded. “So do I. In retrospect.”

Neither said what both were thinking: having O’Connell standing at the wrong end of a shotgun had been an opportunity they doubted they would have again. As quickly as this thought came into Scott’s head, he tried to dismiss it. The educated, rational part of him insisted, violence is never the answer. Then, just as smoothly, the reply rose up: Why not?

Ashley entered, hovering in the doorway.

“All right,” she said. “I’m ready.”

She stared at her father and Catherine. “Are you sure leaving is the right thing?”

“We’re pretty isolated out here, Ashley, dear,” Catherine said cautiously. “And it seems very hard to predict what Mr. O’Connell will do next.”

“It’s not fair,” Ashley said. “Not fair to me, not fair to you, not fair to anybody.”

“Being fair, I think, is no longer much of an issue,” Scott said.

“Being safe is the first concern,” Catherine said, still speaking gently. “So let’s err on the side of caution.” Ashley clenched her fists together, battling tears.

“Let’s just go,” Scott said. “Look, at the very least it will make your mother feel a whole lot better when you’re home. Hope, too. And Catherine, she sure as hell doesn’t want to be up here alone, dealing with the son of a bitch after he figures out that we’ve moved Ashley out.”

“Next time,” Catherine said stiffly, “I don’t think I will bother with conversation.”

She gestured at the shotgun, which made Scott and Ashley both smile.

“Catherine,” Ashley said, wiping away at her eyes, “you would make a fine professional killer.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you, dear. I will take that as a compliment.”

Scott rose from the table. “Does everyone understand how this is going to work tonight?”

Both Ashley and Catherine nodded. “Seems elaborate,” Catherine said.

“Better elaborate than sorry. It’s best to assume he’s watching the house, don’t you think? And that he might try to follow us. And we don’t know what he might try to pull. He’s already run you off the road once tonight.”

“If that was him,” Ashley said. “We never got a good look at the guy. Or his car. It doesn’t make sense. Why would he try to kill us one minute, then stand in the hallway and shout out he loves me?”

Scott shook his head. It didn’t make sense to him, either. “Anyway, we shall give him something to think about, if he is watching.”

He collected the bags and arranged them all by the front door. Behind him, Catherine was turning off every light in the house. Leaving the two women in the hallway, he walked out into the nighttime. He scanned the night shapes, flashing back to when he was Ashley’s age, in Vietnam, staring out through spyglasses into the jungle, the battery of howitzers behind him, silent for once, the damp, stale smell of closely packed sandbags close to his chest, wondering if they were being observed from the vines and tangled, thick undergrowth.

Scott slid behind the wheel of the Porsche, fired up the engine, and backed into a space next to Catherine’s small four-wheel-drive station wagon. He left his car running, stepping out after popping the hood. He reached in and started Catherine’s car. He went to the right-hand side of each vehicle, opened the door, and adjusted the passenger seat, so that they were lowered as far as they could go.

Scott went back inside, seized all the bags, and went out again into the night.

He placed Catherine’s bag in his car, and Ashley’s in Catherine’s, closing the trunks, but leaving all four car doors open.

He walked back swiftly to the front door. “Ready?”

Both women nodded.

“Then let’s go. Fast, now.”

All three of them moved together, in a single dark lump. Ashley slipped into the passenger seat in the Porsche, and Catherine behind the wheel of her own car. As she took her place, Ashley immediately dove down, so that she could not be seen. She had tucked her hair up under a dark navy watch cap.

Scott ran around, slamming all the car doors, before jumping into his own seat. He gave Catherine a thumbs-up signal, and she accelerated hard, her wheels spitting gravel. Scott pulled in, barely inches away. Fast now, he thought. But Catherine was already jamming her foot down on the gas, and the two of them headed quickly for the highway, in tandem.

Scott scanned the road behind him, on the lookout for headlights. But the twists in the highway made it difficult. He thought, There’s a full moon tonight. If I were chasing someone, I’d be driving without lights.

Beside him, Ashley remained scrunched down. He accelerated, keeping up with Catherine.

She was heading to a spot she knew, right before the entrance to the interstate highway. It was a drive-in bank that had a small parking lot in the rear. When she spotted the entrance, she waited until the last second to flick on her blinker and tugged the wheel sharply. She could hear the tires squeal briefly as she zipped between the dual drive-in windows, pulling into the rear, where there were no lights. She could hear the roar of the Porsche’s engine directly behind her. She stopped and breathed in.

Scott pulled in beside her, then leapt from his car and ran to the edge of the building.

A single car went past on the main road, then a second. He couldn’t make out the driver of either car.

But neither car slowed; instead they disappeared down the road, neither one turning for the interstate. Nor did they seem hesitant and suspicious. He waited for another car to go past, which took nearly a minute. Then he returned to where the two women were waiting.

“All right, switch time,” he said. “No sign of him.”

Wordlessly, Ashley slid from her seat in the Porsche and jammed herself into the passenger seat of the wagon, tucking an old plaid fleece blanket around herself. Catherine nodded, then put the car in gear and headed out toward the entrance ramp of the interstate heading south.

Scott pulled behind her, but instead of taking the ramp south, toward their destination, he stopped by the side of the road. He watched the small car’s taillights disappear. He waited, determined to get a look at any car that might be heading south behind Catherine, but none came along. There was no one else around that he could see. He paused again and, after counting to thirty, suddenly floored the Porsche and, with tires screeching, ducked the nose of the sports car onto the northbound ramp. By the time he was at the bottom of the ramp, he was already doing close to ninety. He saw a tractor-trailer in the right-hand lane, blocking his access, but instead of braking, he punched the gas and flew past the trucker in the breakdown lane. The truck’s air horn blasted the night behind him, and the driver flashed all his lights in irritation. Scott ignored him, looking hard for the illegal U-turn coming up on his left. He just hoped no trooper was hanging out in it. His high beams caught a FOR AUTHORIZED USE ONLY sign, and he slammed on the brakes. In the same motion, he cut all his lights.

The Porsche bumped on the dirt and bottomed out once as he went from the northbound side to the south. A quick glance told him the road was empty, and accelerating hard, he flung the Porsche back onto the highway, flicking on his headlights once again. He saw a pair of deer’s eyes lighting up red in the median.