John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

Hope took a deep breath, listened for any sounds from the hallway, then sat down in front of the computer. She wrote down the computer make and model on her scratch paper. Then she eyed the black screen. Like a workman reaching for an exposed wire, she touched the mouse pad in the center. The machine whirred, then flashed as the screen saver came up.

Hope felt her lips go dry and her throat constrict.

The screen saver was a picture of Ashley.

It was a little out of focus and had clearly been hurriedly taken from a few feet away. It caught her as if she were turning suddenly, surprised at some noise that had burst from behind her. Her face was creased with fear.

Hope stared at the picture and heard her breathing grow short and shallow. The picture O’Connell had chosen for his screen saver told her several things, none of them good. O’Connell worshipped that moment when Ashley had been caught unawares and was filled with terror.

It was love, she thought. The very worst kind.

Biting down on her lip, she moved the cursor over to the My Documents file and clicked on it. There were four different listings: Ashley Love. Ashley Hate. Ashley Family. Ashley Future.

She clicked on the first, only to see a box come up: Password Required.

She moved the cursor to Ashley Hate.

The machine blinked back Password Required.

Hope shook her head. She thought she might come up with the password if she sat and considered it, but she was already worrying about the amount of time she’d spent in the apartment. Still breathing fast, she closed everything down on the computer, returning it to its original state. Then she pulled open the file drawers, but discovered they were empty, other than for a couple of stray pencils and some printer paper.

When she stood up, she was a little dizzy. Hurry, she told herself. You’re pushing your luck.

She looked about. Check the bedroom, she thought.

The room smelled of sweat and neglect. She moved quickly to a battered chest of drawers and rifled through them as quickly as she could. A single mattress was on a frame, sheets and blanket tossed haphazardly on top. She dropped to her knees and checked under the bed. Nothing. She turned to the small closet. A few jackets and shirts hung inside. A single black blazer. Two ties. One button-down shirt and a pair of gray slacks. Nothing of any note. She was about to turn away when she saw, alone in the farthest corner of the closet, a single battered work boot, with a stiff gray athletic sock crusted with dirt stuffed in the top. It was partially obscured by a pile of sweat-streaked workout clothes.

A single boot didn’t make any sense to her.

She looked around for the companion, but couldn’t spot it anywhere.

This bothered her, and she froze in position, staring hard at the boot, as if it could tell her something. Then she reached into the back, and carefully moved aside the clothing, taking hold of the boot. It was heavy, and she thought instantly that something might be inside. Like a surgeon peeling back a flap of skin, she removed the sock and looked down.

She heard herself groan.

Inside the boot was a gun.

She started to reach for it, then told herself, Don’t touch it.

She did not know why.

A part of her wanted to seize it, steal it, just take it away from Michael O’Connell. Is this the gun he will use to kill Ashley?

Hope felt trapped, as if she were being held underwater. She knew if she took the gun, O’Connell would know that one of them had been here. And he would take action. Maybe it would trigger a violent response. Maybe he had another weapon stashed somewhere. Maybe, maybe. Questions and doubts warred within her. She wished there were some way she could render the gun harmless, like removing a firing pin. She had read about that once in a thriller novel, but she had no idea how to do it. And taking the bullets would be useless. He would know someone had been there and simply replace them.

She stared at the gun. She could see on the side of the barrel the brand and the caliber,.25.

The weapon’s ugliness almost overcame her.

Not sure that she was doing the right thing, she carefully replaced the boot in the corner of the closet and rearranged the clothes so that things looked exactly as before.

She wanted to run. How long had she been inside the apartment? Five minutes? Twenty? She thought she could hear footsteps, voices, and realized that she was hallucinating. Leave now! she told herself.

Hope rose and started to exit, walking past the bathroom, which she didn’t bother to check, and the small kitchen, which made her stop.

Cats, she thought to herself. Mrs. Abramowicz will want to know.

She peered into the tiny area. No table, just a refrigerator, a small four-burner stove, and a couple of shelves filled with canned soups and stews. No cans of cat food. No box of rat poison to mix into a lethal meal.

Hope went to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. Some sandwich fixings and a couple of cold beers were all that O’Connell kept inside. She closed the door, then, almost as an afterthought, opened up the freezer, expecting to see a couple of frozen pizzas.

What she saw was like a blow, and she was barely able to stifle a scream.

Staring back at her were the frozen bodies of at least a half dozen cats. One of them had its teeth exposed, gargoylelike, a terrifying ice grin of death.

Panic filled Hope, and she stepped back, hand over her mouth, her heart racing, nauseous, dizzy, feeling as if her temperature had spiked. She needed to scream, but nothing could choke past her tightened throat. Every fiber of her being told her to run, to flee, to get away and never look back. She tried to tell herself to remain calm, but it was a losing battle. When she reached out, to close the freezer door, her hand shook.

From the hallway, she suddenly heard a hiss. “Hurry, dear! Someone is at the elevator!”

Hope turned away, running for the front door.

“Hurry!” she heard Mrs. Abramowicz whisper. “Someone is coming!”

The old lady was still perched in her own entranceway when Hope burst out into the hallway. She could see the elevator counter starting to rise, and she closed the door to O’Connell’s apartment. She fumbled with the key, nearly dropping it, while she tried to slide it into the lock.

Mrs. Abramowicz shrank back, taking refuge in her own place. The cats by her feet were scurrying back and forth, as if they caught the sense of fear and panic in the old woman’s voice. “Hurry, hurry, we must get away!”

Hope saw that the old woman had nearly disappeared into her own flat, retreating from sight, leaving her door only open a crack. She felt the key drive the dead-bolt lock home and she stepped back, turning toward the elevator. She could see a light from inside the compartment when it reached the floor.

She froze, unable to move.

The elevator seemed to pause, then rose past the floor without stopping.

Her ears were ringing with adrenaline, and every sound seemed distant, like an echo across a wide canyon.

She assessed herself, conducting an inventory of her heart, her lungs, her mind, trying to see what still functioned, what had been shut down by fear.

Behind her, Mrs. Abramowicz cracked her door open a little wider and stuck her head out into the hallway.

“False alarm, dear. Did you find out what happened to my cats?”

Hope inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. When words came to her, they were cold. “No,” she lied. “No sign of them anywhere.”

She could see some disappointment in the old woman’s eyes.

“I think I should be leaving now,” she said stiffly. But she had the good sense to slide the key to Michael O’Connell’s apartment into her jacket pocket as she turned and headed rapidly for the emergency stairs. She knew that waiting for the elevator would require a patience she no longer owned.