The Wrong Man

by John Katzenbach

  Sally hesitated for a moment. “It seems he was going through some of her things and he came across a letter she received that disturbed him.”

  “What was he doing going through her things?”

  Sally smiled. “My first question, too. Great minds think alike.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he didn’t really answer me. He wanted to talk about the letter.”

  Hope shrugged a little bit. “Okay, what about the letter?”

  Sally thought for a minute, then asked, “Well, did you ever, I mean, like back in high school or college, ever get a love letter, you know the type, professing devotion, love, undying passion, total commitment, over-the-top I-can’t-live-without-you sorts of statements?”

  “Well, no, I never got one. But I suspect the reasons I didn’t were different. That’s what he found?”

  “Yes. A protest of love.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty harmless. Why do you suppose he was bent out of shape about it?”

  “Something in the tone, I’m thinking.”

  “And,” Hope said, with a touch of exasperation, “what precisely would that be?”

  Sally considered what she was going to say before saying it, a lawyer’s cautiousness. “It seemed, I don’t know, possessive. And perhaps a bit manic. You know, the If I can’t have you, no one can sort of thing. I think he was reading too much into it.”

  Hope nodded. She chose her own words carefully. “You’re probably right. Of course,” she added slowly, “wouldn’t it be a greater error in judgment to underestimate a letter like that?”

  “You think Scott was right to be worried?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said that ignoring something is rarely an answer to a question.”

  Sally smiled. “Now you sound like a guidance counselor.”

  “I am a guidance counselor. So it probably isn’t all that crazy that upon occasion I actually sound like one.”

  Sally paused. “I didn’t mean for this to be an argument.”

  Hope nodded. “Of course.” She wasn’t sure that she agreed with this, but it was a much safer thing to say.

  “It seems, sometimes, that every time Scott’s name comes up, when we’re talking, that we end up arguing about one thing or another,” Sally said. “Even after all these years.”

  Hope shook her head. “Well, let’s not talk about Scott. I mean, after all, he’s not really much of a part of who we are, is he? But he’s still a part of Ashley’s life, so we should deal with him in that context. And anyway, even if Scott and I don’t exactly get along, that doesn’t mean I automatically think he’s crazy.”

  “Okay, fair enough,” Sally replied. “But the letter…”

  “Has Ashley seemed out of touch, or distant, or anything out of the normal lately?”

  “You know as well as I. No is the answer. Unless you’ve noticed something.”

  “I don’t know that I’m all that great at spotting emotional undercurrents in young women,” Hope said, although she knew this statement was the opposite of the truth.

  “What makes you think I am?” Sally asked.

  Hope shrugged. The entire conversation was going wrong, and she couldn’t tell if it was her fault. She looked across the dining room table at Sally and thought that there was some tension between them that she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was like seeing some hieroglyphics carved into a stone. It was speaking a language that should be clear, but was just beyond her grasp.

  “When Ashley was last here, did you notice anything different?”

  As Hope waited for Sally to reply, she went over all the dynamics of Ashley’s last visit. Ashley had breezed in with all the usual bluster, confidence, and million plans all going on at once. Sometimes standing next to her was a little like trying to grab the trunk of a palm tree at the height of a hurricane. She simply had a natural velocity to her.

  Sally was shaking her head and smiling. “I don’t know,” she said. “She was doing this and that and meeting up with one person or another. High school friends she hadn’t seen in years. It seemed like she hardly had a moment for her boring old mom. Or her boring old mom’s partner. Or, I suppose, for her boring old dad either.”

  Hope nodded.

  Sally pushed back from the table. “Ah, let’s just see what happens. If Ashley has a problem, she’s likely to call and ask for advice or help or whatever. Let’s not read anything into anything, okay? Actually, I’m sorry I brought it up. If Scott hadn’t been so upset…Actually, not upset. But concerned. I think he’s just getting a little paranoid in his old age. Hell, we all are, aren’t we? And Ashley, well, she’s got all that energy. Best thing is to just step aside and let her find her own way.”

  Hope nodded. “Spoken like a wise mother.” She began to clear the dishes, but when she reached for a long-stemmed wineglass, the glass broke in her hand, a piece of the base simply breaking off and shattering as it hit the floor. She looked down and saw that the tip of her index finger was bleeding. For a moment she watched the blood gather and then drip down across her palm, each droplet welling up through the slice, synchronized to her heartbeat.

  They watched a little television, and then Sally announced that she was going to bed. This was an announcement, not an invitation, not even accompanied by the obligatory kiss on the cheek. Hope barely looked up from some college essays she was reviewing, but she did ask Sally if she thought it was possible for her to get to a game or two in the upcoming weeks. Sally was noncommittal as she headed up the stairwell to the bedroom they shared on the second floor.

  Hope slumped back into a spot on the sofa, looked down as Nameless shuffled over to her, and then, hearing the water running in the upper bathroom, slapped her palm on the seat next to her, inviting her dog up to her side. She never did this in front of Sally, who disapproved of Nameless’s cavalier attitude toward furniture. Sally liked everyone’s roles carefully defined, Hope thought. Dogs on the floor. People in seats. As little messiness as possible. This was the lawyer in her. Her job was to sort out confusions and conflicts and impose reason upon situations. Create rules and parameters, set out courses of action and define things.

  Hope was far less sure that organization meant freedom.

  She enjoyed some clutter in her life and had what she thought was a slightly rebellious streak.

  She idly rubbed Nameless’s fur, and he thumped his tail once or twice while his eyes rolled back. She could hear Sally moving about, then saw the shadow thrown by the bedroom light disappear from the stairwell.

  Hope put her head back and thought that perhaps their relationship was in far more trouble than she could imagine, although she was hard-pressed to say exactly why. It seemed to her that for much of their last year together Sally had lived in a world of distraction, her mind elsewhere, all the time. She wondered if someone could fall out of love as quickly as they fell into it in the first place. She exhaled slowly and shifted in her seat and exchanged her fears for her partner to fears for Ashley.

  She did not know Scott well and had probably only spoken to him on a half dozen occasions in nearly fifteen years, which, she conceded to herself, was unusual. Her impressions were gathered mostly from Sally, and Ashley, but she thought that he wasn’t the sort of person to go off half-cocked about something, especially something as trivial as an anonymous love letter. In her job, both as a coach and as a private-school counselor, Hope had seen so many bizarrely dangerous relationships, and she was inclined to be wary.

  She rubbed Nameless again, but he barely budged.

  It was trite, she thought, for someone of her sexual persuasion to mistrust all men. But on the other hand, she was aware of the damage that runaway emotions could do, especially to young people.

  Raising her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling, as if she could see through the plaster and wallboard and determine what Sally was thinking as she lay in bed. Sally had trouble sleeping, Hope knew. And when she did manage to drift off, she tossed and turned and seemed trouble
d by her dreams.

  Hope wondered whether Ashley was having the same trouble sleeping. That was a question she realized she should probably acquire the answer to. But exactly how to do this eluded her.

  At that moment, Hope had no idea that more or less the same dilemma was also keeping Scott awake.

  Boston has a chameleon-like quality that seems different from that of other cities. On a bright summer morning, it seems to burst with energy and ideas. It breathes learning and education, constancy, history. A headiness that speaks of possibility. But walk the same streets when the fog comes rolling in off the harbor, or when an edgy frost is in the air or the dirt-streaked residue of winter snow litters the streets, and Boston becomes a cold, gritty place, with a razor harshness that belongs to a far darker side.

  I watched a late-afternoon shadow creep slowly across Dartmouth Street and felt hot air coming from the Charles. I couldn’t see the river from where I stood, but I knew it was only a few blocks distant. Newbury Street, with its trendy shops and upscale galleries, was nearby. So was the Berklee College of Music, which filled the adjacent sidewalks with aspiring musicians of all varieties: budding punk rockers, folksingers, aspiring concert pianists. Long hair, spiked hair, streaked hair. I could also see a homeless man, mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth, back to the wall of an alleyway, hidden in part by shadows. He might have heard many voices, or one craving, it was hard to tell, as I turned away. On the street nearby, a BMW honked at some students jaywalking against the light, then accelerated with a squeal of tires.

  For a moment, I paused, thinking that what made Boston unique was its ability to accommodate so many different currents, all at once. With so many different identities to choose from, it was no wonder that Michael O’Connell found a home here.

  I did not know him well, yet. But I had the inkling of a feel for him.

  Of course, that was the same mystery Ashley faced.

  6

  A Taste of What Was to Come

  She waited until midday, unable to move from her bed, until sunlight came pouring through the windows and the city streets beyond her apartment walls hummed and buzzed reassuringly. She spent a few moments staring out through a streaked pane of glass, as if to tell herself that with all the normal ebb and flow of another typical day, nothing much could be out of order. She let her eyes follow first one person, then another, as people walked up the sidewalk into her field of vision. She did not recognize anyone, and yet, everyone was familiar. They all fit into easily identifiable types. The businessman. The student. The waitress. There seemed to be a world of purpose just beyond her reach. People moved about with determination and destination.

  Ashley felt like an island in their midst. She wished for an instant that she had a roommate or a best friend. Someone to confide in, who would sit on the other side of the bed, sipping tea, ready to laugh or cry or voice concern at the most modest of prompts. She knew a million people in Boston, but none she would trust with a burden, and certainly not a Michael O’Connell burden. She had a hundred friends, but no Friend. She turned to her desk, littered with half-finished papers, art history texts, a laptop computer, and some CDs. She rummaged around until she came up with a small piece of scrap paper with some numbers on it.

  Then, with a single deep breath, Ashley dialed Michael O’Connell’s phone number.

  It rang twice before he picked it up.

  “Yes?”

  “Michael, it’s Ashley.”

  She let silence fill the line. She wished that she had mapped out what she was going to say in forceful phrases and unequivocal statements. But, instead, she let emotions overcome her.

  “I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she blurted out.

  He said nothing.

  “When you called this morning, I was asleep. It scared the hell out of me.”

  She waited for an apology. An excuse, perhaps, or an explanation. None came.

  “Please, Michael.” It sounded a great deal as if she were asking him for a favor.

  He did not reply.

  She stammered on, “Look, it was just one night. That’s all. We had some fun, and a few drinks, and it went a bit farther than it should have, although I don’t regret it, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my feelings. Can’t we just part as friends? Go our own ways.”

  She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, but no words.

  “So,” she continued, aware that everything she said was sounding more and more lame, increasingly pathetic, “don’t send me any more letters, especially like the one you sent the other week. That was you, wasn’t it? It had to be. I know you have a busy life and a lot on your mind, and I’m wrapped up with my work and trying to get this graduate school thing going, and I just don’t have time for a serious relationship now. I know you’ll understand. I just need my space. I mean, we’re both involved in so many different things, it’s just not the right time for me, and I bet it’s not really the right time for you. You can see that, can’t you?”

  She let this question hang in the air, surrounded by his silence. She grasped at the quiet as if it were an acquiescence on his part.

  “I really appreciate your listening to me, Michael. And I wish you the best, really, I do. And maybe, sometime in the future, we can be better friends. But not right now, okay? I’m sorry if this disappoints you. But if you really love me like you say, then you’ll understand I need to be on my own and can’t be tied down right now. You never can tell what the future might hold, but now, in the present, I just can’t handle it, okay? I’d like to end this as friends, okay?”

  She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line. In and out. Regular, unhurried.

  “Look,” she said, exasperation and a little desperation creeping into her words, “we don’t really know each other. It was just once and we were both a little drunk, right? How can you say you love me? How can you say these things? We’re perfect for each other? That’s crazy. You can’t live without me? That makes no sense. None. I just want you to leave me alone, okay? Look, you’ll find someone else, someone who’s just right for you, I know. But it’s not me. Please, Michael, just leave me alone. All right?”

  Michael O’Connell didn’t say a word. He simply laughed. It came across the phone line as something alien and distant when nothing she’d said was in the smallest way funny or even ironic. It chilled her completely.

  And then he hung up the telephone.

  For a few seconds she stood, staring down at the receiver in her hand, wondering whether the conversation had actually happened. For a moment she wasn’t even sure that he had been on the other end of the line, but then, she remembered his one word, and that was unmistakable, even if he was almost a stranger. She carefully hung up the phone and looked around the apartment wildly, as if expecting someone to jump out at her. She could hear the muted sounds of traffic, but it did little to lessen the sensation of total and complete solitude that crept over her.

  Ashley slumped down on the edge of her bed, suddenly exhausted, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. She felt incredibly small.

  She had no real grasp of the situation, other than the feeling that something was just starting to pick up speed, moving dangerously forward—not yet out of control, but on the verge. She dabbed at her eyes and told herself to get a grip on her emotions. She tried to layer a sense of toughness and determination over the residue of helplessness.

  Ashley shook her head hard. “You should have planned what you were going to say,” she said out loud. Hearing her own voice bounce around the narrow space of her small apartment unsettled her. She had tried to come across as forceful—at least, that was what she had wanted—but instead had seemed weak, pleading, whining, all the things that she thought she wasn’t. She forced herself up off the edge of the bed. “God damn it to hell,” she muttered, adding, “What a goddamn fucking mess.” She followed this with a wild torrent of obscenities, spewing every nasty, harsh, and inappropr
iate word she could recall into the still air around her, a waterfall of frustrated anger. Then she tried to reassure herself. “He’s just a creep,” she said loudly. “You’ve known creeps before.”

  This, Ashley knew inwardly, was untrue. Still, she felt better hearing her own voice speaking with determination and ferocity. She searched around, found a towel, and walked purposefully into her small bathroom. Within a few seconds, she had the shower running hot, and she’d stripped off her clothes. As she stepped under the steaming stream of water, she thought to herself that the conversation with Michael O’Connell made her feel dirty, and she scrubbed her skin red, as if trying to remove some unwanted smell, or deep stain, that lingered despite all her efforts.

  When she stepped from the shower, she looked up into the mirror and dabbed away some of the steam from the glass, looking deep into her own eyes. Make a plan, she told herself. Ignore the creep and he’ll just go away. She snorted and flexed the muscles in her arms. She let her eyes linger over her body, as if measuring the curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, her toned legs. She was fit, trim, and good-looking, she thought. She believed herself strong.

  Ashley walked into her bedroom and got dressed. She had the urge to wear something new, something different, something that wasn’t familiar. She shoved her computer into the backpack, then checked to see if she had cash in her wallet. Her plan for the day was more or less the same as always: some studying in the library wing of the museum amid the stacks of art history books, before heading over to her job. She had more than one paper that needed massaging, and she thought to herself that immersing herself in texts and prints and reproductions of great visions would help get her mind off Michael O’Connell.

  Certain that she had everything she needed, she grabbed her keys and thrust open the door to the corridor.

  Then she stopped.

  She looked down and felt a sudden, awful coldness creep through her. Ice seemed to choke her throat.

  Taped to the wall opposite her door were a dozen roses.