The Wrong Man

30

Catherine took a single deep breath and lifted the shotgun to her shoulder, tracking the sounds from outdoors. She counted the steps to herself. From the window, to the corner of the house, past the flowerpots arranged so carefully in a row, to the front door. He will try the front door first, she told herself. Although her tongue seemed swollen, she shouted out roughly:

“Just come on in, Mr. O’Connell.”

She did not have to add, I’m waiting for you.

There was a momentary quiet in which Catherine listened to her own labored breathing, which was nearly drowned out by the throbbing of her heart. She kept the shotgun lifted to her shoulder and tried to calm herself down as she sighted down the barrel. She had never shot anything in her life. Indeed, she had never fired a gun, even in practice. She had grown up a doctor’s daughter. Hope’s father had grown up on a farm and served as an enlisted man in the marines during the Korean War. Not for the first time, she wished he were at her side. After a second or two, she heard the front door open and a set of footsteps in the hallway.

“Right in here, Mr. O’Connell,” she spat out hoarsely.

There was nothing tentative in the sound of his steps as O’Connell came around the corner and stood in the entranceway. Catherine immediately leveled the shotgun, pointing it at his chest.

“Hands up!” She couldn’t really think of anything else to say. “Freeze, right where you are.”

Michael O’Connell neither stayed completely still nor did he raise his hands.

Instead, he took a small step forward and gestured at the weapon.

“You mean to shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

“So,” he said slowly, eyeing her carefully, then letting his vision sweep around the room, as if he were memorizing every shape, every color, and every angle. “What would make you have to?” He spoke as if they were sharing a joke.

“You probably don’t want to have me answer that,” she replied archly.

O’Connell shook his head, as if he understood, but disagreed. “No,” he said slowly, edging a little farther forward, “that’s exactly what I need to know, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Are you going to shoot if I say something you disagree with? If I move somewhere? If I get closer? Or if I step back? What will make you pull the trigger?”

“You want an answer? You can get one. Probably the hard way.”

O’Connell moved a step closer. “That’s far enough. And I would like you to raise your hands.” Catherine coughed out the words calmly, hoping that she sounded determined. But her voice felt flimsy and weak. And perhaps, for the first time, genuinely old.

O’Connell seemed to be measuring the distance between them.

“Catherine, right? Catherine Frazier. You are Hope’s mother, correct?”

She nodded.

“Can I call you Catherine? Or do you prefer something more formal. Mrs. Frazier? I want to be polite.”

“You can call me whatever you wish, because you aren’t staying long.”

“Well, Catherine-”

“No, I changed my mind. Make it Mrs. Frazier.”

He nodded, again as if there were a joke.

“Well, Mrs. Frazier, I won’t have to stay long. I would just like to speak with Ashley.”

“She is not here.”

He shook his head and grinned.

“I’m sure, Mrs. Frazier, that you were brought up in a proper household, and then later taught your own child how wrong it is to lie, especially directly to another person’s face. Lying to someone’s face makes a person angry. And angry people, well, they do terrible things, don’t they?”

Catherine kept the gun trained on O’Connell. She made an effort to control her breathing, swallowing hard.

“Are you capable of terrible things, Mr. O’Connell? Because, if so, perhaps I should just shoot you now and end this evening on a sour note. Mostly sour for you, however.”

Catherine had no idea whether she was bluffing. She concentrated hard on the man in front of her and did not have the ability to see much past the space between them. She could feel sweat dripping beneath her arms and wondered why O’Connell wasn’t acting more nervously. It was as if he were immune to the sight of the weapon. She had the unsettling thought that he was enjoying himself.

“What I am capable of, what you are capable of-those are real questions, are they not, Mrs. Frazier?”

Catherine drew a deep breath and squinted as if taking aim. O’Connell moved about the room, continuing to familiarize himself with the layout, apparently unconcerned.

“Intriguing questions, Mr. O’Connell. But now it is time for you to leave. While you are still alive. Leave and never return. And mainly, leave Ashley alone.”

O’Connell wore a smile, but Catherine could see his eyes moving about the room. She could see that behind his grin there was something far blacker, far more turbulent, than she had ever imagined.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “She’s close, isn’t she? I can tell. She’s very close.”

Catherine didn’t speak.

“I don’t think you understand something, Mrs. Frazier.”

“What is that?”

“I love Ashley. She and I are meant to be together.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. O’Connell.”

“We are a pair. A set. A matched set, Mrs. Frazier.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. O’Connell.”

“I will do whatever it takes, Mrs. Frazier.”

“I believe you will. Others might say the same.”

This was the bravest thing she could muster, right at that moment.

He paused, eyeing her. She imagined that he was strong, muscled, and athletic-quick. He would be as fast as Hope, she thought, and probably far stronger. There was little between them that might slow him down, if he made a move for her. She was seated, vulnerable, only the ancient shotgun in her arms preventing him from whatever he was going to do. She suddenly felt desperately old, as if her eyesight were fading, her hearing diminished, her reactions dulled. It seemed to her that he had all the advantages, save one. And she had no idea whether he had a weapon with him, beneath his jacket, in his pocket. Gun? Knife? She breathed in hard.

“I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Frazier. I will always love Ashley. And the idea that you or her parents or anyone can keep me from her side is really pretty laughable.”

“Well, not this night. Not in my house. Tonight, you’re going to turn around and walk out. Or else you’re going to get carried out minus your head, thanks to my shotgun here.”

He paused again, still smiling. “An old bird gun. It fires small-caliber shot that’s barely more painful than a BB.”

“You’d like to test that?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I would.”

She was quiet while O’Connell seemed to think hard about something.

“Tell me something, Mrs. Frazier, while we’re having this friendly conversation, why is it that you think I’m not right for Ashley? Am I not handsome enough? Smart enough? Good enough? Why is it that I shouldn’t be allowed to love her? What do you really know about me? Who do you think might love her more than I do? Isn’t it possible that I might be the best thing that ever happened to her?”

“I doubt it, Mr. O’Connell.”

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight, Mrs. Frazier? Why is one sort of love acceptable, but another all wrong?”

This hit a nerve within her, but she kept her mouth closed.

O’Connell paused, then stiffened.

“Ashley!” O’Connell shouted. “Ashley! I know you can hear me! I love you! I will always love you! I will always be there for you!”

His words echoed through the house.

O’Connell turned back to Catherine. “Did you call the police, Mrs. Frazier?”

She didn’t reply.

“I think you did,” he said quietly. “But what law have I broken here tonight? I can tell you: none.”

He gestured at the shotgun. “Of course, the same is not true for you.”

She tightened her grip on the stock of the rifle and pressed her finger against the trigger. Don’t hesitate, she told herself. Don’t panic. It was as if the familiar world of her own home, her own living room, surrounded by her own pictures and mementos, was suddenly alien. She wanted to say something that might remind her of normalcy. Shoot him! A voice shouted out deep within her. Shoot him before he kills all of you!

In that second of indecision, O’Connell whispered, “It’s not easy to kill someone, is it? It’s one thing to say, ‘Take another step and I’ll shoot,’ and another altogether to actually do it. You might think about that. Good night, Mrs. Frazier. I will see you again. I will be back.”

Shoot him! Shoot him! Kill him now! As she tried to understand the voice within her head, O’Connell turned, and with surprising speed abruptly disappeared from her sight. She gasped. Ghostlike. One second he was there in front of her, the next he was gone. She could hear his footsteps on the planks of the wooden floor in the hallway, then the thudding of the front door opening and slamming shut.

Catherine exhaled slowly and sat back hard. Her fingers around the shotgun seemed frozen, and it took some force of will to peel them from the weapon. She lowered it into her lap. She suddenly felt exhausted, tired in a way that she had not experienced in years. Her hands shook, her eyes filled with tears, and she had trouble stealing breath from the air around her. She remembered a similar moment in the hospital ward years earlier, when her husband’s hand had slipped from hers, and just like that, he was gone. The same sensation of helplessness that had filled her then.

She wanted to call out for Ashley, but she could not. She wanted to rise up and lock the front door, but she was frozen. We have no chance.

Catherine remained in her chair for several minutes. She had no idea how many. She only stirred, regaining some grip on her circumstances, when the flashing blue and red lights of a police cruiser suddenly filled the room around her.

Thoughts raced like power surges through Ashley.

She had remained huddled, behind the locked bedroom door, aware that Catherine and O’Connell were speaking, but unable to make out the words, except those that Michael O’Connell had shouted out, each of which had speared her with fear. When she’d heard the front door slam, she remained frozen in position on the floor, behind the bed, a pillow clutched to her chest, her head facedown in the center, as if she were trying to prevent herself from hearing, seeing, and even breathing. The pillowcase was damp where she had gripped it with her teeth to prevent herself from crying out. She could feel tears racing down her cheeks, and she was terrified. And terrified of being terrified. She was ashamed that she had left Catherine alone to confront Michael O’Connell, despite the older woman’s insistence. She was well past the why can’t he leave me alone stage and knew that she was lost on a much larger sea than she’d ever imagined.

“Ashley!” Catherine’s voice penetrated the walls and her fears.

“Yes…” She gulped out her reply.

“The police are here. You can come down.”

When she left the bedroom and stood at the top of the stairs, she looked down and saw Catherine standing in the hallway across from a middle-aged local police officer wearing a Smokey the Bear hat. He held a notepad and pencil and was shaking his head.

“I understand, Mrs. Frazier.” The policeman was speaking slowly, a little densely, and Ashley could see Catherine was clearly frustrated. “But I can’t put out an all points bulletin on someone you invited into your home, simply because he seems to be obsessively in love with Miss Freeman… Good evening, Miss Freeman, if you could come down…”

Ashley descended the stairs.

“Now, did this fellow strike you, or threaten you?”

Catherine snorted. “Everything he said was a threat, Sergeant Connors. It was not in the words he said, but in the manner he spoke them.”

The policeman looked over at Ashley. “You were upstairs, miss? So you didn’t witness anything?”

Ashley nodded.

“So, other than his presence, he didn’t do anything to you, did he, miss?”

“No,” Ashley said. The word seemed impotent.

He shook his head, closed the notebook, as he turned back toward Catherine. “What you should have said, Mrs. Frazier, is that he struck you and put you in fear for your life. Some physical contact. That would give us something to go on. You could have said that he brandished a weapon. Even that he was trespassing. But we can’t arrest someone for telling you that he loves Miss Freeman.”

The policeman smiled and tried to make a little joke. “I mean, I bet just about all the boys fall in love with Miss Freeman.”

Catherine stamped her foot. “This is useless. You say you cannot help at all?”

“Unless we’re pretty darn certain a crime has been committed.”

“What about stalking? That’s a crime!”

“Yes. But that’s not what happened here tonight, is it? But if you can prove a pattern of behavior, well, then you should have Miss Freeman here go before a judge and get a restraining order. That means that if this guy came within a hundred yards of her, we could arrest him. It would give us some ammunition, so to speak. But absent that…”

He looked over at Ashley.

“You haven’t got any such order, like in Boston, where you live?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you ought to consider it. Of course…”

“Of course what?” Catherine demanded.

“Well, I don’t like to speculate…”

“What?”

“You have to be cautious. Don’t want to trigger some real nasty behavior. Sometimes a restraining order does more harm than good. Talk to a professional, Miss Freeman.”

“We are talking to a professional!” Catherine interrupted. “After all, Sergeant, isn’t this what your job is?”

“I mean someone who is expert on these sorts of domestic issues.”

Catherine shook her head, but had the good sense not to say anything else. It would do no good to insult the local police.

“If he comes back, Mrs. Frazier, call the substation and I’ll send someone around. Day or night. That’s the least we can do. He knows there’s a cop around, he’s not likely to try much. That’s the best offer I can make.”

The policeman made a show of replacing his pencil and notebook in his shirt pocket as he turned and walked to the door. He paused and, to Ashley, seemed a little embarrassed.

“Our hands are sort of tied,” he said. “I’ll make a report about this call, in case you do go to a judge for an order.”

Catherine merely snorted again. “Well, that’s a comfort,” she said angrily. “That’s truly reassuring. This is all like saying we need to wait for the entire house to burn down before we call the fire department.”

“I wish I could be more helpful. I really do, Mrs. Frazier, because I understand these sorts of things are difficult. But, like I say, call us if he shows up again. We’ll be out here in a jiffy.”

The policeman suddenly lifted his head, listening.

“Jesus,” he said abruptly. “Someone’s going real fast.”

Both Catherine and Ashley leaned forward and heard the distant noise of an engine howling with speed. Ashley, of course, recognized the sound. As they stood there, it grew closer, louder, and they all saw headlights cutting through the nearby stands of trees.

“That’s my father,” Ashley said. She thought she should at least be relieved to see him and feel safe, because he would know what to do. But those feelings eluded her.

“I have become a student of fear,” she said. “Physiological reactions. Psychological stresses. Behavioral issues. I read psychiatric textbooks and social science treatises. I read books about how people respond under all sorts of difficult situations. I keep notes, go to lectures, whatever I can, just to try to understand it better.”

She turned away, staring back out the window at the benign suburban world beyond the glass.

“This doesn’t seem like much of a clinic,” I said. “Things seem pretty quiet and safe around here.”

She shook her head. “All illusion. Fear just takes different forms in different locations. It’s all based on what we expect to happen in the next few seconds, versus what actually occurs.”

“Michael O’Connell?”

A wry smile creased her face. “Do you ever wonder how it is that some people simply innately understand how to deliver terror? The hit man. The sexual psychopath. The religious fanatic. It just comes naturally to each of them. He was one of those types. It’s as if they aren’t tethered to life in the same way that you or I or Ashley and her family were. The ordinary emotional bonds and restraints we all feel were somehow absent in O’Connell. And they were replaced by something truly unsettling.”

“What was that?”

“He loved who he was.”