The Wrong Man

6

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 inappropriate 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.

Dead roses. Wilted and decrepit.

As she stared, a bloodred petal almost blackened by age dropped off and fluttered to the floor, as if driven there not by a breath of wind, but by the mere force of Ashley’s gaze. She fixed her eyes helplessly on the display.

Scott sat at his desk in his small office at the college, twiddling a pencil between the fingers of his right hand, pondering how one intrudes on the life of one’s nearly grown-up child without being obvious. If Ashley were still a teenager, or younger, he could have used a natural blustery forcefulness, demanding her to tell him what he wanted, even if he caused tears and insults and all sorts of standard parent-child dynamics. Ashley was right in that half age between youth and adulthood, and he was at a loss precisely how to proceed. And every second that he delayed doing something, his sense of concern doubled.

He needed to be subtle, but efficient.

Surrounding him were history texts on shelves and a cheaply framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence. At least three photographs of Ashley rode the corner of his desk and the wall across from where he sat. The most striking was of her in a high school basketball game, her face intense, her red-blond ponytail flying, as she leapt up and seized the ball from two opponents. He had one other photo, but he kept it in the top drawer of his desk. It was a picture taken of him when he was just twenty years old, just a little younger than his daughter was now. He was sitting on an ammunition box, next to a glistening stack of shells, right behind the 125-millimeter howitzer. His helmet was at his feet, and he was smoking a cigarette, which, given the proximity of so much explosive ordnance, was probably a poor idea. He had an exhausted, vacant look on his face. Scott sometimes thought the photo was probably his only real remembrance of the time he’d spent in the war. He had had it framed, then kept it secret. He did not even think that he’d ever shown the picture to Sally, even when Ashley was due and they thought they were still in love. For a moment, he wondered if he could remember a time when Sally had ever asked him about his time in the war. Scott shifted about in his seat. Thinking about his past made him nervous. He liked considering other people’s history, not his own.

Scott rocked back and forth.

In his imagination, he began to replay the words of the letter. As he did so, he had an idea.

One of the both good and bad qualities that Scott possessed was an inability to throw away cards and slips of paper with names and phone numbers. A slight pack-rat-type obsession. It took him nearly a half hour of rummaging about in desk drawers and file cabinets, but he finally found what he was seeking. He hoped the cell phone number was still accurate.

On the third ring, he heard a slightly familiar voice. “Hello?”

“Is this Susan Fletcher?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Susan, this is Scott Freeman, Ashley’s father…you remember from freshman and sophomore year…”

There was a momentary hesitation, then a brightening on the other end. “Mr. Freeman, of course, it’s been a couple of years.”

“Time really passes fast, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does. Gosh, how’s Ashley? I haven’t seen her in months and months.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Is there a problem?”

Scott hesitated. “There might be.”

Susan Fletcher was a whirlwind sort of young woman, always balancing a half dozen ideas and plans between her head, her desktop, and her computer. She was small, dark-haired, intense almost to a fault, and endlessly energetic. She had been scooped up by First Boston as soon as she had graduated and worked in their financial planning division.

She stood in front of her cubicle window, staring out, watching as airplane after airplane descended into Logan Airport. She had been a little unsettled by her conversation with Scott Freeman and wasn’t precisely sure how to proceed, although she had reassured him that she would take charge of the situation.

Susan liked Ashley, although it had been nearly two years since they’d actually spoken. They had been tossed together as roommates freshman year in college, a little astonished at how different they were, then even more astonished when they discovered they got along quite well. They’d stuck together for a second year, before each had moved off campus. This had resulted in significantly less contact, though when they had managed to get together, it had been marked by a singular sense of comfort and laughter. They now shared little in common; if she used the bridesmaid’s test-would she choose Ashley to be in her wedding party?-the answer was no. But she felt a great deal of affection for her onetime roommate. At least, she thought she did.

She glanced over toward the telephone.

For some reason that she couldn’t quite determine, she was uneasy about what Ashley’s father had asked of her. On the simplest level, it was more than a little like spying. On the other hand, it could be nothing more than some misguided paternal concern. She could make a phone call, be reassured, call Scott Freeman back, and everyone could get on with whatever they were doing. And the added benefit would be getting in touch with a friend, which was rarely a bad idea.

If there was some irritated fallout, it would be between Ashley and her father. So, with only the smallest of misgivings, she seized her desk phone, glanced out one final time at the first streaks of darkness slicing across the harbor, and dialed Ashley’s phone.

It rang five times before being picked up, right to the moment when Susan thought she was going to have to leave a message.

“Yes?”

Her friend’s voice was curt, which surprised Susan. “Hey, free-girl, how’s it going?” She used Ashley’s freshman-year nickname with a soft familiarity. The only course they had ever taken together had been a first-year seminar on women in the twentieth century, and they had agreed, after a couple of beers one night, that free- man was sexist and inappropriate, free- woman sounded pretentious, while free- girl fit pretty well.

Ashley waited on the street outside the Hammer and Anvil, jacket collar pulled up against the wind, feeling cold seeping through the pavement into her shoes. She knew she was a couple of minutes early. Susan was never late. It simply wasn’t in her nature to be delayed. Ashley glanced down at her watch, and as she did, she heard a car horn blare from the street just beyond where she was standing.

Susan Fletcher’s beaming grin penetrated the early night as she rolled down the window. “Hey, free-girl!” she shouted with genuine enthusiasm. “You didn’t think I’d keep you waiting, did you? Go in and get us a table. I’m gonna park up the street. Be two minutes, max.”

Ashley gave a wave and watched as Susan peeled away from the curb. Pretty fancy new car, Ashley thought. Red. She saw Susan pull into a Park and Lock a block away and then went into the restaurant.

Susan drove up to the third level, where there were far fewer cars and she could pull the new Audi into a space where it was unlikely anyone else would park next to her and ding the door. The car was only two weeks old, half a present from her proud parents, half a present to herself, and she was damned if she was going to let the wear and tear of downtown Boston diminish its shiny newness.

She tapped the alarm system, then headed out to the restaurant. She moved quickly, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and within a couple of minutes she was inside the Hammer and Anvil, stripping off her overcoat and striding toward where Ashley waited, two tall glasses of beer waiting on the table in front of her.

The two embraced.

“Hey, roomie,” Susan said. “It’s been too long.”

“I ordered you a beer, but thought maybe now that you’re a hotshot businesswoman and Wall Street denizen, maybe a Scotch on the rocks or a dry martini would be more appropriate.”

“This is a beer night. Ash, you look great.”

This, Susan thought, wasn’t exactly true. Her onetime friend had a pale, nervous look about her.

“Do I?” Ashley asked. “I don’t think so.”

“Something bugging you?”

Ashley hesitated, shrugged, and looked around the restaurant. Bright lights, mirrors. Toasts at a nearby table, intimacy between a couple at another. A happy buzz of voices. It all made her feel as if what had happened to her that morning were something that had taken place in some bizarre parallel universe. Nothing surrounded her in that moment except a carefree sense of anticipation.

She sighed. “Ah, Susie, I met a creep. That’s all. He kinda freaked me out a little. But no big deal.”

“Freaked out? What did he do?”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly done anything, it’s more what he implies. Says he loves me, I’m the girl for him. No one else will do. Can’t live without me. If he can’t have me, no one else can. All that sort of useless crap. Doesn’t make sense. We only hooked up once and that was a big mistake. I tried to let him down gently, told him thanks but no thanks. Kinda hoped that was that, but when I headed out today, he left me some flowers outside my door.”

“Well, flowers, that sounds almost gentlemanly.”

“Dead flowers.”

This made Susan pause. “That’s not cool. How’d you know it was him?”

“Didn’t figure it could be anyone else.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Do? Just ignore the creep. He’ll go away. They always do, sooner or later.”

“Great plan, free-girl. Sounds like you’ve really thought that one through and through.”

Ashley laughed, although it wasn’t funny. “I’ll figure something out. Sooner or later.”

Susan grinned. “Sounds like that calculus course you took freshman year. If I recall correctly, that was your approach for both the midterm and then, when that lesson hadn’t sunk in, the final.”

“I should never have done well in math in high school. My mother pretty much steered me into that mistake. I guess she learned her lesson. That was the last time she even asked me what courses I was taking.”

Both young women leaned their heads together and shared a laugh. Few things in the world are as reassuring, Ashley thought, as seeing an old friend, one who was now in a new and separate world, but who still remembered the same old jokes, no matter how different the two of them had become. “Ah, enough about the creep. I met another guy, who seemed pretty cool. I’m hoping he’ll call me back.”

Susan smiled. “Ash. Living with you the first thing I learned was that the boys always called you back.” She didn’t ask another question, nor did she hear Michael O’Connell’s name. But in a way, she thought, she had already heard enough, or close to enough. Dead flowers.

On the street outside the Hammer and Anvil after a good deal of food and drink and more than a few old and familiar jokes, Ashley gave her friend a long embrace. “It has been great to see you, Susie. We should get together more often.”

“When you get this grad school thing up and running, call me. Maybe a regular get-together, once a week, so that you can bring all your artistic sensibilities to my complaints about stupid bosses and dumb business models.”

“I’d like that.” Ashley stepped back, staring up into the New England night. The sky was clear, and beyond the diffuse streetlights and buildings, she could just make out the canopy of stars dotting the blue-black sky above.

“One thing, Ash,” Susan said as she began to hunt in her pocketbook for her keys. “I’m a little concerned about the guy who’s been bugging you.”

“Michael? Michael O’Creep,” Ashley said with a dismissive wave, and a voice that even she knew sounded like a lie. “I’ll be rid of him in a couple of days, Susie. Guys like that just need the big, strong no and then they whine and complain for a few days, until they go out to some sports bar with their beer buddies, and all agree that one hundred percent of all women are bitches, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I hope you’re right. But still, I’d be a lousy friend if I didn’t tell you that you can call me anytime. Day or night. If this guy doesn’t disappear.”

“Thanks, Susie. I appreciate that. But not to worry.”

“Ah, you remember, free-girl, worrying was always my strongest quality.”

They both laughed, embraced again, and with a grin Ashley turned and headed down the street, ambling through each streak of light reflected from the neon signs above storefronts and restaurants. Susan Fletcher watched her for a moment, before turning away. She was never sure precisely what to make of Ashley. She mingled naïveté with sophistication in a mysterious fashion. It was no wonder that boys were attracted to her, yet, in truth, Susan thought, she remained isolated and elusive. Even the way she moved, slipping away into the shadows, seemed almost otherworldly. Susan took a deep breath of cool night air, tasting the frost on her lips. She felt a little uncomfortable that she hadn’t told her friend that Scott was behind their whole meeting, that her call earlier that evening hadn’t been by chance. She shifted her feet a bit, a little uncomfortable with not being completely honest either with her friend, nor having truly found out much for her friend’s father. Michael O’Creep, she thought to herself. And dead flowers.

It was either nothing or something terrifying, and Susan didn’t know which. Nor did she know which of those polar opposites she would report to Scott Freeman.

She snorted out loud, dissatisfied on both counts, and started walking fast toward the Park and Lock a block distant. She had her keys in her hand, and her finger on the Mace canister attached to the key chain. Susan didn’t fear much in life, but knew also that a little bit of prevention went a long way. She wished that she had worn more sensible shoes. As she marched forward, she could hear the sound of her feet against the pavement, mingling with nearby noises from the street. And yet, in that second, she was overcome with a sense of loneliness, as if she were the last person left on the street, downtown, perhaps in the city itself. She hesitated, peering around her. She could see no one on the sidewalk. She paused and tried to stare into a nearby restaurant, but the window was curtained. She stopped and took a deep breath and pivoted about.

No one. The street behind her was empty.

Susan shook her head. She told herself that talking and thinking about some creep guy had unsettled her. She inhaled slowly, letting her lungs fill with crisp air. Dead flowers. Something in that statement played some discordant chord within her, making every stride she took seem indecisive. Again she paused. She was startled, felt cold, pulled her overcoat closer to her, and leaned into her pace, moving more rapidly through the shadows.

She swiveled right and left, saw no one, but had the sensation that she were being followed. She told herself she was alone, but that wasn’t reassuring, so she simply hurried.

Within a few paces, she felt an odd electricity, more now as if she were being watched. Again she hesitated, letting her eyes drift up and around, inspecting windows in office buildings, looking for the pair of eyes she was convinced were assessing her every step, and again coming up with nothing that even suggested to her a reason for the cold, nervous, throat-tightening sense of fear that was surely taking her over.

Be reasonable, she insisted to herself. And again, she picked up her pace, so that now she was moving almost as rapidly as her heels would allow her. She had the feeling that she had done everything wrong, that she had violated all her be-safe-in-the-city rules, that she had allowed herself to be distracted and had put herself in a vulnerable position. Only she couldn’t see any source of a threat, which only made her stumble forward more rapidly.

Susan lost her balance and slipped, catching herself, but dropping her pocketbook. She grabbed at her lipstick, a pen, a notebook, and her wallet, which had scattered about the sidewalk. She stuffed these back into the satchel and threw it over her shoulder.

The entrance to the Park and Lock was only a few feet away, and she half-ran to the glass doors. She thrust herself inside the narrow entranceway and breathed out hard. On the other side of the thick cinder-block wall was the kiosk where the attendant collected each driver’s cash upon exiting. She wondered, if she called out, whether he would hear her.

She doubted it. And she doubted whether he would do anything anyway.

Susan lectured herself. Take charge. Find your car. Get going. Stop acting like a child.

For an instant, she stared over at the stairwell. It was dark and filled with shadows.

She turned away, punched the elevator button, and waited. She kept her eyes on the series of small lights that monitored the elevator’s descent. Third floor. Second floor. First floor. Ground. The doors opened with a shudder and a rattle.

She stepped forward, then stopped.

A man, wearing a parka and a ski hat, and averting his face so that she could not see it, burst past her, nearly knocking her to the ground. Susan gasped and reeled sideways.

She raised her hand as if to ward off a blow, but the figure had already thrust himself through the doors to the stairwell, disappearing in a blur, so quickly she hardly had time to comprehend anything about him. He wore jeans. The ski hat was black and the parka, navy blue. But that was it. She couldn’t tell whether he was short or tall, thickset or skinny, young or old, white or black.

“Jesus Christ,” she wheezed out loud. “What the hell was that?”

For a moment, she listened, but could hear nothing. As quickly as the man was there, he was gone, and she felt her loneliness and solitude redouble. “Jesus,” she repeated. She could feel her heart racing, pounding adrenaline in her temples. Fear seemed to have painted itself throughout her, covering reason, rationale, and her own sense of self. Susan Fletcher struggled, trying to regain control over herself. She willed each limb to respond. Legs. Arms. Hands. She insisted to her heart and throat that they recover, but she didn’t trust her own voice again.

The elevator doors started to close, and Susan reached out abruptly, stopping them. She forced herself into the elevator and punched the 3 button. She felt a small sense of relief when the doors closed, leaving her alone.

The elevator creaked and rose past 1. Then, at level 2, it slowed and stopped. It shuddered slightly when the doors opened.

Susan looked up and wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

The man who had burst past her was standing in front of the doors. Same jeans. Same parka. But now the ski cap was pulled down into a mask, so that all she could see were his eyes, boring in on her. She thrust herself back against the rear wall of the elevator compartment. She could feel herself shrinking, almost falling, just from the pressure like a wave that came from the man. It was like an undertow of fear, pulling her off balance, threatening to sweep her away and drown her. She wanted to strike out, defend herself, but Susan suddenly felt nearly helpless. It was as if the man behind the mask were shining a light in her eyes, blinding her. She gasped words, with no idea what she was saying, wanting to cry for help, but unable to.

The man behind the mask did not move.

He did not step forward. He simply stared at her.

Susan pushed herself back into a corner, feebly holding a hand in front of her face. She thought she could no longer breathe.

Again, he did nothing. He just eyed her, as if memorizing her face, her clothes, the look of panic in her eyes. Then he whispered, “Now I know you.”

And then, just as abruptly, the elevator doors slowly crept shut.

There was no urgency this time, when I called her. She seemed curiously blank, as if she had already played out my questions and her answers in her mind, and as if I was following a script.

“I’m not sure that I understand Michael O’Connell’s behavior. I think I’m getting a feel for him, and then…”

“He does something you find unexpected?”

“Yes. The dead flowers, there’s an obvious message, but…”

“Sometimes isn’t what frightens us most deeply not something unknown, but something understood and anticipated?”

This was true. She paused, then picked up again.

“So, Michael didn’t precisely behave as you might immediately imagine. You don’t see the value in instilling fear?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“To be utterly, completely helpless and filled to overflow with terror one instant, and then, in a flash, to have it seemingly disappear.”

“How can I be sure that it even was Michael O’Connell?” I demanded.

“You cannot. But if the man in the ski mask in the parking garage truly had rape or robbery on his mind, then wouldn’t he have attempted one of those things? The circumstances were perfect for either of those crimes. But someone with a different agenda behaves unusually and unpredictably.”

When I was slow to respond, she hesitated, as if considering her words.

“Perhaps you should look not only to what happened, but also to the impact of what happened.”

“Okay. But steer me in the right direction.”

“Susan Fletcher was a capable, determined young woman. She was savvy, cautious, expert in many things. But she was deeply wounded by her fear. Being scared that profoundly can do that. Terror is one thing. The residue of terror is just as crippling. That moment in the elevator made her feel vulnerable. Powerless. And in that way, any potential assistance she might have rendered Ashley in the days to follow was effectively removed.”

“I think I see…”

“A person with the skills and determination that might have put her in the forefront of helping Ashley was instantly relegated to the periphery. Simple. Effective. Horrifying.”

“Yes…”

“What was really happening, though?” she suddenly asked me. “What was far worse? What was far more terrifying than anything he’d done up to that point?”

I thought for an instant, before replying, “Michael O’Connell was learning.”

She remained silent. I could picture her gripping the telephone with one hand, reaching out with the other to steady herself. Her knuckles would be white as she fought against something I didn’t yet understand. When she finally did respond, it was almost whispered, as if the words took great effort on her part to speak. “Yes. That’s right. He was learning. But you still don’t know what happened to Susan next.”