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.”
7
Scott didn’t hear from Susan Fletcher for forty-eight hours, but when he did, he almost wished he hadn’t.He had busied himself the way all academics do, going over his upcoming spring-semester syllabus, designing the structure of several lectures, catching up on some correspondence from various historical
