“Yes. Tragic, I’m sure. So what?”
“He’s the private investigator I sent to see Michael O’Connell, right when you were arranging to get Ashley out of Boston. He did his thing a few days after you managed her disappearance.”
“His thing…?”
“I didn’t ask too many questions. And he didn’t volunteer any. For obvious reasons.”
Scott hesitated. “And this has precisely what to do with us and Ashley?”
Sally was quick to reply, “Probably nothing. Probably just coincidence. Probably just a really bad but totally unconnected series of events. The detective reported that he’d met with O’Connell and we wouldn’t have any more troubles. And then he gets himself killed. It has taken me aback, a bit. I can’t be certain that it has anything to do with anything. But I thought you should at least be aware. I mean, it probably changes the situation, somehow.”
“So,” Scott said, speaking in well-modulated classroom tones, “are you suggesting that we might have a problem? Damn it, I thought we had worked this whole thing out. I thought we’d put that son of a bitch behind us for good.”
“I don’t know. Do we have a problem? I doubt it. I was just trying to inform you of a detail that might be relevant.”
“Well, look, Ashley’s still up in Vermont, safe and sound with Hope’s mother. It seems to me that her next step-our next step-is to get her into a new graduate program, down in New York City, or maybe across the country in San Francisco, someplace new. I know that she has this affection for Boston, but we’ve agreed that starting fresh is the right idea. So she whiles away some time in Vermont, watching the leaves turn and getting snowed on, and then gets started anew in the spring semester. End of story. We should be proceeding with that sort of scenario, and not getting terribly bent out of shape at every little thing.”
Sally gritted her teeth. She hated being lectured to.
“Chimera,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A mythological beast of terrifying proportions that wasn’t really there.”
“Yes. And?”
“Just a way of looking at this. An academic way,” Sally said, to irritate Scott, something she knew she shouldn’t do, but found herself doing. Relationships that fail have certain addictions, and this was one of those for the two of them.
“Well, perhaps. Regardless, let’s just move ahead. We need to collect Ashley’s academic records so she can reapply to graduate schools, even if she has to start on a part-time basis. Best if you or I do that, not her. Better to have them mailed to us than to Vermont.”
“I will do that. I’ll use the office address.” Sally hung up the phone, as irritated as ever, reminded that she knew her ex-husband perfectly. He had not changed in years, not since she’d first met him and not by anything that had happened since. He was as predictable as ever.
She was still at her desk. She looked out and saw that darkness had overcome the last light of the day, and even the shadows had turned black.
Michael O’Connell watched the same shadows lengthen from his vantage point beneath a wide oak tree less than half a block from Sally and Hope’s house. He could feel a quickening within him, almost as if he could sense how much closer he was to Ashley. Up and down the block, he could see lights start to blink on. Every few moments a car would swing up the roadway, its headlights sweeping across the lawns. He could see some activity in kitchens, as dinners were prepared, and the softer, metallic glow of television sets turned on.
I have only a short time. He did not think he would need much.
Sally and Hope lived on a meandering, older street. It was an odd mixture of architecture, some newer ranch-type houses, mingling with stately Victorians that dated back to the turn of the century. It was a curious neighborhood, in much demand because of its leafy streets and solid, middle-class outlook. Doctors, lawyers, professors, for the most part lived there. Lots of lawns and hedges and small gardens and Halloween parties. Not the sort of neighborhood where people invested heavily in security devices and state-of-the-art protection systems.
O’Connell moved swiftly up the block. He knew that Sally usually stayed late in her office and Hope held soccer practice until it was too dark to see the ball. This would delay them just long enough.
He cut across the block from tree trunk to tree trunk and, without hesitating, slid into the dark spaces adjacent to their house. There was an old wooden fence behind a driveway, which led into their backyard. He stopped for a moment when kitchen lights blinked on in their neighbor’s house, pushing himself back against the exterior wall.
The house had been built on a small hill, so that the main living area was above his head. But, like many older houses, it had a large basement, with an old door framed in neglected, rotting wood that was rarely, if ever, used. It took him less than ten seconds to jimmy it open and let himself in.
He left the door slightly ajar behind him and reached into his pocket and removed his red- taped flashlight. He took a deep breath as he realized that somewhere, within feet of the dank, musty space where he was standing, was some bit of information that would tell him precisely where Ashley was. An envelope with a return address. A telephone bill. A credit card statement. A piece of paper with her name taped to the refrigerator door. He licked his lips, excited, his hands nearly shaking with anticipation. Breaking into Murphy’s office had been a familiar job. It was simply a piece of the puzzle into Ashley’s whereabouts. He thought he had handled it carefully and professionally.
This break-in was different. This was a chore of love.
He took a second to breathe in the thick air of the basement. If she could only see what I’ve had to do to find her, to bring us together, he thought, then she would understand why we are meant to be together. Someday, he fantasized, he would be able to tell her that he had endured beatings, broken laws, risked his safety and freedom, all on her behalf.
And then he told himself, If she can’t love me then, then she doesn’t deserve to love anyone.
He could feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, running through his body, and he had to fight to keep control. He could feel his breathing getting shallow, coming in gasps. For a second, he told himself to remain calm. He pictured Sally. Hope. Scott. And as he did that, he was almost overcome by anger. He could no longer separate the entwined feelings of love and hate. When he managed to calm himself down, he started to move gingerly through the basement, heading toward some rickety old stairs that would carry him up to the living areas. He wasn’t sure what precisely he was searching for, although he knew whatever it was, it was nearly within reach.
He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and immediately figured he was in a pantry, just off the kitchen. He wanted to douse the flashlight as quickly as possible-even covered in red, the glow was far more likely to attract a curious neighbor’s interest than the overhead light. He spotted a bank of switches on the wall and flicked the first, which lit up the kitchen. Michael O’Connell smiled and switched off the flashlight.
He told himself, Stay away from the windows and start looking. It’s here. Somewhere. What you need to know. I can feel it. I’m coming, Ashley.
He took another step forward before a low, mean growl came from the darkness of a nearby vestibule.
I suppose, like most people, I’ve had my sense of fear mostly defined by Hollywood, which likes to provide a steady diet of aliens, ghosts, vampires, monsters, and serial killers; or those electric, unforeseen moments in life when the other car runs a red light and you pound on the brakes in panic. But real, debilitating fear comes from uncertainty. It gnaws away at one’s defenses, never fading, and never far from the heart. As I sat across from the young woman, I could see every line fear had carved on her face, aging her far too fast, every tic it had delivered, to her hands, which she rubbed nervously, to the corner of her eyelid, which twitched uncontrollably, to the tremors in her voice, clearer than the words she whispered.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to meet with you,” she said.
Sometimes, it’s not so much a fear of dying as it is a fear of going on living.
She wrapped both hands around a cup of hot tea and slowly lifted it to her lips. It was brutally hot outdoors, and everyone else in the mall coffee shop was drinking iced drinks, but she seemed unaware
