Sally thought she was on a stage, reciting lines invented by necessity.
“These are some of our nicest things,” the salesgirl said.
Sally smiled, as if what she was doing were the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, yes. Indeed.”
At more or less the same moment, Catherine and Ashley were in a Whole Foods supermarket less than a mile from Hope and Sally’s home, wheeling a cart that they filled with a variety of fancy, organic foodstuffs. The two of them had been silent throughout the shopping expedition.
When they turned down an aisle near the front of the store, Ashley spotted a large display of fresh pumpkins built into a tower, decorated with dried cornstalks. It was a Thanksgiving-oriented theme, with a row of walnuts and cranberries and a paper turkey in the center. She nudged Catherine and gestured toward the display.
Catherine nodded.
The two of them pushed the cart close to the display. Just as they swung next to the edge of the table that served as the foundation, Catherine loudly said, “Oh, damn, we forgot the bean dip.”
As she said this, they swung the cart so that the front wheel caught the table leg. The entire display teetered for an instant, and Ashley let out a small yelp and bent forward, as if she were trying to keep it from tumbling, when, in actuality, she grabbed at one of the largest foundation pumpkins.
Within seconds, the entirety had tumbled in a loud crash, dried gourds, Indian corn, scooting across the floor, while yellow pumpkins and squash started rolling about haphazardly.
Catherine gasped. “Oh my goodness!” she shouted loudly.
Within a few seconds, several stock boys and the store manager had descended upon the mess. The stock boys set to repairing the display, while Catherine and Ashley profusely apologized and insisted upon paying for any damage. They were turned down by the manager, but Catherine reached into her pocketbook and withdrew $50, which she thrust toward the manager. “Well, then at least make sure that these nice young men who have cleaned up the mess Ashley and I have made are properly rewarded for their assistance.”
“No, no,” the manager said. “Really, ma’am, that’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
“Me, too,” said Ashley.
The manager, shaking his head, took the money, to the great relief of the stock boys.
Then Ashley pushed their cart into the checkout line, while Catherine pulled out a bank card to pay for the items. Both women made sure that they, too, turned directly toward the store’s security cameras. There was little doubt in their minds that they would be remembered that particular night. That had been Sally’s final message to the two of them: Make certain that you do something public that establishes your presence at home.
This they had accomplished. They did not know what was happening in some other part of New England at the same time, but they imagined it was something truly dangerous.
Michael O’Connell’s car headlights cut across the dim front of his onetime home. The lights reflected off the polished side of his father’s truck. A car door slammed loudly and Scott saw O’Connell striding toward the entrance to the kitchen. The urgency in Michael O’Connell’s pace seemed to light through the darkness.
O’Connell’s anger was critical, Scott thought. Angry people don’t notice the small things that could later be important.
He watched as O’Connell grabbed at the side door and disappeared inside. He hadn’t been in Scott’s sight line for more than a few seconds. But every motion that Scott had seen told him that whatever Ashley had said to him, it had driven him single-mindedly right to the house.
Taking a deep breath, Scott hunched over and ran across the roadway, trying to keep to the shadows. He sprinted as quickly as he could up the drive to where O’Connell had left his car. He ducked down and reached inside the backpack, first removing a pair of surgical gloves, which he slipped on. Then he pulled out a hard-rubber-headed mallet and a box of galvanized roofing nails. He took a single glance toward the back of the house, breathed in sharply, then drove one of the nails into the sidewall of Michael O’Connell’s rear tire. He bent down and heard a slow hiss of escaping air.
He then took another couple of the nails and tossed them haphazardly around the driveway.
Moving as stealthily as he could, Scott made his way to the back of the elder O’Connell’s truck. He left the rest of the box of nails open in the back. He also left the mallet nearby, just another one of the many tools that cluttered the back of the truck and the carport.
His first task completed, Scott turned and walked steadily back to his hiding spot. As he crossed the street, he heard the first raised voice, electric with anger, coming from inside the house. He wanted to wait, to make out the precise words, but understood he could not.
When he reached the decrepit barn, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.
It rang twice before Hope picked it up.
“Are you close?” he asked.
“Less than ten minutes.”
“It’s happening now. Call me when you stop.”
Hope disconnected without a reply. She pushed down on the gas, picking up her pace. They had figured on at least a twenty-minute lag time between Michael O’Connell’s arrival and her own. They were pretty close to schedule, she thought. This did not necessarily reassure her.
Inside the house, Michael O’Connell and his father stood a few feet apart, in the bedraggled living room.
“Where is she?” the son shouted, his fists clenched. “Where is she?”
“Where is who?” his father replied.
“Ashley, God damn it! Ashley!” He looked around wildly.
The father laughed mockingly. “Well, this is a hell of a thing. A hell of a thing.”
Michael O’Connell pivoted back in the older man’s direction. “Is she hiding? Where did you put her?”
The older O’Connell shook his head. “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And who the hell is Ashley? Some girl you knew back in high school?”
“No. You know who I’m talking about. She called you. She was supposed to be here. She said she was on her way. Stop screwing with me, or so help me God, I’ll…”
Michael O’Connell raised his fist in his father’s direction.
“Or you’ll do what?” the father asked, a sneer filling his voice.
The older man remained calm. He took his time sipping at a bottle of beer, staring across the room at his son, eyes narrowed. Then he deliberately walked over to his lounge chair, slumped into it, took another long pull on the beer bottle, and shrugged. “I just don’t know what you’re getting at, kid. I don’t know anything about this Ashley. You suddenly call me up after being out of touch for years, start screaming about some piece of tail like you’re some punk in junior high school, and asking all sorts of questions I got absolutely no idea what the hell it is you’re talking about, then you all of a sudden show up like the whole world’s on fire, demanding this and that, and I still don’t have no clue what’s going on. Why don’t you pop a beer and calm down and stop acting like a baby.”