Scott walked up the pathway to his ex-wife’s house filled with doubts and uncertainties, all warring within him. When he reached the entranceway, he lifted his hand to ring the doorbell, but hesitated. For an instant he turned back and stared into the edges of darkness that filled the street. He was much closer now to Michael O’Connell, yet he knew that O’Connell still hid from him. He wondered if he was being studied just as closely by their target. He did not know if it was possible to get ahead, to gain an edge. He doubted it. For all he knew, somewhere in that block, right then, right at that moment, O’Connell was standing, hidden by the completeness of the black, watching him. Scott felt a surge of rage within him; he wanted to scream out loud. He imagined that everything that he’d discovered on his research trip, that he’d thought was so unpredictable, was actually totally expected, totally foreseen, and totally anticipated. He could not shake the idea that somehow, as impossible as it would be, O’Connell had learned everything that Scott had done.
A short groan escaped his lips, and he could feel sweat beneath his arms. He took a sudden step away from the door, angry, trying to confront the man he believed was watching, and then he stopped.
Behind him the door opened. It was Sally.
She stared for a moment, out into the night, following the path of Scott’s eyes. In that second, she understood what he was searching for.
“Do you think he’s out there?” Her voice was flat and hard.
“Yes. And no.”
“Well, which is it?”
“I think he’s either right there, right in some shadow or another, watching every move we make. Or else he’s not. But we can’t tell the difference, and so we’re screwed, one way or the other.”
Sally reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. A small act of surprising tenderness, it felt strange to her, as she realized that she had not actually physically touched in years the man whose bed she’d once shared. “Come on in,” she said. “We’re just as screwed inside, but it’s warmer.”
Hope was drinking a beer, holding the cold bottle to her forehead, as if she were flushed with fever. Ashley and Catherine were dispatched to the kitchen, to put together some sort of meal-or, at least, that was Sally’s explanation, as transparent as it was, to get them out of the room where whatever planning was going to happen. Scott could feel some residue of tension, as if the sensation he’d had on the front steps, staring back into the night, had lingered with him. Sally, on the other hand, was organized. She turned to Scott and gestured toward Hope. “She’s barely said a word since she got back. But I believe she found out something.”
Before Scott could say anything, Hope set her beer down hard on the table.
“I think it’s worse than we imagined,” she said, breaking her silence.
“Worse? How the hell could anything be worse?” Sally asked.
Hope had a sudden image in her mind: the grinning death mask of a frozen cat.
“He’s a very sick, twisted guy. Likes to torture and kill small animals.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Scott exclaimed sharply.
“A sadist?” Sally asked.
“Maybe in part. Sure seems that way. But that’s just a part of who he is. One other thing.” Hope’s voice was rigid, hard, granitelike. “He’s got a gun.”
“Did you see it, as well?” Scott demanded.
“Yes. I got into his apartment while he was out.”
“How did you manage that?”
“What difference does it make? I did. I made friends with a neighbor. The neighbor happened to have a key. And what I saw inside only persuaded me that things will get worse. Not better. He’s a really bad guy. How bad? I don’t know. Bad enough to kill Ashley? I didn’t see anything that might suggest that he wouldn’t. He’s got encrypted computer files all about her. One called Ashley Love and one called Ashley Hate. That right there probably tells you all you need to know. But it’s worse. He’s got some about us, too. I couldn’t tell what was in them. But obsession probably doesn’t begin to describe what we’re up against. So, you tell me. He’s sick. He’s determined. He’s obsessed. What does that add up to? Can we hide from that? Can anyone?”
“What are you saying, Hope?” Sally asked.
“I’m saying that nothing I saw suggested any outcome other than some inevitable tragedy. And you know what that means.” Hope had difficulty shaking the images from O’Connell’s apartment from her imagination. Frozen dead cats, a gun in a shoe, stark, monastic walls, a grimy, unkempt place devoted to a single purpose: Ashley. She slumped back in her chair, thinking how hard it was to convey the simplest idea: O’Connell had nothing in his life other than his one pursuit.
Sally turned to Scott. “What about your trip? Did you learn anything?”
“A lot. But nothing that would contradict anything Hope just said. I saw where he grew up. And I actually spoke with his father. A meaner, nastier, more depraved son of a bitch would be hard to find.”
They all considered this statement. There was a lot to say, but all three of them knew that it wouldn’t amount to anything they didn’t already know.
Sally broke the silence. “We have to…”
The more that was said, the colder she felt inside. She felt that if her heart were monitored, it would flatline. “Is he a killer?” she asked abruptly. “Are we sure?”
“What’s a killer? I mean, how can we tell? For certain,” Scott said. “Everything I learned told me the answer to your question is yes. But until he does something overt…”
“He might have killed Murphy.”
“He might have killed Jimmy Hoffa and JFK, too, for all we know,” Scott replied fiercely. “We need to focus on what we actually know for certain.”
“Yes, well, certainty is not something we have in absolute abundance,” Sally replied. “In fact, it’s about the absolute least thing we have. We don’t know anything, except that he’s evil, and he’s out there somewhere. And that he might or might not hurt Ashley. He might or might not pursue her forever. He might or might not do just about any damn thing.”
Again, they were all silent. Hope thought they were somehow trapped in a maze, and that no matter what path they took, there was no exit.
Sally finally spoke in a whisper, “Someone has to die.”
The word froze the room.
Scott spoke first, his voice raspy, as if sore. He looked at Sally. “The plan was to find a crime and assign it to O’Connell. That’s what you were supposed to research.”
“The only way to do that with any certainty-God damn it, I hate using that word-is to either create something complex, which we might not have the time to invent, or have Ashley lie. I mean, we could beat her up and then have her claim it was O’Connell. That would be an assault and would probably buy him some serious jail time. Of course, one of us would have to provide the bruises and knocked-out teeth and fractured ribs to make it into a real serious felony. How do you like that scenario? And, if it were to blow up when some detective started asking questions…”
“All right, but what-”
“We always have the old fallback alternative of going to the authorities and getting a restraining order. Does anyone think for one instant that that piece of paper will protect her?”
“No.”
“Based on what we now know about O’Connell, do we think he will make the mistake of violating the restraining order without harming Ashley, which would allow him to be prosecuted? Which, don’t forget, is a lengthy process, during which time he would be out on bond.”
“No, God damn it,” Scott muttered.
Sally looked over at Scott. “The man you met…the father…”
“A bastard. First-degree evil.”
Sally nodded. “And his relationship with his son?”
“He hates his child. His child hates him. They haven’t seen each other in years.”