Someone has to die, she told herself. Before he kills Ashley. She repeated this, like some perverse mantra, over and over for several miles of highway.
Hope remembered games when everything hung in the balance during the last minutes before the referee’s whistle. Reaching deep into that athlete’s dark reservoir for some bit of magic would free her for just the half second needed to decide the contest. As a coach, she had always urged her players to visualize that moment when success or defeat hung in the balance, so that when it inevitably arrived, they were psychologically prepared to do what was necessary, and to act without hesitation.
She imagined that this experience would be the same.
And so, biting down on her lip, she started to picture events as they were imagined by Sally, with the assistance of Scott’s description of the location. She imagined the run-down, decrepit house, the rusted-out car in the front yard, the garage filled with engine parts and debris. She thought she knew what would be inside: the clutter of newspaper, beer bottles, and take-out food, a stale aroma of uselessness. And he would be there. The man who’d created the man who’d created the threat to all of them. She knew that when she faced him, she had to picture Michael O’Connell.
She saw herself waiting.
She saw herself entering.
She saw herself facing the man they had designated for death.
Hope drove east, her mind cluttered, wishing that she could act as if this particular trip were nothing in the least bit out of the ordinary.
By midafternoon, Sally had driven to Boston and parked on the street opposite Michael O’Connell’s apartment building, with a clear view of the entrance. In her hand, she clutched the key that Hope had given her.
She was scrunched down behind the wheel of her car, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, while all the time believing that everyone on the block had already seen her, memorized her face, and taken down her license plate number. She knew these fears were groundless, but they were there, right on the edge of her imagination, right at the point where fear threatens to start taking over emotions and actions, and it was all Sally could do to keep things in check.
She wished she had O’Connell’s easy familiarity with darkness. It would help her-and Scott and Hope, as well-with what they were trying to do.
Again, she shook her head. Her sole act of rebellion, of stepping outside the routine strictures of society, was her relationship with Hope. She wanted to laugh at herself. A middle-aged, middle-class woman, unsure about her relationship with her partner, didn’t really amount to much of an outlaw.
And certainly didn’t amount to much of a killer.
She picked up her sheet of yellow notepaper and tried to picture where all the others were. Hope would be waiting for her. Scott would be in position. Ashley would be at home with Catherine. And Michael O’Connell would be inside-she hoped.
What made you think you could plan this and pull it off? she suddenly demanded of herself.
It.
She felt her throat go dry. It wasn’t a fair contraction. Call it what it is. A murder. Premeditated. First-degree murder. The sort of scheme that in some states would send you to the electric chair or gas chamber. Even with the extenuating circumstances, it would still buy twenty-five years to life.
Not for Ashley, she thought. Ashley would remain safe.
And then, just as abruptly, she realized what she was thinking. Everyone’s life would be ruined. Except O’Connell’s. His would remain on the same path as before, and there would be little in the way of his pursuit of Ashley, or, if he so chose, some other Ashley.
There would be no one left to defend her.
Make it work.
She looked up, saw shadows start to creep over the building rooftops, and, she told herself, It begins now.
He clutched the cell phone in his hand and felt a thrill of excitement, but kept himself calm until he heard the familiar voice on the other end.
“Michael? Is that you?”
He inhaled sharply. “Hello, Ashley.”
“Hello, Michael.”
They were both quiet for a second. Ashley took a moment to stare down at the papers her mother had prepared for her. A script, with key sentences underlined three times. But the pages seemed blurry, indistinct. In the silence of Ashley’s hesitation, Michael O’Connell rocked forward in his seat. The phone call was wonderful and terrible at the same time. It told him he was winning. He could barely contain the grin that creased his face. His right leg started to twitch, like a drummer using his foot to control the thunder of the bass drum.
“It’s wonderful to hear your voice,” he said. “It seems as if so many people are trying to keep us apart. You know that will never happen. I won’t let it.” He smiled, laughed a little, and added, “It does no good for them to try to hide you. You’ve seen that, haven’t you? There’s nowhere that I can’t find you.”
Ashley closed her eyes for a moment. His words were like splinters in her skin.
“Michael, I’ve asked you over and over to leave me alone. I’ve tried everything I could to help you understand that we are not going to be together. I don’t want you in my life. Not at all.” Everything she said, she knew she’d said before. To no effect. She didn’t expect anything different this time. The world she lived in was mad, and no amount of reason or rationale was going to change it.
“I know you don’t mean that,” he said, an instant chill in his voice. “I know that you’ve been put up to say that. All these people who want you to be someone that you aren’t. I know that it’s other people who are dictating everything you say. That’s why I’m not paying any attention to it.”
Ashley almost panicked at the word dictating as she glanced down at her script. What if he’d somehow seen everything, somehow managed to learn everything?
“No, Michael. No. A million times, no. You’ve got it wrong. You’ve gotten it wrong from the very start. We are not going to be together.”
“It’s destiny, Ashley. It was meant to be.”
“No. How can you think that?”
“You don’t understand love. True love. Complete love. Love never ends,” he continued coldly, letting every word echo across the line. “Love never stops. Love never leaves. It is always right inside. You should know that. You imagine yourself to be an artist, but you cannot understand the simplest thing. What’s wrong with you, Ashley?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said sharply.
“Yes, there is.” O’Connell rocked in his seat. “Sometimes I think you’re really sick, Ashley. Diseased. There’s got to be something wrong with someone who can’t understand the truth. Who refuses to listen to their heart. But you shouldn’t be worried, Ashley, because I can fix you. I’m going to be there for you. No matter what happens, no matter what bad things take place, you need to know, I will always be there for you.”