There is a clarity to late-afternoon light at the edge of the Green Mountains, as if things become sharper, more defined, as the day fades into night in the last weeks before winter. Catherine was poised by the window above her kitchen sink, looking westward, her eyes on Ashley. The younger woman was out back, bundled up in a bright yellow fleece, seated at the edge of a flagstone patio. Beyond her was a grassy field, which led up to the edge of the forest. They had gone into Brattleboro the day before and purchased sheets of paper, an easel, and brushes and watercolors, and Ashley was now immersed in a painting of her own, trying to capture the last streaks of day as they moved across the ridges and lingered in the pine branches. Catherine tried to read Ashley’s body language; it seemed to contain both frustration and excitement simultaneously. She was relaxed, enjoying her moment with the brush in her hand and the colors unfolding in front of her. Catherine was struck by the thought that the young woman and the painting were much the same; in the process of design.
They had spent much of the night Ashley had arrived on the bus drinking tea and talking about what had happened. Catherine had listened with both astonishment and a growing sense of unease.
She looked out her window and saw Ashley commit a long, pale blue stroke of watercolor sky to the paper in front of her. “It isn’t right,” she said out loud.
She feared that Ashley would somehow be-she wasn’t sure exactly-but infected by Michael O’Connell. It was as if, in that moment, she was afraid that Ashley would turn against all men because of the actions of one man.
She gripped the edge of the sink to steady herself. She was not quite able to articulate within herself the dark edge of her thoughts. She didn’t want to think, I don’t want Ashley to become like Hope. And when some clouds of this fear worked into her heart, she grew upset with herself, for she loved her daughter. Hope was smart. Hope was beautiful. Hope was graceful. Hope inspired others. Hope brought out the best in the kids she worked with and the kids she coached. Hope was everything that a mother could possibly want in a daughter, except one thing, and that was the mountain that Catherine didn’t seem able to scale. And as she stared out the window watching her-what? Niece? Adopted grandchild?-she was trapped between fears. The problem was-although Catherine didn’t recognize this right at that moment-they were the wrong set of fears altogether.
“How did Murphy die?” I demanded.
“How? Surely you can figure out the how. Bullet. Knife. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick. Whatever,” she replied.
“No. Correct…”
“It’s the why that concerns us. Tell me,” she continued suddenly, “did they ever arrest someone for Murphy’s murder?”
“No. Not that I can tell.”
“Well, it seems to me that in your hunt for answers, you’re looking in the wrong places. No one was arrested. That tells you something, doesn’t it? You want me-or some detective or prosecutor somewhere-to say ‘Well, Murphy was killed by…but we didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest.’ Because that would be nice and neat and tidy.” She hesitated. “But I never said this was a simple story.”
What she said was true.
“Can you think as creatively as Scott and Sally and Hope and Ashley?”
“Yes,” I replied far too quickly.
“Good.” She huffed the word out. “Easy to say. Hard to do.”
I didn’t respond to what she said. To answer might have been to insult myself.
“But tell me, can you do the same for Michael O’Connell?”
26
From the center of the Longfellow Bridge he could see up the Charles toward Cambridge. It was brisk in the early morning, but crews were rowing down the center of the river, their oars sweeping through the inky dark in unison, making small swirls in the placid surface. A sheen was on the water as the rising light scoured the liquid. He could hear the crews grunting in syncopation, their rhythm defined by the steady beat of the coxswain’s voice. He particularly liked the way the smallest man set the pace, how the slightest of the team ordered the larger, stronger men to his command. The least was the most important; he was the only one who could see where they were going, and he controlled the steering. O’Connell liked to think that even though he was strong enough to pull an oar, he was also smart enough to sit in the stern with the rudder.
Michael O’Connell often went to the walkway across the bridge when he needed to think through a complicated problem. The traffic moved recklessly on the roadway. Pedestrians kept up their get-to-the-office pace across the sidewalk. Beneath him the water flowed seaward, and in the distance, T trains filled with commuters emerged from beneath the streets. It seemed to O’Connell that he was the only one standing still. A hundred things common to the city morning should have distracted him, but he found that where he stood, he could concentrate fully on whatever dilemma was in his life.
He thought: I have two.
Ashley.
And the ex-cop Murphy.
Clearly, the route to Ashley passed through either Scott or Sally. It was simply a matter of finding it, and he was confident he could do so. The obstacle, however, was the ex-cop, who posed a far more significant problem. He licked his lips, still tasting the blood in his mouth, feeling the swelling from where he’d been slapped. But the redness and welts faded much faster than his memory. As soon as O’Connell surfaced close to the parents, they would sic the private eye on him. And he was uncertain just how dangerous the ex-cop would be. Somewhat less dire than his threats, O’Connell thought. He reminded himself of a simple, critical fact: In all his dealings with Ashley and her family, he needed to be the one capable of power. If there was to be violence, it had to be in his control. Murphy’s presence shifted that balance, and he didn’t like it.
He reached out and gripped the ornate concrete barrier with both hands, to steady himself. Fury was like a drug, coming on him in waves, turning everything in his sight into a kaleidoscope of emotions. For an instant he stared down at the dark river passing beneath his feet and doubted that even its near-freezing temperatures could cool him down. He breathed out slowly, controlling his rage. Anger was his friend, but he couldn’t let it work against him. He told himself, Stay focused.
The first order of business was to remove Murphy from the picture.
He did not think this would be difficult. A little dicey, but not impossible. Not as easy as what he had done with a few computer strokes to Scott and Sally and Hope, just to let them know who they were dealing with. But not beyond him by any means.
Michael O’Connell looked out across the water and saw one of the crews come to a rest. The shell sliced through the water, driven by momentum, while each rower slumped slightly over his oar, dragging the blades behind them. He liked the way the shell continued, driven by exertion, propelled by nothing more than the memory of muscle. It was like a razor slicing across the surface of the river, and he thought he was much the same.