Catherine nodded. “Words to live by.”
The assistant dean of the Art History Department only had a few moments, she told me. It was her regularly scheduled office hours, and there was usually a backlog of students outside her door. She grinned as she outlined the panoply of student excuses, complaints, inquiries, and criticisms that awaited her that day.
“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “what is it that has brought an actual adult to my door this day?”
I explained, in the vaguest terms I thought would manage to keep her talking, what I was interested in.
“Ashley?” she said. “Yes. I do remember her. A few years ago, no? A most curious case, that one.”
“How so?”
“Excellent undergraduate grades, a real artistic streak, a hard worker-she had an excellent part-time position at the museum-and then it all seemed to fall apart for her in a most dramatic fashion. I always suspected some sort of boy trouble. Usually that’s the case when promising young women suddenly go into a tailspin. In most cases, these sorts of problems can be solved with copious amounts of tissue for the tears, and several cups of hot tea. In her case, however, there was all sorts of talk, rumors mostly, throughout the department, about how she got fired from that job, and the integrity of her academic work. But I’m not comfortable speaking about these things without her authorization. In writing. You don’t by any chance have a document such as that with you, do you?”
“No.”
The dean shrugged, a small, wry smile on her lips. “I am limited then in what I can tell you.”
“Of course.” I got up to leave. “Still, thanks for your time.”
“Say,” the dean asked, “maybe you can tell me what happened to her? She seems to have dropped off our radar completely.”
I hesitated, not exactly sure how to answer her question. The pause caused the dean to look up in concern.
“Did something happen to her?” she asked, suddenly all jocularity vanishing from her tones. “I would hate to hear that.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say something did happen to her.”
37
Scott emerged slowly from his car, staring at the man he knew was O’Connell’s father. The father brandished the ax handle menacingly. Scott stepped back out of the weapon’s reach and took a deep breath, wondering why he oddly felt so calm. “I’m not sure you want to be threatening me with that, Mr. O’Connell.”
The older O’Connell twitched and grunted, “You’ve been up and down this neighborhood asking about me. So I’ll put it down when you tell me who you are.”
Scott fixed his eyes on the father’s. He narrowed his gaze, remained silent, poker-faced, until the man said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I know you are. I’m just wondering what sort of answer you’re going to get.”
This confused O’Connell’s father. He stepped back, then forward again, lifting the ax handle as he repeated, “Who are you?”
Scott continued to stare, slowly looking O’Connell senior up and down, as if he had absolutely nothing to fear from the ax handle aimed at his head. The man’s build was both soft and hard-beer belly hanging over his stained jeans, thick, muscled arms sporting a variety of entwined tattoos. He wore only a black T-shirt with the Harley-Davidson logo above his jeans and boots, seemingly oblivious to the cold November air. His dark hair was streaked with gray, cropped close to his head. A tattoo with the name Lucy prominently displayed on his forearm was probably all that remained of his marriage, other than his son and the house. Scott thought the man had probably been drinking, but his words weren’t slurred, nor was his step unsteady. He had probably drunk just enough to loosen inhibitions and cloud his thinking, which, Scott hoped, was a good thing. He slowly folded his arms and shook his head at O’Connell, a motion to underscore the idea that he was in charge of the situation. “I could be more trouble than you’ve ever seen. And I mean the worst sort of trouble, Mr. O’Connell. The kind of trouble that has significant pain attached to it. On the other hand, I could also be a big help to you. That would be an opportunity to make some money. Which is it going to be?”
The ax handle came down partway.
“Keep talking.”
Scott shook his head. He was making things up as he went along.
“I don’t negotiate on the street, Mr. O’Connell. And the man I represent surely wouldn’t want me spilling his business all over the place where anyone might take notice of it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let’s go inside your place, and then we can have a little private conversation. Otherwise, I’m going to get back in my car, and you will never see me again. But you might be visited by someone else. And that someone, or even a couple of someones, Mr. O’Connell, I assure you, will not be nearly as reasonable as I am. Their sort of negotiation is significantly different from mine.”
Scott thought O’Connell had probably spent much of his life either making threats or receiving them, and so this was all a language the man was likely to understand.
“What did you say your name was?” O’Connell asked.
“I didn’t say. And I’m not likely to, either.”
O’Connell hesitated, the ax handle dropping farther.
“What’s this about?” he demanded. But the tone his words carried contained some interest.
“A debt. But that’s all I’m saying right now. This could be valuable for you. Make some money. Or not. Up to you.”
“Why would you pay me anything?”
“Because it is always easier to pay someone than the alternative.” Scott let O’Connell’s father mull over what the alternative might mean.
Again, O’Connell’s father paused, then the ax handle swung down to his side. “All right. I’m not buying any of this bullshit. Not yet. But you can come inside. Tell me what this is all about. Make your pitch, whatever it is.”
And with that, he gestured across the street to his home, using the ax handle to direct their path.
There is a place in the woods beyond the dirt road that parallels the Westfield River, below a spot called the Chesterfield Gorge, where either side of the stream is protected by sixty-foot-high sheets of gray rock, carved by some prehistoric seismic shift, that is favored in the colder months by hunters, and in warmer times by fishermen. In the hottest days of summer, Ashley and her friends would sneak up to the river and go skinny-dipping in the cool pools.
“I think you should use both hands,” Catherine said sternly. “Steady the weapon in your right hand, grip them both with your left, take aim, and then pull the trigger.”
Ashley moved her feet slightly apart, cupped her left hand over her right, and tightened her muscles, feeling the trigger with her index finger. “Here goes,” she said quietly.
She pulled the trigger and the gun bucked in her hand. The shot resounded through the forest, and a piece of tree bark splintered off the oak she had aimed at.
“Wow. I can feel it tingle right through my forearm.”
Catherine nodded. “I think what you want, dear, is to pull the trigger five or six times, while you are holding the gun steady, so that all six shots will be clustered together. Can you do that?”
“It feels like it wants to jump around. Go all over the place. Almost like it’s alive.”
“I guess you could say that it has a personality all its own.”
Ashley nodded, and Catherine added, “And not a particularly nice one.”
“Let me try again.”
Again she assumed the firing position, and this time tightened her left hand’s grip to steady herself. “Here we go.”