Jonathan threw up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know. Should we just sit here and wait for them to pick us apart under a microscope? Fine, I’ll leave. Then they won’t bother you. Will that do?”
“Why are you getting pissy on me? I’ve done you a big favor. More than one, in fact. I’ve fed you, clothed you, bandaged your wounds, and now you’re yelling at me?” Claire realized she was yelling too. She stopped, as much to give herself a chance to think as to regain control of her wayward emotions. In a calmer voice, she said, “Let’s think this through. Where can you go? And how can you get there? Remember, they’ll be watching your place, wherever that is, and your car. You don’t have any ID or credit cards, or any money. So, Henry, what’s your plan?”
“I’ve got friends,” he said in a sulky voice.
“Maybe you do.” Claire had her doubts. And there was still the question of how he would get to wherever he found this mythical person who was willing to shelter him.
Jonathan apparently followed her thoughts. “Take me to a bus station. Give me enough cash to get . . . no, you don’t even need to know where. Just give me some money—I swear I’ll pay you back, once all this is sorted out.”
“Damn straight you will, and for the clothes too. But don’t they watch bus stations for fugitives?” Along with airports and train stations—not that there were any trains in this neck of the woods. Claire fought back a sigh: the lovely solitude she had sought was a real hindrance if she wanted to spirit away a fugitive from the law. Still, this wasn’t her problem, and the sooner she disentangled herself from Jonathan Daulton, the better off she would be. “All right, I’ll drive you to the bus station, and you can fend for yourself. I can’t get any more money out of my account until tomorrow. Will a couple of hundred be enough?” Claire tried to remember what her current balance was.
“Sure. Fine.” Jonathan’s voice was tight.
What was he peeved about now? Tomorrow morning, a quick run to an ATM, a drive to the nearest bus connection, and she could wash her hands of him and get back to work. He could go and do . . . whatever it was he did. That was the best possible solution. “All right, then. Anyway, it’s late, and we should get some sleep—especially if you’re going on the lam tomorrow. Oh, I should take a look at your, uh, graze.”
“Don’t do me any favors. I can handle it.” Jonathan sounded like a petulant little boy.
“Yeah, sure, one-handed. If you ooze blood all over your nice clean clothes, somebody’s bound to notice. And if your arm turns black and falls off . . .”
He gave her a reluctant smile. “Got it. But it looks okay to me.”
“Fat lot you know. Sit down.” Claire nodded toward the kitchen table, and Jonathan dropped into one of the chairs and removed his shirt. As she had suspected, he had slapped on some of the dressings she had bought, but they were already soaked with blood and peeling away. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off the messy wad and steeled herself to look at the wound. He was right: it was still seeping, but it didn’t look infected. “Stay there.” She went to the bathroom to collect the rest of her medical supplies.
Jonathan’s voice followed her. “Didn’t you like the way I hid it in front of our visitors?”
Claire returned, her hands full. “You got lucky—if you had started bleeding then, they would have been all over you in a minute.” She slathered on more antibiotic goo, then assembled a thicker pad of gauze, taping it down efficiently. “There—that should hold you for now. But we’d better replace it before you leave here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.
“And you can take care of the dishes before you go to bed.” Damn. If he did the dishes so soon after his shower, there wouldn’t be enough hot water for her to shower. But no way was she going to wash the dishes.
“Will do. See you in the morning, then.”
Claire went into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. There was water everywhere, the towels were on the floor, and clumps of dark hair clotted in the drain. With a sigh, Claire hung up the towels neatly and sluiced out the sink so she could brush her teeth. As she brushed, she stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink: Claire Hastings, felon and conspirator. And, apparently, idiot. At least by tomorrow Jonathan would be on his way. Please, please, please.
She headed for the stairs to the sleeping loft, tossing a terse “’night” over her shoulder. Jonathan grunted something inarticulate. Claire climbed into bed and burrowed under the blankets and quilts. But sleep eluded her: even after Jonathan stopped clattering china and pots around in the sink, even after he had settled himself on the creaky couch and turned off the lights, Claire lay in her bed, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering how she had gotten into such a mess.
One mistake. All it took was one mistake, and look where I ended up.
9
Claire awoke with a start at first light and lay in bed worrying, her thoughts going round and round like a hamster on a wheel. Had anything she had said to the policeman yesterday led to the FBI visit last night? Were they just following up as a matter of routine? Could they have seen anything incriminating? Jonathan’s sodden clothes: she had stuffed them into a large trash bag, but she hadn’t had time to get rid of them. At least they hadn’t been strewn around in plain view. The FBI agents wouldn’t have concerned themselves with an ordinary trash bag. But if there was a search, there they would be. But why would there by a search?
And then there was Jonathan’s presence. With no place for him to hide in the small and open cabin, the only choice was to bluff or surrender. Jonathan had chosen to bluff, and she had played along. She didn’t want to examine why, but had the agents bought it? Were the agents satisfied with their story, or had they just drawn back, giving Claire and Jonathan rope to hang themselves? Was she being paranoid? And was she just going to dig herself in deeper by helping him escape today? If anyone ever found out . . . No, she wasn’t going to think like that. She would go about her business in a routine, aboveboard manner, and she would drive Jonathan to the bus stop, and that would be the end of it. He’d be out of her life. She hoped.
Energized by that thought, Claire threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Shower first, then breakfast, then to town for cash, then find an inconspicuous bus stop and send Jonathan on his way. He could sort out his own messes. She did believe him, but if he was innocent, neither he nor she appeared to have much faith in the legal system. Jonathan felt he had to distance himself quickly from Maine. She was fine with that: to avoid messy complications, she was just going to push him out the door and pretend nothing had happened. Not exactly the moral high ground, eh, Claire?
Stifling her internal quibbles, she stuck to her plan. They ate breakfast, and then Claire drove to the nearest highway, where she located an ATM and withdrew as much cash as she could. More than she could afford. Great, Claire, now you’re putting a price tag on your involvement. Climbing back into the car, she handed the wad of folded bills to Jonathan.
“Here. That’s all I can get, but it should be enough to get you a bus ticket and . . . whatever.” She wasn’t going to ask what his plans were. She didn’t want to know where he was going—just in case someone like an FBI agent asked her. Her mind shied away from that “just in case” part. Clearly if anyone examined her actions over the last two days, they wouldn’t add up. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach, and all she could think about was getting Jonathan on the bus, and going back to her normal routine; working on that nice, sane, sensible book looked really good to her now.
“I’ll pay you back just as soon as I get all this sorted out.” Jonathan’s voice broke into her thoughts as she drove.
“Fine. Whatever. Send me an unmarked envelope with used bills. And make sure you use gloves—wouldn’t want any incriminating fingerprints, would we?”
They were approaching a bus stop at a strip mall. Claire pulled into a parking space and turned off her engine. “Well,” she began, uncertainly.
“Yeah, right. Look, I
’ve said thank you, right? I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to take care of me. I’m leaving as fast as I can.”
Claire bit off a sarcastic retort. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. The bus will come, and he’ll get on it, and I’ll go back to my research. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a uniformed policeman sauntering along the sidewalk, ostensibly fascinated by what lay behind the dusty shop windows. She nudged Jonathan.
“We have company.”
He looked around, artificially casual, until he found the young officer. “Could be a coincidence.”
“Sure. This looks like a high-crime neighborhood. Or maybe it’s time for his lunch.”
“I don’t like it.” Jonathan’s voice was flat.
“You think I do? Now what?”
Jonathan watched the policeman a moment longer. “Well, let’s not assume the worst. When the bus comes, I’ll get out of the car and board, and if we’re lucky, Junior there will have a nice ham sandwich.”
Claire said nothing. She had no better plan, but she noted with curious detachment that the young officer was avoiding looking anywhere near their direction. That didn’t strike her as a good sign. And he was strolling around as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and no place to go. That didn’t seem right either.
A bus pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the curb, thirty feet away. The doors opened, and the driver got out and disappeared into the pizza shop.
“I guess this is it.” Jonathan zipped his coat and reached for the door handle, then hesitated. “Well, if anyone is paying attention, we should give them a good show, right?” With that, he reached across the seat and pulled Claire’s head toward him. Startled, she didn’t resist as he gave her a thorough and enthusiastic kiss. “Bye, sweetheart. It’s been fun.”
Claire was still gaping like a guppy as he opened the door and got out of the car. He pulled up his coat collar against the cold air, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and hurried across the parking lot toward the bus. He had some nerve! What did he think . . . ? Claire stopped in mid-rant as she saw the policeman say something into the walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder, and then move purposefully toward the bus on an intercept course. And she noticed two—no, three other men appearing from storefronts, all moving the same direction.
10
Jonathan must have noticed them too, for his pace slowed, and his head swiveled, taking in all the converging men. He stopped for a long moment, then began retreating toward Claire’s car, slowly at first, then faster. Claire sat frozen and watched as the policeman and the others followed, but they were still twenty or thirty feet from the car by the time Jonathan jumped in and slammed the door.
“What are you waiting for? Drive!”
Claire glared at him. “I will not! Hey, I’m not digging myself in any deeper. They know who you are—they were watching for you. Give it up!”
“Like hell I will.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. Claire gawked. Where had that come from? He jammed it against her neck. “Lower the window on my side.”
Her hand trembling, Claire fumbled for the power switch for the window. The men pursuing them had stopped ten feet from the car, guns at the ready, eyes wary.
Jonathan shouted out the open window. “I’ve got a gun. Let us go or she dies.”
The closest man spoke. “Take it easy. Nobody needs to get hurt. Put the gun down and we can talk about this.”
“I don’t think so. We’re leaving, and you’re not going to follow us.” In a lower voice he said, “Claire, start the car.”
Without a word, Claire turned the key. The engine fired.
“Now, drive slowly out of the parking lot.”
Claire fought down a bubble of hysteria in her chest. “Where? Where do you want me to go?”
“Do you think I know? Just drive. I figure we’ve got about three minutes before they set up roadblocks or something. What’s near here?”
Claire pulled away from the curb, tires screeching, and tried to think as she made her way out of the parking lot as fast as she could. “I don’t know. I haven’t spent . . . wait a minute, there’s a mall down this way. With a parking garage.”
“Great. Head for that and get out of sight, and then we can think of something.”
“We? We? You’re holding a gun on me and you want me to help you plan your escape?” Claire’s initial fear was morphing into anger.
To her amazement, Jonathan laughed. “Yeah, you’re really in grave danger here. Look.”
Claire darted a quick glance at the gun he now held up in front of her. “But . . . that’s plastic!”
“Yep. The Murrays have grandkids?”
“How should I know? Where’d you get that thing?”
“Found it under the couch. Looks convincing, doesn’t it? Good thing I stuck it in my pocket.”
“Right,” Claire replied, her teeth clenched. She saw the large sign for the mall and pulled in at the first drive. Carefully she drove through the mostly empty parking lot until she came to the entrance for the garage under the big department store at one end. Once inside, she sought out the darkest corner, well away from any other cars. She stopped the car, then methodically shifted into park, engaged the parking brake, and turned off the engine. She sat in the now quiet car, trying to pull her thoughts into some kind of order.
“What the hell have you done?” Her voice sounded shrill, but Claire didn’t care. She couldn’t remember ever having been so angry.
“Well, right now the FBI probably thinks that I’ve kidnapped you and I’m holding you hostage. A bad idea, I admit. Never works, at least not for long. It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
Jonathan’s calm response maddened her further. “Couldn’t you have picked a handy stranger? Do you have a plan?”
“I guess taking the bus is out, and they’ll be looking for this car. You don’t happen to know how to hot-wire cars, do you?”
Claire stared at him incredulously. “I’m a college professor, for God’s sake. Why would I know that?”
“Just asking. You never know. Okay, so we can’t steal another car. Let me think.”
Claire reached for the door handle. “If you’re not going to shoot me, I’m going to go find the nearest phone and turn you in.”
Jonathan reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Claire, wait. Please. Think about it. They were obviously watching your car. They’re going to go back to your cabin, and they’re going to figure out pretty fast that I was there. Me, not Henry. Whether or not they believe your pretty little story—or mine—you’re going to have some explaining to do.”
“And whose fault is that? I haven’t done anything wrong! All I did was bandage you, and feed you, and buy you some clothes . . .” Her voice trailed off; she knew just how damning her actions would look in the eyes of the law. “Besides, they saw you threaten me with a gun. I’ll tell them you brainwashed me, made me do what you wanted.”
Jonathan gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah, right, pull a Patty Hearst. Fine feminist you turn out to be. Ooh, the big mean man made me do it? Come on. You’re Claire Hastings, Amazon. You eat men for breakfast.”
In spite of herself, Claire had a brief vision of how her students at Sophia would react to the news that she had turned into a quivering lump of Jell-O at the hands of . . . Jonathan Daulton, author of Genderal Relations? Not a pretty picture. She’d be a laughingstock. But what were her options?
“God damn it, I should have turned you in at the beginning. Or handed you over to that policeman who showed up. How did I let you get me into this disaster?” Claire’s anger boiled over again, but now she wasn’t sure whether she was angrier with him or with herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Claire, I’m sorry. Really. I can imagine how you feel. But you’re in it now, and we’ve got to figure out what to do. Do you think you can hold off the hysterics until we have a plan?”
Hysterics? He had the nerve to accuse her of being hysteri
cal? Claire counted to ten in as many languages as she could remember, and waited for her breathing to slow. He might be infuriating, but unfortunately at the moment he was right. Her only hope for getting out of this was to let him find some answers. For that they needed a strategy. Slowly she unclenched her fingers from their grip on the steering wheel, amazed that she hadn’t left dents. She turned to face him. “All right. Let’s take this from the top. Explain to me again why you can’t go to the police and turn yourself in?”
Jonathan avoided her eyes. He took his time before answering. “Claire, I haven’t told you everything.” Before she could protest he hurried on, “In the beginning, I wasn’t in any shape to be coherent—you saw me. And then when I thought about it, I figured the less you knew, the better off you’d be, if anybody did come looking. I didn’t want you to be involved.”
Claire could not believe what she was hearing. “You mean you did have something to do with what happened at Annabeth’s?”
“No! No, I don’t mean that. I still have no idea what was happening there. But . . . I did have reason to think that the FBI might be interested in talking with me.”
“Why? For slandering women?”
Jonathan grimaced. “No. I told you I was in the Middle East, right? And that’s why I panicked when Susie started blasting away?”
“Uh-huh.” Claire tried to keep her tone neutral. He’d said it, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. “What was that all about—a photo op?”
Now he turned toward her. “You don’t think very much of me, do you? I suppose I can see why.” He paused, swallowed. “I was there as a journalist, freelancing. I talked to anybody who would talk to me, within governments and among ordinary people, and in some cases that included dissidents. I stumbled on some things. And that’s why I thought some agency—more likely the CIA than the FBI—might be paying attention to me.”
Once She Knew Page 6