Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Claire’s thoughts churned. Did she believe his story? It sounded a little too convenient, but it was possible. But clearly he was being evasive about what information he had found—if anything. If any of it was true. She turned away, closed her eyes and sighed. All right, Claire, think this through. What do you know? One, a federal agent is dead, and either Susie shot him or Jonathan shot him. Two: the FBI was involved for reasons that were unclear, and both they and the police wanted very much to find Jonathan. Three: whatever the FBI had believed, now they thought that Jonathan had kidnapped her and was holding her hostage, which made him look even more guilty—and which would make them work even harder to find him. And her.

  She knew it was probably hopeless, but she had to try. “Jonathan, why can’t we just turn ourselves in and explain it all?”

  “Claire, at the risk of repeating myself, the authorities’ll nail you for harboring a fugitive, interfering with a federal investigation, and probably a lot of other things. And don’t think that your unblemished academic career as a feminist is going to carry a whole lot of weight in the face of federal charges.”

  Damn him, he was right. And if she did play the helpless female and throw herself on the mercy of law enforcement and the courts, her career would be equally trashed. She would look ridiculous. There were no good outcomes; which was the less bad?

  “So what is it you think I’m supposed to do?”

  “Help clear me. That’ll get you off the hook. And we can’t do that if we’re in jail.”

  “What, find out why Susie killed the agent? How?”

  “Claire, this isn’t about Susie. Well, not exactly.” He stopped again.

  There he went again, shutting her out. “Why should I help you if you won’t even tell me why?” Claire protested.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Finally he said slowly, “Claire, I’m sorry I got you involved, but now you are. If I tell you any more, it’ll only make things more risky for you. Right now what we need to do is avoid getting arrested, and try to figure out what really happened, and why. And there may be something else involved, but I can’t be sure and I can’t tell you about it. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  Claire could not believe what she was hearing. After what he had dragged her into, he wanted her to dig herself in deeper? She was supposed to trust him, without even knowing what was going on? She looked into his eyes, trying to find any answers there. He seemed sincere, and he looked worried. And . . . she didn’t see any other path. Damn! She was going to have to play this hand out, much as she hated it.

  She took a deep breath. “All right. What do we have to do?”

  “Good girl—uh, woman. We can’t go back to the college, so we have to go forward—and I think Annabeth holds the key. It was her house they came to.”

  “Fine. Get in touch with Annabeth.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t—I don’t know where she is right now. The feds or the cops have my cell phone, and besides, we communicated mostly by e-mail. Before I arrived here for that seminar I’d been out of phone contact for a while, and the only number I had for her was the one at the house, not her cell phone. She said something about a book event on the West Coast, and visiting friends. I had the impression that she was going to be gone for a few weeks. I just don’t know.”

  Claire thought. “Okay, if there’s a book event, her publisher and her publicist, if she has one, should know where to find her. What’s the book?”

  “She told me the title, but I forgot. Something about women’s rights in third world countries.”

  Claire nodded. “I think I read about that a couple of months ago. There’s some U.N. event coming up, and I think the book release was timed to coincide with that. That’s another way to track her down—check with the U.N. and see if she’s scheduled to appear there. And she must have a website, either a personal one or one through the college—maybe she listed her schedule there.”

  Ne nodded. “Sure, right. Listen, Claire—all this assumes we’re free to move around, and to find public computer terminals.”

  “And you don’t have a plan for that?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been making this up as I go.”

  Claire looked around. The mall must be opening, because the parking garage was beginning to fill up. They couldn’t sit here indefinitely without attracting attention, and no doubt the FBI would have put out a description of the car. “All right. We’re going to start looking for Annabeth so you can talk to her, but I think the first priority is to get out of this particular neighborhood—if we can do it without being spotted.” Claire was pleased to find her brain seemed to be working again. “And we’re going to have to change how we look, if we want any mobility.”

  Jonathan stared at her. “Like how? I’ve already shaved off the beard, and it looks like whoever’s after us knows that now.”

  “Hair color. Glasses. Different clothes. We can’t let them see what they’re looking for. They’ll have a general description out on us, and we can’t look like ‘us.’ And we’ve got, let’s see . . .” Claire burrowed into her bag, pulled out a handful of bills. “Maybe five hundred dollars, counting what I gave you. This is a cash-only situation. Not a lot to work with.”

  Jonathan looked skeptical. “All right, I’m buying this so far. So, we find out where Annabeth is, and we try to get together, preferably face-to-face. Damn, she could be anywhere. Even out of the country.”

  “Let’s hope not—I’m not sure how long we can stay invisible. By the way, how good a friend is Annabeth?”

  “Middling, I’d say. We hung out together in college, but we haven’t seen a whole lot of each other since. We’ve kept in touch mostly by e-mail.”

  “How far would she go to protect you? I think we have to assume the authorities will be watching to see if you get in touch with her, so there is some risk, to both of you.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I think she’d tell them whatever she knew, which isn’t much. I let her know I’d be in town, and she got back to me and said she wouldn’t be around but she would leave the key with Susie. That’s all.”

  Claire reached forward and opened the glove compartment. She needed to know where the mall was in relation to any towns. They couldn’t use her car, and to the best of her recollection, it would be a good hike to any safely neutral place, no matter which way they went. People walking along the roads in this weather would be suspect. She pulled out a map and studied it in the dim light of the garage. “How much do you know about Maine?”

  “Not a lot. I’ve never spent much time around here. Why?”

  “We need someplace where we won’t be conspicuous, and where people won’t ask a lot of inconvenient questions. I’m assuming that will take a town of a certain size. Augusta? Or Portland? I think Portland’s closer. So, we need a bus or a ride to Portland. There’s a town a couple of miles from here, and from there, there should be bus service to Portland.”

  “Makes sense to me. Get to Portland, disguise ourselves, make phone calls, get to a computer. Eat. Find Annabeth.”

  “Right,” Claire continued impatiently. “If we leave the car in the garage, it may take the cops a while to find it, which could buy us a little time. They’ll be looking for the car on the road somewhere, and if they don’t see it, maybe they’ll think we got past them before they could get the word out. I don’t know how efficient they are around here, but I think it takes time to pull these things together.” Jonathan was silent, and she stopped to look at him. “What?”

  He smiled. “You know, you’re pretty good at this. Maybe you’re wasted at that college of yours.”

  “I’d give anything to be there now, instead of sitting here with you. And I’m just using my head. You should try it.” Claire took one last look around the interior of her car, in case there was anything that might be useful. There was nothing. They had only what they were wearing, and what was in her bag, which was damn little. She looked at Jonathan. “Okay, let’s
go.”

  They climbed out of the car simultaneously. There were other people in the garage now, and Claire motioned toward Jonathan and started toward the nearest stairs, trying to move casually. Jonathan followed.

  “You have any idea where you’re going?” he said in a low voice.

  “Up, so far. Get to ground level, see where the local bus goes.”

  “Huh. Maybe it would be better if we split up. They’re looking for two of us.”

  Claire snorted. “Yeah, and they think I’m a terrified hostage. They’re not looking for an ordinary couple strolling around the mall. You think you can manage to look normal?”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  The department store was largely empty, but nobody paid them any attention. They strolled, stopping now and then to comment on a mannequin or to finger a shirt, trying to look at ease, unhurried. The store lay at one end of the main axis of the mall, and Claire assumed that there would be a bus stop at one of the central exits. She was not disappointed, spotting a bench near a bus sign outside the door. She nudged Jonathan, nodded toward it.

  “You want to sit out there? It’s freezing,” he protested.

  “If we want to talk, we can’t do it here—too many people coming in. And we might be overheard on the bus. It can’t be too long until the next bus. Come on.” Claire pushed out the door and sat down on the bench, wrapping her coat more tightly around her, and pulling her knit hat over her ears. Jonathan followed reluctantly and sat down close to her—for warmth, Claire assumed, as she resisted moving away. If they were supposed to look like a happy couple out shopping, then she supposed they should sit close together.

  Jonathan’s breath made white clouds in the freezing air. “You’re right—it’ll be easier to stay below the radar in a bigger town. The first thing we’ve got to do is track down Annabeth. That means a phone and a computer terminal, so we find the public library—Portland’s got to have one, right? And once we know where she is, we need to figure out how to connect with her.”

  Claire kept her gaze on the parking lot, willing a bus to appear. “Once we get to Portland, we look for the library, see what we can find out. Then we find some kind of secondhand clothes place, Goodwill or whatever, and pick up some stuff that looks totally unlike what we would normally wear, and that doesn’t look new, either. We find a pharmacy and get some hair dye, cheap glasses, makeup—whatever it takes to make us look different. We pick some out-of-the-way place to hole up for the night, and do the makeovers.”

  Finally Claire saw a bus lumber into the parking lot and pull up to the curb. The sign in front read Farmington, so Claire knew that at least it was going in the right direction. Several people got off, hurrying to get into the warm building. She and Jonathan stood and waited until the passengers had disembarked, then stepped up. Claire fished in her purse and deposited fares for both of them, then made her way to a seat halfway back. There were few other passengers, and they looked half asleep.

  Jonathan dropped into the seat next to hers. “So far, so good.”

  The bus lurched into motion.

  I’m officially a fugitive. With Jonathan Daulton. Wanted by the local police, the FBI, and the CIA—heck, maybe Interpol. Did they still exist? And all our sins come back to haunt us in the end. Way to go, Claire—a quote for every occasion. Bite you in the ass, more likely. Her mind skittered aimlessly. Where had she heard that? Some student paper she had read, maybe. Claire stared miserably out the dirty window, watching first one, then another police car speed by out on the main road.

  11

  The bus bumbled its way through the rest of the mall, then back onto the highway, stopping every half mile or so to pick up or let off a few people. Claire and Jonathan huddled silently in the middle of the bus. The other passengers ignored them, dulled by the chill gray weather, conserving body heat and energy. Claire watched the seedy commercial strips unfurl—the usual array of fast-food joints and used car dealers, interspersed with hairdressers and telephone services, discount mattress outlets and storage facilities.

  Half an hour later the bus pulled up in front of a shabby building in Farmington. Claire and Jonathan followed the rest of the crowd off the bus. It was past midmorning now, and those with jobs had gone their way, leaving the place all but empty. Claire grabbed a schedule from a wall rack and made her way to the small coffee shop in the corner. She sat down at the counter, and Jonathan took the adjoining stool.

  “Coffee,” she said to the bored-looking waitress behind the counter. Wordlessly the woman filled a thick white mug and set it in front of her. She looked at Jonathan, who nodded without speaking, and she filled a mug for him, then slapped a bill on the counter. Then she meandered to the other end of the counter, where she resumed working a crossword puzzle in a folded newspaper.

  Claire studied the bus schedule. “Looks like buses to Portland run about every two hours, and there’s one in an hour. It’s a two-hour ride, which would put us there early in the afternoon. Listen”—Claire glanced around cautiously—“do you know if you have to show ID to get on a bus these days? I know you do for Amtrak.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Don’t know. We can watch another bus boarding, see what people do. Wonder if there’s anything on the news yet.”

  Claire shuddered. “I think we should stay away from televisions at the moment. We don’t want anybody looking at us and putting two and two together. Hey, does anyone have a recent picture of you without the beard? How long have you had it?”

  Unconsciously Jonathan’s hand went to his chin. “Heck, I forget. More than five years, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “I’ll bet they could dig up an old high school picture of me. Which wouldn’t do them a lot of good: I weighed about fifty pounds more than I do now. If they go by that, no one will recognize me. How about you?”

  “Unfortunately, once they make the Sophia connection, they’ll find a recent picture on the college website. So I’ve got to change something about the way I look.” She stared glumly into her coffee.

  Time passed. Jonathan paid for the coffee, and Claire added a tip. Even with limited resources, she didn’t want to stiff the waitress. They wandered out into the main waiting area, contemplated the small selection of magazines and the even smaller rack of bestselling novels. The academic part of her mind noted that Nora Roberts’s books represented thirty percent of the available titles. Was that how Maniacs kept warm—reading romance? They drifted over to the window to watch as a bus headed for Augusta boarded, and Claire sighed with relief as passengers paid the incurious driver without any fuss. They made the circuit of the waiting area again, killing time.

  Claire felt a growing sense of unease and tried to pinpoint the source. Nobody was watching them. Nobody knew they were here. Finally she realized that it was because she was embarking a two-hour bus ride with nothing to read. She didn’t want to talk to Jonathan, in case anyone overheard a stray remark. She hated glossy magazines—although she flirted briefly with picking up a Cosmopolitan, purely for research purposes, since the clear majority of articles appeared to have something to do with sex. Which left . . . Nora. Well, she could call that research.

  Shelling out seven dollars from their precious hoard gave her an almost physical pain, but she had no choice. She was a word junkie, and two hours without something to read would be painful. She’d rather skip a meal. As she swept up her purchase from the counter, she caught Jonathan looking at her with an expression of amusement.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I see you’ve gone the high-culture route.”

  “It’s research for my book. Do you realize how many books this woman sells? She made over sixty million dollars last year.”

  Claire was gratified to see an expression of pain cross Jonathan’s face. “Ouch. Maybe I should reconsider my career choices. Let me have it when you’re done, will you?”

  “Yeah, right. Although romance writing might be a step up for you.”

  The tinny blast of a boardi
ng announcement drowned out his retort. Claire caught the word “Portland” and joined the small throng drifting toward the door, Jonathan trailing behind. They boarded the bus without incident, although their cash reserve shrank again. Claire claimed a window seat and resolutely opened her book and began reading.

  Two hours later when they pulled into the Portland bus terminal, Claire had read half the book. She was surprised when the bus came to a stop, since she had been engrossed in her reading. In spite of their fugitive status, she had managed to block out the outside world. As they emerged onto the street, Claire scanned the neighborhood: not exactly upscale. For a fleeting moment she was glad she had a male escort: at least she wouldn’t have to worry about being hassled on the street. The good news was, no cops in sight, and no one looking at them. She stuffed her book deep into her pocket and turned to Jonathan. “Let’s find out where the library is, okay?”

  “Sure. Does your map show the downtown layout?”

  She had forgotten she had the map. “Let me check.” She fished it out of her bag. “Yes . . . but I don’t know where we are now. We could ask somebody,” she said dubiously.

  He looked at her with scorn. “You should know better than that, lady: men never ask for directions. But I’m willing to bet it’s that direction.” He pointed.

  Claire followed his gaze—and saw a bright sign at the end of the street, with “Library” in large letters. “So you can read,” she muttered, then said more loudly, “Let’s go, then.”

  A brisk four-block walk brought them to a branch of Portland’s public library. Inside, it was easy to find computer terminals, although at this hour of the day they were all occupied by students.

  “If we need to sign in or register or something to use a computer, we’re in trouble, you know,” Claire muttered to Jonathan as they surveyed the busy scene.

  “Looks like this place is pretty trusting. But maybe we can snag some leftover minutes from one of the kids.”

  The turnover was quick, and Claire darted to a terminal as a student left. She sat down in front of it and reviewed her options. “We can’t use either of our accounts to get to our e-mails—we have to assume someone is watching, and that would tip them off that we were here. So we’re stuck with public sites, for now.”