Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Jonathan pulled up another chair and bumped her aside, before she could protest. He typed in a string of commands, then pushed back, looking pleased with himself. “Voila!”

  Claire didn’t give herself time to wonder why he knew that. “Give me some space, will you?” Claire found Google and typed in Annabeth’s name, holding her breath. Hallelujah! She had a website! Claire clicked onto the address, then scanned it for something about coming events, which she found tucked beneath the high-glam studio portrait that took up most of the home page. When she found a Scheduled Appearances page, she scrolled down the list. Annabeth was not modest: she had listed every place she was scheduled to appear over the next six months. Unfortunately, as Jonathan had said, at the moment she was on the West Coast, and Claire felt a spurt of despair: no way could they get there. Reading further she spied a New York appearance: Annabeth would be there this weekend for the gala kickoff event at a United Nations women’s conference. That was the good news. The bad news was, that meant they had three days to kill, and they had to get to New York beneath the radar. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  Jonathan, reading over her shoulder, nearly bounced with impatience. “Right, she’ll be in New York. Great. Can I get on there?”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t you want to know what they’re saying about us?” Claire glanced cautiously at the people around them, but no one was looking in their direction. “Move closer so you help shield the screen—I don’t want anyone to see a picture of us and put two and two together.” Back in Google, Claire input her own name and waited with bated breath. A long list of articles appeared, starting with the major news agencies. She had expected it, but it was still startling to see herself plastered all over the screen. She clicked on the first serious news site she came to on the list and read quickly. As she had anticipated, the report claimed that she had been taken hostage by a man believed to be Jonathan Daulton, who was wanted for questioning regarding a shooting in Maine. No surprises there. They had found a picture of bearded Jonathan, but her photo was a current one. And even flattering, she thought irreverently. She closed the site quickly, in case anyone was looking, then moved on and dropped in to a couple more; they all told more or less the same story. Jonathan was wanted, she was a hostage. There was a hotline to contact if anyone had any information. For a giddy moment, Claire contemplated calling the number and telling them it was all a mistake. Get a grip, woman! This is serious.

  “All right, my turn.” Jonathan all but shoved her aside. She watched as he scrolled through a number of sites that looked to have something to do with terrorism, from what little she saw. He ducked off as quickly as she had. She noticed he was searching for phone numbers and addresses. He caught her looking at the screen. “Hey, I don’t have my cell, and I don’t carry all this stuff around in my head, all right?”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything,” Claire retorted. “Are you looking for someone in particular?”

  His eyes on the screen, he nodded. “Yeah, I need to get in touch with a friend of mine in Rhode Island—Providence. He should be able to keep us for a day or two—if we can get that far.”

  “Huh.” It was a good idea, Claire reflected. They needed what amounted to a safe house, and somebody who was willing to conceal them. It was a lot to ask of anyone, but at least Jonathan was thinking about it. She rifled through her mental file . . . Of course! Leah, her college roommate, lived in New York. Leah would shelter them without asking questions, when and if they got to New York. And Leah would know how to find Annabeth, who should be on her way to New York by now.

  Would the FBI tap Leah’s phone? Well, Claire thought, I’ll just have to find another way to contact her. She needed Leah’s help.

  She glanced at Jonathan. “Are we done here?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got what I need. I take it you have a plan?”

  Was he being sarcastic? “Of course. Wait a sec,” she added, and pulled up a search program to look for an address. “There’s a Goodwill store a few blocks from here. We can pick up some clothes there. And there’s got to be a pharmacy somewhere around here, or a supermarket.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you: we need to change our appearance. That means hair dye. Makeup. Scissors to cut our hair. Whatever makes sense.” And some underwear, Claire added mentally. No way she was going to run from the FBI wearing recycled underwear. “And then we find a place for the night, and you can call your friend.”

  Outside again, the light was fading fast. There were more people on the streets now, doubtless heading home after work. Claire wrapped her coat around herself more tightly and shivered. No way they could ditch the coats, but . . . an idea hit her: they could swap. They were close to the same size, and the bulky coats were effectively unisex. If they were looking for a man with a blue coat, they wouldn’t notice a man with a green coat, right? And they could get some cheap knit hats, just for variety. That might work. “This way,” Claire announced, striding down the street.

  “What did you have in mind?” Jonathan panted as they hustled along the street.

  “Changing our image. Think about it: the authorities have issued a description of us—physical characteristics, clothing. Therefore we need to change those, as far as possible. Some things we’re stuck with, like gender, height. And we don’t have a lot of money to spend. So we try to make the biggest changes we can for the least money. You following me?”

  “Sure, but how much can we do?”

  “Enough. Listen, I study perceptions—how people see other people, what assumptions they make. The police, the FBI, whoever, is looking for us, but they have a certain mental picture of us. And if we change clothes but replace them with the same kind of thing, we’ll still fit the image. Same with hair—if we just made it a different color, the gestalt wouldn’t change. We need to find a way to work against what people expect to see. Tell me, what’s a type that’s most unlike you?”

  “I get it. How about a biker? Or would that call too much attention to me?”

  “No, not necessarily. Depends on the context. In this neighborhood, a biker might blend right in. And there are lots of people who wouldn’t want to look too closely as a guy wearing a lot of leather—they’d avoid eye contact. On the other hand, if you were going to a garden party, biker gear would look out of place. If you get hold of your friend, what would look unlike you but still blend in where he lives?”

  They came to a CVS first, and Claire ducked in gratefully. The wind in Portland, which lay close to the water, was biting. Inside, Claire made a beeline for the cosmetics section, Jonathan lagging behind. She stopped in front of the hair dyes, which stretched for half an aisle. “What color do you want?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Me? You want me to dye my hair?”

  “In your case, you’re going to have to lighten it. Unless you want a multicolored look?” She swallowed a laugh at the look on his face.

  “Are you nuts? I thought the idea was to make us look inconspicuous, not ridiculous.”

  “The idea is to make us look not like us. People who look at our pictures will have a mental image of what they expect to see. If they see something different, they won’t recognize us. You could dye your hair pink, and people might notice you but they probably wouldn’t connect that pink-haired guy with the notorious fugitive, dark-haired Jonathan Daulton. At least, that’s the theory I’m going by.”

  He did not look convinced. In fact, he looked like a sulky boy. “I don’t want to dye my hair. I already gave up the beard. Isn’t that enough?”

  Claire was getting angry. “Daulton, deal with it. People see what they expect to see. They look for visual clues, and then they infer a whole set of characteristics based on that quick impression. Where do you think that stupid stereotype of the dumb blonde comes from? Sure, they’re wrong a lot of the time, but that’s human nature. We’re just trying to mislead them, and we’ll move on before they actually stop and think. Got it?”

  “Fine,” he said tightly.
“How about this?” He pointed to a box.

  Claire followed his finger and lighted on a box with a picture of a model who looked a lot like the men on higher-end romance novel covers. Trust Jonathan to pick a man’s dye rather than a woman’s. “Okay, you want to look like a surfer.” She sighed, and added the box to her shopping basket. For herself she selected a dark brown with auburn highlights. She’d always wanted to try being a redhead, but she had clung to the belief that changing her hair color pandered to sexist attitudes, that women were always dissatisfied with their appearance, or were trying to maintain a false youthfulness in the face of advancing years. She had planned to accept gray hair with grace—when it came.

  Moving nonchalantly through the aisles, she added shampoo, scissors, combs, brush, soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes, a package of briefs and a bundle of unisex socks. She paused in front of the makeup section. Normally she used very little, finding it, like hair coloring, politically incorrect, particularly at Sophia College. But, she reminded herself, the goal here was to change her appearance, and the quickest and cheapest way to do that was with makeup—preferably a lot of it. What would go with her newly dark hair?

  At the checkout line Claire flinched when the total neared a hundred dollars. Why was hair dye so expensive? But at least they had enough supplies to make a significant difference in how they looked. The next stop was the used clothing store, a few blocks farther.

  Claire had little experience with secondhand clothing stores, although Northampton boasted more than one “vintage clothing” shop, and she enjoyed browsing in them. But vintage clothing was “interesting,” while secondhand clothing was . . . sad. The store stank of mildew and unwashed bodies, and the few people pawing through the racks looked down on their luck, or furtive, or both.

  “I assume you have some ideas about this too?” Jonathan muttered in her ear.

  “We want to look as unlike our normal selves as we can, without calling attention to ourselves. That’s probably easier for me than for you. You all dress pretty much alike.”

  His grinned. “Yeah, and it’s hard to tell us apart. Do I get any say in this?”

  Claire didn’t like the look in his eye. “What did you have in mind?”

  Without answering, he drifted away and started shuffling through the women’s clothes, pulling out various items. Claire watched, struggling to conceal her distaste. His selections favored bright colors and a lot of exposed skin around cleavage and midriff. Moderate slut, Claire decided, but not quite bad enough to be arrested for soliciting. Tacky though the outfits were, they did conform to the spirit of her description: they were nothing like her usual clothes. Maybe I should go for a pimp getup for him. She squinted at him, trying to picture him as a pimp, then giggled. No, that wouldn’t fly. He looked average, ordinary. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. How lucky that she had chosen to flee from the law with someone who wasn’t six feet six and didn’t have a glass eye. She went back to sorting through piles of clothing. As an afterthought, she snatched up a couple of battered student-style backpacks, to carry their stuff.

  They met in the middle of the store to compare their selections. At least Jonathan had shown a remarkable consistency in taste. Claire looked over the collection of spandex in his hands and snorted. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. So hooker is the antithesis of my real persona?”

  “It’s not who they’d be looking for, right?”

  Claire had to admit he had a point. “You’re harder to change. I just figured normal Joe American, with no taste.” She held out several muted plaid shirts that had seen better days, and some battered chinos.

  “Great—you want me to look like my father.”

  “Hey, you should be pleased. At least that means I think your usual wardrobe is hipper than this.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  They walked out half an hour later another seventy dollars poorer, with changes of clothing for two days. Their cash was evaporating fast, and they still had to find a place to stay.

  12

  Standing outside the Goodwill store, Claire looked up and down the street, considering their choices for overnight housing. She didn’t know the layout of Portland, but she knew she didn’t want a large chain hotel where they would most likely require credit cards and ID, and where they probably had surveillance cameras tucked into corners. What they needed was someplace lower down the scale, where nobody paid attention to anybody else. Where they could pay cash and hide. Unfortunately, she had little experience with finding that kind of place. She turned to Jonathan.

  “Okay, how do we find a crummy hotel? Or motel?”

  “You’re asking me? Oh, right, of course I know a lot about the seamy underbelly of cities in Maine.”

  “Hey, you’re the investigative reporter—you’re supposed to know these things. I certainly don’t!” Claire felt very exposed, standing in the open with no place to go, clutching plastic bags with their purchases. “We need someplace that no one will ask questions about two people checking in without any luggage or ID.”

  “Right, although it probably happens all the time in this neighborhood. Might be easier if I went in alone, and snuck you in later.”

  “Like a hooker, right?” Claire wanted to be angry, but the idea of hanging around on the street, waiting for him to find a place, unnerved her. “I’d rather stick together,” she added, in a tight voice.

  For a moment she thought he was going to make a snide remark. He looked around, then pointed back toward the way they had come originally. “The odds are probably better around the bus station. And there should be more people there—we won’t stand out.”

  “Let’s go.” Claire set off down the street at a brisk clip. It was getting dark, and she was cold. Jonathan caught up quickly and matched her stride for side. They didn’t say anything until they came to a drab hotel with a small, faded sign. Claire peered through the glass panel of the street door into the lobby and shuddered. There was a grizzled middle-aged man behind the battered reception desk, and a cluster of shadowy men hanging out in the dim lobby. No women in sight. She looked at Jonathan, who shook his head.

  “Not a place for transients,” he said. “Most of those guys probably live here, when they’ve got the money. Let’s keep moving.”

  They turned off the main street onto a side street, then another. The wind blasted their faces, seeped up the sleeves of their coats. People hurried past them, ignoring them, hands jammed in their pockets, hats pulled low. Finally, at the end of the street Claire saw a sign for a motel. She nudged Jonathan. “What about that?”

  “Maybe.”

  As they approached, Claire took stock of the place. Two stories of cinder-block construction formed an L around a mangy parking lot, where roughly half the spaces were occupied by cars of uncertain age. The glass-fronted office occupied the front corner, and Claire could see the top of a head, its owner concealed by the knotty-pine reception desk topped with chipped Formica the color of tomato soup. “This look okay?”

  “I think so. At least nobody’s staring at the evening news.” He held open the glass door and waited for her to pass.

  As she approached the desk, Claire saw that the clerk was a middle-aged woman. At the sound of their approach, the woman reluctantly put down the book she had been reading, careful to mark her place, and stood up. Her expression was wary.

  Jonathan smiled pleasantly. “We’re looking for a room.”

  “Uh-huh. How long?”

  “Just the one night.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered toward Claire and back to Jonathan. “You want it for the whole night?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sixty bucks. You got a car?” The woman peered over the counter to see if there was any luggage.

  “No.”

  “Huh.” The woman hesitated, scrutinizing them uncertainly before she finally nodded. “All right.” She reached into a drawer in the reception desk and pulled out a form. “You gotta fill this out, a
nd I gotta see some ID. How you gonna pay?”

  “Uh, cash.” Jonathan glanced at Claire. Claire knew exactly what worried him: showing ID. He didn’t have any, and she didn’t want to commit her name to anything.

  The woman pushed the forms toward them, suspicion etched on her features. “My husband says you gotta fill ’em out. That’s the law. We run a decent place here, don’t want no trouble.”

  Claire felt panic ripple through her gut. If they turned and left now, it would look suspicious, and the woman might remember them. If they stayed and couldn’t produce ID, the woman might report them. Claire desperately searched for solutions. Tie up the woman overnight, and let her go in the morning? No, that wouldn’t work—the husband would wonder where she was. Bribe her? Nope, no money.

  And then Claire’s frantic gaze landed on the book the woman had laid on the table, facedown, half read. The cover looked familiar . . . because it matched the cover of the book Claire had in her pocket. The latest Nora Roberts. And then Claire knew exactly what to do. She turned to Jonathan, leaned toward him and laid a hand on his chest.

  “Sweetheart, we have to tell her.”

  He looked incredulous. “What the hell are you talking about? We can’t tell her . . .”

  “Trust me, darling.” Claire turned back to the woman. “Ma’am—I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Helen,” the woman said, dubiously, watching them closely.

  “Helen, you’re a woman, and I know you’ll understand. Fred and I, we can’t sign in, because he’ll find us.”

  The woman on the other side of the counter managed to look both startled and intrigued. “He? Who? Find you?”

  Claire nodded solemnly. “It’s my husband, Irving. I’m leaving him to be with Fred here.” Claire nodded at Jonathan, and favored him with a wavering smile. “But, Irving, he’s not very happy about it, and he’ll follow us, I know he will. And he’s a cop, so he knows what to do.”