Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Clearly Helen was hooked. “So the two of you, you’re runnin’ away? But won’t he be able to find you anywhere? I mean, he’s a cop, and everybody’s got computers these days, right?”

  Claire nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of. But we have to try. You see,” Claire lowered her voice, “Irving hits me. And I’m afraid that if he finds us, he’ll kill me. And Fred.”

  Jonathan placed his hands on Claire’s shoulders and drew her toward him, protectively. So you finally got it, eh? She leaned back against him.

  Helen stiffened. “I don’t hold with no man hittin’ a woman. But you oughta get him locked up.”

  “I know, but like I said, he’s a cop. I can’t call any of the other officers in our town—they always believe him. Please, we can pay for a room, but if we sign in, I just know he’ll find us.”

  The woman wavered. “You ain’t leavin’ no kids behind, are you? Cuz he don’t sound like a man who oughta be raising any kids.”

  Claire shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. Irving didn’t want children, but Fred here, he loves me, and we really want a family together. But we have to get as far away from Irving as we can, and then I can get a divorce and Fred and I can be together. Isn’t that right, honey?” She tilted her head to look back at Jonathan.

  “Sure thing, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arm around Claire’s shoulders, and addressed Helen. “I just love this little lady, and all we want is to be together. I’ll bet you understand that.”

  Helen was melting before their eyes: her features softened, and her eyes were misty. “’Course I do. I was young once. Look, it’s quiet tonight. You all can stay in one of the rooms in the back, and I’ll just pretend I never saw you. After you pay.”

  “Of course.” Claire smiled warmly at her, and elbowed Jonathan in the ribs. “Pay her, lamb chop. Sixty, you said?”

  Silently Jonathan peeled three twenties from their shrinking cash supply.

  “And, Helen?” Claire went on. “Irving might call, or might send some of his friends here, asking about us. He can be pretty sneaky, so they might say they were cops, or PIs, or even federal agents, you know? So you won’t tell anybody anything about us being here, right?”

  “Got it. I never saw you. Here’s your key. It’s the one downstairs in the back left corner.”

  “Thank you, Helen. I’m so glad we found you.” Claire put all her energy into beaming at the woman, then turned back to Jonathan. “Come on, dear. I’ll feel much happier when we’re safe in our room, just the two of us.” She led the way out of the office and turned right, toward the back of the small complex, Jonathan trailing silently behind. She didn’t say anything until they had reached the room and shut the door behind them.

  For a moment they stood and stared at each other. Then Jonathan burst out laughing. “Jesus, woman, you had me going there for a minute! I thought you were going to spill the whole thing right there. How did you come up with that story?”

  “She was reading a romance,” Claire replied. “I figured I could appeal to her romantic side, tell her we were star-crossed lovers. And it worked.”

  “I salute you. It was brilliant. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Gee, thanks. Obviously I had your sterling example, Henry. Oops, now you’re Fred.” Claire dropped her backpack on the floor and prowled around the small motel room. It was better than she had expected: at least it was clean, if Spartan. There was a television, but with only the bare minimum of cable channels. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And we still have to do the hair stuff. Any ideas about food?”

  “We passed a Burger King on the way here. Will that do?”

  “Great. It should be busy this time of night, so why don’t you go now? I’ll see if there’s anything new on the news. Keep your hat pulled down, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  After Jonathan left, Claire turned on the television, leaving the sound low, and sat on the bed. Uh-oh: a double bed. One. She hadn’t even considered sleeping arrangements. But that was way, way down on her list of worries. Was it only this morning she had thought she could get back to her normal life? Wrong. So here she was, holed up in a tacky motel, running from who knows who. She felt as though she had stepped into some weird parallel universe. Think, Claire. You’re an intelligent woman. How do you plan to get out of this? For a brief moment she contemplated finding the nearest police station and turning herself in. Let Jonathan fend for himself. She didn’t owe him anything, right? After all, she didn’t really know him, and she had no idea what he might be involved in—which he showed no signs of telling her about. Maybe he was lying to her about the killing, and had been from the beginning. Maybe if she left now, she could spin a tale about how he had held her captive and forced her to flee with him. Based on the line she had fed Helen, she wasn’t bad at inventing fairy tales on the spur of the moment.

  But it wasn’t true. And she still believed him, even though she wasn’t sure why. But then, she had to, didn’t she? Because that was the only way she could salvage her own self-esteem. Jonathan had to be telling the truth, because otherwise she was a complete idiot.

  13

  Jonathan returned within fifteen minutes, carrying a large grease-stained bag issuing smells that made Claire’s mouth water. She was still sitting on the bed, but at his arrival she held out a hand.

  “Gimme. Did we eat today? Ever?”

  “Breakfast, about twelve hours ago. Here.” He handed her the bag. “I just got two of everything.”

  Claire’s answer was muffled by the large bite of double cheeseburger in her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had tasted so good. Stress certainly wasn’t putting a crimp in her appetite. Jonathan reclaimed his share and went to sit on the single straight chair next to the small round table near the window.

  “I brought coffee, too. I don’t think it’s going to keep us awake, and I figured hot was good.”

  Claire nodded, still chewing. When she finally swallowed, she added, “And we’ve still got the hair stuff to worry about.” She finished her burger, and then, more slowly, her fries. When there were no more scraps to be found, she sighed and looked at Jonathan.

  “Did you try to call your friend?”

  He nodded. “No answer. I’ll try later. Anything on the news?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.” Claire wondered what their fallback plan was, if this friend wasn’t home. Go straight to Leah, she supposed. She tried to remember the last time she had seen Leah, or had visited New York. Not this past year. Maybe last summer? She remembered they had seen a play that a friend of Leah’s had written, that had actually made it to Broadway. It had closed the week after they saw it. What had his name been? He’d been tall, with an unconvincing mustache . . .

  With a start, Claire realized she was drifting. A full stomach, combined with the stress of the day, was putting her to sleep, and that wouldn’t do. She stood up abruptly. “All right, you want to go first? I think your hair is going to take longer because you want it lighter.”

  Jonathan bundled up their trash and stuffed it in the trash can. “If you say so,” he said dubiously. “Where do we start?”

  Claire turned on all the lights in the room and the bathroom, which increased the total wattage to about 200. She studied him critically. “I think we ought to cut it, sort of a buzz, you know? Younger, hipper. But I think I read somewhere that you’re supposed to color first, then cut.” She picked up the first box of hair coloring. “And this one says never, never wash your hair before bleaching. I wonder why that is?”

  Jonathan didn’t move from his position by the door, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have any idea what you’re doing?”

  “None,” Claire admitted cheerfully. “But any idiot should be able to follow printed instructions.”

  Jonathan grinned. “Yeah. And look at how many dumb blondes manage it.”

  “Demeaning stereotype,”
Claire said automatically. She went on, “It also says not to inhale or eat the stuff. How stupid do they think we are? And keep it out of your eyes—well, that’s pretty self-evident. And then they warn you to test a patch forty-eight hours before you use it. That’s not going to happen. What is all this stuff?” Claire opened the box and started pulling things out. “Shimmering oil, lightening powder, developing cream, hydrator . . . this is insane.”

  “Can’t I just keep my hat on?”

  “Oh, stop whining. Take off your shirt and sit down.”

  Jonathan dragged the chair over to the space at the foot of the bed and dutifully sat down. “We who are about to die, salute you.”

  “Yeah, right. Make jokes.” As she went to the bathroom to find a towel, Claire ruminated on that statement. She hadn’t even considered dying. She wasn’t armed, and why would anyone shoot at her? But there were guns involved in this, and she had always made it a point to stay as far away from guns as possible. Usually there was a man on the other end of it, his rational processes clouded by excess testosterone, and the results were seldom pretty.

  She draped the towel around Jonathan’s neck, then stood behind the chair and ran her fingers through his hair. It felt nice—thick, with a little curl. Strong hair. Nice shoulders, too. With a start, she realized she had seen him with far less clothing, when he had fallen into her cabin—and that other time . . . But at the cabin she had concentrated on getting him warm and figuring out why he was bleeding. Now things were different: he was shirtless, they were alone in a motel, and she was running her fingers through his hair. She gave herself a mental shake. Claire, focus! She opened the first tube and sniffed cautiously at its contents. “Here we go.”

  “Talk to me. At least distract me from whatever it is you’re doing up there. It stinks, by the way. How much harm can you do with that stuff?”

  “You’d be surprised. According to the label, you could be blinded, or suffer an extreme allergic reaction. Or just fry your scalp.”

  “You can multitask, can’t you? And there are things we should talk about.”

  “Like what?” Claire said dubiously. She checked her watch, to start timing the first phase. She pulled on the latex gloves that had come with the hair dye. Good thing, too—strangers might notice if her hands were a funny color. Apply contents of tube to hair, work in well, then wait twenty minutes.

  “Well, I don’t know a whole lot about you, for starters.”

  “So?”

  “If we’re going to be spending the next few days together like this, I’d like to know a little more.”

  “Fine.” Claire squirted the gloppy stuff onto his head, then started massaging it into his hair. “I’m thirty-five. I attended Wellesley undergrad, got a Ph.D. in English at Brown, and I teach women’s studies at Sophia. I’m up for tenure this year. I live in Northampton. Will that do?”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone. You have a problem with that?”

  “God, this stuff itches. No, of course not. I just wondered. You’re an attractive woman, but you’re unattached. What’s that about?”

  For a moment Claire was glad she hadn’t reached the hair-cutting stage, because she might have been tempted to use the scissors inappropriately. “That’s none of your business, to begin with. Am I supposed to need a partner to define myself? Or are you asking if I’m gay?”

  Jonathan held up his hands. “No, no. Just curious. I like to know what makes people tick. And if you prefer women, that’s cool. It’s not like I dragged you to this scenic getaway spot to jump your body.”

  Claire considered letting him believe she was gay. It would certainly make the next few days easier. But her innate sense of accuracy wouldn’t let her. “The answer’s no. I like men well enough—I just don’t see any reason to live with one. What about you? I don’t see you reporting back to anybody. Isn’t anyone worried about you?”

  He laughed shortly. “Nope, no strings. I’m a lone wolf, footloose and fancy free.”

  “Well, given the sensitivity and insight you demonstrated in Genderal Relations, I’m not surprised.”

  “Damn it, why won’t anyone forget that book? It’s been five years, and I still get letters about it. It’s like I changed my name to ‘Jonathan Daulton, author of Genderal Relations.’ It just won’t go away.”

  “Why are you complaining? At least you made some money from it. You know how much I might get from an academic publication?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not my fault. Hey, isn’t this hair stuff about cooked?”

  Claire looked at her watch. “You’ve got ten more minutes.” Her mind buzzed with questions, and she had trouble figuring out where to start. “You said you were in some hot spots in the Middle East. Why? And does that have anything to do with this mess?”

  “I told you, I was freelancing. I had some local connections, and I was nosing around for a story.” He stopped.

  “And?” There had to be more to it than that. “Come on, talk.” There were some serious unstable countries out there, like Syria or Egypt. Claire tried to see Jonathan in a setting like that—and it wasn’t easy.

  “Claire . . . I don’t know. Maybe there’s a connection between then and now. There were some possibilities, but nothing definite.”

  “They couldn’t be very urgent, if you were hanging out at Greenferne giving a seminar.”

  “That was a prior commitment—and I needed the money.”

  Claire went to the bathroom to rinse the first round of goo off her hands. What’s he hiding? Is this all hot air? Or did he find something out and he doesn’t want to talk about it? She came out of the bathroom and leaned against the doorjamb. “What were you looking for? Government cover-ups? Military incompetence? Insurgent activities? Terrorists? Abuse of women and children?”

  Jonathan didn’t answer for several beats. “Claire, I’m not ready to talk about it. And if I did tell you what little I know, and we do get caught, then it would only make things worse for you.”

  “Gee, thanks for protecting me. You suck me into this, and you won’t even tell me why? For my own good? That’s ridiculous.” And how much of what you say is true?

  “Claire, I’m sorry.” When she started to protest, Jonathan held up a hand. “Yeah, I know, I keep saying that, and things keep getting worse. I did not mean to involve you in . . . whatever this is. Maybe it’s related to what I’ve been doing this past year, maybe not. That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to Rick. But for now, can you give it a rest?”

  Did she really want to know anything more? “So why are we looking for Annabeth?”

  “Because I need to know whether she was the target of whatever investigation is going on, and I can’t exactly ask the FBI. That would narrow down the possibilities, anyway. And since we can’t connect with her for a couple of days, I can use the time to get together with Rick and find out what he knows, maybe give him something to look for. As soon as I get hold of him, we’ll know what the next step is.”

  Well, at least the mysterious friend had a name now: Rick. “Uh-huh.” Claire was not convinced, but she was tired, and there was still more to be done before they could sleep. “And I can’t believe that anybody in this day and age would be out of reach of someone who really wanted to find her.”

  “Maybe Annabeth really did want to disappear,” Jonathan said quietly.

  “But she wouldn’t miss the thing at the U.N., would she?” Claire asked anxiously. It seemed to be the only fixed point in their flight. She was surprised when Jonathan echoed her thoughts.

  “I hope not. That’s the only solid date and place that we have.”

  An hour and several intermediate steps later, Claire stepped back to assess the changes. Jonathan’s hair was certainly lighter, and as far as she could tell she hadn’t missed any major patches. “So far, so good. Now, go wash it and I can cut it.”

  When he disappeared into the bathroom, Claire dropped heavily onto the bed. God, she was tired. Was it only this mo
rning that she had blithely driven Jonathan to the bus stop? It seemed like a lifetime ago. They had been on the run for less than a day, but she was afraid to turn on the television to see what the official story was. She was a law-abiding citizen, so how had she let Jonathan suck her into this crazy situation? Why was his explanation more credible than that of the FBI, the local police, and sweet little Susie? Or did you really just want to get away from your blasted research, Claire? That thought prompted a burble of hysterical laughter. Nothing like a good conspiracy, topped off with a frenzied escape from law enforcement, to get the creative juices flowing. She shook her head to clear it: she must be getting punchy.

  Jonathan’s shower lasted no more than two minutes, and he came back rubbing his hair with a towel. “Not bad, so far.”

  Claire stood up and pointed toward the chair. He sat obediently. Claire assembled comb and scissors and approached him cautiously.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said plaintively.

  “Of course. I used to cut my sister’s hair.” Yeah, when I was five and she was three. “And my college roommates and I did it all the time.” Usually when we’d had too much to drink. She ran a comb through his hair, then picked up the scissors.

  Ten minutes later, half of Jonathan’s hair lay on the floor. What was left looked a little raggedy, but acceptably so.

  “Can I look now?”

  “Yeah. I’m done.” Claire stepped away and eyed her handiwork critically. Not bad, all things considered. Jonathan stood and went to the mirror in the bathroom, studying his reflection.

  “You know, I think you’re on to something. I don’t look like myself, do I?”

  “Oh, I forgot.” Claire reached into the pharmacy bag and pulled out a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell frames. “Try these.”

  Jonathan put them on and turned back to his reflection. “What are these?”