“Magnifiers. Don’t worry—they don’t change your vision much. I don’t think I’d recognize you.”
“Good enough. Your turn?”
Claire shuddered. “I suppose. What do you know about haircutting?”
He favored her with an evil smirk. “I used to trim dogs, one summer in high school.”
That was confidence-inspiring. “Well, let me do the coloring part first. I’m going darker, so it won’t take as long.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Only one other towel. She sighed and opened her box. As she waited for the creamy paste to works its magic, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, lit by an unflattering fluorescent fixture. In the harsh light she looked washed-out, with bruised circles under her eyes. And she knew they weren’t going to go away any time soon. Was makeup going to help? She studied her face critically: high forehead, good cheekbones, eyes of no particular color. A blank slate. In her tolerant college environment, outward appearance was considered secondary to intelligence, ability, and any number of other worthy character traits. But how did the rest of the world see her? Did they think she was a weak, helpless victim, based on the news reports? Would her friends and students believe that?
She was getting bored waiting, but there was no way she was going to go back out into the other room and make more chitchat with Jonathan, especially when he wouldn’t tell her what she really wanted to know. How dare he question how she chose to live her life? She’d had relationships with men, and she enjoyed a healthy sex life, thank you very much. Well, maybe not so much lately. But after a while, the men all required too much maintenance, too much ego stroking, and she just didn’t find it worth the effort. She lived an interesting, challenging, stimulating life, and she didn’t need a man to give it shape or purpose.
She neutralized the stuff in her hair, and finally slipped into the shower to wash it away. Climbing out again, she braced herself for her first look at the new Claire. The hair was definitely darker—and made her face look even more washed out. She sighed: this was not an exercise in self-improvement, this was a disguise to fool highly trained government officials. Who cared if she looked “attractive,” whatever that meant? She pulled on the oversize T-shirt she had bought to sleep in, and opened the door.
She was very conscious of Jonathan’s scrutiny. “What?” she said belligerently.
“It looks good. It suits you. You still want to cut it?”
“Some. Not like yours, though. Just take it up a couple of inches, sort of boxy. Can you handle that?”
“No problem.”
Claire took the seat he had occupied earlier. She shut her eyes. His hands touched her head, carefully, untangling, shaking the wet clumps loose. It felt good to be touched . . . Claire opened her eyes quickly. She was drifting again, but this was the last step. She could sleep after he was done. She stared at the wall in front of her, straining to keep her eyelids up. She could feel Jonathan moving around her, snipping with assurance. She hoped. Ah, well, it was only hair, and it would grow back. She hoped she wouldn’t be in prison the next time she needed a haircut.
Five minutes later he ran his fingers through her hair, shook it into place. “There. Not bad, if I say so myself. Maybe I have a future in hairdressing. Take a look.”
With tremendous effort Claire got to her feet and went to the bathroom mirror. He was right—it wasn’t a bad job. A chunk of now shorter hair fell forward across her face, but she’d seen that style on campus, and it would serve to further conceal her face. And her head felt lighter. Maybe too light. She needed sleep.
She went back to the other room, to find that Jonathan had lain down on the bed and was already asleep. She looked around her—at the wet towels, the clumps of hair on the floor, the torn boxes and flattened tubes. The hell with it—they could clean up in the morning. She fell onto the bed, pulling the faded spread over her, and was asleep in seconds.
14
Claire woke with a start, disoriented, with Jonathan draped around her, nuzzling her neck—and sound asleep. Murky daylight filtered through the limp polyester curtains pulled across the front window. Claire looked at her watch: seven o’clock. She had slept like the dead. She lay still, to avoid waking Jonathan: she wanted time to think before she had to deal with him.
They were in Portland, and from here they could probably get a bus to . . . where? Where did they want to go? Jonathan hadn’t talked to his friend Rick yet. And she needed to get in touch with Leah, but she didn’t want the FBI to notice. If they had a list of her friends . . . bleakly she realized that she hadn’t contacted Leah for months. How far back through her phone records would they have to go to find a single phone call to her?
Or would they even bother? After all, they believed she was the victim here, and she wasn’t likely to be calling anyone. So the authorities wouldn’t be looking at her, they’d be looking at Jonathan and his connections—would they discover this Rick person? Her deductions gave her mixed comfort: she was probably in the clear, but she didn’t know if Jonathan could make his call without alerting someone, somewhere.
But still, they needed help. A Ph.D. in English wasn’t doing her a lot of good right now, and for a moment she wished she watched more popular television, which might have given her a few insights into police and FBI procedures. Too late: she and Jonathan were going to have to muddle through with only their wits to guide them. She had faith in her own wits, but she wasn’t so sure about his. Although she had to admit that he had picked up pretty quickly last night when she had spun her story to poor trusting Helen. But she had been equally quick to take her cue from his brilliant improvisation at her cabin.
Funny how he spent a lot of time taking off his clothes around her.
There was a timid knock at the door, and Claire stiffened, her heart pounding. She shook Jonathan’s shoulder.
“Wha?” he mumbled into his pillow.
“Jonathan, there’s somebody at the door,” she hissed. That got his attention. He sat bolt upright.
“Who?” he whispered.
“I have no idea,” she hissed back. “You want me to go find out?”
The soft knocking came again.
Jonathan scrubbed his face with both hands. “If it was the FBI, they would have to announce themselves—or they’d just bash the door in. This sounds more like our friend Helen.”
Of course. “Just a moment,” Claire sang out, as she stood up and looked wildly around for something to put on in addition to the T-shirt she had slept in. She grabbed her jeans and pulled them on, and ran her fingers through her hair—startled for a moment to find that it was a lot shorter than it had been yesterday. She opened the door.
Helen was standing there, holding a paper bag. She froze for a moment, a confused expression on her face, and Claire remembered her hair.
“Oh, dear, I hope I din’t wake you up. I got coffee.” She held out the bag.
Claire heard Jonathan scuttling into the bathroom behind her. “Oh, thank you. That’s sweet of you.” Helen didn’t move. “Did you want to come in?” Helen darted a wary glance around before nodding. Claire stood aside to let her in, then closed the door behind her. “Is something wrong?”
Before answering, Helen studied Claire’s hair. “Smart move, changin’ it. I gotta tell you—there were a coupla men here last night, askin’ about you. They din’t use your right names, but they had pictures. I told ’em I hadn’t seen you.” Helen smiled tentatively.
Claire felt chilled, but made an effort to respond warmly. “Oh, Helen, thank you. That’s what I was afraid of.” Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, decently clad, and Claire watched Helen’s second double take with amusement. “Fred, Irving sent some men to look for us. And Helen made them go away!”
Jonathan came up behind Claire and slipped his arm around her waist. “Thank you, Helen,” he said solemnly. “It’s not that I can’t handle anything Irving dishes out, but I don’t want to put Daphne here at risk. You did the right thi
ng.”
Helen beamed. “I’m glad I could help!” Then her expression clouded. “They gonna come back?”
“Don’t you worry.” Jonathan’s tones were soothing. “Daphne and I are leaving just as soon as we can get ready, and then we’re off to California!”
“I always wanted to go to California.” Helen’s eyes misted over. “You two’ll be real happy there. Well, I gotta go watch the desk—my husband gets mad if I leave it for too long. Not that we get a whole lot of business anyway. Anything else you need?”
“No, Helen, but thank you.” Claire laid a hand on the older woman’s arm. “You’ve been wonderful, and I don’t know what we would have done without you. Now just go back and forget you ever saw us.”
Helen sighed. “All right. And good luck.”
Claire carefully closed the door behind her, and turned to face Jonathan. “So they really are after us.”
“Looks that way. Why are you surprised?”
Claire shook her head. “I don’t know. This is all so unreal. Do you think they had any idea we were here, or is this just routine?”
“I’d guess they were just checking all the cities with bus stations, and all the motels within walking distance of those bus stations. But that means they must have found the car, so they know we don’t have transport. It also means that they’re serious about finding us, if they’re throwing that kind of manpower at it.”
“Gee, thanks. That doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better. Will they be watching the bus station here?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Maybe. We should be prepared for it, anyway.”
Claire looked down at her jeans and T-shirt. “Then I guess I’d better get dressed.”
“Bathroom’s all yours,” Jonathan said cheerfully.
Claire rummaged through her Goodwill purchases, wrinkling her nose at the faint odor of mildew. Her usual style was sleek and functional, without any pretension to fashion. What she had now, her mother would have called trashy: everything cheap and tight, in clashing colors, and if there was a button missing or a seam gapping, all the better. Stripping off her jeans and shirt, she pulled on a pair of pants that rode low on her hips, added a stretchy tank top and then a shirt over it—with straining buttons. Heeled boots completed the ensemble. Time for hair and makeup.
Claire stared at herself in the mirror. The dark hair worked fine, but it needed texture or something. Claire’s usual grooming routine consisted of a quick slap of a brush, and in desperation at the pharmacy she had grabbed a couple of bottles of the cheapest hair goo she could find. She squeezed out a glob of mega-super-styling gel and dabbed at her hair, then finger-combed it until it lay sort of flat against her head. She had seen students with this look—and laughed inwardly. And now here she was, trying to figure out just how they did it.
She had even less experience with makeup, relying on a dash of blush and a swipe of lip gloss (Northampton winters were hard on lips), and maybe some mascara for special occasions. For running from the law she had selected a range of cheap eye shadows, black eyeliner and mascara, and a couple of lipsticks in a hard dark red that she thought might go with her new hair. Awkwardly she started painting, and finally stepped back to study the effect. Not enough. She added more color, more mascara, and more again, then stepped back once again. This time she almost laughed; she felt like a clown, but at least she looked nothing like Professor Claire Hastings.
With trepidation she opened the bathroom door and stepped out. “What do you think?”
She wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased or horrified by Jonathan’s appreciative stare. “Wow. Definitely a high-class hooker!”
“Shut up. Actually, I was aiming for trailer trash. But the real question is, will anyone recognize me?”
“Not in that getup. You may have to fend off some johns, though.”
“Well, Fred, I’ll just have to cling to your manly arm and rely on you to protect me,” Claire snarled. “So, what now?”
“Breakfast,” Jonathan said promptly. “Since we don’t know where our next meal might be, we’d better load up now. And I’ve got to try to reach my friend again. Let’s pack this stuff up and head out.”
It took little time to collect their few belongings and stuff them in their backpacks. After one last survey of the room, Claire picked up her coat, then stopped. “Here, switch with me.”
Jonathan looked confused for a moment, and then grinned. “Boy, you just don’t stop thinking, do you? Good idea.” He took hers from her and put it on. Claire slipped into his coat, and stepped outside. Another damp, chill day in Maine. She was glad they were headed south, where it might be warmer. Jonathan came out behind her, closing the door. “Back to Burger King?”
“Fine by me.”
As they walked by the motel office, Helen was nowhere in sight; an older man with sparse graying hair stood sentry behind the desk. Claire sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Helen had been on duty the night before. She had a feeling Helen’s husband might not have been as accommodating. Or as easy to manipulate.
Burger King, a short walk away, was doing a brisk morning business, and no one showed any interest in them. Claire staked out a table while Jonathan bought food. When he returned, he deposited a loaded tray and announced, “I’m going to find a pay phone. Be right back.” He made his way out the front door and turned right, disappearing from her sight.
While he was gone, Claire studied the other patrons surreptitiously. Did she and Jonathan fit in? She was reassured by what she saw, and relaxed a fraction as she dug into the hot greasy food. Why was it junk food tasted so good right now? This fugitive business was definitely giving her an appetite. As she ate, she reread the bus schedule she had picked up the day before. A bus to Providence left at eleven fifteen, and it would take them three and a half hours to get there, if they switched buses in Boston. Jonathan had said nothing about the person he was trying to contact. Would he be at work? At home? Did he live in the city? How were they supposed to get to his house from the bus station?
Jonathan dropped into the chair opposite Claire. “Got him. He’ll meet us at the bus station at three.” He wolfed his own breakfast with enthusiasm.
“Who is this guy? And how much does he know?”
Jonathan glanced around the room before answering. “I’ve known Rick for a while—he’s great at digging out information. I didn’t tell him anything about us, what’s going on—just that I needed a safe place to stay, no questions asked.”
“You mean he hadn’t heard anything on the news? And did you mention you were bringing me?”
Jonathan shrugged, his mouth full. “If he did, he didn’t say anything.” He took another bite. “Look, I didn’t get into it, all right? I trust him, and he won’t ask questions. That’s the best you can hope for at the moment.”
“Thanks to you,” she replied bitterly. But whether or not she liked it, he had a point: a trustworthy friend was a precious commodity right now. And she didn’t have a lot of options. She watched silently as Jonathan finished eating.
Finally he sat back and looked at her. “When’s the next bus?”
Claire looked at her watch. “Forty minutes.”
“We should head over to the station.”
“I agree. Uh, should we split up? Maybe it’s overkill, but they’re looking for a pair of us, not just a single man or woman. Or maybe just you.” She felt a prickle of panic: what would she do if he got picked up? She had no contingency plan.
“If you want. I don’t think it matters a lot, but it might be safer. Okay, we go to the bus terminal, get tickets through to New York, find the right bus, and we board separately. We don’t sit together. Once we get to Providence, we get off the bus and meet up outside the front entrance, on the main street. Keep your eyes open, at both ends, see if anyone is watching for us. Maybe it’s a long shot, but you never know.”
“And if someone is watching, or if you get nabbed, then what am I supposed to do?”
“I don�
�t know! What do you want to do?”
“Forget I ever met you!” Claire fought to keep her voice level—they were in a public place. “Seriously, do I tag along and try to explain things? Make a break for it? What?”
“Claire, you do whatever makes you happy. My primary goal right now is to get to Rick’s house and see what he knows. You’re a big girl—you figure it out.”
“Thanks a lot. By the way, you still have all the cash, remember? If we get separated, I’m stuck. And I need to buy a bus ticket. Fork over half.” She held out a hand. After all, it was her money.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” He pulled out the slender sheaf of bills from his pocket and, concealing it in his lap, counted out half. Then he folded them and handed them to Claire, saying more loudly, “Here you go. Thanks for a great night. I’ll tell my friends which corner you’re working.”
“You are scum,” Claire spat as she followed Jonathan out the front door. On the street she took the lead, marching briskly toward the bus station without looking back. By the time she reached the station she was chilled, despite her pace, and hurried inside before remembering to keep an eye out for observers. She stopped to buy a newspaper from the kiosk, then sat on a scuffed plastic chair, planting her backpack between her feet. Only then did she allow herself to scan the room. Was she being paranoid? Most people were moving purposefully toward the exit to the bus bays, or out the front on the way to work. Then she noticed one—no, two men moving more slowly around the perimeter of the large room, and every now and then one or the other would look down at something concealed in his hand. A photo? Claire looked away quickly, turned her attention to the newspaper in her lap. She was greeted by her own photograph, alongside one of a bearded Jonathan. She froze. How weird was this?
Suddenly she felt hugely visible. How could those agents—and she had no doubt that’s what they were—be stupid enough to miss her? Without looking up, she saw Jonathan flop into a seat on the bank of chairs opposite her. After counting to thirty, she peered up at the announcement board, as if checking for her bus, and let her gaze slide over him on the way back. As their looks crossed, she nodded minutely toward the paper in her lap, and he nodded in return, before looking away casually. Claire carefully folded her paper, with the photographs inside, and crossed her hands over it. She waited. Time inched slowly along, and even though she was expecting it, she jumped at the announcer’s voice, deciphering with difficulty the words “Boston” and “Providence.” Time for a quick bathroom stop, and then she could board the bus in the midst of an anonymous crowd.
Once She Knew Page 10