In the bathroom, as she washed her hands, she checked her makeup to be sure it wasn’t running down her face. No, it looked all right. If it was a little smudgy, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? She certainly didn’t look like Claire Hastings—neat, orderly, efficient, in-control Claire Hastings, Ph.D. She emerged from the ladies’ room and made a deliberate effort to walk calmly to join the line waiting to board the bus. Wordlessly she handed the driver her money, and he punched a receipt and handed it to her. She took it and made her way to a seat halfway toward the rear. Jonathan had stationed himself behind her in the line, with several people between them, and on the bus he slid into the seat to the rear of hers. He leaned forward.
“Excuse me. Do you know what time the bus gets to Boston?” Sotto voce he added, “You saw them?”
“Let me check.” Claire fumbled with her bus schedule. Turning back to address Jonathan, she said, “Looks like one thirty.” Dropping her voice, she went on, “I did.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice trip.” He sat back in his seat. Claire stared ahead, and was afraid to take a deep breath until the bus had pulled away from the station and began threading its way through the back streets of Portland.
15
For a time Claire watched the city drop away, which didn’t take long, and then she watched the low rolling landscape. When she got bored with the view, she read the paper, slowly, drawing it out, but taking care to keep the front page with her picture folded away from curious eyes. When she had exhausted that she fished the Nora Roberts book out of her pocket. She contemplated the cover for a moment. Reading Nora Roberts and her ilk was, in Claire’s mind, a betrayal of all that she stood for. Romance novels as a rule were predictable and entirely unrealistic; their characters simpleminded and obsessed with finding the perfect mate, whatever that meant. On the other hand, the woman wrote reasonably well, and reading the book—unfortunately the only one she had—was the perfect way to pass the time while riding on a bus and trying to look “normal.” With a sigh, Claire opened the book and resumed her reading. Two hours later she looked up with a start to see that the bus was pulling into Boston.
Jonathan followed her off the bus but made no move to speak with her. Inside the terminal Claire searched the sparse crowd and didn’t notice any obvious watchers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Might as well use the ladies’ room again, before getting on the next bus. What was the old adage in politics? Never turn down a bathroom or a meal, because you never know when you’d find another?
After using the bathroom and wiping some mascara smudges from under her eyes, she drifted toward the gate for the next leg of the journey. Jonathan was already there, and she made a point of keeping a few people between them. Nobody in the small crowd looked like an FBI agent—but how was she supposed to know what an agent looked like? Claire chided herself: she had been envisioning burly men in overcoats, like Agent Maguire, but an agent could just as easily be a five-feet-two Asian woman. In fact, a female agent would be ideal for an assignment like this, since women were usually more observant of details of dress and grooming, not to mention body language. Once again, time seemed to slow as Claire waited for the boarding announcement. When it came, she lined up with the others, boarded the bus, showed her receipt, and sank into a seat with a sigh of relief. So far, so good.
The second leg of the trip was shorter than the first. Claire felt an irrational spurt of pleasure as they approached Providence. She had spent her graduate school years here, and she had a lingering fondness for the funky shops and handsome old buildings that fringed the Brown campus. Too bad she was coming back under less than happy circumstances. She wondered where Jonathan’s friend lived. Then she wondered why she was putting her safety into the hands of someone she knew nothing about. Not that she knew a whole lot more about Jonathan—and look what relying on him had done for her.
The bus, miraculously, was on time, and they pulled into the Providence bus station just before three o’clock. Claire gathered up her backpack and stepped down off the bus. Everything in the terminal looked normal, peaceful and innocent. For some reason that disturbed her: according to published reports, she was a kidnap victim. Shouldn’t someone be looking for her? Didn’t she matter? Jonathan had followed her off the bus, and when her gaze drifted across him, he nodded toward the exit door. She followed him out onto the sidewalk and came up beside him.
“Are we allowed to talk now?”
“I think so. I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”
“Me either—not even in Boston. Do you think we’re in the clear?”
“Got me.”
Claire wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t a lot warmer in Providence than it had been in Maine. “Where’s your friend?”
“He’ll be here.”
As if on cue, a nondescript middle-aged sedan pulled up to the curb in front of them. Jonathan took Claire’s arm and urged her toward the back door. She shrugged his hand off and opened the door, while Jonathan got into the front seat. The floor in the rear was littered with fast-food wrappers, and part of the roof lining sagged. She studied the driver, or what she could see from behind: early thirties, lean features, close-cropped hair. Their glances crossed in the rearview mirror, and Claire was momentarily shaken by the hostility she saw. Had he not been expecting her?
Jonathan was speaking rapidly. “Hey, man, thanks for coming. I’ll fill you in, but it might be a good idea for us to get out of sight. Just in case.”
“Right.” The driver pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Claire decided to keep her mouth shut for the moment. She watched for landmarks: she wanted to know where they were going. Looking for escape routes, are you? South, apparently, away from Brown and the areas she knew best. After a few minutes, they were passing through a blue-collar neighborhood of mixed duplexes and single-family homes, built early in the twentieth century. Their driver pulled into a narrow driveway alongside a small single-family house and parked the car in front of a garage at the back of the property. “In this way,” he said. Claire got out of the car and trailed after Jonathan, and they waited on the wooden stoop while their host unlocked his door.
They stepped directly into the kitchen of the house. The decor had not been changed since the house was built, although the appliances were half the age of the grease-stained wallpaper, but it was clean, the tiled counters bare of dirty cups and dishes. Yet Claire didn’t sense any woman’s touch. Who was this guy? Wasn’t it about time for some introductions? She nudged Jonathan. “How about names?”
He seemed startled to find her there. “Oh, yeah, right. Listen, let me talk to Rick first, okay? I need to explain a few things. Why don’t you make some coffee or something?”
Claire stared at him. “You’re kidding, right? You men are going to go talk about serious stuff, and the little woman is stuck here in the kitchen making coffee?”
Jonathan held up both hands. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just . . . Fine, don’t do anything, but let me give Rick the basics first, all right?”
Claire glanced at Rick, leaning against a counter on the opposite side of the room, watching. His impassive face didn’t change, but Claire wondered if there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Still, he was Jonathan’s friend, and she might as well let Jonathan handle this. For now. “Fine,” she said tightly. “And coffee’s a good idea. If you don’t mind my rummaging around?” This time she challenged Rick directly.
“Help yourself. Daulton?” The man nodded toward the front of the house, and they left the kitchen. Terse SOB, isn’t he? But Claire was cold and hungry, and coffee sounded good. She began opening cabinets. The house wasn’t very large, and Claire could hear the rumble of voices in another room. They didn’t sound happy.
Ten minutes later the men returned. Claire thought they both looked more worried than they had before. Coffee made, she was sitting at the built-in banquette in one corner, leafing through an old magazi
ne. Jonathan managed to look both sheepish and tense, and Rick looked angry. Jonathan gave her a brief look, then picked up the coffeepot and gestured toward Rick, who nodded once. What was this all about? Did they have a word ration and they were afraid of using it up? As they sat at the table, Claire looked from one to the other. “Okay, guys, talk to me. Why don’t we start with introductions?”
Jonathan looked abashed. “Oh, yeah, right. This is Rick . . . I don’t think you need a last name. He knows you’re Claire Hastings.”
Claire leaned back and eyed Rick coolly. “Because Jonathan told you, or because you’ve been watching the news?”
Rick’s face did not change. “Newspaper. You two are all over it.”
“Saying what?”
“Jonathan’s wanted for questioning in the shooting of an FBI agent, and to escape he took you hostage. Which makes it look like he’s guilty of the shooting.”
“Uh-huh. And why are we here?” Her glance shifted to Jonathan.
“Because I’ve known Rick for a long time. And because he doesn’t trust the FBI or any of the other agencies. And because he can find out what we need to know.”
A heavy silence fell. Claire suddenly felt tired. The stress of the past few days, and the uncertainty about the future, were ganging up on her. “So what now? Is anyone going to be looking for us here?”
Rick shook his head. “Don’t think so. I’m careful.”
Jonathan jumped in. “We can get online, figure out what the public spin is. And, Claire, you can get in touch with your friend.”
“If the authorities know that Rick is a friend of yours, won’t they be keeping tabs on him?”
“They probably will. But Rick’s got the electronic bases covered. I’ll show you.” Jonathan stood up. Reluctantly Claire did too, and then followed him into the next room.
The kitchen at the rear was connected by a short hallway to the living room, which stretched across the front; a staircase hugged the interior wall. Claire’s fleeting impression of the living room suggested that, like the kitchen, nothing had changed in a long, long time. Since Rick failed to volunteer any information, Jonathan tossed over his shoulder, “This was Rick’s family’s house. His parents are both dead.”
Rick led the way up the stairs. At the top was a small landing, leading to doors front and rear. The back room appeared to be Rick’s bedroom, but Rick turned right, toward the front.
Claire was not prepared for the array of high-tech computer equipment that took up half the room. At least, she assumed it was computer equipment: apart from a sleek laptop and printer, she didn’t recognize many of the components. And then she noticed that a lot of it was covered with a fine film of dust. Rick’s workspace was covered with newer, smaller equipment. She turned to Rick. “What’s this all about?”
“I, uh, collect a lot of information. And I like to make sure that nobody’s paying attention. You can log on, make calls, safely. That’s all you need to know.”
Claire shifted her attention to Jonathan. “You’ve worked together?”
“Claire, I told you, I’m a journalist,” Jonathan said. “Rick supplies me with a lot of background, leads, or corroborates what I dig up.”
“Ah,” Claire replied. She could be terse too. “So, what are you, Rick? A hacker?” Or just a paranoid who liked to monitor things? Did it matter?
Rick shook his head. “Hell, no. I’m a librarian. I’m just interested in information—how and what gets around. Or doesn’t.” He lapsed into silence again.
If nothing else, Claire knew she had to talk to Leah. “So nobody’s going to be watching your phone?”
Rick’s mouth twitched. “Maybe they’ll be watching, but they won’t see anything.”
Claire checked her watch. It was after four. Leah would still be at work, and she didn’t want to talk to her there. But she wouldn’t be home until after six, if she knew Leah. There was nothing she could do at the moment. “I can’t call my friend in New York for a couple of hours. You two have any ideas?”
Jonathan glanced quickly at Rick before answering. “There are some things I want to check out up here. Maybe you could cook dinner?”
Claire’s thermostat started to rise, until she realized that he was yanking her chain. Why not play along? She could use some real food for a change. She smiled sweetly in return. “Why, certainly, I’d be delighted. What would you two big strong men like for dinner?”
Jonathan nudged Rick. “Watch it, pal—she gets testy when she’s hungry.” He grinned at Claire.
Claire couldn’t think of a sufficiently witty comeback. She settled for deadpan. “I’ll just take myself back to the kitchen and rustle up some grub, then, and leave you two up here to all this computer wrangling. I’m probably too dumb to understand it anyway.” She turned on her heel and went back downstairs.
16
Conversation at dinner lurched along in fits and starts. Claire had the feeling that there were far too many things left unsaid, too many land mines in the conversational field. Worse, Claire thought Jonathan and Rick looked worried. She waited until most of the food had disappeared from their plates before wading in.
“All right, guys. I’ve done my part. Are you planning to fill me in?” The men exchanged enigmatic looks once again. This is getting old, Claire thought. “Come on, cut the crap. What is it you’re not telling me?”
Jonathan sighed. “All right. I guess you have the right to know.” He swallowed, clearly stalling. “You remember when we first talked, I said the FBI showed up at the door?”
“Yes,” Claire prompted.
“But things got crazy fast, so I didn’t find out what, or who, they were looking for.”
Claire considered the implications and started to simmer. “Wait a minute. You said that’s why you needed to talk to Annabeth. You think they might actually have been coming after you after all? Why?”
“That’s where it gets complicated. Look, I’m not saying that’s what happened, I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“Damn it, Daulton, you keep ducking the question. Give it to me in simple English: why would the FBI want to talk to you?”
“I need a drink.” Jonathan looked briefly at Rick, who stood wordlessly and retrieved a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard, and three mismatched glasses from another. He set them all in the center of the table and sat down again. Jonathan poured two glasses, then cocked an eyebrow at Claire. She nodded.
“Okay.” Jonathan resumed his narrative. “I told you I was in the Middle East, just sniffing around in different countries. I’ve got friends, contacts there.”
Claire’s patience was shredding. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve already told me this, like three times. You wanted to play serious journalist, so you went to somewhere where there was a lot of unrest, and maybe guns and shooting and blood. How predictable. Get to the point, will you?”
He and Rick exchanged looks again. “Right. So this one person I know over there tells me, way, way off the record, that she knows somebody who knows somebody who said that someone was planning something serious.”
“Like that’s news. How many alerts have there been in the last few years? And this pal of yours sure didn’t give you much to go on, did she?”
“Claire, I’m not gullible. I know that there are plenty of rumors, not to mention a lot of deliberate misinformation out there. It keeps us on edge, and that’s probably the point. But I’ve known this person for a while; she has no reason to lie to me, and she’s definitely not the type to cry wolf. I figured it was worth checking out. I came back to the U.S. a couple of months ago, and I started digging. And when I couldn’t find a lot, I got in touch with Rick here. He’s a wizard—if there’s information out there, he’ll find it.”
Claire considered what he had said. “All right, let’s say it’s true, that somebody is planning something. Why didn’t you report it to somebody who could do something about it?”
“Claire, do you live in the real world? The federal agencies are
swamped with leads, and they’re struggling to keep up with the easy ones. Even more than a decade after 9/11 they haven’t managed to staff up or improve their coverage. If I gave them some vague story about some unspecified threat, they’d pat me on the head, thank me, and then stick it in a file somewhere. I didn’t want that.”
“Come on, Daulton. You smelled a story, and you wanted to hang on to it. Right?”
Claire was pleased to see that she had hit the mark: he looked embarrassed. “Okay, that was part of it,” he said. “But I still think there’s something going on, and I think it’s going to happen sooner rather than later, and of course I want to stop it, whatever it is, and, yes, damn it, I want the story.”
“And you couldn’t have told the FBI and still pursued it?” Claire paused as another thought surfaced. “But that doesn’t explain why the FBI would be looking for you in Maine, if you never contacted them.” Claire took a swallow of her drink, barely avoiding choking. “What have they got on you?”
“It’s one of those cases where if you’re not with them, you’re against them. When I got back to this country, I was doing a lot of online research, and I may have been a little sloppy about what sites I accessed. I may have stumbled across a site that sent up a red flag. Probably, in fact. Combine that with the places I’ve traveled—all quite legally—they may have decided to keep tabs on me.”
Once She Knew Page 11