8

 

 

When Claire unlocked the door, she found two very large men wearing wool overcoats.

“Ms. Hastings?” the nearer one said. “We’re from the FBI. We’d like to come in.”

“May I see some identification?” Claire’s voice sounded thin even to her.

The agent looked momentarily startled, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folder, which he flipped open with a practiced motion. Claire studied it without touching it. It looked real enough, but she had never seen an authentic FBI badge, so that didn’t prove much. But at least she had tried.

“Agent, uh, Maguire? Come in. I’m sorry, but it’s pretty isolated around here, and I have to be careful.”

Agent Maguire stepped into the room, followed by a smaller clone. “This is Special Agent Vitello,” Maguire said. “You’re alone here?” Claire noted his gaze taking in the open bathroom door and the lights and running water.

“Most of the time,” Claire said, stalling.

“Who is it, babe?” a male voice called out from the bathroom.

Babe? What was . . . a lightbulb went on in her head. “Except my boyfriend is visiting for a couple of days.”

Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, vigorously scrubbing at his hair with a second towel. When he stopped, draping the towel loosely over his shoulders, Claire had to stifle a giggle: his beard was gone. He looked ten years younger, boyish and clean-cut—and definitely not threatening. She also noted that he had kept the towel strategically draped over the bullet graze, which no doubt the eagle-eyed agents would recognize for exactly what it was.

She plastered a smile on her face. “Sweetie, these men are from the FBI. I’m not sure what they want. Agent Maguire?” Claire turned back to the large agent, trying to look naive and quizzical.

“FBI? Gosh, I guess I better put some clothes on. Give me a sec, will ya?” Jonathan disappeared back into the bathroom, and Claire heard him whistling. While half her brain was busy trying to keep up with this masquerade, the other half was impressed with Jonathan’s panache.

She turned back to the agents. “Can I get you anything, agents? Coffee or something?”

“No, ma’am. We’d just like to ask you some questions. Why don’t we sit down?” Maguire moved toward the table like a stately ocean liner, and Claire followed like an obedient tugboat. She sat first, and the agents settled themselves on either side of her, leaving the fourth chair for Jonathan. Oops—she couldn’t call him that. What was he going to call himself for this little skit?

“All right. What did you want to know?” Claire looked from Maguire to Vitello and back again. “Is this about that murder?”

Maguire ignored her question. “We just need to get some basic facts, ma’am. Your name is Claire Hastings?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re staying here in the Murrays’ cabin for . . . how long?”

“Well, that’s kind of open-ended. You see, I teach at Sophia College, but I’m on sabbatical this year, and I’m trying to finish up a book, and I needed to get away for some peace and quiet, and my parents knew the Murrays, and knew this place was empty for the winter. I thought I’d be here two or three months. I have to be out by summer, because the Murrays usually rent it out or let their kids use it.” Did she sound sufficiently silly? Don’t overdo it, Claire, or they’ll never believe you’re a professor. “I’ve been here about a month now.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched Jonathan, now fully clothed, amble from the bathroom to the kitchen area, where he found himself a mug and picked up the coffeepot. He noticed the agents’ watchful appraisal, and held up the coffeepot toward them, tilting his head. The two agents shook their own heads, in unison. Without haste, Jonathan filled his coffee mug, added sugar, then came over and dropped casually into the fourth chair.

“And you are . . . ?” Agent Maguire’s eyes bored into Jonathan’s.

“Henry Applegate. I’m a friend of Claire’s.”

“Oh, sweetie, you’re much more than just a friend,” Claire cooed. Henry/Jonathan gave her a goofy smile.

“And how long have you been here, Mr. Applegate?”

Jonathan took a gulp of his coffee and looked at Claire. “Let’s see—hon, what day is this? Must be three days now. Time flies, you know, gentlemen.” Was he leering?

Agent Maguire’s stony face did not change, and he swiveled back to Claire. “You spoke with a police officer this morning. Is that right?”

“Yes, I did. He told me there had been some trouble on campus. I was over at the campus this afternoon and heard about the murder.”

Agent Maguire was not to be sidetracked. “You didn’t say anything to him about a guest.”

“He didn’t ask. He asked if I had seen a fugitive, and I hadn’t.” Easy, Claire, she cautioned herself. Don’t play semantics with these guys. “Do you think whoever it was came this way?”

“Hard to say, ma’am. There’s a lot of water between campus and here, and it was icy last night, so it’s not easy to follow a trail. But we have to look at every possibility.”

“Well, I certainly would have called the police if I had seen anyone suspicious. But this area’s pretty quiet. Apart from that policeman, I don’t think I’ve seen anybody on this road since I got here. It’s mostly summer cottages, you know.” Stick to the truth, as far as possible, right?

“What about you, Mr. Applegate?”

“Huh?” Jonathan replied. “Oh, have I seen anybody? No. But then, I haven’t spent much time looking out the windows.” All right, that was definitely a leer. The creep. “Say, what can you tell us about what happened?”

“There was a shooting, a fatality. We’re looking for a man who was in the house at the time.”

“Gosh. Bet they don’t get a lot of murders around here. Who’s this guy you’re looking for?” Jonathan looked sincerely concerned.

“A houseguest. We would very much like to speak with him.” Agent Maguire wasn’t about to give anything away. He stood up, looming over the table. He extended his hand, which dwarfed a business card. Claire took the card cautiously. “Call us if you see anyone around here.”

Claire stood up. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help.” She paused for effect, and in a trembling voice, added, “You don’t think we’re in any danger, do you?”

Jonathan immediately came around to her side, and wrapped a solicitous arm around her. “You don’t have to worry, honey.” Claire stifled an urge to kick him.

Maguire gave each of them a long last look. “Thank you for your time. Vitello, let’s go.” They marched out of the cabin into the dark. Claire followed them, and watched the car pull away before closing the door and locking it. Then she turned to face Jonathan.

“You think they bought that little act?”

“Why not? You don’t think a guy like me would come up her to the north woods to shack up with a woman like you?”

How could he joke about this? “You know what I mean. Are all FBI agents stone-faced creeps, or do they think there’s something fishy going on here?”

“Hard to say.”

“You know, you’re too damn good at this. That was a real curveball you threw at me.”

Jonathan smiled. “I figured you’d catch on quick enough. You’re not stupid.”

That is still open to debate. You’re still here, aren’t you? Claire shivered. “I don’t like it, them coming here. I know they’re just being thorough, but the fact that I didn’t tell the policeman about you might make them suspicious. What if they run our names and don’t come up with any Henry Applegate?”

Jonathan stared at her for a moment. “And here I was feeling so good about my quick thinking. You’re a real buzz kill, you know that? But you may have a point. Maybe it would be a good idea to be somewhere else for a while.”

“Great—that’s what I’ve been telling you. You—not both of us. Wouldn’t the FBI think it was a little strange if we both suddenly disappear?”

Jonathan threw up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know. Should we just sit here and wait for them to pick us apart under a microscope? Fine, I’ll leave. Then they won’t bother you. Will that do?”

“Why are you getting pissy on me? I’ve done you a big favor. More than one, in fact. I’ve fed you, clothed you, bandaged your wounds, and now you’re yelling at me?” Claire realized she was yelling too. She stopped, as much to give herself a chance to think as to regain control of her wayward emotions. In a calmer voice, she said, “Let’s think this through. Where can you go? And how can you get there? Remember, they’ll be watching your place, wherever that is, and your car. You don’t have any ID or credit cards, or any money. So, Henry, what’s your plan?”

“I’ve got friends,” he said in a sulky voice.

“Maybe you do.” Claire had her doubts. And there was still the question of how he would get to wherever he found this mythical person who was willing to shelter him.

Jonathan apparently followed her thoughts. “Take me to a bus station. Give me enough cash to get . . . no, you don’t even need to know where. Just give me some money—I swear I’ll pay you back, once all this is sorted out.”

“Damn straight you will, and for the clothes too. But don’t they watch bus stations for fugitives?” Along with airports and train stations—not that there were any trains in this neck of the woods. Claire fought back a sigh: the lovely solitude she had sought was a real hindrance if she wanted to spirit away a fugitive from the law. Still, this wasn’t her problem, and the sooner she disentangled herself from Jonathan Daulton, the better off she would be. “All right, I’ll drive you to the bus station, and you can fend for yourself. I can’t get any more money out of my account until tomorrow. Will a couple of hundred be enough?” Claire tried to remember what her current balance was.

“Sure. Fine.” Jonathan’s voice was tight.

What was he peeved about now? Tomorrow morning, a quick run to an ATM, a drive to the nearest bus connection, and she could wash her hands of him and get back to work. He could go and do . . . whatever it was he did. That was the best possible solution. “All right, then. Anyway, it’s late, and we should get some sleep—especially if you’re going on the lam tomorrow. Oh, I should take a look at your, uh, graze.”

“Don’t do me any favors. I can handle it.” Jonathan sounded like a petulant little boy.

“Yeah, sure, one-handed. If you ooze blood all over your nice clean clothes, somebody’s bound to notice. And if your arm turns black and falls off . . .”

He gave her a reluctant smile. “Got it. But it looks okay to me.”

“Fat lot you know. Sit down.” Claire nodded toward the kitchen table, and Jonathan dropped into one of the chairs and removed his shirt. As she had suspected, he had slapped on some of the dressings she had bought, but they were already soaked with blood and peeling away. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off the messy wad and steeled herself to look at the wound. He was right: it was still seeping, but it didn’t look infected. “Stay there.” She went to the bathroom to collect the rest of her medical supplies.

Jonathan’s voice followed her. “Didn’t you like the way I hid it in front of our visitors?”

Claire returned, her hands full. “You got lucky—if you had started bleeding then, they would have been all over you in a minute.” She slathered on more antibiotic goo, then assembled a thicker pad of gauze, taping it down efficiently. “There—that should hold you for now. But we’d better replace it before you leave here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.

“And you can take care of the dishes before you go to bed.” Damn. If he did the dishes so soon after his shower, there wouldn’t be enough hot water for her to shower. But no way was she going to wash the dishes.

“Will do. See you in the morning, then.”

Claire went into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. There was water everywhere, the towels were on the floor, and clumps of dark hair clotted in the drain. With a sigh, Claire hung up the towels neatly and sluiced out the sink so she could brush her teeth. As she brushed, she stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink: Claire Hastings, felon and conspirator. And, apparently, idiot. At least by tomorrow Jonathan would be on his way. Please, please, please.

She headed for the stairs to the sleeping loft, tossing a terse “’night” over her shoulder. Jonathan grunted something inarticulate. Claire climbed into bed and burrowed under the blankets and quilts. But sleep eluded her: even after Jonathan stopped clattering china and pots around in the sink, even after he had settled himself on the creaky couch and turned off the lights, Claire lay in her bed, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering how she had gotten into such a mess.

One mistake. All it took was one mistake, and look where I ended up.