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, and 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.”

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.