Another day, another flight, another night of snatched, broken sleep. Janeal arrived in Albuquerque Tuesday morning, medicated and headache-free.
It had not been difficult to stage a miraculous recovery in the ER after Alan left her in the doctors’ care. She “awoke” feeling a hundred percent better, her claim aided by test results so normal that the physicians couldn’t explain why she’d collapsed in the first place. She suggested stress, low blood sugar. With all the events of her job transition, she had forgotten to eat that day.
When pressed to answer Alan’s theory that she had taken too strong a dose of her Fioricet, she produced all but one of the pills, explaining that she always separated them in the event she accidentally left the bottle at the office or at home. Alan must have seen the half-empty bottle and worried. He was such an attentive, thoughtful person.
After a couple hours of this back-and-forth, she politely demanded to be allowed to go home.
From Albuquerque she rented a car, drove to Santa Fe, checked into a hotel, and called Alan.
“I’m being sent down to Bethesda. They want me to be evaluated for some clinical trial conducted by . . . what on earth are they called? The National Institute of Neurosomethingorother.”
“The NINDS.”
“If you say so.” She sighed heavily. “See if I qualify. It might take a week. I can only imagine what kind of torture chamber they’ve got for it to take that long.”
“Don’t worry about us. You take the time you need.”
“You’ll let Thomas know for me? I don’t think I can survive another phone call.”
“I’ll tell him. You sound hoarse.”
“Not enough sleep.”
“Try to catch up, or you’ll have laryngitis by the time you’re back to give the keynote at the NYU seminar. Max and I will hold down the fort.”
“I have every confidence.”
“Bye now.”
She hung up before Alan would think to ask which hospital she was going to and when, threw her cell phone into her shoulder bag, and reached for the door. Alan wouldn’t call to check up on her so long as she kept in regular touch.
The first few things she needed to do were easy.
She scoured the AP and every network, cable, and Internet newswire in her database for information about Salazar Sanso. Nothing. The man had vanished. Janeal hoped he had gone back to Mexico or Canada or one of a dozen other places. If she had to place a bet on it, though, she’d wager he had not left the country yet. Not within the hours when every U.S. border patrol agent had eyes peeled for him.
What she didn’t know was whether he’d be brazen enough to go looking for Robert.
Or whether he’d come for her first.
No. He couldn’t know who or where she was yet.
Find Robert Lukin before he finds you. It was either a threat or an invitation to join Sanso in a new phase of the game. Perhaps both.
Was she angry enough with Robert for threatening the safety of her world that she would be willing to walk Sanso to his door? Did her romantic love for her childhood friend still have a pulse after all these years?
She didn’t know the answer to either.
For two reasons, then, she’d have to take extra precautions: She would need to watch and move as if Sanso already knew who she pretended to be, as if he would recognize her in any identity she took, as Janeal or Jane or Lisa or anyone else. And depending on how things went, she would need to prevent Robert from ever learning her assumed identity.
Her plan to buy Katie’s silence, however, would require self-exposure.
How long would Robert stay at Katie’s little halfway house? She would wait for him to leave if she had the time.
She didn’t have the time. Janeal had to get to Katie before she told Robert everything. Before Sanso found Robert. Before Sanso found her.
Janeal paced her bathroom, smooth pedicured feet kissing the cool tile floor. How to accomplish so much so quickly? Maybe she had been too quick to dismiss Brian. He might have been an entrance.
She turned on the shower and stepped in. The hot water vibrated her brain cells into some measure of clarity, holding off a genuine headache for the time being. By the time she had shampooed her hair three times and let the water run cold, she had assembled some options.
Option: Go directly to Katie as herself, no pretense, no disguise, no guile. Beg her forgiveness. Offer to get Desert Hope House out of the financial hole Brian had said they were in, in exchange for never speaking of her to Robert. Vanish. Disappear into the abyss that was New York City and leave Janeal Mikkado behind forever.
Problem: Katie might refuse. Even if she hadn’t abandoned her morally questionable fortune-telling days, which Janeal doubted—she was running a halfway house, for crying out loud!—bribery might be beneath the goody-goody. Very risky. Not to mention humiliating. Still . . .
Option: Use the Lisa Rasmussen getup to gain access to Robert.
Problem: Robert would be familiar enough with due process to refuse to speak with Sanso’s attorney without his own present. How about Katie, though? Janeal might be able to start with Katie, as a potential eyewitness, if she could keep Robert out of the way. Depending on what Katie revealed during the meeting, Janeal would decide then whether to reveal herself.
Forget it. They’d see right through her. They knew her too well.
Option: Janeal could get Brian back in the saddle. Retract her rejection of his work. Go with him as his publisher, fully disguised, on the grounds that she could help persuade Katie to be more forthcoming and— Problem: It was way beyond problem. It was untenable. Too complicated. Ridiculous. She’d expose Jane Johnson, if not her true self. And if anything went awry . . .
Janeal towel-dried her hair and settled on option four by the time she was dressed. Grabbing up her purse, she found the business card Bill Dawson had slipped to her Saturday evening.
He answered on the fifth ring.
“Bill! Jane Johnson.”
“Jane . . . All Angles, yes. How are you? What can I do for you?” He was too enthusiastic.
“Bill, dear, I’m so sorry to interrupt your busy day. I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t absolutely desperate on behalf of a friend of mine. She’s in such trouble—I won't bore you with her saga, but when I heard what she’s up against, you were the first person I thought of. You’re such a miracle worker.”
“That’s . . . kind of you to say.”
“I hate to impose, and I hope you’ll tell me if I’m being absolutely out of line. I will compensate you for your trouble, of course.”
“What can I do for you, Jane?”
“I was wondering if you could make a call . . .”
In the online yellow pages, Janeal searched for a salon and found one a block away that accepted walk-ins. Of all her physical traits that needed disguising, Janeal’s hair would be the first. Her stylist at home could help her recover when the whole ordeal was over. She’d brought those hideous blue contacts with her to hide her brown eyes. At least they wouldn’t go to complete waste.
Then she searched for a Goodwill or ARC. Her clothes, too, would need a higher scruff factor.
Armed with the addresses she needed to plug into the rental car’s GPS, Janeal slung her bag over her shoulder, grabbed her card key off the dresser, and flipped back the door’s dead bolt.
And was knocked to her knees by a wave of nausea and a pulsing, spearing pain behind her eyes.
Janeal cursed these headaches and groped into the bathroom, eyes closed, groaning her way to the toilet. She would have been disgusted by the number of germs she was crawling on if not for the overwhelming ache.
She vomited, which only helped her feel better by a degree. She still couldn’t stand and didn’t dare open her eyes.
Walking, let alone driving, was out of the question.
With fumbling motions she managed to locate her medication and a paper-capped water glass. She spilled the pill bottle across the counter and picked up the first tablet she touched, leaving the others spread out. She downed it, considered taking two, found the question of whether she should too big to answer, and instead ran a washcloth under cold water.
She wished she had fetched ice before now.
Somehow Janeal drew the blackout curtains and fell across the foot of the bed while holding on to the semi-cold cloth. She pressed it over her closed eyes with the heels of both hands and begged the pain to stop.
The pounding in her head sounded like a knocking on her door.