by Thomas Perry
"What am I trying to accomplish?"
Jane looked at her in the mirror impatiently. "You put in a lot of time trying to be Mary Perkins. You had it all worked out. Just do it in reverse. For the time being, you have nothing in common with Mary Perkins. She liked Las Vegas. You hate it; the lights give you a headache and everybody on the street looks like a zombie to you. Mary Perkins made businessmen think about her and remember her. Lose everything you did to accomplish that. Be the one who doesn't catch their eye. That's easy to do, and if you don't do at least that much, you're finished. Anybody who wants to find you can knock on doors and show your picture."
Mary Perkins studied her reflection. The effect wasn't as bad as she had expected. The woman who stared back at her wasn't dowdy or mousy. She was mildly, quietly attractive, and with a little makeup she could be made better than that. What she looked most like was a woman who had never existed; she looked like a grown-up version of Lily Smith. "All right," she said. "What do we change next?"
"That will have to do for now. Come on."
Checking out consisted of sitting in the car while Jane went into the motel office and set the key on the counter. When she returned, she started the car and said, "All right. Now we start getting into the hard parts. Do you have identification in any name besides Mary Perkins?"
"Lila Samuels," said Mary.
"Throw her away with Mary Perkins. You've been in county jail. Although you haven't exactly said so, you've been investigated, and probably arrested more than once. The authorities know your aliases, and so can anybody else who wants to."
Mary Perkins said, "I've got to be somebody."
"I've got some papers with me that you can use. Your name is Donna Kester. You're thirty-five."
Mary Perkins stared at her. "You have fake I.D. with you? But you were arrested too. They went through your purse."
Jane pulled the car out of the parking lot and drove up the street. "It wasn't in my purse." Jane had brought the papers for Mona and kept them taped under the dashboard of each car they had used while traveling across the country. After Dennis had wrecked the last car, she had gone to the lot where it had been towed and found the papers untouched. "You can be Donna Kester without worrying about anything for a while."
They looked at three different apartments before they found the right one. It was in a building in the middle of a large modern apartment complex on Huron Street that seemed to contain a high proportion of single people, but it was far enough from the University of Michigan campus to be vacant. The fact that Donna Kester had a credit card was enough to get her a lease that began in two days. The fact that she had no local employer only confirmed her story that she had just gotten to town.
That afternoon Jane checked them into another motel at the edge of Ann Arbor, past the place where Huron Street crossed Route 94 and became Liberty Road. Jane sat in the motel room on the twin bed across from Mary. It was dusk, and the cold wind was beginning to blow outside to announce that the short fall days were fading into winter nights here. The tree branches that scraped and rattled the gutters of the building were bare, and the wet pavement of the parking lot outside the window would be frosted by morning.
Jane said, "This is a good place to be. There are about thirty-five thousand students here, just about all of them strangers. Figure five thousand faculty, all from other places. Most of them are married, so they're really ten thousand, and another five thousand staff. Most of those people just returned here for fall semester. You're one of fifty thousand people who just got to town in a community with a year-round population that can't be much over a hundred thousand."
"Are you trying to sell me a condo?" asked Mary.
"No," said Jane. "I'm trying to teach you something. If you're going to be a fugitive you'd better get good at it. I've heard a couple of versions of who isn't chasing you, but not who is. It doesn't matter. This isn't the sort of place where they'll look first. That's the best you can do in choosing a place to be invisible. There are always about five likely places to look for anybody. If you're stupid, you'll be in one. Once you move beyond those, every place is about as likely as any other, so the odds of finding you drop dramatically."
"Where would you look? You said five places."
"J haven't studied Mary Perkins as thoroughly as they have. You've been to Las Vegas and liked it. You'd be too smart to go back, and Reno's too close, so I might try looking in Atlantic City. You said you had worked in Texas and California, so people know you. But that leaves lots of cities in between that would appeal to Mary Perkins: I'd try Scottsdale, Sedona, Santa Fe. You like to be around money and sunshine." As she watched Mary, she could see that the list was making her frightened. "The fifth place is somewhere in the South."
Mary Perkins looked like a woman who had paid to have her palm read and heard that she had no life line. "Where?"
"You have just a trace of a southern accent. Since I know you've been arrested, I'd check the arrest record to find the city where you were born. That's always the fifth place."
Mary looked at Jane with an expression that was meant to be intrigued puzzlement, but the surface never set properly; her face only formed itself into pie-faced hurt. "Why is that?"
Jane's eyes were tired and sad. "I don't know. Some people will tell you it's because they know the territory better than a stranger could, but they say that even if every inch of the place was bulldozed and rebuilt the day they left. Some of them say it's because they can get help from friends and relatives, but half the time they don't ask for it when they're there. They go there even if everybody they ever knew is dead and buried."
"You're telling me what you don't believe. What do you believe makes them go back?"
"I'm telling you I don't think the people who do it know why. Maybe it's just some feeling that people have because we're animals too. You go to ground where you once felt most safe, and that's wherever your mother was." She watched Mary Perkins for a moment. "It's a lousy instinct, and it will get you killed."
"So what now?"
"This is a place where nobody is searching for you. You look a little different, and if you work at it you can change more. You have identification as Donna Kester that should hold up. The credit cards are real. You'll get the bills. The driver's license is from New York, but it's good too. Somebody actually took the road test. You can get a new one here with the old one and the birth certificate. That's real too." A man Jane knew had found a job in a small-town courthouse and added forty or fifty birth records that hadn't been there before. He sold about one name a year, so the odds were good that nobody would catch one and start looking into the rest.
Mary Perkins looked increasingly alarmed. "How long do we have to stay here?"
"It's up to you. If you want my advice, I'll give it to you. Spend your time around the university, where there are crowds of strangers of every description and all the thugs wear helmets and shoulder pads. Buy yourself a long, warm coat with a high collar and wear a hat and scarf."
"You're telling me you're cutting me loose, aren't you?" said Mary Perkins with growing anxiety. "I thought you were going to protect me and get me settled."
Jane framed her words carefully, making an effort to keep the frustration out of her voice. "You came to me in trouble, with two men on your back. I got you out of that trouble because you asked me to and I didn't think you could do it yourself. Now you're reasonably safe if you want to be. That's as far as I go with you."
"It's because you think I can't pay, right? Well, I can. I've got money with me, and I can get more when it's safe to travel. Enough to make it worth your time, anyway."
"Keep it," said Jane. She picked up her purse and the keys to the car. "The more you have, the longer it will be before you do something foolish." She walked to the door, stopped, and added, "Take care."
"I have a right to know why."
"No, you don't," said Jane. She stepped outside, closed the door, and walked across the cold lot to the car. She sta
rted it and drove around the block and past the motel twice. When she was certain that nobody was watching the motel and nobody had followed the car, she continued straight to Route 94 and headed east toward the junction with 23 to Ohio.
7
When Jane reached Toledo she swung east across the vast flat lake country toward home, In the morning when she passed into the southwestern tip of New York, she felt as though she had left enemy territory. Three hours later, she drove the rented car to the Rochester airport and turned it in at the lot to make it look as though the driver had continued east on a plane. Then she took a commuter flight seventy miles west to the Buffalo airport, where she had left her own car.
She drove up the Youngmann Expressway to Delaware Avenue and turned north into the city of Deganawida in the late afternoon. The sun had already moved to a position in the west where its feeble glow did little to blunt the bite of the wind off the Niagara River. She drove onto Main Street near the old cemetery that had filled up before the Spanish-American War, took the shortcut along the railroad tracks and down Erie to Ogden Street, then turned again to her block. The house was one of a hundred or more narrow two-story wooden buildings placed beside the street that ran the length of the city from one creek to the next one, two miles away.
Jane pulled the car into the driveway and her eyes instantly took in the state of the neighborhood. She had been looking at these same sights since she had first stood upright and been able to see over the hedges to survey the world while she was playing. The houses in this block had been built before the turn of the century for the people who worked in the factories and shipyards that were no longer here, and the trees were tall and thick, their roots pushing the blocks of the sidewalks up into rakish tilts that had made roller skating dangerous. Her front yard looked lush and green and needed cutting, the blades thick and wet from the rain she had missed while she was away. The clapboards of the narrow two-story house always had looked soft and organic to her because the dozens of layers of paint spread on by generations of Whitefields had made the corners rounded. She saw the curtain on Jake Reinert's corner window twitch aside and she knew he had heard the car's engine in the driveway next door.
She walked to her front door, unlocked it, and slipped inside to punch the code on her alarm keypad before the alarm could go off. She left her front door open so Jake would know that she was willing to talk. She walked into the kitchen, poured coffee into the filter of the coffee-maker, opened the freezer and unwrapped a frozen square of corn bread and a package of blueberries, and started to defrost them in the microwave oven.
Jane heard Jake on the porch, his footsteps heavy and a little stiff. "Come on in," she called, then went back to the cupboard for honey. The microwave bell chimed, and she had the corn bread, berries, and honey on the kitchen table before Jake was comfortably seated. She heard him strain a little to ease himself down with his arms.
"I brought your mail," said Jake. He set a pile of letters on the table.
"Thanks. Arthritis acting up?"
"It's just the winters," said Jake.
"Cold nights getting to you?"
"Yeah, too damned many of them."
He watched her bustling around getting cups, plates, and silverware. Nothing escaped his notice. She was wearing heavier makeup than usual, and her right eye was half closed and the high cheekbone on that side seemed tight - not puffy, exactly, but swollen. She still moved quickly and gracefully, but she didn't pick up things in groups: she lifted each one and set it down before she picked up the next. He judged it was probably a sprained wrist.
Jake had known Jane Whitefield for all of her thirty-two years, had known her mother for a few years before that, and her father all his life. He had come into this same kitchen as a child and watched her grandmother lay out corn bread, berries, and honey for him on this same table. Seneca women obeyed some ancient law that said that anybody who came in at any time of the day or night got fed.
He had not merely known Jane Whitefield, he had been around to see her coming, but it had been only two years ago that he had accidentally discovered what little Janie had grown up to do with herself. From the look of her, it had gotten harder lately. He said, "Rough trip this time?" He had suspected he would feel like an idiot if he said it this way, and he did; a woman who made her living by taking fugitives away from their troubles and into hiding probably didn't have any kind of trips but rough ones. He had said it that way because it acknowledged that he knew the nature of her business and implied that he wasn't shocked by it anymore. He considered this a necessary piece of hypocrisy.
To Jake's surprise Jane didn't take the chance he had given her to shrug it off or make a joke out of it. "Yeah," she said. "It was awful." She set a plate of corn bread in front of him and started to eat her own, but then set the fork back down. "I always thought the way it would end was that one day I would get sick of people and decide they weren't worth the trouble anymore. That probably won't be how it happens. I lost two of them, Jake."
"Lost them?" he said. "You mean you can't find them?"
"No." She spoke clearly but with the quiet voice that made him know what she was going to say, because people spoke in low voices about the dead. "I got them killed."
"How?"
"I don't know, exactly. I mean, I know what happened, but not how. We - the three of us - were taking a little boy to California. There was an ambush. I didn't read it in time because it wasn't a dark alley or a lonely road. It was a courthouse. The other two had to stop and buy me time to get the boy inside where he would be safe."
"I'm sorry," Jake said. That was what people said when somebody died. A man his age ought to have thought of something better than that by now, but if he had, he never remembered it when he needed it.
"Somebody outsmarted me. He knew what bait to use, and somehow he must have figured out a way to be sure that this lawyer - the one who died - knew it was there. But the trap he set wasn't for a lawyer. It was for someone like me."
"How do you know that?"
"He knew that I would find a way to get the boy into the courthouse before it opened in the morning, or at least study the building so I knew the entrances and exits and who was supposed to be where. So at the last minute he had them transfer the case to a different court."
Jake ate some of the corn bread and honey, and thought about what she had said. "Who is he, a cop?"
She said, "He was tracking the boy all over the country for years. If you run into a crooked cop, you can almost always avoid him by driving past the city line. There's hardly ever a good enough reason to follow you beyond it. On one side of the line he's just about invulnerable. On the other, he has no legal power and the local police wonder what he's up to. No," she said. "I think he's something else."
Jake stopped pretending not to stare at her face. "How did you get hurt?"
When she lifted her hands out of her lap and picked up her coffee cup he saw her knuckles and fingers. "At the courthouse," she said.
Jake ate his corn bread, drank his coffee, and considered. What she had wrong with her looked like one shot to the side of her face, but there was a lot of damage to her hands and wrists and probably elbows from somebody's teeth and facial bones. It was possible somebody was dead that she hadn't mentioned. "Should I be listening for sirens?"
"No. There was a judge who made sure I got out before it got to that stage." She noticed his puzzled look. "There are people like that. I don't know if I ever told you about that part of it. People who have no reason to take risks will do it. He knew he could get into trouble - probably get disbarred or something - but he did it anyway."
Jake answered, "People one at a time are a lot more appetizing than you would think if you look at them all at once." He shrugged. "So you came home."
She shook her head. "I was trying, but something else happened on the way home. There was a woman I ran into. She heard somebody talking about me in jail in California. She needed my help to get out of trouble. I starte
d to do it. Then I realized I couldn't. I gave her some identification and some advice and left."
"Was she in danger when you left?"
"No."
"Then that's a good place to stop," he said.
She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. He couldn't see her mouth, just the deep strange blue of her eyes against her olive skin. To Jake it was like looking at both of Jane's parents at once. The skin and the long black hair that wreathed her face were all Seneca. But there was her mother too, the liquid blue eyes that had originated somewhere far from here in northern Europe. He tried to talk to the eyes because he had some superstitious feeling that he had something in common with them, some hope of talking to somebody behind them who shared at least one or two assumptions. But even before he began, he knew that it was nonsense. It was like thinking she was her mother because she was wearing her mother's dress. "I don't want to start giving you advice," he lied. "I never have, in spite of the fact that if everybody listened to me they'd all be a hell of a lot less erratic, since I seldom contradict myself. But I know something about how time works. No matter what you do with yourself, the day comes when it ends. You die or go into something else. If you spent your time catching fish, no matter how long you stuck at it, on the day you quit there would still be some fish out there somewhere. Not only can you not go back out and get them, but you shouldn't try."
Jane stood up and changed into the young woman next door again. She picked up the plates carefully, one at a time, and put them in the sink. She stood tall and straight, with her long black hair naturally parting to hang down her back, and began to clean her kitchen.
Jake stood up too and signified that he understood that their meeting was over. "Well, thanks for the snack, but I've got a lot to do in the yard before supper. It gets dark so damned early now, I barely have time to wake up before the streetlights go on."
