by Terry Odell
He thought of the way her eyes had lit up when she saw the laundromat offering half an hour free internet access with each load of wash. That was right after she’d given him The Shake when he’d asked her to make their second pit stop in as many hours. She’d dropped him off to take care of his needs and made a beeline for the Laundromat next to the gas station, telling him to meet her there with his laundry.
She still preferred to pretend they weren’t traveling together, even after he’d tried to convince her that nobody from his own circles would recognize him. Hell, Hollingsworth himself wouldn’t recognize him. In his world, he wore Hugo Boss or Armani, not L.L.Bean or the Kmart work shirts Kelli had provided. He shaved twice a day. Kept his hair pulled back in a ponytail, not hanging in his now very scruffy face. He rubbed his whiskers. Another couple of days and it might not be scruffy. He could trim it—if he had another razor. Kelli had dulled his last blade when she’d shaved his chest around the bandage. He guessed she’d seen him trying not to scream when she’d pulled the tape off that morning. She’d told him to be glad his cuts weren’t lower and mumbled something about a bikini wax.
For a moment, he was glad he felt like crap. Her hands on him had been cool and gentle and she smelled so clean, so fresh, so—feminine. The last thing he needed was to freak her out with a woody. Besides, she had no interest in him—not that kind. She’d been scared, he’d pulled a rapist off her. She felt gratitude, or maybe it was guilt that he’d been hurt rescuing her. Hell, most of the time she looked at him like he was her big brother. He laughed, but carefully. The way she gave orders, more like her little brother.
When he heard his dryer stop, he got up, glancing in Kelli’s direction. She clicked something and the Jiffy Wash logo appeared on the monitor. He guessed they were done here.
He did a rudimentary job of folding and got his clean clothes back in his duffel. Kelli had insisted on two loads each. “You don’t mix lights and darks,” she’d said. He knew that, but it got him another Shake. And got her two hours on the internet.
Somehow, even with her neat and meticulous folding, she was finished ahead of him and had her clothes in her small suitcase and was out the door without a glance in his direction. Okay, there had been one quick glance exchanged when she’d caught him looking while she folded her underwear, but that was normal for a guy and a woman in a laundromat, right? He probably should have tossed out some dumb pickup line to make it look more like they were total strangers.
He hefted his duffel into the back of the truck and climbed into the cab where Kelli waited.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Took two ibuprofen half an hour ago, used the men’s room.” He held up a bottle of water. “But if you don’t want to stop so often, maybe you shouldn’t keep reminding me to drink.”
“I’m more worried about dehydration than having to stop.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You care.”
“Shove it, Windsor. I don’t want the complications of an emergency room visit if you pass out on me.”
“You care.” He grinned.
She put the truck in gear and barreled onto the highway.
He braced himself against the acceleration. “Are we going to discuss what you found out back there?”
“Later. You said Hollingsworth gave you a file on me. You have it?”
He nodded. “Lockbox in back.”
“Good. I’ll need to see it.” She turned to stare at him before she spoke. “How do you feel? Seriously. I know this truck’s uncomfortable and I’m concerned there might be a lookout order on it, but there’s no way to get anything else short of stealing—rentals will need to see a driver’s license and that’s probably way up on someone’s search list if they’re looking.”
“You don’t think the airline tickets will be enough?”
“You never know where they’ll look first. It’s a risk, but I don’t think Stockbridge would give anyone the license of this truck and nobody else should know it.”
“Except Scumbag.” He saw from her expression she’d thought of that, too.
“I’m hoping his connections are the kind that can’t call the cops and ask them to put a BOLO out on a vehicle.”
“BOLO?” He put it together. “Be on the Lookout, right?”
“Very good, Windsor. When you finish reading Sherlock Holmes, you can start on some modern-day detective stories and learn the jargon.” From the way she fixed herself behind the wheel, she had a destination in mind, and she wanted to get there fast. Yet she stayed with traffic, passing occasionally, but doing nothing to call attention to them.
“Where are we going?”
“Eugene.”
He noticed the bucolic countryside passing by. “Shouldn’t we be on the interstate?”
“I’m sticking to the path less traveled. It’ll take a little longer, but pickup trucks on these secondary roads are a dime a dozen and we blend in.” She glanced his way. “You all right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Seriously—we’ve got some ground to cover. If you start hurting, take a pill.”
“I said I’d be fine.”
“They’re in your kit. Behind the seat.”
He took great pride in waiting nearly an hour before taking one, careful not to look at Kelli, who seemed equally careful not to look at him.
* * * * *
With the absence of the steady hum of traffic noise, Blake drifted up from sleep. The smell of car exhaust filled his nostrils. Kelli was at his side, brushing his hair out of his face. He snapped alert. “I’m up.” Or that’s what he thought he was saying. His mouth was dry and his head was filled with oatmeal again. He squinted into the lights of a parking garage. “Where are we?”
“Eugene Airport.”
“You’ve got to keep things simple for me. I thought we weren’t flying anywhere.”
He swore he’d never take another one of those damn pills no matter how much he hurt. He found his watch in his travel kit and blinked until the dial came into focus. Almost midnight. They’d been driving since ten that morning. Aside from vague recollections of a couple of stops, he guessed she’d driven straight through. She was pale, her eyes puffed and red. Everything about her screamed exhaustion.
“We’re not,” she said. “Get out. Put on the watch cap.”
He yanked the itchy wool over his head, then slid out of the cab, giving the arm she offered a quick squeeze. “I’m okay. Just zoned from the pill. Tell me what to do.”
“Grab a luggage cart.” She tilted her head toward his right.
He complied, helped load all their gear and started pushing the cart.
“Wait.” Kelli grabbed his arm. “Those papers—about me.”
The lockbox. “I’ll get them.” He climbed into the bed of the pickup with a lot less pain than he’d expected and unlocked the box. Scumbag’s knife sat on top, along with the uniform pants he’d been wearing when he attacked Kelli. Blake left them. He dug to the bottom of the box to extract the envelope, and hurried back to Kelli, who leaned against the handle of the luggage cart as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
He took over pushing on the walk to the terminal. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing? Might make it easier for me to play along, Ms. Bond.”
“Cranford. Mrs. William Cranford. You’re William. Bill.”
His head didn’t feel full of oatmeal anymore. It felt more like a frozen Margarita in the blender. Slowly, everything came together. Kelli had set up some cover for them during all her internet fiddling. Okay, he’d go along. “What do I call you?”
“Emily.”
“You don’t look like an Emily. I’m going to call you Sweetheart.”
She glowered.
“Hey, less chance of me blowing our cover.” He grinned when he got another Shake.
By now, they had arrived inside the terminal. He read the signs and turned the cart toward the one that said “Departures.”
; “No. This way.” Kelli maneuvered their luggage toward baggage claim. “Wait over there.” She pointed to a row of padded chairs and moved to a Eugene Tourist Information board. He watched her pick up a handset, nodding as she spoke, then come back to him. In a while, he’d wake up and he’d be in the pickup, or in another fleabag motel. He told himself to go along with the flow.
“Almost done,” she said. “Outside.”
She started walking and he followed. That’s about all he’d been doing for the last three days, but it beat thinking. They sat on a bench near a sign that said “Hotel Shuttles.”
“I get it,” he said, feeling as proud as he had when he’d solved his first quadratic equation. “When the shuttle gets here, we look like a couple of weary travelers who just flew in.”
“Elementary,” Kelli said. “There’s our ride.”
She pointed to a black van with “Plaza Hotel” painted on its side. The door opened and a man who appeared to be in his late sixties approached them. Dressed in black slacks and polo with a Plaza logo on the breast, he gave them a friendly smile.
“You two get inside. Leave the luggage to me. We’ll have you at the hotel in no time.”
The driver set a small step by the side door of the van and helped Kelli in. Blake followed. She’d put her backpack on the seat beside her and he moved it out of the way and slid closer. If he was dreaming, he might as well enjoy it.
“We’re married, aren’t we?” When she didn’t protest, he looked at her more closely. Exhausted didn’t come close to describing her. Walking zombie, maybe.
Half an hour later, they were at the glass doors of the hotel lobby. The driver opened the side door of the van. “Don’t worry about your bags. I’ll have them sent to your room.”
Blake nudged Kelli. She’d fallen asleep and he took a moment to enjoy the first glimpse of her looking relaxed and at peace. He nuzzled her neck. “Sweetheart, we’re here.” She still smelled fresh. How women did that was beyond him. Her eyes flashed open. Confusion first, then panic. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re here.”
She rubbed her eyes. He exited the van and held his hand out for her. She accepted it and even held it while they strolled to the registration desk. Her left hand stayed in her pocket.
The night clerk, a young blonde who appeared to be a trainee from the way she struggled with the computer registration, kept up a stream of chatter. Considering the lobby was empty, it was probably to quell the boredom. “Yes, here it is. You’re guests of EnviroCon. Welcome. Everything is covered.” She clicked some more keys, frowned, clicked again, muttered something and gave them another big smile. “Sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Cranford. Here you are. Will you need one or two keys?”
“Two,” Blake said.
She put two plastic cards in a folder and tapped it with her pen. “This is your room number. The elevators are to your left. There’s a complimentary Continental breakfast in the Executive Lounge on the twenty-third floor from six to ten.”
Blake took the folder, gave her a smile, and guided Kelli to the elevator. She was almost asleep on her feet. Maybe not almost. Her eyes were open, but she’d flat run out of gas.
When he opened the door to their room, he let out a low whistle. He’d stayed at nice hotels on the job, but never in a Presidential Suite. He looked around, noting a huge bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine on the counter of a kitchenette. Across the room was an alcove with desk, printer, and fax machine. Their boxes were in a living area, suitcases in the bedroom. The bed was turned down. Singular. King-sized, but still one. Blake half-carried Kelli to the bed, sat her down and took her shoes off. He unzipped her sweatshirt and worked it off her shoulders and down her arms. She was helping, but he’d bet a week’s pay she’d have no recollection of this in the morning. He settled her down, covered her and kissed her forehead. “You sleep. I’m on the couch.”
He turned off the light and found extra blankets and pillows in the closet. A glance told him the couch in the living room made into a bed, but he didn’t bother. He put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and stretched out on the couch. If this was all a dream, he’d kick himself in the morning for not sharing the bed.
Chapter Ten
Kelli smelled coffee, a familiar spicy cologne, and sensed a hovering presence. She squinted one eye open. Bright sun. She winced. Then the hovering presence shifted, standing between her eye and the glare. Logy with sleep, she closed the eye anyway. The coffee aroma grew stronger and she felt the side of the bed sink.
“Mornin’, Sweetheart. I hate to wake you, but the hotel delivered some stuff. I thought you’d want to see it.”
She rose to as much consciousness as she could muster. Only after she scooted up against the headboard did she think to make sure she was decent. The last she remembered, she and Blake had been in the elevator. She checked the other side of the bed. Pristine. A perfect gentleman. She accepted the coffee and took a sip. Her thank you was a grunt. Good coffee. Better than good. Heavenly coffee. She inhaled and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Blake was gone and a FedEx packet and carton sat at the foot of the bed. Jack had come through fast.
She looked at the clock. Shit, it was after ten. With a long sigh, she carried her coffee into the bathroom. She needed to get to work, but she wanted a shower first. A long, hot one.
In the bathroom, she woke up enough to savor the expanse. A far cry from the dingy stained bathrooms of their previous accommodations, this one was bigger than her room at Camp Getaway, filled with rich, textured marble, glistening brass, a sparkling glass-enclosed shower stall. And a Jacuzzi. Tempted to soak the morning away, she eyed the cavernous tub with a promise to visit later and turned on the water in the shower instead. Fatigue disappeared under the needle-sharp spray.
Wrapped in the hotel’s plush white terrycloth robe, she carried the FedEx packet out to the living room of the suite. Blake sat on the couch, barefoot, dressed in khakis and one of the blue chambray work shirts she’d bought him, playing with the remote. His eyes had lost their fevered glaze. When he looked at her, it was as if he’d struck her in the belly. No. A little lower.
Stop it. She was playing a part, that was all, one she had been rehearsing on the endless drive last night. Her reactions were simply the manifestations of convincing herself she could handle acting like Blake’s wife. Bill’s wife. She’d rehearsed that in her head, too, for all the good it had done. He’s Bill. Bill. Bill.
He’d kept the beard, but had trimmed it. His hair hung nearly to his shoulders, still damp. Had he showered? She’d seen no evidence in the bathroom. Pulling her gaze from his, she studied the room more carefully and noticed a small bathroom off the living room. Good enough.
“I ordered from room service,” he said. “I thought you’d be hungry and I didn’t know if we’re still hiding or if we’re allowed to be seen in public.” He gestured to the conference table at the far side of the room. She glanced at the office workspace, then back at the table with the room service tray. Hunger won, hands down. She tossed the packet aside.
Uncovering the plates, she found pancakes, eggs, sausage, and a huge bowl of fruit. A basket of muffins sat on the table next to a pitcher of juice. She unrolled the napkin to get at the silverware and was eating before she hit the chair.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” Blake said, “so I ordered a little of everything. I already ate mine—hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wait.”
She noticed the tray of dirty dishes on the kitchen counter next to a huge welcome basket, still untouched. “No. Fine. Good.” Good grief, she was babbling.
Blake sat across the table, poured himself a glass of juice and snagged a muffin from the basket. “You’re looking more rested this morning. You feeling all right?”
She polished off the eggs and half the pancakes before she spoke again. Blake—Bill—hadn’t said anything more, but she saw the questions almost bursting from his lips. “Better,” she said. “Thanks. You look … better, too.”
&nbs
p; “I feel better.” He reached across the table, took her hand and leaned forward, pressing her fingers to his brow. “See? No fever. And the slice is healing, but I think you should check it out.”
Her pulse jumped and she jerked her hand away. “Is it red? Hot? Look infected? Oozing?”
“No, just tender.”
“You’re a big boy. Keep using the Neosporin. Keep it bandaged. Try not to stress the incision.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The smile dropped away. “Seriously,” he continued, “I feel pretty good and I owe you. A lot.”
“I think we’re more than even. Let me get dressed and we can get organized.”
In the bedroom, she stopped to rumple the entire bed. Separate bathrooms seemed normal enough, but no need to give housekeeping anything to wonder about. She was ninety-nine percent sure nobody could have picked up their trail, but she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life in prison on the one percent chance she’d missed something. And there was still a nagging twitch inside that said she had.
Time to be Emily Cranford. She opened the carton and pulled out her new persona. Nice slacks, silk blouses, clingy sweaters with scooped necklines. No more bulky turtlenecks. Even makeup and perfume. Stockbridge must have sent his wife shopping—everything was elegant, yet casual and spoke of Margaret’s taste. Almost everything. Margaret had gone a tad overboard on the lingerie. A thong? Who in her right mind would pay good money for a wedgie? The month’s supply of green-tinted contacts was more important. What did people do before overnight delivery?
While she unpacked the clothes, she immersed herself in becoming Emily. Emily wouldn’t accompany her husband on many of his jobs for EnviroCon, but when she did, she’d be a schmoozer while he did the outdoor work. She selected a pair of black slacks and green ribbed sweater. After applying foundation, shadow, mascara and a touch of lipstick—Emily would wear makeup—she felt ready to practice her new role.
