Thomas Perry - Blood Money

Rita carefully lifted the earrings to her ears.

“Those too,” said Jane. “If somebody spots you, don’t forget to take them off.”

Rita stared at Jane sullenly. “You try to make everything sound practical and cold, like some kind of trick. But you’re giving me presents. Why are you pretending?”

Jane avoided her eyes. “I didn’t say you couldn’t enjoy them, I’m just teaching you things.” She pulled out the next jeweler’s box and opened it with a click. “Here’s something else. Most people wear watches.”

Rita took the watch off its holder. “What a great watch!” She put it on and held out her arm to gaze at it, then looked at Jane. “It’s all so … pretty, so much better than anything I’ve ever had before.”

“I’m glad. But if you lose any of it, or have to duck out without stopping for it, don’t give any of it a second thought. Never compromise your safety for things.” She added, “If it bothers you, let me know afterward and I’ll replace them.”

Rita looked confused. Her eyes were glistening. “Why would you do all of this for me?”

“I admit that I might have overdone things a little this time, because we could both use a bit of pleasure right now. But the idea is always the same. A shopping trip takes a day, and it doesn’t involve risking my life or yours.”

“But why are you doing any of it—anything at all?”

“Because it works. And I do like you. There’s no reason to lie about that. But I also have calculated, practical reasons for everything I do. If you look different, you’re harder to spot. If you’re happy, you won’t do anything foolish to make yourself happy. But if you’re found, then I’m in danger too.”

Rita’s face looked suddenly brittle. “I would never tell them anything.”

Jane said only, “Thanks.” There was no reason to go into all of the reasons why feeling that way wasn’t sufficient. She reached into the other shopping bag. “I got you a new purse.”

It was a large black leather shoulder bag with a thick strap. Rita took it into her hands and felt the soft, smooth leather, then reached inside and took out the tissue paper that the manufacturer had stuffed inside to make it hold its shape.

Jane could read her mind as she ran her hands along the inner surfaces and measured each of the big compartments. She was checking to verify that it would hold the small collection of treasures that she arranged around her body at night.

Suddenly Rita stood up, threw her arms around Jane, and hugged her. Rita’s head rested on Jane’s shoulder, and she swayed almost imperceptibly from side to side, as though she were rocking in her mother’s arms.

The next day, Jane brought home the car. She parked it close to the apartment, went inside, and led Rita to the window. “That’s yours,” she said.

“Mine?”

“You can’t live here without a car. It’s a Honda Accord, because it has the right look and price for your new personality. They sell over three hundred thousand of them a year, and I doubt if the owners can tell one year from another. The temporary registration is in the glove compartment, and the final one will come in the mail.” She handed Rita the keys.

“Can I try it?”

“You’ll have to,” said Jane. “I left my rented one near the dealer’s lot, so I need a ride back. After that, park it in your space in the lot.”

Jane studied Rita’s driving habits with the critical eye of a licensing examiner. She was relieved. Rita was competent, and she was cautious enough to keep Jane from having nightmares, but she wasn’t timid. Jane followed Rita home, and detected no uncertainty in Rita’s ability to remember the route.

When they were home, Jane said, “Leave the car there for now. You’ll have to drive it a little about once a week to charge the battery and keep oil on the moving parts. Keep the tank full.”

She sat at the kitchen table, took a road map out of her purse, and unfolded it. “When you drive the car, there’s something else you can do. I’ve marked a couple of routes. Study them.”

Rita leaned over her and looked. “They’re pretty complicated.”

“When you’ve memorized them, take the car out and drive them over and over. Practice until you could do it fast at midnight with your headlights off. Then destroy the map.”

“They don’t seem to go anywhere.”

“They go out of town. They take you out in ways that most people wouldn’t expect you to know, and a person from out of town would have a hard time following. There are lots of twists and turns and, in each one, a place where you backtrack.”

“Why?”

“Most people who are running drive straight to the nearest freeway entrance ramp and push the pedal to the floor. That’s a bad idea. These routes take you past a few entrances for freeways going in different directions, then send you off instead on roads that aren’t as well known, but where you can go nearly as fast. At rush hours, the freeways jam up, but these roads don’t, so they’re actually faster.”

“I guess I meant why am I doing this now? Did you see somebody following us?”

“No. You take all the precautions at the beginning, so if you see anything suspicious, you don’t have to waste time making plans. You see it, and you go.”

“Out of town. What then?”

Jane said, “Find me again, and I’ll help you start over.”

“I get a lifetime guarantee?”

“My lifetime,” said Jane. “That’s not so good. I’ve been doing this a long time. Every time I do it again—probably every time I leave my house—the odds against my coming back get worse. You don’t have to remember all my tricks if you just remember the attitude. Be premeditated. Always know what your response will be if something happens. The plan doesn’t have to be perfect if you move instantly, without hesitation.”

Jane got up several times each night, stood at the upper window, and stared out across the lot and along the nearby streets to satisfy herself that there was nothing worrisome that went on after dark. A few times she went out and walked the neighborhood to search for signs she had missed. The only unusual activity she detected was other tenants of the building coming home late from parties or dates.

During the days she worked at the details of Rita’s life. She bought car insurance as Diane Arthur’s mother, then opened a checking account and a savings account for her, subscribed to magazines so she would receive mail, activated the telephone. One morning, Rita awoke to find Jane sitting at the kitchen table with her car keys beside her coffee cup.

“Are you going out again?” asked Rita.

“It’s time.”

“Oh,” said Rita. She kept looking at her hands as though she had just noticed them and didn’t know what to do with them. “It’s not that I don’t want you to go. I want to go too.”

Jane shook her head. “We’ve been through this.”

“I know,” said Rita.

Jane stood and hugged Rita. “The best thing for you to do is stay here and build a life for yourself. You have all the pieces. Put them together.”

“I want to do something.”

“Someday, when someone else needs it, help them.”

Rita nodded. Jane walked to the door, took a look back, and said, “Good luck.” Then she stepped out, locked the door behind herself, and walked to her car. She drove around the neighborhood one more time, looking for a sign that her leaving had interested someone. If nothing else she did worked out, this part had to. When she was sure that she had missed nothing, she drove toward the airport.

12

Jane drove to the San Diego airport, bought a ticket for Miami with a plane change at Dallas–Fort Worth, and sat down to wait. Airports were the worst places for her. There were security people watching for lunatics and terrorists, as well as federal, state, and local police watching for a long list of fugitives and a shorter list of men and women who had done so many things that it was worth official time and money just to know where they were at any given moment. There were customs and DEA officers watching for contraband, and immigration cops watching for people with false identification.