Thomas Perry - The Face-Changers

“Why, you terrible man!” She leaned close and kissed his cheek again. “No wonder I couldn’t stay away.”

“What else can you tell me that will make me happy?”

“Nothing happy. Dahlman’s recovering from your hasty ministrations. I had to go over your shoddy tailoring with a needle and thread in a motel room.”

“I’ll bet that wasn’t your idea. Did he teach you the coroner’s stitch?”

“Sort of like laces?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t call it that. You’re such a morbid bunch. I left him in an apartment so I could come back here and play house for a bit.”

“You mean he’s already doing that well?”

“No, but I figured you’d be doing that badly.”

He winced. “I think I am. The police knew within a couple of hours that I worked with Dahlman years ago. They know I had something to do with his escape.”

Jane frowned. “Are you positive?”

“Yes. They don’t know what, exactly, or I’d probably be in jail.”

She stroked the back of his neck softly. “I’m afraid that’s not necessarily true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” she answered. “If you’re right, then they’re probably watching you to see if someone comes to visit you or calls—either Dahlman or a co-conspirator. Your phones will be tapped. As your co-conspirator, I can tell you that having them listening really dampens the urge to put that quarter in the pay phone. If I had, they’d have me. And they’d have you.”

“We’re in trouble, huh?”

Jane shrugged. “Let’s say we’re in a delicate position. It doesn’t sound as though we have much hope of convincing the police we’re innocent bystanders. The only thing we can do now is to convince them that what we’re guilty of is relatively minor and that they’ll never have enough evidence to be sure we’d be convicted.”

“What are you talking about? Helping a murderer escape from the police—how can that be minor?”

Her voice became quieter and more worried. “It’s not. It’s major. Minor is something like neglecting to notice that an innocent man walked out of a hospital. We have to do everything exactly right, and that means understanding the game. The police know it inside out, so they start way ahead. Dahlman isn’t a murderer unless he goes to trial and gets convicted, right?”

“I guess, so … yes.”

“Until they catch him, he’s just a murder suspect.”

“The distinction isn’t exactly enormous.”

“It means nothing to most people, but it’s important to us now. The police think they’re going to catch him. They think that when they do, he’ll either tell them who helped, or they’ll find a witness, or pick up some evidence with him that proves it—not to them, but to a jury. They also think it’s possible—even probable—that by watching you they’ll hear or see something that will help them catch him. That’s their priority. They think he’s a killer and they want him yesterday. If they charge you or put you in jail, it will be in the papers and on television. So you won’t be good bait anymore. Even Dahlman wouldn’t be dumb enough to call you.”

“Even Dahlman? He isn’t a stupid man.”

Jane sighed. “No, but he doesn’t seem to be able to get over the idea that the world will spontaneously come to its senses—that his résumé will convince people he’s innocent. I think I’ve scared him enough to make him stay put until I get back.”

“What do we do?”

“What you do is play yourself as convincingly as you can. You’re not worried, you’re not scared. You’re a doctor who operated on a patient, and that’s all you know. If they ask you for theories, you don’t have one.”

“They already did.”

“What did you say?”

“That he was probably still in the hospital. I said I didn’t know anything about the murder. I didn’t think he would kill anybody. Since I hadn’t seen any evidence, I couldn’t prove it. In other words, I played dumb.”

“See?” she said with a smile. “All those years of practice paid off. Make sure your schedule stays as busy as ever, and keep at it. Do nothing that surprises them.”

“I think I just did,” he said. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes, but it’s not serious. Just because they lost you for a while doesn’t mean you planned it. I had to talk to you alone, and this could be the last chance. Have they asked you about me yet?”

“No.”

She frowned and considered. “I guess that’s good, because it doesn’t put anything on the record. Here’s the story. I was out of town when Dahlman arrived. I’m home now, but this is powwow season, and I’m involved in Native American political issues, so I’m making the circuit—coming and going for much of the summer.”

“But why tell them something like that?”

“It’s not really telling them anything but my race. They’ll already know that much about me. Trust me on that. It’s been going on all my life: ‘This is Jane. She’s an Indian.’ So we’ll use it. The F.B.I. will run a trace and turn me up on some list or other: maybe one of the groups I belonged to in college, or just the Seneca enrollment list. It will give them an independent verification from their own sources, and that usually makes them overconfident. I’m going to give you a schedule of powwows and festivals and things. When they ask where I am, you look at the schedule. If they want to see it, let them.”

“Won’t they find you?”

“No. The doings are simultaneous and overlapping, all over the country. It’ll look like an itinerary, but at any given time I could be anyplace or on the way. If I get the chance, I’ll call once in a while at the right time from the right place. If I do, we’ll talk about nothing. No code words, no clever tip-offs you make up on the spot.”

“But what if—”

“What if nothing. The people they’ll have monitoring our phones decipher telephone codes for a living. We’re no match for them.” As they passed an intersection, Jane looked away from Carey. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “They’re looking for us.”

“How do you know?”

“I just saw two police cars on parallel streets, like a grid search. I was hoping the two we left at the office would be dumb enough to sit tight for a few more minutes.” She paused for a moment, then said, “We don’t have much time, so I’d better say this now.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Afraid so,” she said. “It’s unlikely that this whole thing is going to end well. The only hope Dahlman has—or we have, either—is if we can keep him from going to trial until the evidence isn’t all against him. All we have going for us is—”

“You,” he interrupted. “We have you. Or I do, anyway.”

“Very sweet,” she said. “I love stupidity in a man. The time could come when the situation gets to be impossible—you lose track of me, or Dahlman ends up dead, or the police show signs that they’re ready to put you away. At that point what I want you to do is this: go to Jake’s house without letting anyone follow you. I’ll leave a packet with him. It will have identification for both of us, passports, a lot of cash, and things like that. There will be an address in the packet. Go there and wait for me.”

“What if you don’t show up? You know how flighty and unreliable women are. How long should I wait?”

“If I’m alive, I’ll be there. If I’m dead, what will I care? You have my permission to fly to the Middle East and start recruiting a harem.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Something to consider.”

“Of course, you’d be wise to make sure I’m really dead.”

“I’ll wait at least an hour before I get started. By the way, how in the world am I going to get anywhere if the police are about to arrest me?”