Cambridge in the late nineties, and they were still magnificently comfortable.
Jackie again wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. Paint spatters freckled her shirt and arms: she was a painter who earned her living as a technical writer. Claire was still wearing her blue suit, a Chanel knockoff but a nice one, because she hadn’t had a minute to change. She was exhausted and her head ached and her neck and shoulders felt stiff. All she wanted to do right now was run a nice hot bath and soak in it for an hour.
The room glowed amber as the sun set.
“Ray Devereaux says Tom used to be some kind of clandestine army operative who got entangled in something,” Jackie said. “Jesus. You think Ray’s information is good?”
“He’s usually reliable. Always has been.”
“So what do you think, he did something for the government, the Pentagon, something undercover, and maybe he got into trouble? And … and he goes AWOL, just takes off, and he goes into hiding and changes his name, and then he moves to Boston and goes into business and hopes he never gets caught? And then, one day, by coincidence, your house is broken into and the cops run his prints, and bingo, the Pentagon’s found him? Is that how it goes?”
“Basically, yeah.” Claire turned to see whether Jackie was being ironic, or simply skeptical, but she wasn’t. She was thinking out loud, as she so often did.
“Hard to get a job with a firm if you have no references for them to check into,” Jackie went on, “so he starts his own business, and that way he doesn’t have people checking too deeply into his background.”
Claire closed her eyes again, nodded.
“So everything you know about Tom is a lie,” Jackie suggested gently.
“Maybe not everything. A lot. An enormous amount.”
Very softly, Jackie said, “But you feel betrayed. It’s, like, custom-made to rip your heart out.”
Tears came to Claire’s eyes, tears of frustration and exhaustion rather than of sadness. “Is it a betrayal if he’s escaping, hiding?”
“He lied to you, Claire. He never told you about it. He’s not who he told you he was. A man who can lie about his life, create a whole fake background, is a man who can lie about anything.”
“He contacted me again, Jacks.”
“How?”
“We don’t know if there are bugs here,” Claire said, pointing at the ceiling, although who knew where listening devices might be planted?
“Well, what are you going to do?” Jackie asked, but then the doorbell rang. They looked at each other. Now who could it be? Claire got up reluctantly and went to the front door.
It was a young guy in his early twenties, with a scuzzy goatee and a brass stud earring in his left ear, wearing bicycle shorts and a leather jacket. “Boston Messengers,” he announced.
Claire looked past him to see two Crown Victorias parked at the curb in front of their house. Passengers in both vehicles were staring at the visitor.
“Are you Claire Chapman?”
Claire nodded, alert.
“Jesus, lady, those guys out there stopped me and asked me a million questions, who am I and what am I doing here—you got something going on in here? You in some sort of trouble? ’Cause I don’t want trouble.”
“What are you doing here?” Claire demanded.
“I got a package for Claire Chapman. I just need to see some kind of ID.”
“Hold on,” Claire said. She closed the door, retrieved her purse from the hall table, and removed her driver’s license from her wallet.
She opened the door again and handed him the license.
The kid inspected it, comparing the picture to her face. He nodded. “I gotta ask for your Harvard faculty card, too.”
“Who’s the package from?”
“I dunno.” He looked at it. “Something Lenahan.”
Claire was immediately flooded with relief, then excitement. “Here,” she said, handing him her faculty ID card.
He looked at it, once again comparing the photos. “Okay,” he said warily. “Sign here.”
She signed, took
Jackie again wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. Paint spatters freckled her shirt and arms: she was a painter who earned her living as a technical writer. Claire was still wearing her blue suit, a Chanel knockoff but a nice one, because she hadn’t had a minute to change. She was exhausted and her head ached and her neck and shoulders felt stiff. All she wanted to do right now was run a nice hot bath and soak in it for an hour.
The room glowed amber as the sun set.
“Ray Devereaux says Tom used to be some kind of clandestine army operative who got entangled in something,” Jackie said. “Jesus. You think Ray’s information is good?”
“He’s usually reliable. Always has been.”
“So what do you think, he did something for the government, the Pentagon, something undercover, and maybe he got into trouble? And … and he goes AWOL, just takes off, and he goes into hiding and changes his name, and then he moves to Boston and goes into business and hopes he never gets caught? And then, one day, by coincidence, your house is broken into and the cops run his prints, and bingo, the Pentagon’s found him? Is that how it goes?”
“Basically, yeah.” Claire turned to see whether Jackie was being ironic, or simply skeptical, but she wasn’t. She was thinking out loud, as she so often did.
“Hard to get a job with a firm if you have no references for them to check into,” Jackie went on, “so he starts his own business, and that way he doesn’t have people checking too deeply into his background.”
Claire closed her eyes again, nodded.
“So everything you know about Tom is a lie,” Jackie suggested gently.
“Maybe not everything. A lot. An enormous amount.”
Very softly, Jackie said, “But you feel betrayed. It’s, like, custom-made to rip your heart out.”
Tears came to Claire’s eyes, tears of frustration and exhaustion rather than of sadness. “Is it a betrayal if he’s escaping, hiding?”
“He lied to you, Claire. He never told you about it. He’s not who he told you he was. A man who can lie about his life, create a whole fake background, is a man who can lie about anything.”
“He contacted me again, Jacks.”
“How?”
“We don’t know if there are bugs here,” Claire said, pointing at the ceiling, although who knew where listening devices might be planted?
“Well, what are you going to do?” Jackie asked, but then the doorbell rang. They looked at each other. Now who could it be? Claire got up reluctantly and went to the front door.
It was a young guy in his early twenties, with a scuzzy goatee and a brass stud earring in his left ear, wearing bicycle shorts and a leather jacket. “Boston Messengers,” he announced.
Claire looked past him to see two Crown Victorias parked at the curb in front of their house. Passengers in both vehicles were staring at the visitor.
“Are you Claire Chapman?”
Claire nodded, alert.
“Jesus, lady, those guys out there stopped me and asked me a million questions, who am I and what am I doing here—you got something going on in here? You in some sort of trouble? ’Cause I don’t want trouble.”
“What are you doing here?” Claire demanded.
“I got a package for Claire Chapman. I just need to see some kind of ID.”
“Hold on,” Claire said. She closed the door, retrieved her purse from the hall table, and removed her driver’s license from her wallet.
She opened the door again and handed him the license.
The kid inspected it, comparing the picture to her face. He nodded. “I gotta ask for your Harvard faculty card, too.”
“Who’s the package from?”
“I dunno.” He looked at it. “Something Lenahan.”
Claire was immediately flooded with relief, then excitement. “Here,” she said, handing him her faculty ID card.
He looked at it, once again comparing the photos. “Okay,” he said warily. “Sign here.”
She signed, took
Similar Books
