were the ones who had said nothing to him. He suspected that a few of them must be trying to build distance between him and them to preserve their careers. Others might even have told the police things that were incriminating.
Carey made his way along the sidewalk in front of his office building toward the parking lot in back, where he had left his car. He had been walking this same route every day at least twice for a couple of years. When he was scheduled for surgery in the morning he would park in the hospital lot, then walk to the office around one to see patients, then back for his rounds. Since Jane had been gone, he had made a point of parking at the office and walking to the hospital, so it had become four trips. As he came around the corner into the shadow of the building, the blackness seemed to congeal in front of him into a darker black. It was the shape of a person, but some template in his brain had already measured it as small, thin—a woman. He was too late to keep his body from giving a jerk to defend itself, but then he held himself stiffly and finished his step to pretend it hadn’t.
The shape took a step backward out of the shadow, and became Jane. Carey drew in a breath, but she was holding her finger over her lips, so he blew it out. She took his arm and silently pulled him through the office door, guided him down the dark hallway, and hurried him out the front door to the curb, where there was a car he had never seen before. She pushed him into the driver’s seat and went around the car to sit beside him. As he stared at her in incomprehension, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Drive. I want to see who follows.”
Carey drove up the street, then turned up the second side street, then turned again at the next corner, zigzagging through the quiet streets while Jane stared out the back window. Finally she rested both shoulders on the seat and seemed to relax.
She looked at him. “You can talk, you know. That’s why I rented this car. Nobody could have put a bug in it. So let’s hear some sweet nothings.”
“I love you,” he said. “How bad is it on your end?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Here too. I was hoping that by now Dahlman would be safe in Illinois again, and we could forget about him and go back to living a normal life.”
“Me too.” She watched him as she said, “I’m afraid that’s not exactly imminent.” He looked as though his lungs were deflating. Then he straightened, and began compulsively glancing in the rearview mirror. When he had seen her, his hopes must have ambushed him, she thought. “But I’m curious,” she said. “What could a fellow like you mean by a normal life, and what makes you so sure you want one?”
He looked at her, and his lips slowly came up into a smile that turned into a small, rueful laugh. He was Carey again. “There are many ways of assessing these matters,” he said. “But I find that what the term really means is frequent sex.”
“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 resume 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.”
