The Face-Changers jw-4 Page 17

  “Right.”

  “So now we use up some time. If you’re not traveling or making noise or even going outdoors, nobody sees you and you’ll heal. And the longer we keep you safe, the more likely it is that something big will happen.”

  “I’m supposed to sit here waiting for something big to happen to me?”

  Jane smiled and sat down at the kitchen table. “Not to you. We’ve got problems because your story is peculiar, and that makes it newsworthy. There are a lot of murders in this country—maybe a hundred a day. But for two days, the face on television and in newspapers has been yours. It’s very much in our interest to have the newspeople stop putting it in front of everybody’s eyes. And they will, as soon as there’s something bigger, or odder, or more compelling to replace it. If the stock market crashes or an airplane blows up or the chief justice is caught soliciting an undercover cop, your picture will disappear and people will forget about you.”

  “I wonder how long that will take.”

  “We can’t know that. Of course, there are people who know it’s in their interest to prolong your notoriety as long as they can. The F.B.I. will probably try to release intriguing tidbits each day. Even if they know a lot, they’ll feed it to the reporters a pinch at a time. One day it’ll be places where somebody may have seen you, and the next day, inside details of your previous life. They’ll get people you operated on to say you did a great job but were not very friendly—”

  “How do you know what people will say?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I’m guessing.”

  “I’m extremely friendly,” he protested.

  Jane shrugged. “I suppose I’m not seeing you at your best. It doesn’t matter. News articles aren’t statements of fact. They’re some writer’s attempt to flesh out very small bits of information into a full, coherent story. Lots of things about you will be twisted to fit a pattern of behavior, like a profile. If we’re lucky, they’ll concentrate on the things that aren’t true; those won’t help anybody recognize you.”

  “But what about the trial? Any potential jury will have heard all this nonsense.”

  Jane frowned at him. “No matter what we do, a jury would hear it from the prosecution. Let’s see what we can do to keep from having a trial.”

  Dahlman stared at her. “I remember you said that it wouldn’t be wise to go to the authorities before I have a way of defending myself. But at some point, after they’ve studied the evidence and found it isn’t as neat and perfect as it sounded, why shouldn’t I?”

  Jane could feel a headache developing behind her forehead. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and said, “I want this to end the same way you do. I thought at the beginning that we could slip you away for a short time, let the police catch the killer, and bring you home. But it hasn’t happened yet. I think we have to start thinking about the possibility that it isn’t going to happen soon.”

  “I don’t think the situation has changed. What’s different?”

  “What has changed is what we know. The killer isn’t some amateur, and it isn’t some psychopath. It isn’t even one person. There are some people making a good living doing what I used to do. They helped somebody disappear—this ‘Hardiston’ guy—and now he’s just about home-free. He has a new name, he’s in a new place. But there’s still one living person who saw the way he used to look and saw the way he looks now. Just one.”

  Dahlman stared at her.

  Jane waited. Then she asked, “Enough said?”

  “Yes.” He began walking around the apartment again, looking closely at each piece of furniture, then at the four walls.

  “I’ll only be gone for a week or two.”

  He gave a reassuring little smile that vanished after he was sure she had seen it. “I’m not uncomfortable alone. I’ve lived alone for a long time. I was just thinking how much this reminds me of the place where the two policemen put me—only they weren’t policemen. I don’t mean it’s the same physically. There’s just something about spaces that have been closed up for a while …”

  “It’s probably got the same feel because this is the way the game is played, and those men seem to know it. The best place to hide is where nothing in your daily life forces you to put your face where lots of people see it. Sometimes a farm is good. So is a small town, as long as it’s not small enough so people ask about you, and not a rich small town, where police check out newcomers.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon. Tonight.”

  He came back into the kitchen. “Then in case I don’t see you again, I would like to thank you. I can see I haven’t been an easy companion, and it seems no advantage can come to you from helping me.”

  Jane saw that he was telling her that he was ready. She slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder and stood up. “You’ll see me again.”

  “You’ve taken me away from the police and away from the people who wanted to kill me. Now I’m in a place that seems to be safe. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect that this is the end of your services.”

  Jane walked to the door and put her hand on the knob. “Don’t open the blinds, don’t answer the door. Don’t go outside unless you’re sure the building’s on fire, and even then, leave by the bedroom window. And don’t forget to take the rest of the antibiotics. When I come back for you, what I want to find in here is a man, not a body.”

  Jane waited until Dahlman gave her a single nod. Then she slipped out the door. When she closed it behind her, Dahlman listened for a few seconds, but he heard no other sound.

  15

  It was nine o’clock in the evening when Carey McKinnon finished his rounds. The six patients he had operated on in the past three days were all doing extremely well. He wondered whether he had been somehow overcompensating for his anxiety, and therefore doing a better job. Maybe he had been concentrating on the clear, logical work of surgery as an escape from the unpleasant and unmanageable realities that were waiting for him outside the O.R. But maybe he had been unconsciously scheduling the easy ones for this week, and pushing the risky, demoralizing surgeries off for later. Both of these possibilities were, in different ways, disturbing, but at least he could test the last one. Mr. Caputi certainly was not an easy one. His pre-op physical exam had shown elevated blood pressure, he suffered from emphysema, and he had a history of complications in earlier surgery. Mrs. Trelewski had been rushed into surgery from the emergency room, so scheduling had nothing to do with it.

  It was entirely possible that he had been focusing his mind more intensely on the practiced movements of his hands. Certainly he was doing something like that now, as he walked along the street in the dark. If things had been as usual, he would have been thinking about Jane. Maybe he would be on his way home to have a late supper in the kitchen with her, and he would be forming a picture of her in his mind. The picture was almost formed, but he pushed it away. Thinking about his work was safer, and it kept his features set and impenetrable—no worry lines, no frowns.

  They would be looking for signs that he was weakening. Every moment when he was not in the operating room there seemed to be someone observing him. When he was out and on the move like this, sometimes he would see them. Tonight it would be the team of two big, benevolent-looking policemen who always worked in the evening. Usually one of them would be in a car parked near the back entrance of the hospital in sight of Carey’s reserved parking space. The other would be in one of the waiting areas or the gift shop off the main lobby.

  He knew that behaving as though nothing had happened was the right thing to do. It was also completely insane. He was not trying to avoid creating suspicion: the police already suspected him. And the policemen weren’t pretending not to be policemen. Both sides were engaged in a long, silent face-off that had become like a dialogue … or an interrogation. It was as if he had said, “I know you think I had something to do with Richard Dahlman’s escape.” They would answer, “What makes you think that?” He would say, “
Because you’re watching me.” And they would answer, “What makes you think we’re watching you?”

  He was aware that, sooner or later, their patient immovability was going to end and someone was going to say, “Where is your wife?” They must have noticed by now. If they could devote policemen to sitting in cars and watching him, then they must have done a background investigation on him, or simply asked his colleagues at the hospital about him. They must know he had a wife.

  The thought re-activated another bit of anxiety. Several of his colleagues had been questioned by the police, even a couple who had not been on duty the night Dahlman disappeared. A few of his close friends had said things like “Carey, what’s going on? Why are they asking so many questions about you?” The ones who made him anxious 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 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—”