“Of course.”
“Once you get the room, go straight to it. Open the window halfway and draw the curtains half closed. That way I’ll know what room you’re in. I won’t come up right away, I’ve got some things to do. It should take a couple of hours.”
Christine grew anxious, remembering the last time he went off on his own.
“Don’t worry. I’ve just got to do something with this car.”
“And what’s the secret knock for me to let you in?” she queried, trying to lighten the mood.
His reply was humorless, “I’ll just knock and tell you it’s me. The people we’re worried about wouldn’t bother knocking at all.”
David had been right about getting the room at Humphrey Hall. Once the clerk had cash in hand, he produced a key and a simple registration card on which Christine hastily scribbled the pseudonym Carla Fluck. Carla had been one of her best high school friends, a girl who married badly soon after graduation, some thought simply to escape so many years of adolescent suffering under the weight of her unfortunate maiden name.
The stairs to the second floor creaked as Christine made her way up. It was the kind of place that would be granted “character” or “old-world charm” by the more generous tourist guides. The room turned out to be old and damp, like the rest of the building, but reasonably clean. It was a suite, one main room facing the street, and a separate bedroom and bath to one side. She arranged the window and drapes in the main room to the proper configuration, then looked down to the street. Christine knew David was out there somewhere. She couldn’t see him, but he was there, perhaps watching right now. It was oddly comforting.
She decided to take a shower, knowing he’d be gone for a while. She closed the bathroom door and was about to lock it when she remembered what had happened on Windsom — the look on his face when he had burst in and seen her naked. He had stared for just a moment, a shocked, confused look on his face until he finally turned away. He’d expected to find her up to no good, brandishing some newfound weapon or a radio. Instead, he had miscalculated, his surprise compounded by Christine’s indecent state and his own obvious lack of trust. Christine thought about that. Things had certainly changed. Through all the madness she was sure of one thing about David Slaton — he trusted her now. He had left her alone in the car. Right now she could be sitting in this very room with a police contingent, awaiting the arrival of a thoroughly dangerous man. But he trusted her. And so much of what he had told her seemed to make sense.
Earlier, she’d found herself staring at the phone, seriously considering a call to her mother, who had to be worried sick by now. David had specifically warned her against it, reasoning that any angst her mother was going through now was nothing compared to the mourning of a dead child, which might be the case if any traced calls gave away their location.
Humphrey Hall compensated for its lack of ambiance by having an abundant supply of hot water. Christine soaked in the shower for a full twenty minutes, allowing the warm, high-pressure stream to work deep into her muscles. She let her mind wander home, contemplating what she might be doing in a week or a month; sooner or later the nightmare would end and she could get back to her life. A rotation to all-night shifts in the ER would seem mundane now. Christine followed with even better thoughts. Home with her mother cooking Christmas dinner; having coffee, bagels, and aimless, giggling banter with her sisters at Le Café Blanc.
When Christine left the shower, clouds of steam permeated the suite and meandered out the half-open window in the next room. On the bed, she opened her small rollerbag, the one David had bought for her at a secondhand store. They hadn’t purchased any clothes specifically to sleep in, so she put on a loose-fitting pair of cotton sweatpants and a T-shirt, also from the secondhand store. It was gloriously comfortable. Christine didn’t take anything else out of the suitcase and she repacked the dirty clothes she’d been wearing earlier. Never leave anything behind without reason. Always be ready to go on a moment’s notice. Reluctantly, she was learning.
She went to the living room and relaxed on a couch, wondering what other diversions might work. The phone still beckoned, but she’d promised not to try. The morning’s local newspaper sat on a table by the door, but that wouldn’t do. It would undoubtedly contain an article she had no interest in seeing at the moment. The same went for the television. Christine envisioned two grainy photos behind a news anchor, one of her and one of David. “Be on the lookout for these two outlaws …” Just like Bonnie and Clyde. Had it gone that far yet? She didn’t want to know.
Christine felt a chill as brisk evening air began to settle in through the window. She wondered if it would be all right to close it. Surely David had seen the signal by now. With a sigh, she decided to leave it open. She retrieved a blanket from the bedroom, settled back on the couch and tried to drift toward the good thoughts.
The knock roused her from a deep sleep. It took a few moments for Christine to orient herself. She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening. Another gentle knock.
She got up and made her way to the door, keeping the blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the cold that had descended on the room. Her eyes were narrow slits as they adjusted to the light and her hair lay severely askew, having dried while she slept. She opened the door without asking who it might be.
When he saw her, he grinned.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“Nothing. It’s just that you look …” Slaton paused and the grin suddenly disappeared.
“What? Is something wrong?”
He seemed uncomfortable. “No. No, never mind.” He eased by her into the room. “It’s cold in here.”
Christine wondered what that was all about. Since he was obviously trying to change the subject, she decided not to pursue it.
“I know. I wasn’t sure if I should close the window.”
Slaton moved around the room, turning out all the lights. When he was done, only one shaft of light remained, emanating from the adjoining bedroom. Next he went to the window and closed it, leaving the drapes halfway open.
“Sorry, it’s my fault,” he said. “You’re not used to this kind of thing. I should have told you to close this up after an hour. You did the safe thing, though. That’s good.”
“You’ll make a spy out of me yet,” she mused.
Slaton looked out the window and beckoned Christine over with his hand. He pointed across to The Excelsior. “See the room directly across? The one with the light on?”
“On the third floor?”
“Right. It’s a suite like this one. A living area and one bedroom, only the bedroom has a window as well, off to the right, see?”
“Sure.” The lights were off in the bedroom, but Christine could see the vague outline of a big bed and a few pieces of furniture. “Compared to Humphrey Hall it looks a bit more … I think the English would say, posh? Next time let’s do this the other way around.”
“Next time.”
“So now what? You think if these people can trace you to The Excelsior that they’ll come looking for us?”
“If they can trace the documents, then yes, I’m sure of it.”
“That could take days, couldn’t it?”
“Possibly. But like I said, we have to stay out of sight anyway. This way we use the time productively.”
“So you’re just going to sit there and watch?”