Finally, Clarice thought. Some goddam headway.
She came back from staging the murder scene and sat down to work on her real job. Claire Hansen was travelling under the name Claire Morrigan. Okay, fine. She had gone to Baltimore. Okay, that was fine too. Was she there now? Clarice sure hoped so.
So once she had staged another murder scene, she didn't stick around Quantico. There wasn't anything there for her except the opportunity to make a few quick phone calls to bus companies and scan Baltimore arrest records. The arrest records had nothing, and the bus companies promised to call her back. She had the scent, and she wanted to run with it. So, with a few mumbled excuses about 'something to take care of', she had left for Baltimore.
Now she stood in the doorway to the bus station, looking out at a slummy section of the city. The bus station itself wasn't any better. It smelled like mold and urine, and she could sense the danger around her. But that didn't matter: Claire Hansen had been here. Right in this very doorway, perhaps. Clarice stopped and thought. She had to think like Claire. Think like a kid, on the run. Smart, maybe, but sheltered and not terribly experienced in the world.
There was a cynical part of her that said the first place she ought to check was the Baltimore city morgue, but she sat on it for now. For some reason, she didn't think that the kid was dead yet. Hopefully not, because if she was, then her sister was likely to die too.
No, that wasn't just false hope. Everyone she'd talked to had indicated that Claire was withdrawn. No Miss Congeniality, was her prey. That unsociable nature of hers might serve to keep her alive, at least for long enough for Clarice to close in.
Let's see, Clarice thought. Nowhere to go, you don't know anyone here...where are you gonna go? Homeless shelter, probably. But you're on the run. Are you going to go to Baltimore social services?
Probably not. Not yet, anyway. She had been traveling under another name, and she hadn't contacted anyone she'd known before. Claire didn't seem to want to make a very big footprint. She might well think that Baltimore city welfare agencies would report her presence to the police. That wasn't true – the good Lord knew how many wanted felons were satisfied recipients of state largesse – but an eighteen-year-old might not know that.
Well, where the hell would she go, then? Find an alley in which to sleep? That was possible, but Clarice didn't think so. She sure hoped not, because it was incredibly dangerous. No, Clarice thought, if Claire had been that unaware of the dangers out there she would have hitchhiked rather than take the bus.
So, then, where? A hotel? That would depend on how much money she had, and Clarice didn't think she had a lot. No, she found herself thinking that the homeless shelter was the likeliest option. She wouldn't need ID, she could give a false name if she wanted, and she could move on if she wanted to. And if a city homeless shelter wasn't where she was going, then it would be a church. Religion wouldn't be much of a factor; pagan or not, Claire had a choice: go to a church where she could lie her little face off, or go to social services, where she might be able to get away with lying and might not.
So...where? The odds were pretty good that Claire didn't know Baltimore very well. Would she be stupid or desperate enough to ask someone in the bus station for help? If so, who? A security guard? It would be a sensible choice, sure, but would a woman recently released from prison go to someone in a uniform for help? Only one way to find out.
Clarice strode through the smelly, dirty hall and flagged down the first security guard she could find – a tall, muscular black man who seemed to burst out of his uniform. He was bald, and had a calm, relaxed, confident mien. Starling read him as the type who would end fights rather than start them. She was queerly reminded of Barney for a moment: this man had that same air of cool professionalism in a dirty world.
"Excuse me. Sir?" she asked. "Are you busy?"
He turned and observed her slowly, matching her courtesy with his own. "No, I'm not. Can I help you?"
She showed her ID. "I'm Special Agent Clarice Starling. Could I ask you a few questions?"
His eyes widened for just a moment. "Sure. Let's go to the security office. Let me get my supervisor."
Clarice shrugged. "If you want. Or we could just do it here. You're not under any suspicion or anything." It was often easier to let them think they were in charge and accomplish things a little more softly. She pocketed her ID and produced her copy of Claire's mug shot. "I just need to know if you've seen this woman. She came into the Baltimore terminal yesterday."
He looked at the photo for a few seconds, and she saw recognition flash across his face. "What did she do?"
"She's a runaway," Clarice said. "It's not...it's not really a federal thing. Her family's worried about her, and I'm just trying to help them out. No court, no charges, nothing like that. You know."
He nodded, that cool professionalism sliding over his momentary surprise. "Old story," he commented. "Yeah, I saw her. Bout seven o'clock last night, on the bus out of Richmond. Little thing, right?" His voice fluttered higher then, in a surprisingly good copy of Sarah Hansen's – and presumably Claire's-- accent. "With a little ol ' drawl y'all could just die for?"
Clarice chuckled despite herself. A bolt of savage pleasure struck through her, something baser and more elemental than mere humor. She had the scent. "That's her," she quipped.
"She asked about homeless shelters. Real polite, which you usually don't get here." He gestured at his shabby surroundings with a slight grin Clarice liked. "I told her about two that are close. One's through the city, one's through church. She got in too late to make the city one, so I'd bet she tried the church."
Ha. I was right.
The address he gave her was close enough to walk. It had to be, she realized. Better to leave the Mustang in the parking garage where it sheltered rather than park it on the street in this neighborhood. At least that way she'd stand half a chance of it still being there when she returned.
The shelter wasn't far away, and it wasn't much. Harsh fluorescent lights illuminated dirty linoleum. A bored woman sat at a shabby desk. The walls were covered with hand-lettered signs. No alcohol! No fighting! All personal possessions in your locker only. Bible verses under those: I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me drink. It reminded her of the dour, unforgiving charity of the Lutheran Home in Bozeman.
But she was no longer a powerless orphan; she was an FBI agent. The bored woman turned when she came in and smiled tiredly. "Do you need some help?"
Clarice flashed her badge. "Yes, ma'am, I do, but I'm not homeless. I'm looking for someone who might have stayed at this facility within the past few days."
Surprise flashed over the woman's tired features for a moment. "I see. Who would you be looking for?"
Clarice showed her mugshot. "This young woman. Her name is Claire Hansen. She may have registered under the name Claire Morrigan, or Morgan."
The flash of recognition and distaste that followed the surprise was as quick as a shutter click, but not quick enough to evade Clarice's notice. Yes, this woman knew something.
"She's no longer here," the woman said stiffly.
"So she was?" Clarice pressed.
"Briefly. She was disruptive and we asked her to leave."
"How long was she here?" Clarice continued. "Did she eat here? Get a bed here?"
The woman shook her head. "She...she was disruptive. We expect a certain level of behavior, you know."
"Did you direct her anywhere when she left?"
The woman swallowed nervously. It was pretty clear that this woman was covering up for something; she couldn't lie worth crap. Whatever had happened, though, they'd kicked her out or she'd left.
"We didn't have time. We told her to behave and she just left."
"I see," Clarice said distantly. Silence reigned uncomfortably for a few minutes.
"That happens sometimes," the woman said irritably.
"I'm sure. Did she sign a book or anything? Do you have any proof she was here? Or a report that she was asked to leave?"
The woman swallowed. Yes, Clarice read from her body. "No," she said.
"Are you sure of that? I'm looking for her, and I'm not looking to make trouble for you. But I need the truth. Does this shelter get any federal money? Because if it does, then federal law applies, and you know, you have to provide service to people regardless of their religion."
"We do," the woman said uncomfortably. "Of course we do."
"Well, then," Clarice said. "I'm sure there's an incident report or something. I'd rather appreciate it if you'd double-check on that for me. If there's a report, I want to see it. If there's anything with her name on it, I want to see it. If you do that for me, I'll keep looking for her and leave you alone."
The woman shifted and glared at Clarice. "There isn't--," she began.
"I'd appreciate it if you double-checked with your manager," Clarice said inexorably.
The woman scowled, picked up a phone and spoke into it. Then she rose and walked away, her tattered sneakers squeaking against the floor. Clarice sighed.
"Hey," said a croaking voice.
Clarice turned around. The woman who stood in front of her was not her prey. She was taller than Clarice, but stooped. She wore a stained, battered jacket and shapeless corduroy pants. Battered, filthy sneakers were on her feet. Her face was dirty and ringed with stringy grey hair, her eyes somewhat bloodshot.
"Yes?" Clarice asked.
"That girl? She was here." A red, wrinkled hand flapped at the staff. "They ain't gonna tell you. They kicked her out." The crone emitted a cackle. "She was a satan worshipper, I guess. Had one-a them...," Instead of finishing her sentence, the woman drew an uneven star in the air and circled it with a bony finger.
Clarice nodded. "Do you know where she went?"
The woman's eyes narrowed slyly. "Maybe," she said craftily. "Who's asking?"
Clarice reached into her bag without taking her eyes off the woman, a skill she had long mastered. She felt for her wallet and drew a bill out. "Andrew Jackson," she answered, displaying the twenty.
A withered claw reached out. Clarice handed her the bill, hoping she hadn't just given up twenty bucks for nothing. The woman coughed for a moment and then pointed up the street.
"They kicked her out," the woman repeated. "I'd been talking with her. She seemed nice. So I tole her bout the empty silum up a ways."
"Silum?" Clarice asked, although had her suspicions as to what the woman meant.
"Yeah. The nuthatch. The one they closed down. Lots of rooms. Lots of places to sleep, if you're not too picky. In some parts of it they even get the lectricity on now and then. Cept the damn city keeps coming and turning it off. Violation of rights, I say."
Clarice nodded again. She was torn. Part of her was elated to still have the scent. Claire had been here, all right, and she had the trail at last. And what she knew of Baltimore matched up with the woman's story. The shelter was not too far from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Clinically Insane – only about a half mile or so. That had its own disturbing thoughts. What was worse was that she knew that homeless people sheltered there. In the years since Dr. Lecter had returned, the state had finally cut the funding for the caretaker.
Still...there?
Well, if that was where the kid was, that was where she was. Clarice steeled herself, bid the woman goodbye, nad headed for the asylum. It wasn't too far – once again, within walking distance. All the same, she went back to her car – there was equipment in it she would need. There was a flashlight, a camera, and a few other things. Mostly, she needed the flashlight, but she had the whole thing in a small shoulder bag she could take along with her, so she did.
The asylum was close enough, and there was a nice big hole in the fence. She strode through that and made her way inside. There was a window open, and she cocked her head and stared at it for a few moments. Why was it open? She could see leaving it unlocked, but not open. Well, hell, it barely mattered.
Squeezing in, she immediately had her flashlight and pistol ready. There were a few shapes in the darkness. Clarice shone the light in their general direction, revealing a few unshaven, smelly men wrapped up in blankets. They grunted and groaned, raising their hands against the intrusion of her light. The aroma of cheap beer and unwashed flesh hit her nose.
"What the hell?" asked one of them.
Clarice raised her voice. "Your attention, please," she said. "I'm a federal officer. I'm looking for someone. I have no particular interest in any of you other than that. I have no interest in rousting you, arresting you, or doing anything to you. If you leave me alone, I'll leave you alone. If you attempt to interfere with me, you will suffer severe personal injury when I bust a cap in your ass."
A few more muzzy, sleep-riddled grunts were her acknowledgement.
"Thank you," Clarice added cheerfully. "Now, then. Was there a young woman here? About five foot tall, black hair, green eyes? About a hundred pounds?" She didn't want to pull out the mugshot; that would mean putting down her flashlight or gun.
"No, ain't nobody like that here," one of them said.
Clarice believed him. A young woman on the run with any sense in her head would not want men like these as roommates. Not unless she was completely out of money and hope. Hope Clarice didn't know about, but she believed her prey had some money left.. She shifted the light away from them but not the gun or her eyes. Not until she was very, very satisfied that the bums here weren't going to rush her did she shift her eyes. The gun never wavered.
There was a stairwell directly in front of her on her right, one she remembered. It led to the Violent Men's Ward. Down where she had once been before. Down where he had been.
And on the floor right near it was a very small footprint. To Clarice, it looked like a sneaker print. More importantly, it was small, even smaller than her own. Claire Hansen was little, and she had little feet.
"I'm going to go down there, now," Clarice said. "Anyone down there?"
"Nope," grumbled a voice.
"Okay. As you were, guys. Have fun. I will tell you: anyone follows me down, I start shooting. Bottom line."
"Fine," said another. "Can youse...can youse just let us sleep now?"
Clarice decided that the bums were unlikely to bother her. Had she been too hard? Maybe, but nothing to be done for it now. She proceeded down the steps, occasionally turning to make sure none of them got brave. None of them did. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell. She was very, very glad she kept a flashlight in her car. Holding it as she had been trained, away from her body in her left hand, .45 in the right, she proceeded into the gloomy darkness.
The Violent Men's Ward was completely still and dark. Clarice shone her light briefly on the double doors that had once secured madmen. There was a chain and padlock on it, but the padlock was unlocked. Not that that would have stopped her; it was the sort a former technical agent like herself could have open in a trice. One look at it, even in this crappy light, told her that someone had shimmed it. The shackle was scratched. Okay. Good. She pushed one door open and glanced around uneasily, feeling the ghosts of voices past in her mind.
There were more footsteps in the dust. Two sets, she saw. One set was pretty small, and she grinned tightly at those. They looked like sneaker prints. Same as upstairs.
The other set was larger, but not too large – whoever it was had feet that weren't too much bigger than her own. Men's dress shoes, from the looks of them. For a moment, she swallowed nervously at that, but then she dismissed it. Probably just a bum wearing whatever shoes he could get.
Both sets of footprints reached down the hall. Down to his cell. Clarice felt grim fear rise up in her throat and forced it back down.
Should she try to take a picture of the footprints? It was standard procedure in the FBI, but it didn't really matter here. There was a digital camera in her bag, but she didn't really want to take it out and put her gun down. It was also very dark. After debating it for a few moments, she turned around so she would hear anyone coming after her, put her gun down, and got the camera out. The flash lit the gloomy ward for a few seconds, and she realized too light she'd screwed up her night vision. Well, it would come back, and in the off chance that one of the bums upstairs decided to get cute, she fully intended to make good on her threat.
Well, since both sets of footprints went down to his cell, Clarice followed them. Her tongue felt dry as she wondered what the second set meant. Had someone followed Claire? Found her? Captured her? Killed her? This was not the sort of place that a woman on her own ought to be. The weight of the .45 was comforting in her hand.
Clarice Starling stood where she had once stood so many years ago and faced Dr. Lecter's empty cell. For a moment she trembled, remembering the things he had told her – both about Buffalo Bill and about herself. Then afterwards, after the Fulton Fish Market. She remembered standing in his cell, in his space. How empty it had seemed then, and yet how darkly tempting.
The sets of footprints – both sets – went into the cell.
Clarice swallowed nervously and felt the grip of her pistol grow slick with sweat. Calm down and do your job.
The cell was almost empty. No books, no drawings, not even so much as a scrap of paper. But it was not totally empty. No. She was missing something, something just beyond her comprehension, something....the bunk!
The bunk. There was a mattress on it. Meaning somebody had yanked it out of one of the other cells and brought it in.
Had this cell been used to secure Claire Hansen, perhaps? Keep her prisoner for some snuffling madman as he took out his killing tools? Clarice looked around, trying to keep frosty, keep her game on, not lose her head. It was damned hard in this space. She could hear his voice in her head, alternately taunting and polite.
Biting down hard on her lip helped her focus, as pain can do.
She studied the frame of the bunk carefully. The bunk was old and rusty, and more importantly there were no marks that might suggest someone had been tied to it. This particular cell had been designed for Dr. Lecter to be kept in more or less permanently; securing it required thick steel bolts. No, if someone had captured Claire, they would have been much more likely to lock her in one of the other cells, which required only a key to lock and unlock. There was no sight or smell of blood, either. The mattress was placed neatly on the frame. The cell had no signs of struggle. The hallway didn't, either: the footprints in the dust were those of people who had walked down the hall and back. No one had squared off for a fight .That was hopeful.
It also helped get her mind off the fact that she was in his former cell.
In fact, she though, staring at the bunk, she wasn't entirely sure that two people had been in this this cell at the same time at all. The bunk was too small to support two people. The footprints, too. Claire's footprints went to the sink. The other set didn't. In fact, the other set simply went to the bunk, where the other perp had sat down – two footprints side by side told her that. Then over to the table and chair. Then they headed straight out of the cell.
Moreover, Claire Hansen's footprints also left this cell. The width of stride suggested that Claire was walking at a normal pace. Not, in other words, being held by some psycho by the arm as he frogmarched her to a horrible death. Alive, and free and under her own power.
Clarice closed her eyes. Was she telling herself this because she wanted it to be true? Needed it to be true? No, she decided.
A vibration against her thigh made her jump, as if Dr. Lecter himself had grabbed her leg. Clarice jumped and scrabbled for her pistol, then realized the vibration was on her other side. A muted electronic burr came from her pocket. Shamefacedly, grinning at her own overreaction, Clarice pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and examined the glowing display in the darkness. Amazing that there was signal down here.
GREYHOUND CUST SVC, the display read.
Clarice put the phone in her left hand and casually dropped her right to the butt of her pistol. Better to stay in the cell, where nobody could sneak up on her. Brigham had taught her well.
"Starling," she said crisply.
"Agent Starling? This is Tanya, with Greyhound. You called earlier today and asked me to run a check on the name Claire Morrigan?"
"Yes," Clarice said tightly. "Do you have something for me?"
"I found another ticket purchase. Baltimore to Burlington, Vermont, with transfers at New York City and White River Junction. All of them are coming up used, so she made them all. She left late last night and arrived in Burlington at six o'clock this morning. They were booked over the Internet but paid in person at the Baltimore bus station."
"Did she--," Clarice swallowed. Vermont? What the fuck would she want in Vermont? Then she realized that question didn't matter. At least not yet. "Did she get on the bus? Can you tell if she was a no-show or not?"
The young woman on the other end of the line took several moments before replying. In those moments, Clarice's heart might have beat once. Or twice.
"Yes," Tanya said. "She made all her connections, and arrived in Burlington this morning, it looks like."
"Thank you so much, Tanya," Clarice said tightly, scrabbling for her memo pad. She had to put her gun back in its holster to do it, but she couldn't manipulate phone, light, gun, and notebook all at once.
She scribbled down a few notes, her mind racing far ahead of her hand. Internet. Internet. You're on the run, how the hell did you get on the Internet? Wireless cafe? Nah, you don't have your own laptop. Library? Gotta be.
Wait. You don't know Baltimore, you've never been here before. You're just running off what you can find. You asked a security guard at the bus station for homeless shelters. That one bum told you about this place when you got kicked out. So what now? How are you gonna find a library? You're not gonna stop and ask anybody here, I don't think – those guys upstairs are gonna ring your alarm bells, for sure.
Either you got out of here and asked somebody...or maybe you saw one. Let's see.
Clarice headed back up the stairs, pistol out but not aimed, and made it back to her car uneventfully. That was to be expected; most people didn't mess with you when you carried a .45. Once back at her car, she looked around. Even in the fading light she could see a public library a few blocks down the street.
Bingo.
She got in her car and headed down the street. Parking was close enough. The library would only be open for another twenty minutes or so, but that would be enough. She found the public computer room and scanned the list. There it was, Claire Morrigan. Twice. So Claire had left and then come back. What the hell for?
Clarice got the attention of the fellow in charge of the computers and showed him her identification. That served to squelch his complaints about the computer room's closing hours and get her sole access to the computer Claire had used. Hopefully it hadn't lost too much.
Clarice knew computers fairly well, and it wasn't particularly difficult to make this one cough up its secrets. In fact, the hard part was filtering out the stuff she wanted versus the noise – all the other people who had used this computer to check their email, their friends' MySpaces and Facebooks, and random google searching. It was crap to her; she only wanted to know what Claire had done on this machine.
After a while she had it. She stared at it with hard eyes, not liking what she had. The very first thing Claire had done was to do a Google search for "library on US-Canadian border". Further searches indicated that Claire intended to go to a podunk town in Vermont called Derby Line, which was right on the border. Clarice had heard of that town; after 9/11 they had some questions about border security there. There had been a few federal bulletins about it.
The problem was apparent. In Derby Line and the Quebec town across from it, someone walking across the border wouldn't attract any sort of interest, and might go unnoticed entirely by the border patrol. Which was not a good thing for her. How had Claire heard of it? That didn't really matter; the important thing was that she had.
The rest of Claire's web searching all served that goal. She had searched for bus transportation to Vermont, and discovered that the furthest she could get was to Burlington. After that, she had found a ride-share board and found a commuter student who had been offering rides to and from the University of Vermont to Derby Line. Claire had signed up for an email account, written him an email asking about a ride,
Apparently, she must have gotten herself a prepaid phone. The Bureau hated those; the bad guys could buy them, activate them, and use them, all without tying their name to it. They were huge pains in the ass to trace; you'd have to arrest someone, get him to cough up the number, and half the time the bad guys would just toss the phone and buy a new one, forcing you to start the whole process over again. Claire had activated that, given him her phone number, and apparently agreed to meet him at the university campus. Which, as it turned out, was only a mile and a half from the bus station. Joy.
That explained Burlington. But the main question remained. Why Quebec? Why Canada? Did she know someone there? Was there some link Clarice had missed?
One way to find out. Clarice pulled out her cell phone and dialed Sarah Hansen, apologizing for the lateness of the hour.
"Hello, Agent Starling," said her client.
"Hi, how are you?"
"Have you found something?"
"I believe I have, yes," Clarice said. "I'm curious. It seems Claire may be traveling to Quebec. Can you think of any reason why she would have gone there? Does she know anyone there? Any friends or extended family?"
The other woman did not speak immediately, leaving an uncomfortable silence of several seconds.
"Well," she said, as if the subject was distasteful, "our mother was from Quebec."
Shock and anger made Clarice gag. "What?" she spluttered. "Ms. Hansen, with all due respect, why didn't you tell me that first?"
There were a few moments before the prosecutor spoke, and when she did, the distaste in her voice was palpable. "Our mother left when we were very young," she said frostily. "I was eight. Claire was two or three. Frankly, I didn't even think Claire knew her at all. We haven't been on speaking terms for years. She had...a drinking problem. I don't know where she's living or even if she's still alive. She left us."
Clarice gritted her teeth, torn between annoyance and etiquette. On the one hand, she had no desire to stir up bad memories. On the other hand, they should have fucking told her that their mother was from Canada. Because if Mom was from Quebec, then Claire had somewhere to go and someone to turn to. And maybe Clarice could have found her and intercepted her and this whole thing could have been over yesterday. Instead, she was now about a thousand miles from her prey.
After a moment, she realized that it was worse than that. She didn't know much about Canadian immigration law, but it stood to reason that if their mother was from Canada, then Claire would be able to stay there, estranged or not. Citizenship, residency, whatever you called it – most Western countries didn't make a habit of booting out the kids of their citizens. Even if they tried to make her go back to the US and get her paperwork straight, she could fight it in court for at least a few years. God knew it took forever to deport illegal aliens in the US.
Sarah Hansen didn't have a few years. Sarah Hansen had less than a year.
If Clarice got the kid before she crossed the border, she had a lot of options open to her. She could bring the kid in on a material witness warrant. If she didn't like it, she could sue the FBI. People did that every day. More likely than not they would give her some money and she would go her merry way. Clarice might get a letter of censure.
Was she willing to pay that price? She had long been unfairly maligned by Krendler and his crew. She was working off those stains now. But did that matter? Not up against someone's life, it didn't. It would just mean another year in purgatory lugging corpses around the Academy. Was she willing to pay that price? Yes, she decided. She was.
If Claire made it, though, then a lot of things changed. Clarice would have no leverage. No arrest powers, no nothing. No ability to set things right. If the kid looked up Mom, then maybe Mom would make her do the right thing, but that was leaving things to chance, and there was no guarantee Claire would comply with such a request. Clarice didn't like the idea of leaving things to chance, not with a life on the line.
Clarice hurriedly surfed to a map website and got directions to Derby Line, Vermont. It was five hundred sixty miles, and the website advised her it would be only nine hours and twenty-two minutes. Maybe for civilians it would be. I-95 all the way to New York, then 91 all the way up.
This is crazy, part of her mind told her. She got to Burlington this morning. You can't possibly get there in less than eight hours.
What's crazy is not trying, she told that part of her mind. What's crazy is letting the kid sashay across the border while I sit here with my thumb up my ass. If I go now I can there in eight and a half hours, maybe. Six o'clock now. The internet stuff said she'd be walking from Derby Line to Magog. That's twenty miles – hell of a long walk. She'll be walking all night. I could catch up with her. By now she's probably low on money, cold, and hungry. Offer her a ride, a meal, then get her back across the border and we'll...we'll get all this straightened out.
It was possible that she was just fooling herself. For all she knew, Claire might have a ride arranged, or might hitchhike. But she hadn't hitchhiked so far, even when it would have been easier. She seemed to know that hitchhiking was about the stupidest thing a young woman on her own could do. And ultimately, Clarice had to do something. She hadn't rescued Catherine Martin by sitting on her butt. She'd put in the effort, and she'd been rewarded with a little bit of luck, she had prevailed, and Catherine Martin had lived.
She got up from the computer, strode outside to her car, and revved the engine. She was willing to put in the effort again. If only she could get that little bit of luck.
Ten minutes later, the Mustang was on I-95, gathering speed as it arced north. Clarice gritted her teeth. I will prevail, dammit. I will prevail.
...
The Haskell Library and Opera House was built in 1904, by American sawmill magnate Carlos Haskell and his Canadian wife Martha Stewart Haskell. It was a neoclassical building, charming, with a large tower. It has been referred to as the only library in America with no books and the only opera in America with no stage. This is because the building deliberately straddles the US-Canadian border. The front door through which Claire entered was in Derby Line, Vermont. The majority of the books, and the stage of the opera house on the second floor, was in Quebec.
Claire had seen this library once as a small girl, when they'd gone to visit family in Quebec. She'd remembered it vaguely; remembered that there was a line on the floor indicating the border. They'd taken a picture of the family all standing with one foot in Canada and one in the United States. Upon her release, she hadn't remembered the name, but the Internet had served to refresh her memory.
Her family would be looking for ways to screw with her, somehow. In the United States, she had little ability to stop them from targeting her. They could issue warrants or whatever they wanted, and no court in the United States would ever stop them. He was a judge, and she was a prosecutor, and the other he was a cop. They could do whatever they wanted. Nobody would ever call a halt to it.
Here, though, it would be different. Extraditing people from another country took more work. The federal government had to get involved. At least she thought so. Either way, it would take more work and she would have a chance at a fair hearing. Besides, some guys from the Army had fled to Canada rather than fight in the war, and nobody had extradited them yet. So, Claire reasoned, if she could get in here, she might be able to stay here too.
Starting over in a foreign country was frightening, but the facts were simple. In the US, they could make her life a living hell and no one would ever make them stop. Here, she might have a chance to live free of them and their machinations. But she had to get across that line first.
She had no identification, so crossing the border at an inspection station was out. Too much risk. You needed ID at a minimum. Her fake ID from the head shop was fine for buying bus tickets, but showing it to an actual police officer or border guard was just asking for it. Once she got settled she'd figure something out.
She could see cameras mounted outside on telephone poles, but she was going to try anyway. If it didn't work it didn't work. But trying was a lot better than just sitting back on your ass and bemoaning your fate. She had seen a few US border patrol officers around. Small wonder, after 9/11. But what about the other way? They didn't seem to be as strict about that. It looked like this was going to be as simple as walking across the lawn.
Claire entered the library and looked around. It was a pleasant, bright, and airy place. The woman at the reception desk smiled at her calmly. She supposed she looked travel-worn, but they wouldn't think she was an ex-con on the run.
"Good afternoon," said the woman.
"Good afternoon," Claire said, and looked around, letting a slow smile come over her face. "I came here once as a kid. Wanted to see it again."
"Of course," the woman said. "Are you from around here?"
With this drawl? "No, I'm from further south," Claire replied, knowing that around here that could mean pretty much the entire US. "I have family in Quebec."
"A lot of people here do," the woman replied. "Well, feel free to look around. The library closes at eight today."
Claire proceeded into the library and found herself a soft, pleasant chair that had two things she needed: a nearby electrical outlet and a window. She dug the phone and charger out of her purse and plugged it in. If they yelled at her she'd unplug it, but hardly anyone was here and maybe they wouldn't care. She grabbed a book and sat down, but she was more interested in her surroundings.
She couldn't see a rear entrance that she could get to easily. That would have been easiest: walk in one door in Vermont, walk out another and be in Quebec. Seemed it wouldn't be that easy. Trying to sneak out a service entrance was too likely to cause trouble.
She could see out the window where there was only a white line marked CANADA on one side and U.S.A on the other. According to the research she had done on the Internet, there were motion sensors and cameras. All the same, she had seen a few people park in Canada, come into the library, and walk back across. Nobody seemed to bother them. The enforcement seemed to be mostly one way. It wasn't far from the front door to the border. It seemed about twenty feet. Probably, in a small town like this, they'd be looking at cars, not people. Really, all she had to do was walk across the lawn like she had every right to be there.
The black dress had been part of that. It would help her blend in in the dark, but it would also look a little more formal, a little dressier, and would look a little more like she was just on her way back home. Her own looks were part of it – her dark hair and fair complexion had come from her mother. Unfortunately, the only French she knew was from high school, and she couldn't make heads or tails out of the occasional French she heard in the library.
When her phone finished charging, it was almost closing time.. That was okay. She had some stuff to move around, though. She picked up her backpack and rummaged around in it, looking up to see if anyone was paying attention. No one seemed interested. Why would they be, she reminded herself. Presumably they had seen a girl rearrange her crap before.
She emptied out the backpack and examined the contents therein. There was a large black purse, bought cheap in Baltimore, the kind that would fall apart quickly. Normally she didn't like those huge hold-everything purses, but for now her likes and dislikes didn't matter. The idea of the purse was the same as the dress – to look a little dressier. They would definitely bother her if she looked like a dirty vagabond; maybe they would go a little easier on someone nicely dressed.. The backpack could fit in the purse; it was cheap and thin and could scrunch up. The bag containing her dirty clothes took the most effort; she had to take them out, roll them up tight, and cram them in. Her printouts from the library; these were probably the most valuable thing she had right now. There was a French phrase book she'd gotten in Baltimore, two candy bars, her soap, shampoo, towel, and her phone. She wondered if she ought to toss it, since it still had a Baltimore number, but she was loath to get rid of it. It might still work across the border if she needed it, and it was one of the first things she'd gotten when free. It would make a good souvenir. Besides, it was also her only way to tell time. Once the stuff was packed, Claire decided it was time. She didn't want to hang out until eight. She had a long way to go yet. So she shouldered her purse and headed for the door. It felt somewhat odd to carry a purse again; she hadn't had once since....well, since before all the bad times started. It had a shoulder strap, which she liked better, and it would do the job.
Outside, white flakes were gently falling, gently veiling the blackness outside. She stared uneasily at the snow skirling out of the sky. How much could there be? Was it going to stay this cold?
No point in worrying about it now.
Her heart was pounding as she left the library and sallied forth across the street. The blank eye of the camera stared down. Claire raised her chin, gathered her courage, and began to walk across the street. Should she walk slow and act like she had every right to be there? Or should she hurry, the way somebody would if they were freezing their ass off – which she was – and just cross?
Gathering her courage, she sallied forth across the street. No floodlights came on. No guard dogs were let loose or sirens wailed. In fact, nothing at all happened. She walked across the street and across the border. The white line was now south of her. She was safe.
She repressed a brief but very strong urge to turn around and stick out her tongue at the land and tormentors now south of her: na-na-na-na-na-na! Instead, she simply kept going, raised her chin, and proceeded up the street.
I did it, she thought dazedly. I really, really did it. I'm here. I'm safe now. Now I can get on with the rest of my life.
Despite the cold and the fact that she had hardly any money, the thought made her giddy as she walked up the street. She was safe. She had a line of protection now. A voice interrupted her reverie.
"Hey!"
Claire felt fear slime her throat. She looked around. Just across the street, a little south of her, was a lighted kiosk. In it was a figure next to an open window, and he was pointing at her and waving her over. She froze.
That's not fair! She thought. I made it! I really did!
The idea of running occurred to her. But where could she run to? Back across the border? For what? Then they would surely sic the cops on her, and that would be the end of it. Should she plead ignorance? Should she ask for asylum? Would that work?
There was only one thing to do for right now, so she did it: she trudged unwillingly over to the customs booth. The guy behind the window watched her closely for a few moments. He didn't seem angry or hostile, not at first.
"You crossed the border, ma'am. You have to check in at customs when you do that."
Claire swallowed. "I'm sorry," she said. Let him think she was a dumbass; better to be thought a dumbass than a criminal. "I just...wanted to go up to the pizza place while I wait on my mom."
"Are you waiting on your mom in Canada, or in the States?"
Claire shifted from foot to foot. Tears rose to her eyes. Close...so close. And now stopped at the last. "Canada. Well, wait. I'm American. My mom is from Quebec. And she was supposed to come down here and meet me here and she's late. And the library closed, and I forgot my coat, and I'm sorry, but I'm just freezing cold and I just wanted to go up to the pizza place and get something to eat while I waited." Her breath plumed in the air.
"Your mom's from Quebec?" the guard asked, picking out the one part he wanted from her story deftly.
"Yes, sir," she said, and almost kicked herself. Yankees didn't say sir. Well, maybe they did to border patrol officers. It certainly seemed like a good idea.
"But you're an American citizen?"
"I was born in the US," Claire said completely truthfully. "I think my mom registered me when I was little. She's got all my paperwork."
The border agent nodded, as if he heard similar stories every day. "How long do you plan to be here?"
"Just a couple of days, maybe a week," Claire said cautiously. "You know, just to see family."
"Do you have any ID?"
Claire shivered, reached into her purse, feeling like she'd just been sentenced again. She took out the fake ID. Now this was it. Now he would look at it, sneer at her, and pick up the phone. You think I was born yesterday? Come inside, please. I'm gonna call the cops.
Maybe she could break away and flee back across the border. Maybe she should have walked out of town, and tried to cross in the country. Yammering panic chewed at her and she felt her heart begin to pound. No place to run, no place to flee...
The border patrol officer simply glanced at her fake ID with only the most desultory interest. The bill of his cap dipped in a slow nod. "Do you have anything on you that you're going to leave in Canada?"
My bones, Claire thought. Cause if you let me in I am never, never going back. "No," she said.
"Where does your mom live?"
"Sherbrooke," Claire responded. Well, her mother had grown up there. "She's driving down, and she's late."
The man nodded and flapped his hand. "You're gonna need a passport to get back into the US pretty soon. They're tightening up." he said. "But heck, it's too cold to let you freeze out here. Pizza place you're looking for is a few blocks up. Why don't you go there, and stay out of the cold. Hope your mom gets here soon. You come back and show me your paperwork once she gets here." Then he slid the window closed and shivered himself.
Claire stood for a few more seconds until she realized what he meant. She smiled at him, her heart pounding away in her chest. "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much," she said, and turned north again. Should she go to the pizza place? It had to be closing soon, and she had very little money. But he didn't need to know that, and it would be worth stopping off if it threw him off her trail. And she had to, now.
She walked up a few blocks, hunched over as she walked through the town, her arms wrapped protectively around her. She ought to be delighted, she thought. She was safe. She was going to be okay after all.
But she wasn't. Despite having made it past the customs people, she could not get herself calmed down. Different visions kept blinking into her mind's eye: people in uniforms all too similar to the border people. People with guns and handcuffs on their belts, dragging her, taking her to a filthy jail.
She closed her eyes. Not happening. It's not real. You made it. You're across the border.
Her conscious mind knew the fact, but the lizard part of her brain kept screaming and jittering in fear, kept screaming Danger! Danger! Danger! Her body responded, dumping adrenalin into her system. Her pulse drummed monotonously in her ears and her hands twitched. She felt a scream trying to lever its way out of her throat, almost like a living thing, and stopped to disguise it as a coughing fit.
Not now, she thought. Not now, not now, not now. Once I'm out in the country I can scream all I want, I can take out the blade if I want, but not...goddam...here. I didn't cross a thousand miles to freak out two blocks over the border. There are still cops around here, not totally safe turf around here, I'm not out of the woods yet.
She closed her eyes, hoping to stop the flood: leering guards, larger inmates, the horrible moldy reek of the jail, the sterile, unmoving, buried-alive feeling of prison. The despair, the helpless rage, and the pain she had intended to escape.
There was only one thing to do, so Claire did it. She bit down hard on the inside of her lip and forced herself to look around. She spotted the pizzeria the border patrol guy
(don't think that make it go away no uniforms dammit pizza you need pizza)
had suggested. There it was. It wasn't much; just a small area in front with a few tables. Behind the register was an older man with dark hair much like her own and a thick mustache.
"Bon jour," he said politely.
Fighting back the panic attack had taken up too much effort for her to reach into her limited French repertoire to even consider using it. She smiled tightly.
"Good evening," she said, and she could tell how tight and ragged her voice was "I'm sorry. Can you speak English?"
"Sure can," he responded.
"Do you have a bathroom?"
"Those are for customers, ma'am," he said smoothly.
For a long moment Claire wanted to scream, or perhaps jump over the counter and throttle him until his eyes popped out. Then she thought. Some food would do her good, a little time would pass, and it would get darker.
"Can you take American money?" she asked.
He nodded.
"One plain slice...and a small diet coke," she recited. In her purse was a lone, tattered five surrounded by a few singles. She gave him the five and he handed her back a few coins. He cut a slice from a metal tray on the counter, put it on a smaller metal plate, and slid it into the oven with the skill of long practice. The slamming of the oven's door made her jump.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Claire smiled tiredly and nodded. "It's been a hell of a night," she demurred.
She took the paper cup he gave her, went over to one of the small tables, and sat down for a moment, long enough to put down a napkin and her drink to assert her claim over the tiny space. Then she got up and went to the bathroom.
The bathroom was nothing fancy – a single toilet, sink, and mirror, clean but dingy. It would be all right. Claire locked the door and opened her purse. From it she took the pair of scissors she had taken from the asylum in Baltimore. They were old, and she hadn't intended to use them for this purpose, but it was the only way she knew of making the ugly images go away.
Carefully, she washed the scissors in the sink, generous with the soap, and dried them with paper towels. Next, she rolled up her left sleeve and turned her arm palm up, washing that. She opened the scissors, staring at the sharp point for a few seconds, then studied the faded scars on her forearm and paused for a moment. She had to do this calmly.
She drove one blade of the scissors into the meat of her arm down low, by the elbow, and off center, where it would avoid the larger blood vessels. It did not enter too deeply, only a fraction of an inch, but the pain was immediate. It had been a while. Drawing it up a few inches – just a few – made it hurt more.
But it had the desired effect. As the physical pain bolted up her arm, it crowded out the panicky jittery feeling and the flood of memories receded. It hurt. It hurt plenty, and she was nervous about infection,, but she could cope with this much better. Carefully she put the scissors back in her purse and began to pat the wound with paper towels.
It bled, but not badly, and she went back to the table feeling more in control of herself. Her slice was ready, and she ate it greedily. It was good, hot and greasy, and she devoured it. The soda was good and thirst-quenching, and she could finally think. Her arm ached, but she didn't feel like she was simply going to lapse into insanity at any momemt.
She fumbled her printouts out of her purse. She had done her homework. Now that she had gotten across the border, she had to make her way to Magog. Fortunately, Google Maps had told her what she needed to know. It was twenty-two miles to the hospital in Magog. There had been a few listings; one was something called a hospitalier hebergement, one was called a centre de santé et de services sociaux. Claire didn't have the faintest idea what a hospitalier hebergement might be, but it had come up when she searched for Magog hospitals.
The plan was simple. Twenty-two miles was a walkable distance, when you came down to it. It wouldn't be fun, but it was possible. With twelve dollars left in her pocket, it was also her only choice. She would need to get to the hospital. Hospitals had emergency rooms, and anybody could walk into an emergency room. Hopefully, on a night like tonight, they wouldn't turn her away even if they pegged her as homeless. All she needed was a place to sleep. The chairs would be fine; it wasn't like she had much worth stealing, anyways. Even if she couldn't sleep the
re, she could at least hang out until the morning.
In the morning, she would call her lawyer back in Richmond. There was plenty of time left on her phone. He had her birth certificate, and all she needed was a mailing address where he could send it. If he sent it to her, the rest would fall into place, eventually. The birth certificate had her mother's place of birth clear as day: Sherbrooke, Quebec. That ought to be good enough to get things started. Maybe those services sociaux people could give her a little services.
After that? Well, she'd have to get her paperwork squared away. She would change her name, learn to speak French, and go to school. High school first, to get a real high school diploma. Then college. She wanted that badly; she wanted to have it to rub in their faces. Well, no, if things worked out they wouldn't know where she was at all, but she would know, and that would be enough. Then, get a job, move to the city, get an apartment, meet a guy, get married, have some kids, and buy a house in the suburbs. Retire at some point, travel, and hopefully live long enough to be the nice old lady who had twenty cats and said hi to the neighborhood kids, none of whom would ever know about her stained past.
Not a bad plan, but in order to get to be that old cat lady, she had to get the hell out of Stanstead and keep moving. That meant she'd be walking all night, but it was her only choice. She looked out the dirty plate-glass window and scowled at the falling snow. Who the hell would have thought there would be this much snow?
She should have stolen a coat at the University after all. Now there was nothing to do but suck it up. The only other clothes she had were filthy dirty, but she might have to put them on anyway. The idea of that bothered her. She liked things neat and clean, and putting on those clothes she'd worn for a few days, especially on that bus...ick. Quebec was colder than Virginia, but she'd never imagined it would be this cold. Neither choice was great: dirty or cold. Well, once she was out of town she could duck behind a tree or something
Claire picked herself up, threw away her trash, and walked out the door. It took her a moment to re-orient herself, but she managed. The cold air bit her as she left the warm confines of the pizzeria, and she shivered. She turned north and began reviewing her route in her head. The only way forward is through, she thought. She'd heard it on a war movie somewhere. It seemed to fit. There was no opposing army out there – or was there? –but there were plenty of obstacles: the cold night, the long distance, a different country, no money, no friends, she didn't speak the language, but she had gotten this far. She would prevail.
