Final Masquerade

by Cindy Davis

  He reached out and slammed it shut. “Have you been drinking, ma'am?"

  Paige inched up her sleeve and gave an exaggerated glance at her watch. “At ten in the morning?"

  The officer located just the right spot between the two vehicles and drew a long line with the heel of his boot. “Stand here, please.” He tapped a toe where he wanted her to go. The whizzing traffic drove away his words, but the toe tapping replaced them perfectly. “Heel here. Walk heel to toe, to the end, arms out straight, like this.” Again he demonstrated, this time raising his voice so she could hear.

  She planted a toe on the line and deliberately placed the other in front of it, eyes concentrating on her shoes. She didn't look up to ask, “Have you any idea how grievously humiliating this is?"

  "Yes, ma'am.” He let her take another four or five steps before saying, “You can stop now."

  She slammed her arms down to her sides making her gold bracelets rattle. “He instructed you to delay me, didn't he? To hold me here until he could send someone."

  A frown creased the officer's forehead and a dimple formed in his chin, a dimple Paige, under normal circumstances, would have found cute. “Get back in the car, ma'am."

  "Or are you just supposed to kill me outright?"

  His eyes narrowed and he took a step backward. “You're free to go."

  Paige's knees trembled as she climbed into the car. She threw the vehicle into gear, but Officer Shea was still speaking. “Don't you want to know why I stopped you?"

  While Paige's fingers thumped the console, he stared back into the northbound traffic, as though he'd forgotten all about her. Finally, he spoke. “You were slumped over the wheel. I stopped to see if you were okay. Then you freaked and nearly ran over my feet."

  "You startled me.” And he was deliberately keeping her there. Making time for Stefano to arrive.

  He threw her a sheepish grin and turned his attention to the highway once again asking, as though he were an old friend she'd met on the street, “Hot party last night?"

  "What I did last night is...” Paige put her hands to either side of her head. “Look, I had an appalling migraine and needed to rest my eyes for a moment, that's all. It's much better now, so I'll be on my way."

  She eased her foot off the brake and let the car roll forward a few inches, then threw him her most disarming smile. “If it'll make you feel better, I'll go off the next exit so I can take something."

  He cracked several knuckles, and she grimaced.

  "I'll follow to make sure you're okay,” he offered.

  "That's quite all right. I'm fine now. Headache all gone. Thanks again.” Why was she thanking him for being an accessory in her murder? The fingers of both hands thumped the top of the steering wheel.

  "All part of my job."

  "That's very kind of you. Very kind, I'm sure.” Paige watched for an opening and then moved the car onto the highway.

  A sign suspended over the driving lane stated the next exit was a quarter mile ahead. Mr. Helpful remained several cars back, in her lane. She slammed a fist on the console when he followed her off the ramp.

  Along the endless stretch of road, hordes of automobiles in four lanes, rushed east and west. Endless strings of mini malls and chain stores with easily identifiable signage dotted the length of the highway. Paige crept along, searching for a restaurant, eager to be rid of Officer Shea. A honk from behind and she glanced in the mirror. The driver of the SUV on her bumper waved for her to get out of his way. Stifling a wave of her own, she turned into the first available place that served food. She pulled into the parking lot, ignoring the officer, who wiggled two fingers over the top of his steering wheel. The high-powered engine roared as he sped past.

  Unobtrusively, she watched his departure. Damn. Now she really did have a headache. “I wonder if this dive serves tea.” Paige searched for the tiny microphone in the colorful drive-thru board.

  "Good morning. Could I interest you in a breakfast combo this morning?"

  "I don't think so,” Paige replied indignantly. “Do you have herbal tea?"

  "I don't think so,” mimicked the voice in the board. “We just have tea. Regular tea. From a bag. In a cup. With boiling water. Want some?"

  "Fine."

  "That'll be one seventy four at the second window. Please pull forward."

  At the back of the parking lot, she tucked the car beside a yellow bakery van. She dunked her tea bag absently in the cardboard cup, waiting for it to become both strong and cool enough to drink. How long would it take Stefano's men to arrive? Was it worth making a run for it? No, there was no outrunning those animals. The real question was whether they'd kill her here and make it look like a robbery, or haul her back to Santa Barbara and make it look like an accident. Or maybe Stefano would lock her in some hidden room in the cellar and let her wither away the rest of her miserable life alone.

  She located the headache pills in her purse and tapped out a pair of tablets. Then, as an afterthought, added another for good measure. She swallowed them dry, all the while scanning for Officer Shea's car. Good God, what had she gotten herself into?

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  Two

  A sip of scalding tea helped dislodge the lumps of aspirin stuck halfway down Paige's throat. An elderly Ford Taurus with rust in the wheel wells and a dent in the passenger door parked a few spaces away. A man of medium build and nondescript clothes hopped out. One hand ran two index fingers across a pencil-thin mustache. The other swung at his side as he trotted toward the building.

  Keys. He carried no keys, didn't put any in his pocket. Paige pushed the trunk button beside her left knee. Not bothering to take keys or purse, she seized the suitcase from the trunk and slammed the lid. As nonchalantly as possible she strode to the Taurus, opened the door, tossed the case across the seat and climbed inside. The bag thumped onto the passenger side floor, crunching a litter of fast food wrappers, and blasting the aroma of ketchup and mildew throughout the car.

  As hoped, the key was in the ignition. The engine groaned. “Come on you piece of shit. Turn over.” She held the key in position then added. “Pleee-ease.” After an eternity of grinding, the engine sputtered to life.

  Paige controlled the urge to squeal the tires and grinned wondering if a Ford Taurus’ tires could be squealed. She eased the car out of the parking spot and waited behind a minivan attempting to make its way between the busy morning commuters. She gunned the car through a tiny gap in the traffic, something she'd never dare with the Mercedes, and grinned in satisfaction, turning up the ramp and onto the highway, seeing no reason to alter her original plan.

  Paige often took Stefano's Lear jet for her shopping trips to Oakland or Frisco, or even Boulder. She loved to browse the shops in Oakland's Rockridge Market Hall, rarely purchasing anything, content to be on her own, free.

  She was sure one of Carlotta's duties was reporting her whereabouts. Someone would be dispatched to check her ‘shopping’ story, but Paige's itinerary took her nowhere near Rockridge Market, nowhere near Oakland, and nowhere in California as a matter of fact.

  She settled back in the Taurus, adjusted the seat and mirrors, checked to see if she was being followed, then pushed the speedometer to ten miles per hour above the limit. The aroma, tattered seats, and kid-fingerprinted glass sent quivers to her toes. She urged the car faster, wondering if the owner had auto-theft coverage. At the higher speed, a vibration from beneath her feet rattled the windows and bounced the keys against the steering column. The car held together, but Paige's headache pounded.

  She took the turnoff for Route 152 toward Fresno, a place without much to offer as far as she was concerned, which made it a perfect place to get lost. Getting lost wasn't exactly what she'd put in the letter at dawn that morning; a letter sent to her ailing mother in Miami. Mom had warned her about Stefano. Not because of what he did for a living—she didn't know—but because his aura was bad. Paige should've listened to her mom. The letter simply said, ‘goi
ng away for a while, will call as soon as I can.'

  This time, the tears flowed unchecked.

  * * * *

  Fresno's narrow streets were heavy with workday traffic. Although the once thriving raisin producing community was history, Fresno maintained its aura of hard working, dedicated people. A history of old, established businesses, a town reluctant to let go of the past. The past, whose original Spanish architecture was nearly hidden beneath an amalgamation of German, Italian, and Armenian influences. All were a reflection of the heritage and stylistic passions of their creators, but somehow similar in so many ways, from the oft-used brick to the steeply arched windows.

  Paige maneuvered through the city with the sun in her eyes, air conditioner blasting lukewarm air, fingers thumping on the steering wheel, eyes roving often to the mirrors. It took nearly an hour to find a parking garage with an available space, but she was unwilling to leave the stolen vehicle where police might be likely to spot it.

  She found a place on Tulare and paid the middle-aged attendant, who leered at her through her open window, holding onto the ticket until she was forced to yank it from his fingers. His raspy chuckle followed her up the ramp.

  Her space was on the top level. She backed in, wedging the car between a Sebring parked atop her space's dividing line and a purple La Mans. Paige got out and appraised the deserted surroundings. She sighed and leaned her elbows on the cement retaining wall, gazing out over the city. The buildings, packed tightly for fifteen or twenty blocks, gradually thinned toward the east, then faded into the vast expanse of the Sequoia National Forest.

  Undulating waves of hot air flowed upward, as if pushed by an unseen fan, carrying city scents, the almost pleasant smell of burnt bacon, the sick-sweet yet somehow irresistible odor of fresh donuts, and the intoxicating aroma of someone's freshly mowed lawn. Paige stiffened as a siren wailed below, closer, closer, and then screamed past.

  She brushed sandy grains from her sleeves, opened the trunk, and laid her overnight case inside, balancing it on the bald spare tire. She slid back the clasps and the scent of lavender wafted up, melding with the aromas of oil and automobile exhaust. She wrinkled her nose and unfolded a worn pair of Levi's that she'd taken from Carlotta's laundry pile. Paige slipped off her shoes. The cement floor was gritty and warm on her bare feet. She quickly put on the jeans and flung the slacks that had cost Stefano ninety dollars, into the trunk. The denim sent a shudder through her, reminding her they were the maids’ clothes. She shook the folds from a T-shirt sporting a black #3 Winston Cup racecar.

  An engine approached, roaring up the ramp to the right. She ducked behind the Taurus. Heart hammering at her ribs, she pulled the trunk lid down as a beige Toyota zoomed into an empty space directly across from her.

  Paige opened the trunk enough to slide out the case. She thrust it under the Sebring, into the shadow of the right rear wheel. She gripped the bumper with white knuckles, watching the car's occupant speak on his cell phone, now and again nodding or shaking his head. Twice he glanced in his rearview mirror at the elderly Ford.

  For more than a minute he listened. That minute produced spasms of consternation in her limbs. He was talking to Stefano, she was certain of it. Still in a crouch, she slipped on her shoes and stole behind the neighboring Pontiac, then a Celica, and then a dust-covered green car sporting blue and white Connecticut plates. She fleetingly wondered if its owner had stashed it here, on the run as she was.

  She crept between the Celica and Connecticut vehicles until she could see the Toyota. She swallowed dryly. The car was empty! She stretched higher, but still couldn't see the man.

  Paige frowned and inched closer to the center aisle. She peered out near the Celica's front bumper and whipped her head back as if she'd been shot. Slowly her eyes roved up, past the neatly pressed khaki slacks, mock alligator belt, and blue button-down shirt, to a man with a cleft chin, bulbous beak, and beady eyes that were nearly lost in the shadow from the nose.

  "Are you all right?” he asked.

  Paige rose, dissecting him with her eyes, searching for his weapon as she dusted off her palms on her thighs. Her ears burned. The sensation spread down the nape of her neck. All instincts commanded her to flee.

  "Are you all right?” he repeated, his tone held a note of curiosity.

  "I ... er, lost one of my contacts."

  "Show me where. I'll help you find it.” He knelt beside her, not bothering to avoid the oil and grime. He leaned down and squinted at the pavement. “I don't see anything."

  "Ooh, I found it.” She pretended to snatch it up, held out the tip of a finger, then yanked it back before he had a chance to see it was empty. “Thank you for stopping, it's so rare these days that anyone helps out. Well, I have to be going, I'm very late. Thanks again.” Paige hurried toward the stairway.

  Glancing back, she realized he wasn't following or even paying attention. She slipped between a pair of red sedans near the stairwell to watch, knowing he'd followed her into that garage with orders from Stefano to “bring her back—or kill her trying."

  He stood beside his Toyota with his back to her, again on the phone. After a minute, he flipped the lid shut and reached inside his car for a brown sports coat, which he put on. He slipped the cell phone into an inside pocket, then straightened his tie and strode in her direction, whistling the theme from Rocky. The notes ricocheted off the cement colonnades. Paige ducked as he passed into the stairwell, envying his easy-going demeanor, something she'd give anything for—even the mob's $650,000 of which was now on its way to Minneapolis.

  When the man's whistling faded, she sprinted back to the stolen Taurus. She slid the blouse off and dropped it in the trunk, replacing it quickly with the racecar T-shirt.

  She took a tissue from her bag and wiped off the ruby-red lipstick that, to this point, perfectly complemented her coloring and hair. Paige slipped into Nikes, a short blond wig, and drab makeup that she thought made her look sickly and washed out. She squinted in the car's smudged side mirror, examining the changes, then adding a sporty pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. She used the lipstick-smeared tissue to wipe her prints from the entire automobile.

  Paige had tucked her clothing into a plastic bag and rescued her overnight case from under the Sebring when a voice called out, “Ms. Carmichael?"

  She spun to face the man from the beige Toyota, and stumbled, nearly falling into the trunk. When she regained her footing, she gripped a tire iron in one hand.

  The iron made a horrific thud as it struck the man's temple. He lurched forward and crumpled to the pavement behind the Taurus. His cell phone clattered beside him, pieces flew everywhere.

  She considered hiding his body in the trunk, but he looked too heavy to lift. Besides, the blood on the ground would be a dead giveaway. She frowned at the unintentional pun. Paige used her old clothes to wipe her prints from the iron, gathered her things together, and shut the trunk.

  She removed her Rolex watch and gold filigree necklace and then wrestled the engraved diamond engagement ring from her finger. She ran a thumb regretfully over the enormous stone before burying everything in a dented trashcan under some filthy black paper towels.

  She told herself to be more careful, to keep her eyes open. Paige added a youthful bounce to her step and waltzed past the greasy-haired attendant, suitcase swinging by her side. He lifted his eyes from the tiny television screen long enough to salute good-bye. When he didn't recognize her, she heaved a ponderous sigh. It was four blocks before the knots in her stomach finally started to untangle.

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  Three

  Two hours later, stomach full, and arms overloaded with bulging shopping bags and the suitcase, the blonde Paige searched for a public restroom. She located one on a nicely landscaped brick oasis that was a sentimental reminder of the patio beside Stefano's heart-shaped Santa Barbara swimming pool, and stepped inside.

  She propped the suitcase on the scarred toilet seat that was definitely not a re
minder of any of the ones back home. Squeezing thoughts of Stefano and Luther to the back of her mind, Paige withdrew a battered backpack and miscellaneous clothing from one of the shopping bags. She unzipped the largest partition, lined it with the $100,000 she'd kept of Stefano's money, and then carefully packed clothing on top.

  A tiny brown bag held a Timex watch and some costume jewelry. Paige strapped the watch on her left wrist and added a few gold-plated rings to each hand, concealing the pale imprints on her ring fingers. From another bag came several paperbacks. The last parcel contained miscellaneous toiletries. She wrapped these, plus Stefano's precious gold coin—that she'd taken from his safe—in several layers of paper toweling, and stowed them in the third pocket of the backpack. She heaved the old stuff into the wastebasket and left the chlorine-scented bathroom.

  In a parking lot behind a pharmacy, Paige inspected several vehicles for keys in ignitions, but it wasn't long before she reconsidered the idea. Authorities would connect this theft with the theft of the Taurus earlier in the day, because it sure wouldn't be long before someone discovered the dead man behind the stolen car. She kicked herself for leaving such an obvious trail of evidence.

  A harried pedestrian pointed Paige toward an Amtrak Station several blocks away. Although heavy and ready to topple her off balance, she found the twenty-five pounds on her back oddly comforting. Her pace in the running shoes was light and quick, different from her usual staid and mature step.

  She located the old Santa Fe Freight House without any difficulty and stepped inside the pale stucco building, breathing hard from the exertion. The station was busy and she sidestepped a white-collared man talking on a tiny cell phone nearly hidden in his huge hand, a pair of Russians talking and gesturing as though they were using sign language, and a housewife pushing an overloaded stroller containing a pair of squalling babies.