Final Masquerade

by Cindy Davis

  "Sit down if you want.” He took a long drag from a filtered cigarette and held it, not between the first and second fingers as most people did, but between the second and third. “Tell me who you thought I was.” His voice was deep, pleasant, and cultured, with a touch of an accent, possibly Canadian, from the way he said the word ‘down'. It sent renewed ripples of energy all the way to her fingers and toes.

  Paige remained standing, clenching and unclenching the toes in her sneakers. It was wasted motion though, the sensations wouldn't go away. “Just someone I went to school with."

  He threw his head back and laughed, a deep resonating sound that began deep in his gut.

  She frowned. “What's so funny about that?"

  "Excuse me for saying so, but school must have been quite a while back."

  "Well!” She feigned shock.

  "No offense, no offense intended."

  "I'll have you know that I'm a school teacher and I'm in school all the time."

  "Is that right?” He closed the magazine, pushed it aside, leaned back in the booth and took another pull on the cigarette. “Are you hungry?"

  "I ate a while ago, but I was thinking a cup of fruit salad might taste good."

  "I was contemplating dessert myself. How about joining me?"

  "Thank you, I'd like that. Do you come this way often?"

  "About twice a month. I haul appliances, stoves, refrigerators, and the like. What's your name?"

  "Tracy Wilson."

  "Where you from?"

  He waved the folded magazine in the air to catch the waitress’ attention and she wound her way between the tables, arriving slightly out of breath. She leaned forward, setting her order book on the table. She had bright green eyes and might have been pretty if it weren't for the red expanse of acne across her pink face. “Chris honey, don't tell me yore still hungry?” She poked him in the bicep with an index finger. “I was shore that meat loaf plate was gonna fill you right up."

  She said all this eyeing Paige with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  "Give us a slice of that chocolate cream pie and a fruit cup, would you?” He turned to Paige. “Something to wash it down?"

  "No, thanks.” She positioned her bags on the seat and made herself comfortable.

  Once the waitress had gone, he continued his original thought. “I'd guess you're from the west coast, around L.A.” Seeing her noncommittal gaze, he asked, “Am I right or wrong?"

  She forced a smile. “A little of both. I was brought up in Michigan. I went to Berkeley in ‘80."

  "Really? So did I. What was your major?"

  Shit. Choosing something she deemed obtuse, she said, “Liberal Arts."

  "Holy cow, that was mine too. Why don't I remember you?"

  Paige wrung her hands under the table. “I ... er ... look a little different than I did back then."

  "How so?"

  "I've lost seventy-five pounds, for one thing. And I was a redhead. I belonged to the Delta Gamma Sorority. You might recognize that."

  "No, can't say as I do. So, what's your story?"

  "Story?"

  "Yeah, story. What is it? If I'm going to haul you cross country, I want to know your story."

  "Wha—"

  He stretched his arms across the table so his fingers were almost touching her arms. The little hairs all stood at attention. Paige realized she was rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

  He chuckled. “I don't look like someone you went to school with. You're not a schoolteacher, any more than I'm a pirate. That expensive manicure is a dead giveaway. Look, I'm not an idiot. You're wanting a ride somewhere, and before I offer you one, I want to know what's going on."

  "You don't pull any punches, do you?"

  "I just like things out in the open."

  The waitress arrived and plopped the two dishes on the table. “Let me guess which one is yours.” Her gaze pierced Paige, who returned the glare in triplicate. The waitress shoved the fruit cup toward her.

  Paige ate several forkfuls before speaking. “What's your whole name?

  "Christian Charles Beauchamps hailing from Tallahassee, San Francisco, Minneapolis, and Dallas. I'm originally from Montreal, but I haven't been back in years."

  "Why not?"

  He chuckled. “A long story you might get to hear later. Now, stop changing the subject and answer my question."

  She made a production of unfolding her napkin and dabbing her lips with it. “I don't know what to say."

  "Start with the truth."

  "I can't. It could be dangerous."

  "For who?"

  "You."

  He tweaked the tips of his mustache. “Who are you running from?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then tell me why I should risk my life helping you? For all I know, you're a serial killer who's got a hatred of truckers, harking back to a bad experience with a Tonka truck when you were four."

  Paige couldn't help smiling. “I don't think I've ever played with a truck."

  "You aren't going to tell me?"

  Paige pushed her dish away, wiped her mouth, and laid the napkin on the table. She rose and reached for her bags. “I think I've made a mistake."

  His hand got hold of her sweater hem as she tried to pass. “No, you haven't. Come on. We have to leave soon. Schedule to keep, you know."

  Chris stood and removed his wallet from a back pocket. He was head and shoulders taller than her, and looked strong enough to play King Kong to her Faye Wray. He cast some bills on the table and then motioned to the waitress, who didn't react, other than to nod.

  Paige reached across to collect her bags. They wrestled a moment as he gallantly attempted to carry her suitcase. What if he was one of them? What if...

  Down the aisle, out the door and into an alien world, Paige watched, mindful of anyone acting as though they cared where she was headed. There was no one—except the acne-faced waitress and maybe the handsome Canadian. She began to feel like Daniel being led to the lion's den.

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  Eight

  It might have been another world, a world that literally vibrated beneath her, the fusion of low idling hum, authoritative meshing of gears, thundering roar of acceleration, and stench of diesel exhaust. Paige was as lost here as her first day in that Swiss girls’ school. She shook off the memory, deliberately walking on Chris’ right side where he loosely dangled her suitcase. Once, it thudded against her leg. He apologized and switched it to the left. She stifled the urge to follow it to his other side.

  The couple walked down the endless line of trucks arranged like unmatched shoes on a toddler's shelf in every color imaginable. Some had airbrushed designs of angels or fireballs. Others had bug catchers touting the name of the owner's girlfriend, daughter, or wife, but all had the name of some company, or private owner, emblazoned on the doors.

  Chris raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Make you feel small, don't they? As a kid, I was awestruck by the sheer size and power of these things. I guess all little boys are, but I was one who never outgrew it. My folks nearly choked when I asked them to co-sign a loan for a hundred and fifty grand to buy my own rig."

  Paige likewise raised her voice. “I thought you went to college."

  "I did. Got a Bachelor's Degree in Landscape Architecture at U.C., Berkeley.” He threw her a sardonic smile.

  "Landscape architecture? Sounds interesting.” Not.

  "Yeah, my uncle has a big landscaping firm in Ontario. He promised me a position heading up the commercial department. All through school I took courses related to landscaping. The perfect career: outdoors all the time, using my talent for design, knowledge of botany, and making big bucks doing something I loved. My uncle paid for my cousin Joe and me to go to Berkeley. He was going to be the company's new draftsman. The guy who'd done it for the past twenty-five years was retiring."

  "What happened?"

  "How do you know—oh, yeah...” He grinned. “The tr
uck. Well, I got my degree and then did a year of post-grad internship with the company. Did a lot of the grub work. You know, digging and spreading shit, stuff the minimum wage off-the-street laborers do. I loved getting down and dirty. You asked what happened. I don't know. One day I overheard Joe and my uncle talking. They made references to Joe's new job as the landscape architect: my position. So..."

  "So you quit."

  "Yeah, and that's why I'm busting my ass driving. I'm saving to open my own firm.” He pointed ahead. “That one's mine."

  The nose of a bright yellow semi jutted out a couple of feet in front of the others. Paige stepped around the shiny chrome bumper, caressing the immaculate finish. She read the wording on the door. Beauchamps Enterprises, Dallas, Texas. “You live in Dallas?"

  "I rent a cheap studio apartment for the rare weekend or holiday when I'm not on the road. It's where the truck is registered and I keep a post office box. Mostly, I live here.” He rapped the door panel with his knuckles.

  She craned her neck upward. “They're even bigger up close."

  He unlocked and opened the door. Its lower edge bumped her in the shoulder.

  "I always stay at least a lane away from these things on the highway. I'm petrified they'll veer into my lane and crush me."

  "Remember one thing, if you can see these mirrors...” He knuckled the chrome frame of one just over his head. “Then the driver can see you. Ready to head out?"

  "You never told me where we were going."

  "I got the distinct impression it didn't matter."

  She turned a baleful eye on him.

  "We're headed east. Does that fit your plan?"

  "How do you know about my plan?"

  Chris rolled his Hershey bar-colored eyes. “You coming?” He took her elbow. The sensations in her lower region reactivated sending nearly uncontrollable bursts of energy into her feet. She took hold of the shiny door handle while convincing her inner self that waiting for Stefano was far worse than a few hours spent squelching sexual energy.

  He lifted her in then handed her the bag and shut the door. She cradled it in her lap wrapping her arms around it and pulling it tight against her. The pressure helped stem the sexual force.

  Paige watched in the side mirror as Chris strode around the trailer, bending and peering, doing whatever a trucker does before taking off. She watched him in the smaller convex mirror attached underneath the side mirror. His clothes, though not new, were clean and well kept. The jeans delineated his tight ass and muscular thighs. She looked away, but couldn't help wondering how he kept in such good shape being on the road so much of the time. He wasn't at all her stereotypical image of a pot-bellied, gruff speaking trucker.

  She concentrated on the inside of the vehicle, which smelled of leather and after-shave. No dust anywhere, not even on the dash. Her eyes widened at the number of dials and black digital screens, all in a semicircle in front of the driver.

  A minute later, Chris swung himself effortlessly inside and inserted a key in the ignition. The key chain held an enormous number of keys and she nearly found herself asking what each of them went to. The engine roared to life and the radio blasted country music through speakers back in the bunk, which was closed off by a pair of heavy brown curtains.

  He saw her interest in the bunk area and drew the curtain aside. “I'll bet someone like you has never been inside one of these rigs. Check it out if you like."

  "What do you mean someone like me?"

  He laughed. “Never mind. So, what did you really study in college?"

  "Shopping,” she threw over her shoulder and stepped between the bucket seats. “I was taught how to walk and to talk and to act like a regular lady."

  "Liza Doolittle."

  She poked her head back through the curtain. “I never realized you guys lived in these things. Look at this won't you—a TV and a stove! Well, now I've seen everything. You even have a bathroom?"

  "Not a bathroom really, just a porta-potty. I have to stop for showers, but there's a sink where I can shave and whatever."

  Paige slipped back through the curtain and into her seat. “I always thought there was just a bed back here."

  "Some are like that. I spend so much time on the road I needed something more."

  "You have electricity?"

  "Uh-huh. A really long extension cord from my apartment.” Chris reached over the visor and took out a notebook. “Logbook,” he announced, seeing her interest. “It's to write down every place I stop and how long I spend there. In case you're interested, we're going east on Route 40. Got to make a delivery in Fort Smith first, then another in Memphis and Chattanooga where I'll pick up another load. From there, it's north to West Virginia. You're welcome to stay on as far as you'd like. All I ask is that you make the bed, brew the coffee and throw together some snacks or something when we can't be stopping. Is that agreeable?"

  "Will there be any cooking involved?"

  He threw back his head and repeated the same laugh she'd enjoyed in the restaurant.

  "Is that all you expect from me?” Paige wasn't sure she really wanted an answer.

  "Don't I have a trustworthy face?” He lifted his eyes from the logbook and stared soberly into hers. “Isn't this face the reason you picked me over the others?"

  She made a pretense of examining the front of her shirt. “Hey, a girl's got to protect herself as best she can."

  "Then you shouldn't be hitching rides with strange men."

  "You don't look that strange."

  Chris flipped the book shut and placed it back over the visor, then reached for her bag. She maintained an almost imperceptible grip on it for a second, but finally relinquished it to him.

  "Give me your handbag, too. I'll put them in back so you'll have room for your feet.” He moved her things to a cabinet in the bunk area, settled into his seat, and fastened his seatbelt. “Buckle up, we're ready for blast off.” As he hollered out the countdown from TEN, he adjusted some dials and turned down the volume on the radio. When he reached ONE, he shifted the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot.

  "Comfy?” he asked.

  "Yes."

  "How long have you been on the run?"

  She sighed. “Three days, but it seems like forever."

  The motion of the truck was unlike any vehicle she'd been in before. The perpetual drone of the engine vibrated the cab beneath her feet, much like her foot-massaging machine at home. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. For quite some time, she peered between her lashes at the man who seemed engrossed by the truck's dials and the long, black stretch of highway.

  She woke in darkness and reached up to run a hand through her hair, suddenly remembering the wig and the circumstances. The only light drifted in from a nearby streetlight. Paige focused bleary eyes on Chris, who was just tapping shut the lid of his cell phone.

  "What time is it?"

  "One a.m. You slept eight hours."

  "You're kidding."

  "When was the last time you had any sleep?"

  "Really slept?” She hid a yawn behind the back of a hand. “About a month ago."

  "I thought you said you'd been on the run only a few days."

  "I have. Who were you talking to?"

  "My dispatcher."

  "Why would you call him at one o'clock in the morning?"

  Chris hesitated. “I check in every time I stop. Lets him know where I am."

  "I thought you were self-employed."

  "You sure are suspicious."

  She squinted out into the darkness surrounding the truck. “Where are we?"

  "Truck stop in Jamestown.” He answered the next question before she could ask. “Just outside Gallup, New Mexico."

  "That still doesn't tell me much."

  "Come on, let's stretch our legs and get something to eat. Want your handbag?"

  Chris took a drag of his cigarette, holding it in that unusual way between the second and third fingers. “How long have you been hav
ing nightmares?"

  "What? Oh, about a month.” She forced her eyes from his hand.

  "What started them?"

  Paige put her mug down with a smack. “Stop, will you? I'm not telling you. If you know too much, it could be dangerous."

  "You need to trust somebody."

  "I've gotten along fine all this time without it.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “Besides, I'm trusting you to get me the hell out of California alive. That's all the dependency you need right now."

  "Ouch."

  "Look, someone's already gotten killed because of me, and I won't have it happening again. I have to get away as fast and unobtrusively as I can."

  "Is that the reason for the wig?"

  "Too obvious?"

  "Only up close. Why not fly if you need to get away fast?"

  "That's what they expect me to do."

  Neither spoke again until their food had come. Paige busied herself with her sandwich and coffee, while looking at the handful of customers around the room.

  A young couple with a small child in a high chair was seated in the first booth. The little boy drubbed his spoon relentlessly on his tray while he jabbered in language only small children and their parents can decipher. Paige grimaced. A single man leaning on an elbow, smoking a pipe, occupied only one other table. He cast an occasional glance toward the kitchen, then at his watch. He paid little or no attention to the remaining customers. There was a person at each end of the bar, like Art-Deco paperweights. The man on the right wore a white shirt and tie. His hair was cut short and square across the back. A woman at the other end, dark-haired and brusque looking, in jeans and a red sweatshirt, kept glancing around the room, as if studying the rest of the clientele.

  She swiveled the stool back to the counter, tapped a forefinger on a sheet of paper in a manila folder and then looked back in Paige and Chris’ direction.

  Paige's fingers tingled. Her forehead burned. “Go get my bag in the truck."

  "Wha...?"

  "I have to go."

  "What?"

  "I've been recognized."

  "Who? By whom?"