by Cindy Davis
She continued shouting. No one appeared. No window opened. No rescue came. She tilted away, groping for the door handle. He yanked her back. His fingers bit her flesh, the way Chris’ had just before he kissed her that day.
Paige mustered every ounce of her remaining strength and swung the suitcase at Burt's head. He faltered and she hit him again with her fists, rising to her knees and pummeling him. He attempted to shield himself from the blows, raising both hands over his head.
"Ernie, what are you—"
She shoved with all her might and managed to upset his balance. She thrust him out onto the sidewalk, slammed the door, and punched the button controlling the automatic door locks. Then she knocked the gearshift lever into drive. The Audi's tires squealed as she tore away from the sidewalk.
The man with the felt hat appeared from around the side of her building. He leaped into the road. Paige spun the wheel, barely missing his left hip. She stomped on the gas and raced through the streets of Kansas City.
What road should she take for the airport? A vague memory said it was west on I-435. She laid rubber up the ramp and drove eighty miles per hour to the white sign sporting the tiny white airplane at Exit 36.
Paige merged off the ramp and into sparse traffic on Cookingham Drive. At Kansas City International, she searched for a place to hire a private plane. It didn't seem wise to take a commercial flight. Surely that's the first place they'd look. Unfortunately the private companies appeared to keep regular hours. She'd have to come back in the morning.
At the nearby Holiday Inn, the woman behind the counter didn't bat an eyelash when Paige checked in under the name of Kathleen Rawlings.
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Twenty-six
The bellhop unlocked the door to Room 899. Light from the hallway filtered inside. He placed her belongings on the mottled green carpet and proceeded around the room closing the drapes and turning on bedside lamps, lending the room a homey atmosphere. Paige tucked a tip into his nonchalantly outstretched palm. He bowed ever so slightly and wished her good night.
In the shower, Paige grieved over having to leave this city. She'd really liked it here, her job, the women at the quilt shop, and most especially Shamus.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the tiles, letting the hot needles beat away the stress, tears conjoining with the flow from the showerhead and the insistent thought that maybe she'd made a horrible mistake. Maybe Burt wasn't one of Stefano's men after all. Maybe the man in the felt hat was a friend he planned to introduce.
Much later, she padded out of the bathroom nude, having left her nighties and robe back in the apartment. She turned on the television and sat on the bed towel-drying her hair.
"We interrupt this program for this news bulletin. Tonight a daring assault led to a car theft on Wornall Road."
The towel dropped from her fingers as the broadcaster continued, “A woman by the name of Ernestine Yates assaulted and severely injured Burton David Palmer then stole his 2007 Audi convertible. Palmer, a resident of nearby Sugar Creek suburb, was climbing from his car on Wornall Road when the woman ran from the apartment building and flung her suitcase against the side of his head, knocking him to the sidewalk. She got into his car and sped away."
A picture of a car similar to Burt's flashed across the screen. “The car has vanity plates. BRT-PLMR. If you spot this car, or this woman, please call the number at the bottom of the screen."
"Shit,” was her only response when her picture appeared on the television. It was a color photo of her on the bench in the Laura Conyers Rose Garden. The television zoomed in for a close-up of her face. The towel again fell to the floor as she gaped at the picture. A picture she'd neither known about nor posed for.
Hair dripping down her neck, Paige threw on her beret and jacket, collected her baggage, and slipped into the hallway just as the elevator doors whooshed open. She ducked around the corner as the bellhop, concierge, and a pair of uniformed officers stepped out. They strode to her door and knocked. Receiving no answer they used a master key and entered the room.
The thick carpet muffled her steps as she ran toward the stairway. She raced down eight flights, hoping to make it to the exit before the elevator, and the police.
Paige trod carefully, trying to hide her labored breathing, alert for more cops who might be stationed at the exits. With all the crap going on with terrorist threats and child abductions, cops should have better things to do than chase a woman involved in a domestic disturbance. Then Paige remembered: it wasn't a domestic disturbance. According to Burt, it was a case of hit and run.
She wiped dripping water from her face. It was hit and run after all. Hit Burt upside the head and run like hell.
How to get out of this jam?
On the sidewalk, she peered up and down the avenue, looking for the nearest drug store. Behind her, the double glass doors to the hotel opened. A pair of uniformed officers stepped onto the sidewalk. Paige ducked into the narrow space between the hotel and an apartment building. She yanked the baggage in beside her. Her heart throbbed so loudly in her head, she could barely hear what they were saying.
"Where the hell did she get to?” asked the taller of the two.
"What tipped her off?” asked the other.
"Musta been that idiot bellhop."
The shorter cop poked a button on his collar mic. “We've lost her. Stake out the room in case she comes back.” A crackled response came, to which he replied, “10-4.” Then to his partner, “There was no luggage in the room."
"We don't know if she had any."
"Maybe she left it in the car."
"Let's go."
* * * *
She stood at the counter where a pimple-faced teenager dropped her purchases into a bag. Paige kept him occupied with conversation hoping he wouldn't recall her face and her purchases later that evening when he watched the news.
"Does your boss put on that music or was that your choice?” she asked, drumming her fingers to the beat of the rap music blasting throughout the store.
The boy rolled his eyes. “If you could see the guy who owns the place you wouldn't ask."
"You'd be surprised the sort of music people like. Why I went out with a guy a few weeks ago who was absolutely bonkers over the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And when I met him, I would've put money on him being an opera fan. Myself, I enjoy the classics like Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra."
An expression of satisfaction crossed the boy's face. Paige continued, “But I also love ‘N Sync and Savage Garden."
The teen's eyes rolled one more time. “Don't say."
"I confess to having a problem with rap though. I've tried but I just can't understand what they're saying most of the time. I really like to understand the lyrics to music, don't you?"
"I guess,” he replied, folding the top of the bag and handing it across the counter.
Back on the street, Paige ducked into a gas station ladies’ room and went to work, thankful for the lateness of the hour. She hoped to finish before being interrupted by someone wanting to use the filthy facilities.
She stepped back onto the street, this time with ash blonde hair cut into a pageboy with blunt bangs. She'd used dark eyeliner and deep blue shadow. She still wore the hat and jacket because the weather was cold, and being without a coat would surely draw more attention than the paisley print.
Burt had only seen it once, and if he were out searching for her, which would be a true stretch of the imagination, he probably wouldn't recognize it.
'What was she wearing, Mr. Palmer?'
'It was something dark colored. Women change their clothes so often that ... ‘
He'd leave the sentence unfinished. The police would start over.
'What did she look like?'
'She had reddish hair. And the same color eyes. Wait, I have a picture ... ‘
How would Burt handle the situation if the police captured her? If she were jailed for assault and theft, would he bring her b
ack to Santa Barbara?
She frowned at her watch. Only eight o'clock. Above, the yellow and green neon beckoned and Paige stepped calmly back into the lobby of the Holiday Inn. The same concierge was on duty. She smiled at him and adopted her best French accent. “Bon soir."
"Good evening,” he replied, as though pretty French women came to his desk every night.
"Qu'est le prix pour la chambre?"
The mans’ eyebrows creased while he attempted to decipher her request, apparently sifting through what remained of his high school French in his memory banks.
"La chambre?” he repeated. “Oh, a room. You want a room. One night?"
"Oui. One night,” Paige signed the register—Adrienne Marceau.
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Twenty-seven
Paige entered a small, brightly lit cubicle beneath the deceptively large sign that said Dubois Aviation. The walls were painted bright yellow and sported colorful posters, almost as though it was a travel agency rather than a small privately operated airline.
"Good morning. My name is Rusty. What can I do for you on this lovely fall day?” asked a tall man with a recently shaved head.
"I'd like to hire a plane to take me to Minneapolis."
Rusty pointed to a straight-backed chair and rolled his chair from behind a metal desk so they were face to face. “Okay. A couple of questions: are you traveling alone?” Receiving an answering nod, he continued while plucking at a corner of his bushy eyebrow. “How soon do you have to leave and how quickly do you need to get there? I ask because you have two possible alternatives."
Paige settled her bags beside her chair and crossed her legs, absentmindedly arranging the pleated rayon skirt around her knees while she compared the color of his eyes to peas. Fresh baby peas. The thought brought a slight smile to her face and a larger smile to his, apparently misreading her expression.
"Where was I? Oh yes, your options. The first one will get you there this afternoon and the other will be considerably cheaper but won't get you there until tomorrow just before lunchtime."
"I guess you should start off by telling me about the flight that leaves today."
Rusty pulled his lanky frame from the chair. “Coffee?"
"No, thanks, I've had too much already."
He talked while preparing a mug for himself, scooping three heaping spoons of sugar into his cup. “Don, my partner, can take you this afternoon in my Cessna 414. It's a twin-engine piston plane that seats up to eight. That'll get you there in, oh, two and a half to three hours nonstop.” Seeing Paige's nod, he said, “It's going to cost you about $3000."
"I see. About the other flight?"
He smiled, revealing perfectly aligned teeth. “In the morning I have a guy who takes this flight twice a week to pick up his kids. He normally flies into Albert Lea, which is about 75 miles south of the Twin Cities. I'm sure I could talk him into going a little out of the way. And, I'm also fairly certain I could do it for the price of fuel. The catch is that it's a smaller plane and will take about an hour longer, plus we aren't leaving till eight a.m.” He eyed her over the top of his Dubois Aviation mug, giving her time to process the information. “That would cost you about five hundred."
"That's quite a difference in price.” She got up and walked to the tiny front window and looked out at the passing traffic, weighing the options. Getting out of town quickly would cost an extra $2500 against a flight with a possibly talkative man who may have watched the local news. On top of that, she'd have to spend another night in a hotel—taking more chances at being recognized. She turned. “I'll leave this afternoon if you don't mind."
Rusty tipped his mug, slurped the remainder of his coffee, shrugged bony shoulders and then pushed his chair behind his desk. “Okay."
"Why the larger plane?"
"Because I'm taking the smaller one on another job at the same time. But, don't worry, Don is quite capable.” He tapped a pencil on his desk calendar. “I can get you into Crystal Airport. It's about ten miles outside the city. I need some time to prepare and file a flight plan and all that. Do you want a rental car waiting? Or a cab? I can make those arrangements for you."
"That would be nice. A cab, that is. What time should I return?"
Rusty pulled up a plaid sleeve and glanced at his watch for several seconds, rotating a finger above it. “Let's see. What about noon? That'll get you there three, three-thirty."
"Do you want money now?"
"It would save time later on."
Paige pulled a wad from her purse, felt to be sure Stefano's precious gold coin was still inside the zippered pouch, and counted out the right number of bills.
* * * *
Paige stood in the doorway of the Cessna in the Minneapolis suburb of Crystal, Minnesota. Unlike that of larger airports, the air was clear, cold, and clean, devoid of the ever-present aroma of jet fuel, exhaust, and reverberations from giant turbine engines.
"Have a good flight?” asked Don, from behind, causing her to start and drop the book.
He picked it up and handed it to her. The book was nearly invisible in his huge paw. Noticing the title he remarked, “I've read this. Good book."
"Actually, it's yours. I found it under one of the seats and was reading it during the flight. I hadn't realized I'd stolen it."
"By all means take it. Do you read a lot?"
"Constantly."
"Me too. I always have two or three going at the same time."
"I have to read one at a time.” She stepped down onto the tarmac and gazing around.
"Beautiful place isn't it?"
"Yes,” she agreed, but wondered what it was he deemed beautiful. From this vantage point, all she saw was a dirt runway leading to a pine treed horizon, a terminal the size of Paige's old gardening shed and a bright red taxi.
Don carried her bags toward the building.
"Are you headed straight back to Kansas City?” she asked.
"After I get something to eat. Care to have lunch with me? There's this great diner about three blocks from here."
"That would be very nice. Thanks for asking, but I can't."
"They have the worlds’ best roast beef sandwiches.” He put an enticement in his tone.
"Thanks, but there's something very important I have to do."
"That right?” His eyebrows made an upside down V. “It's right next door to a book store,” he lured again.
"I don't think so."
"Pablo's serves the best roast beef sandwiches."
"Roast beef at a place called Pablo's?"
"Yeah, but he calls them burritos."
"So, what's the name of the book store—Appliances R Us?"
"Something like that."
They shared a laugh.
"That's my cab,” Paige said. “Thanks for everything."
"Enjoy the city."
Before climbing into the waiting cab, Paige glanced around for red sweat-shirted women, albinos, yellow tractor-trailers, and wine aficionados, wondering where all of them were, if not stationed outside this airport in what must be the windiest city in the world.
A woman of considerable bulk wrestled herself from behind the wheel and opened the trunk. Seeing Paige's meager luggage, she slammed the trunk and threw open the rear passenger door. “Where y’ headed?"
Paige balanced her bags on the seat beside her. “Can you just drop me downtown?"
"No place in particular?"
"Downtown."
The cab shot off with a lurch, wrenching Paige's head backwards, an acute reminder of her injured ribs. Not that the ribs hurt much any more, but memories of that morning were still very vivid. She wondered if Chris had seen—and recognized—her face on television. No need to think about that. He was gone from her life for good.
She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand and busied herself looking at the Lakeland Avenue scenery. Paige's knowledge of Minneapolis was restricted to reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore Show at three in the morning whe
n she couldn't sleep for wondering where Stefano was.
Stefano's job wasn't one that Paige could ask about, like a normal housewife. 'Hi, honey, how was your day?'
'Oh, the usual, I sent Carlo out to break the legs of a bar owner whose protection money was late. And I chaired a meeting to expand operations in Miami.’ Then he'd give a cackling laugh. ‘There's another don moving in on our territory.'
'That's nice, dear.'
Skyscrapers, paltry compared to New York City, lined the boulevard, their canopied entranceways jutted across the sidewalks like commas in a sentence, allowing pedestrians to pass with only a slight deviation in their path. The cab merged up the ramp onto I-394.
"How far do we have to go?"
"Few minutes. Where you from?"
"Tallahassee recently, Boston originally."
"I've been to Tallahassee. Haven't been to Boston. What's it like?"
Paige leaned forward, trying to see the top of the State Theater Building as she answered the cabby's question, “About the same as here, only older. They've kept the outside of the original buildings intact and redone the interiors. The city is actually quite modern these days, very chic, if you know what I mean."
The driver nodded, her close-cut curls unmoving. “What kinda business you do?"
"I'm a book dealer,” Paige blurted out, not knowing where the words came from.
"I don't read much."
She never would have guessed. The cab headed slowly along South 8th Street, caught in traffic.
"What's good to do around here?” Paige asked.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"What you like to do, how much you got to do it with. There are amusement parks, zoos..."
"I don't have any kids,” Paige said.
"I guess there's museums and theaters but don't ask me where they are. The Mall of America ain't far from here. That's got ‘bout everything a person could want.” She wound the wheel to the right and slowed in front of a multi-story flat fronted building with a canvas arch over the doorway. “That'll be $18.15."
Paige riffled a few bills and passed them to the driver, who remained behind the wheel.
