Final Masquerade (30 page)

She set the cat carrier on the floor. Spirit, knowing she was home, asked to be released from her chamber. Paige didn't acknowledge Spirit's meows as she cautiously inspected the apartment. Nothing looked disturbed. No one had been here. Hopefully.

A rush of sadness engulfed her when she spotted her books, neatly arranged on a shelf beside the dining table. The attachment she'd formed for some of her belongings was something she'd never felt before.

The bathroom was as she'd left it. So was the bedroom. The quilt was still balled inside a black trash bag on the floor of the closet. She fingered the cotton fabric, recalling the time she'd spent selecting the pattern and colors, the attention she'd put into sewing the small pieces together, the care she'd taken to make all the quilted stitches the same size. Paige buried her face in the material, then placed it back into the bag and laid it lovingly on the closet floor.

The low hum of the elevator penetrated the apartment walls. Swallowing hard, Paige ran to the living room and got the cat, ran back to the bedroom and crowded into her closet, wishing she had her huge wardrobe from the Santa Barbara house to hide behind.

The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose at the sound of the elevator doors whooshing open. Spirit meowed. Paige shushed her and put two fingers through the bars on the carrier, scratching whatever fur was closest.

Paige waited, listening for the elevator doors to close and whir its way down, but they didn't. Had someone propped it open for a quick getaway? Minutes passed. No sound from the elevator. No sounds in her apartment.

After the longest half hour of her life, Paige crept from the closet, tiptoeing along the hallway, the bright sun not seeming to know—or care—that her world was falling apart. She poked her head around the corner. The living room was empty, the hall door firmly locked. Feeling paranoid, Paige tiptoed to the desk where she rescued the address book from the drawer in the telephone table. Harry's card was in the binding where she'd put it. She put the book into her purse, picked up the cat, and hurried to the door.

"Damn.” She put the cat down, went to the closet, and retrieved the quilt. She added the quilt pattern book to the bag, grabbed the cat, and peeked into the hallway.

The elevator door was indeed propped open. The hairs on her arms stood at attention once again. She ran down the long, wide hall, to the freight elevator. She punched the button with her elbow and retreated into a corner to wait for it to hum its way to the twelfth floor. Sweat popped out over every inch of her body. Her eyes never left the lighted numbers above the other elevator.

"Spirit, what the hell do we do now?"

Afraid to hail a cab—as if there were any cabs to hail in this weather—Paige sprinted most of the way back to her hotel. She released the confused cat from the cage and sat on the bed. Then, unmindful of all Harry's warnings—well, they hadn't done much good anyway—dialed his number.

A woman's voice announced the number she'd dialed and told her something she'd already deduced, no one was there to take her call. Where the hell was Harry?

Paige thumbed through the yellow pages and dialed once more. “Hello, Crystal Airport?"

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The Cessna rumbled to a halt at the airport in Springfield, Vermont. Once again, Paige had been the only one on the plane, so she'd taken Spirit from the carrier. The had cat settled in her lap, curled in a round ball. Paige shivered as she looked out the tiny plane window. Shoulder high snowbanks lined the runway. In the distance, tiers of mountains, black this time of year, with white tops edged the sky. The mood created by the gray sky exactly mirrored her own.

She sighed, coaxed the cat back into the cage, slung her purse over her shoulder, and stepped into the cold Vermont winter.

This time, with absolutely no plan or thought of what to do next, Paige stood on the narrow, cracked sidewalk outside the terminal. The wind whistled across the parking lot, picking up speed after it cleared the Green Mountains, crashing into the stand of pines and hardwoods to the east, causing them to carom against each other. She fought back tears as the feeling of isolation and loneliness assailed her once again.

"Dear, can we help you?” came a squeaky, elderly voice.

Paige readjusted her grip on Spirit's cage and turned to see a tiny white-haired couple standing before her. “Excuse me?"

"You look positively forlorn. We wondered if there was something we might do for you,” said the woman. “Didn't we, Abner?"

The spindly little man transferred his pipe to one corner of his mouth before replying, “Hrmph."

"Oh, Abner, how many times have I asked you not to talk with that damned pipe in your mouth?” She turned to Paige. “I'm sorry, dear. After fifty-two years, you'd think he'd know how I feel about that."

Spirit meowed. Paige forced a smile.

"Is someone supposed to be picking you up?” the woman asked, handing her overnight bag to her husband.

"Yes, er, no, I intended to surprise my family. I sort of expected a larger airport and a line of waiting taxicabs."

"Not likely around here,” Abner scoffed.

"Is there someone you can call for a ride, dear?"

"Yes.” Paige retraced her steps into the building. She could feel the couple's eyes watching as she found a pay telephone. She lifted the receiver, put some coins into the slot and then dialed.

Paige let Harry's phone ring ten times. She laid the receiver down. Where was he? Why didn't his machine pick up?

"No one home?"

Paige started.

"I'm sorry to frighten you, dear. We're the Peterson's, by the way. Abner and Hester. Abner and I just couldn't leave unless we knew you were all right."

"You mean
you
wouldn't leave,” Abner mumbled.

"I'll be just fine. I appreciate your concern,” Paige said.

"Didn't anyone answer?” Hester asked.

"It was busy. I'll just call back in a few minutes."

"Where are you headed?"

"North."

"Is there somewhere we might drop you, dear? We're headed north, aren't we Abner?"

"Yes. But only as far as White River Junction."

"Come, dear. Don't fret,” Hester said, placing a wrinkled hand on Paige's sleeve. “We'll take you to White River."

"That's more than kind of you,” Paige said. “I can call my family from there."

"Don't you worry—"

"They have phones in White River, Hester."

"Abner, stop being so rude to the young lady. It's Christmas."

Paige followed them across the packed snow covering the parking lot. A few cars were parked facing a chain-link fence that outlined one of the dirt runways at this small privately owned airport.

"I'm Cassidy Larson,” Paige said.

"Nice to meet you.” Hester said. “We've just flown in from Dallas. We could've flown into the Lebanon, New Hampshire airport. It's much closer to where we're going, but Abner had a run-in with one of the—"

"Hester, take this while I get the keys,” Abner interrupted.

The couple's car was a new model Chrysler Concorde with Vermont tags and a heavy coating of ice. Abner pressed the button on his remote door opener and started toward the driver's side.

"Abner,” came Hester's irritated squeak.

Abner sighed, walked around the car and held the door for her. Hester settled into her seat. Abner pointedly ignored Paige as she reached for the rear passenger door handle. Abner steered the car north on Route 91, at no more than forty-five miles-per-hour. The interstate meandered along the westerly shore of the Connecticut River, the dividing line between the Green Mountain State of Vermont and the White Mountain State of New Hampshire.

"Have you ever been to Vermont, dear?"

"No."

"Isn't the view beautiful?"

"Yes,” Paige answered. Spirit meowed.

"Can't you see the girl doesn't want to chat, Hester?"

"I was trying to cheer her up."

While Hester and Abner bickered, Paige stared out the window. The river flowed rapidly southward. Whitecaps tumbled over each other and onto the broken chunks of ice carried from northern locations. On the New Hampshire side, white-topped, naked black deciduous trees and bright evergreens peppered the landscape as far as she could see. Closer, wild rhododendrons and scrub pines bowed under the weight of the previous night's coating of snow that dropped like A-bombs as the wind rippled up the tunnel formed by the surrounding woodlands. She sighed, leaned her head against the chilly window, and closed her eyes.

"Can't you do something to shut that cat up?” Abner growled.

Paige opened her eyes.

Hester said, “Why don't you just let her out of the box, dear?"

"Cats!"

"Abner. It's a well-known fact that cats don't like to ride. Don't you remember our Parsley?” Hester craned her neck toward the back seat. “Every time we took her to the vet she did the same thing. Meowed and howled the whole way. The first time was the worst. We didn't have a carrier for her and she hid under the seat. My word what a..."

Hester's voice droned as Paige undid the latch on the cage. The cat burst from her den and stood on her mistress’ lap blinking. She put her front feet on the windowsill and looked out, then back at Paige as if asking what the hell was going on. Paige scratched Spirit's chin and eased her down into her lap.

"Look, isn't that pretty?” Hester pointed at the twenty-foot high ledges on the opposite side of the southbound lane. Mountains dynamited to make room for multi-lane highways left ragged edged rock surfaces. Open springs that trickled year round had frozen into wonderful warped bergs that glistened and shone pastel blue in the daylight.

"Where do you want me to let you out?” Abner asked, negating Paige's need for a reply concerning the beauty of the scenery.

"Abner!"

"No, no, that's all right,” Paige replied, more than happy to part from this fussy couple. “Would you mind dropping me at that bus station you mentioned?"

"Not at all,” said the disagreeable Abner.

Paige, after receiving a good-bye hug and hearty Merry Christmas from Hester, ducked her head against the harsh whistling wind and stepped inside the White River Junction, Vermont restaurant/terminal. It was crowded and noisy, a place she could get lost. She grabbed a printed schedule from a rack on the counter and took the last remaining booth. She pushed the carrier across the vinyl bench, then slid in next to it.

The waitress took her order of coffee and eggs. Paige sipped at the coffee and let Spirit nibble some eggs through the bars of the carrier, then pushed the rest around with her fork as she read the schedule and compared it to the tiny map. Paige's finger rested on the name of a town. That's where they'd get off. Brandon. She liked the name. If she ever had a son, Paige thought she'd name him that. Then she laughed out loud. Some joke. She'd never have a son if every man she met worked for Stefano Santangelo.

The next departing bus was headed for Middlebury with a stop in the city of Rutland about mid-way. Paige wiped a stray tear on her sleeve, rose, and went to book a seat.

The bus rumbled west on Route 4, past Killington Mountain, where snowflakes sprinkled downward. The people on the ski slopes were little dots, like ants scurrying downhill intent on some morsel of food at the bottom. The bus roared past a string of strip malls and shopping. Parking lots were jammed with bargain hunters. Paige closed her eyes to it all, probing her fingers through the bars on Spirit's carrier, feeling the soft fur of the cat, who'd finally settled down.

After a short stopover in Rutland, a bustling community of eighteen thousand people, they turned north on Route 7, narrower than its predecessor, but apparently just as well traveled. The two lane highway was snow covered and slick. The bus’ tires made whooshing sounds as it slogged its way north. Although it was late afternoon the dense cloud cover cast an early morning aura over the landscape. Dark mountains towered on both sides of the road. Paige leaned back on the headrest and watched the landscape blur past. Small businesses were scattered between ranch-style homes and antique farmhouses, some in operation, some keeling over, alone, unused. She sighed. Just like her.

A deer and yearling fawn, whose spots were beginning to fade, streaked across the spikes of an old cornfield. The scent of manure wafted into the bus. Without lifting her head, Paige squinted through the now-driving snow, scanning the area for the source of the smell, and spotted the farm tractor chugging along the frozen field to the left.

A sign signaled their arrival in Brandon, a quaint looking town chartered in 1761. She gazed out the window at the boxy Colonial and Victorian style homes. Some had picket fences, some had garages, but all had waist-high snow banks lining driveways and paths. A quiet, unassuming air hung over the place, like the aroma of fresh brewed coffee on a Saturday morning.

Paige rose and called to the driver. “Please stop. I need to get off."

"What?” he called over his shoulder.

She hurried up the aisle and leaned down so he could hear. “Please stop. I need to get off."

"That's not on my route."

"Just stop, please."

"Okay, okay.” He downshifted and slowed at Route 7's intersection with Route 73 in the center of town.

Paige retrieved her bags and the cat. The other riders groaned as the driver eased the bus to a cautious halt and opened the door.

"It's okay folks, we're only stopping for a second. The lady wants to get off.” He said it as though no one had ever made that request before.

Paige nodded to him, climbed down the three steps, and sloshed into another life.

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Paige lowered her head to the driving snowstorm and plodded from the middle of the intersection to the sidewalk beneath a tall, flat-fronted building set between a myriad of others. The Brandon Inn, a towering unfriendly looking place.

Across the street she spotted an information booth. A yellow light glowed from the small square of window. Slush overflowed the edges of her fur-lined boots, wetting her ankles, melting and dampening the soles of her feet and forcing a tremor right up into her head. She pushed open the blue raised-panel door and stepped inside.