Final Masquerade (7 page)

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 having 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?"

"Don't look, but it's the woman at the end of the counter."

Chris lowered his head and rolled his eyes in that direction. He whispered, “What makes you think she's following you?"

"Please, just go get my suitcase. I'll make a production out of going to the bathroom."

"I know what you're planning and it won't work. She's a woman and will follow you right in there."

"What do I do then?” Paige asked the question before recalling she hadn't planned on trusting anybody.

"Let me think a second.” He twirled the tip of his mustache. Under his breath he muttered, “How the hell did they find you?"

"Had to be that evil waitress back in Barstow."

Chris laughed. “She's not evil. She just has a crush on me."

"Yes, but if the people following me asked her, she'd sure as hell tell them.” She laughed nervously. “She'd probably offer to escort them here."

He gave a tight smile. “Okay, here's what we do. We fake an argument, loud so everyone hears. There's a bank of pay phones behind the gift shop.” He motioned slightly with his head. “Pretend to call a cab. She'll probably follow and listen in. Make sure she overhears you tell them you want to go to—how about north, to Farmington? Then say you'll meet the taxi out front in fifteen minutes. I'll storm out and get into the truck. You make it look like you're going to the ladies’ room. She won't follow because she knows you're waiting for the cab. Go past the ladies’ room door and sneak out the service entrance. I'll drive the truck around and pick you up. I'll go real slow making it look like I'm just passing through. The door will be open. You hop in as I pass. Okay?"

"Tracy Wilson, stuntwoman.” Paige laid her head down on folded arms. Her shoulders heaved.

Chris reached across the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “It'll work, trust me."

She threw his hand off. “Don't try to make up to me after what you just said. What makes you think you can talk to me that way? Damn men. You're all alike.” She rose, tipping over her coffee with an elbow. She slammed her purse on her shoulder and stormed to the bank of telephones at the far end of the building.

He stood quickly, mopping at the hot beverage, calling, “Tracy, don't, please. I'm sorry."

She ignored him.

"Come on, I said I was sorry."

By that time, all eyes were on the couple, some on Paige who was thumbing angrily through a phone book; some on Chris who pitched some bills on the table and marched toward the exit. As he passed the row of phones, he sneered at her back, “Fine! Run home to Momma. See if I care."

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Paige didn't look back as she passed the ladies’ room door and marched down a hallway marked Employees Only. She opened the service entrance door far enough to slither out into the shadowy parking lot. She leaned all her weight against the knob-less door, hoping to stifle the course of the woman in the red sweatshirt while she caught her breath.

That's when a new worry struck: what if Chris didn't come? Her precious bag of money was still in the cabinet of the bumblebee yellow truck. If he drove off there would be nothing she could do. How could she be so stupid?

The clatter of a slow moving diesel engine separated from the hundreds of others, and broadcasted itself around the building. She took a few steps and peered around the corner.

The sound of the knob turning from behind made her stiffen. Where the hell was Chris? Not coming, that's where.

Paige slipped into a narrow niche between the outdoor walk-in cooler and the building and squinted into the deep shadows as the door opened. A hand used the wall for support and a dark head with indistinguishable features poked outside. It moved back and forth like one of those dog ornaments in car rear windows.

As the nose of a truck appeared at the corner, the head leaned further out, its shoulders and upper torso following. From her vantage point Paige still could not determine so much as the sex of the person in the doorway. Paige willed the person back inside, but he or she seemed intent on discovering the identity of the truck working its way around the building at a snail's pace, in a place where few trucks came.

Paige took a step forward without actually moving her upper body, preparing to run, knowing it might be the death of her, and possibly Chris too. Tremors shook her body as the big yellow truck passed, Chris’ frown clearly defined as he leaned out the open window. He waved to the person in the doorway, a wave that was a beckoning motion. He thought it was her, and was wondering why she didn't come running.

Paige leaned forward, stepping slightly out of the shadows, hoping he would notice her, but his eyes were glued to the doorway, on the person who neither waved back nor walked forward.

Tears came to Paige's eyes as she watched her ride, and her cash, lumber away. The door clicked shut as the person, evidently satisfied, went back inside.

Paige fell back against the cool brick wall, wrapping her arms around her trembling body, tears streaming down her cheeks. What now? She'd have to beg, borrow and steal her way out of Stefano's life. A few days ago, this had seemed like such a good idea, but all it had caused was trouble—for her, and for Habib.

"Hey, are you coming?” The voice interrupted her regrets and she opened her eyes. Chris leaned out the window and slapped his palms on the door, the sound barely audible over the rumble of the engine.

Paige heaved a sigh and swiped both hands across her face several times as she ran around the front of the truck, grabbed the bottom of the mirror support and heaved up onto the footrest. Chris had already unlatched the door, and she practically fell onto the seat, the aroma of that truck and his aftershave the best things she'd ever smelled. More tears rolled down her cheeks. She kept her face turned toward the window as though watching for the woman in the red sweatshirt.

"What happened? Who was that in the doorway? At first I thought it was you, but you didn't come out."

"I couldn't tell who it was."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

Chris banged his palm on the center of the steering wheel. “Well I'll be hanged. You thought I was leaving you here."

She rose and went into the bunk area, unrolled a wad of paper towels, wiped her face and blew her nose.

"Get back out here. I want to talk to you."

She obeyed, still keeping her face averted as she buckled herself in the seat.

"You thought I'd leave you after what we went through to get you out of there? I'll have you know, my reputation in that place is mud now. I used to get Five Star treatment. Now I'll be like O.J."

"Drop me off at the next exit."

He tossed a cigarette butt out the window. “Why?” Receiving no reply he continued, “We gave them the slip. It's over. Relax."

"It's not over.” It'll never be over. Paige stared at the black highway, mesmerized by the rhythmic flickering of oncoming headlights reflecting through center jersey barriers. She leaned forward and checked the side mirror, but couldn't see behind them. She finally spoke her thoughts out loud. “It'll never be over."

"I get it. When they realize the cab isn't coming, they'll know you—"

"The cab is coming. I
did
call one. I thought it would give us a little extra time, but after it waits a few minutes tooting its ass off, the lady in the red sweatshirt will know something's up. Then she'll come looking for me. Maybe she already did. That was probably her in the doorway. One way or the other, it won't be long before she's either in a vehicle right behind us, or on the phone to her backup."