Final Masquerade (8 page)

"You've been watching too many gangster movies, my girl. Sit tight. It'll be okay. You'll see.” He pushed the truck another five miles an hour faster and reset the cruise control. “By the way, what's in that bag you're so all-fired determined to protect? Is that why they're after you? That why you were so upset when you thought I'd left you? Gee, and I thought you were worried about my welfare."

Paige thrust the curtains apart and threw herself on the bed.

"Terrific,” Chris murmured. “Spoiled little rich bitch thinks she can run everybody's life."

She buried her head in the soft chenille spread that smelled of fabric softener and aftershave. Paige lay there for a long time, letting the scents calm her. Finally, she sat up. “I told you before, if you know too much, they'll kill you, just like they'll kill me if they catch me. Now, let me off at the next exit. Please, Chris, just do it.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I knew this was a mistake."

He took his foot from the throttle and the drone of the engine increased a notch.

"No! Don't slow down!"

"Tracy, come up here so we can talk. It'll be all right, you have to be patient and see."

All he had to do was wait; he'd see she was right. But she did as he requested. When he was lying in the street with his blood and brains all around him instead of inside, he'd say to himself, gee I wish I listened to her. Paige leaned her head back and stared, unblinking, at the white dotted line. Miles and miles of mesmerizing white lines. Few headlights appeared, no taillights. What it meant was there'd be no one to help when the woman in the red sweatshirt and her cohorts finally caught up with them.

"I didn't make out my log back there."

"So?"

"I was supposed to be sleeping. If we get pulled over, I'm in violation."

"That's the least of your problems right now, don't you think? Are you tired?"

"Couldn't sleep now if I tried.” He chuckled.

"I know the feeling. I've pumped a couple gallons of adrenaline over the past few days."

"Okay, let's look at this from their point of view. They'll think we're in this huge vehicle with nowhere to go but down the highway. People have this impression of a tractor-trailer's size. They're surprised when they see us turn or back up in small places. Anyway, let's take the next exit and see if we can hide this thing. We'll—"

"Where do you hide a big yellow monstrosity like this?” she interrupted.

"In a swarm of bumblebees.” He moved his foot to the clutch and downshifted. The engine's tone raised an octave. “Maybe we can discombobulate them by getting off the highway for a few hours."

"So, you finally acknowledge their existence?"

"I don't know what to think, but I also don't want to take any chances—with our safety or that of my new truck.” Chris down shifted again and steered the semi down the off-ramp. The strident sound of the jake brake echoed in the chamber.

At the bottom, he squinted out the windshield at the road crossing before them. “I've never been here before. Let's try this way.” He swung the big wheel to the right.

In the small village whose name Paige didn't know, Chris pulled into the unlit lot of a repair garage. The yard held mostly cars awaiting service. Near the back were two box trucks. He turned into the lot and swung behind the building. “I'll drop the trailer here between those two and unhitch."

"Sounds like a good plan, but I still think your most logical move would be to drop
me
off. They won't do anything to you or the truck once I'm gone. All you have to do is tell them I ran off without saying where I was going."

He'd started to open his door, but turned back. “And what then, pray tell, will you do?"

"The same thing I'll do somewhere in Virginia, or wherever the hell you said you were headed. I'll get out and find another means of transport."

"And where are you going? Have you thought about that?"

"I've done nothing but think about that. And the answer is, I don't know, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. If you aren't working for them—don't look at me like that. You
might
be one of them. But if you aren't, when they catch up to you and torture you, you won't have anything to tell them."

He laid his lighter on the dash. Ashes dropped from the tip of his cigarette. “Are you planning to run forever? That's what it'll be, you know.” He groped his hand between his crotch and the seat, searching for burning embers.

"What do you suggest I do, go back and face them?"

"Why not go to the authorities?"

"You don't know these people. They have people on their payroll everywhere. And I mean
everywhere
. They even had the coat check lady at the restaurant where I used to have lunch with my friends."

"Girl or boy friends?"

Her reply was a hostile snort.

"Sounds like we're talking the mob, here."

When she didn't reply, he shook his head and continued opening his door. “I'll unhitch the trailer and we'll talk about this in a few minutes. Why don't you brew us some coffee. And, I think there are some cookies or something in the cabinet. Relax, it'll be all right."

"Where have I heard that before?” she muttered to the closed door.

As soon as he disappeared between the tractor and trailer, she collected her baggage from the cabinet, and moved the handle of the door as slowly as she could, until it snicked open. She stepped onto the dimly lit parking lot noting the slight gray tinge of color in the eastern sky.

Not knowing which way to go, like a rat making its way through a maze, Paige started first left, then right, finally hustling across the pavement and into the shadows of some overgrown shrubbery at the boundary to the property. She let out the breath she'd been holding and surveyed the area. Dim streetlights illuminated a span of about two and a half blocks. The street was two lanes with a few cars parked along both sides. Identical single-family row houses on the left indicated this had once been a factory community, complete with tract housing. A few had newly added garages tucked between house and property line. Across the street sat older two-story stuccoed buildings that she assumed were small one-owner businesses, though she couldn't read signs from where she stood.

She strained her eyes to see into the gloom, searching for open doors, windows, or alleyways, which might provide a temporary haven.

"Tracy. Where the hell are you?” Chris called in a loud whisper from the other side of the parking lot.

Paige worked her way into the shrubbery, turning the suitcase and handbag sideways, the branches scratching her forearms and face like a kitten in a litter box. Still as a stone, she waited for him to give up. Sooner or later he'd have to, she knew, recalling his so important schedule.

Paige listened for signs of his whereabouts, eager to be on her way. A vision flashed into her head, of a small house in this one-horse town, with a rose garden and picket fence, of herself in a rocking chair on the porch, living out the remainder of her days quietly tending her flowers and writing her memoirs.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?” came his voice from directly behind.

The rocking chair vision popped like a balloon. She attempted to sprint out of the bushes, but the bags caught in the thick branches.

Now he had her by the arm.

"Let me go,” she hissed.

He rotated her toward him. Her shoes tangled in the thick base of the bushes. He grasped both her arms and propped her on her feet on the lumpy, broken pavement. Even in the faint light, she saw the anger in his eyes, and something else—she wasn't able to determine what before his fingers bit into her upper arms.

"Let me go, you're hurting me."

The fingers relaxed but didn't release her. “Get back in the truck."

The blood rushed to her head and suddenly she felt faint. “Oh God, you
are
one of them. This whole thing was part of their plan, wasn't it? Gain my confidence, so you can..."

Her body slumped and he caught her before she fell. He lowered his head so they were eye to eye, but she twisted her neck to avoid his gaze. His fingers closed around her biceps digging into her flesh, tighter and tighter until she finally looked up again. He bent and feathered warm, soft lips across hers. Every hair on her body quivered alert. She shivered.

The coarse hairs of his mustache tickled as he kissed the corner of her mouth. She shivered again as his lips sought hers. It was like being kissed for the first time. An explosion of something emanated not from her mouth, but her lower region. The blast liquefied her legs.

His tongue probed her lips apart, then traced hers with its searing tip and she went weightless. The scent of cedar wafted like a cloud. Mist dampened her cheeks.

Chris broke the kiss the same time he released the grip on her arms. Her knees buckled and he clutched at her, drawing her tight against him. She felt the ripple of his chest muscles as she laid her head against him. A dog barked somewhere.

No not a dog; something rumbling deep in Chris’ throat. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head. How long they stood that way, she didn't know. Finally he eased her back, waiting this time till her legs held her.

"Come on,” he whispered, “Let's get in the truck."

The mood shattered as the word
prisoner
shot into her head.

She jerked her head back and spit at him. “Do you get paid extra for that?"

Chris wiped the spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand and dropped his arms to his sides. “You know what? You're over the edge. You're so deep into this that you can't see when someone wants to help. Why can't you just trust me?"

"Trust you!” Close by, a dog really did bark. Her lowered voice came like the hiss of a cat. “I trusted a cab driver and he got killed for it.” She jerked away from him. “Don't you understand? I don't want anyone else getting hurt. This is
my
problem. I
won't
have you killed too."

She stopped talking as someone hollered for the dog to be quiet. This time Chris’ hand was gentle on her arm. She didn't fight when he walked her to the tractor, and helped her inside. What would be the point?

She cowered against the door while he backed the truck until its nose was even with the other two vehicles at the rear of the lot. Paige swiped the palm of one hand across her face and realized what she'd thought was mist, was tears.

Chris climbed into his seat, then reached across. He didn't touch her. “I figure we have a few hours before they get wise.” He gestured her into the bunk area and onto a plaid upholstered cushion at a small dinette.

While he made coffee, Paige stared at the striped pattern on the miniscule curtain, following the simplistic pattern of navy blue as it crossed the green and yellow.

He turned worried eyes on her every now and then, which she pretended to ignore. When the coffee was ready he filled two Styrofoam cups.

"Do you take milk and sugar?"

When she didn't respond, he added some milk and a spoon of sugar to each cup and placed them opposite each other on the compact table. He sat. “All right. What are we going to do?"

She rolled her eyes in his direction, although she couldn't raise them any higher than the hollow spot at the base of his neck. He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table and tapped one into his hand. “Don't make me have to get rough with you again,” he warned.

Paige couldn't help grinning. She took a sip of coffee and swallowed. “Anyone ever tell you how dumb you are?"

"More than once. Now, I figure they're going to assume we're making a run for it. If we sit here a few hours it'll give whomever's chasing you time to get ahead of us."

"What about your schedule?"

He waved a hand, the cigarette gripped between two fingers. A wad of ash dropped onto the table and he absently swept it into his hand then cast it into the ashtray. “I'll call my dispatcher and tell them I'm having a problem with the truck. My load won't spoil, it's not like I'm hauling oranges or anything. At nine, we'll head out and get back on Route 40."

She nibbled the corner of a chocolate chip cookie.

"Okay?"

"I'm not going to agree to anything. I am not your responsibility and—"

"I
accept
the responsibility. Let me worry about it, all right? No more bullshit!"

"You sure are bossy."

"That's what my ex-wife said too."

"What time is it?"

"About five-fifteen."

"My how time flies ... Don't forget to call your dispatcher."

"Later."

"If you do it now, you won't forget."

He patted his jeans pocket. “I have the phone, I'll do it while I'm checking the truck.” He slipped outdoors.

Paige rinsed the coffeepot and stowed the bag of cookies in a cabinet. She opened the drawer to put away the spoons. Realizing she had the wrong drawer, she slid it shut, but not before spotting Chris’ cell phone on top of some personal papers.

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"Eleven a.m., record time.” Chris held a match to his cigarette and puffed deeply. He held the pack out to her, but her scowl made him draw it back. “You ever been here before?"

Paige rubbed heavy-lidded eyes and peered out the window at the cottonwoods and willows surrounding the parking lot. “Looks exactly like—what was the name of the last place—Jamestown? So, unless you made a wrong turn somewhere, I guess whether I've been here or not depends on where we are."

"Amarillo."

"Ah, no, I've never been here before. I have been to Texas though. We took the Lear to see Itzhak Perlman at the Houston Symphony."

"Down in the Theater District,” he said, probably to prove he hadn't spent his entire life in this truck. “I'm not big on that kind of stuff. Come on, I'm famished. And after we eat, I've got to get some sleep."

"We're staying here—at the truck stop?"

"I think it would be the safest thing to do. If you want to hide a match, put it in a matchbox. Come on, we'll get a room. Get some real sleep for a change. Besides, I'd love a shower and I have plenty of laundry to do."