Final Masquerade (13 page)

Paige flushed the toilet and went to the sink where she'd propped her suitcase and handbag. She drew out the auburn wig; its thick elastic cap was crumpled and looked very uncomfortable. With great effort, she changed clothes, removing the bloodstained pink blouse and replacing it with the blue striped sweater. Unable to bend enough to change her pants, she hoped the alterations would be enough to disguise her appearance from the waiting cabbie. She fitted the wig on her head, tucking her dark tresses underneath. Even through the smudges on the mirror she looked wan and tired.

Paige latched the suitcase and jammed the blouse into the bottom of the overflowing metal barrel under oily rags and damp paper towels.

A knock sounded on the wood raised panel door. “Madam, are you all right? Should I call for help?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine. I'll be out in a few minutes.” She unlatched and pulled open the door.

The driver stood to the right, leaning against the wall. As the door opened, he came erect, his face looked concerned. He didn't recognize her.

"She's all right,” Paige said, hoping he didn't recognize the case as the one he'd set on his back seat a half hour ago. “Just getting cleaned up. You know us women."

She reassured him with a smile and stepped away. “She'll be out in a moment.” She left, praying she didn't walk as bent over as she felt.

A block down the street, she ducked between a pair of brick buildings and leaned on the cool brick, waiting for the throbbing in her ribs to subside. She slipped one of the packets of painkiller from her pocket and downed the tablets dry. Resting her head against the wall, she tried to settle on her next move. She estimated she had about an hour before Chris realized she had given him the slip. She hoped he'd shrug his shoulders and go back to his own routine, but she knew better. For one reason or another, Chris had attached himself to her.

Heaving aside the idea of calling another cab, fearful that the same cab driver would arrive to pick her up, she began to regret her decision not to go to the shelter. Neither the nurse nor the doctor would divulge the address, eager to do their good deed in protecting an abused female.

Not for the first time that week, she wondered what she'd gotten herself into.

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Exhaustion settled over her like smog. She sank slowly and painfully to the damp ground. Legs propped protectively over her suitcase, the purse behind her head, Paige slept.

When she woke, her first impression was that it was still night. Thick clouds had dropped over the mountains casting a dull, lifeless light over the alley. Her Timex told her it was nearly eight a.m. Paige slammed her fist on the suitcase between her legs; Chris must be scouring the town searching for her.

Her clothes were damp and stuck to her aching body in all the wrong places. She tiptoed to the back of the alley looking for a place where she could change. The dark space converged in a small courtyard shared by several apartment buildings and businesses. To the right, aluminum trash barrels overflowed with putrid trash. To the left was a dumpster heaped high with broken-down cardboard boxes. Overloaded clotheslines crisscrossed overhead like thick white spider webs.

Moments later, she hurried of the alley wearing a blue and black flower print skirt and blue peasant blouse. Her suitcase held a second new outfit, and the first floor apartment's clothesline now sported blue jeans and a bloody short-sleeve sweater. Paige clenched one arm around her bandaged rib cage; the other gripped the handle of the suitcase. It had begun to rain, a light precipitation that obscured her vision and chilled the air.

At the end of the block, Paige turned left, the smell of fresh brewed coffee and the need to get out of the rain, drawing her like a bumblebee to a rose. The restaurant was New England rustic with exposed hand hewn beams and raw wood paneling. The booths, sparsely filled this early, were bench style, the tables wide, irregularly shaped pine slabs. Lush green plants lined every available sill and shelf, bestowing private, quiet locations for romantic country dinners. The lighting was subdued and soothing. Oil wicked candles flickered at the back of each table, casting a yellow orange glow that was barely enough to read the menu by.

The menu was hand written, each dish personally named by a member of the restaurant staff. Donna's Delight was described as a ‘hearty three egg omelet oozing with aged Vermont cheddar cheese'. Gary's House Special was flapjacks doused in Vermont maple syrup and served with slices of Canadian bacon. The images literally made Paige's mouth water.

The youthful waiter wore creased blue jeans and a tan T-shirt sporting the restaurant logo. He delivered her mandarin orange tea to the table in a thick ceramic mug along with a wooden board holding thin slices of lemon, a stainless steel container of cream, and tiny wicker basket of sweeteners.

"Good Morning. And how are we today?"

"I don't know about you,” she replied, “but I feel as though I've been both shaken
and
stirred."

While Paige opened sugar packets and stirred them into her tea, the waiter gave a detailed description of the morning's specials, but she barely heard, unable to erase the thoughts of the Vermont cheddar omelet from her mind's eye.

She waited for her breakfast sipping tea leaned back against the hard, but somehow comfortable, wood booth. She closed her eyes and allowed the homey aromas of coffee and bacon to overwhelm her senses. She opened her eyes in response to some motion that turned out to be the waiter sliding her breakfast across the table.

"Careful, ma'am, the plate is hot. Could I bring you a fresh tea bag?"

"Thank you, that would be nice."

Paige eyed the enormous plate before her. What space that wasn't taken by the huge egg concoction and brown circles of bacon, was filled with deep fried country potatoes drenched in some mysterious red seasoning. She cut a forkful of the omelet and prepared to be transported to food nirvana. She closed her eyes, chewed, and swallowed.

The next time she looked up, she realized the waiter had settled a customer diagonally across and a few booths from her. With his back to her, she couldn't tell what he looked like, except that he was dark and wearing dark colors. The dim lighting cast lightly dancing shadows across the wood decor. She watched the waiter bring coffee and take the customer's order.

Paige prepared another cup of tea, stirring the cream thoughtfully, planning her day as if she was an ordinary housewife preparing to clean house and pick children up at school.

The waiter arrived carrying the customer's breakfast, a tall stack of pancakes and beaker of syrup. Paige's taste buds watered at the thought of freshly made maple syrup, one of the few things Paige had enjoyed at the Bryn Mawr girls’ school in Pennsylvania.

She finished the last of her potatoes and glanced once again at the customer across the aisle, engrossed in his breakfast. When finished, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat. Paige wished she'd sat in a no-smoking section. The man's hand lowered to rest on the table, holding the cigarette between second and third fingers!

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Paige swallowed hard to keep her breakfast from coming up. Her heart hammered against her aching ribs, creating waves of heat and sweat from head to toe. She looked desperately for a means of escape. Behind her booth were two more, and then a solid wall. No ladies room, no open window. Trapped.

She held her breath as he signaled for more coffee. The waiter refilled Chris’ mug and turned toward her. “More tea, ma'am?"

Chris swiveled in his seat to see who the waiter was addressing. Paige's heart stopped. Chris’ face was in complete shadow so she couldn't see his reaction, but his body language remained steady. He showed no sign of recognition.

She willed herself to shake her head in response to the waiter's question, desperate for them both to turn away. What morbid twist of fate brought him here? He wouldn't recognize her. He'd never seen this wig or clothes.

Maybe she could waltz right past him.

Her thoughts were dashed when she remembered her suitcase. Chris had handled it, had seen it up close numerous times. By now, he might even know what was inside. She could leave the case here and come back for it later. But, what if it was gone when she returned?

The waiter brought Chris’ check. He stood up, pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his Levis and tossed a few bills on the table. She held her breath as he retucked his shirt, straightened the hem of his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and plucked at the ends of his mustache.

He was so handsome: tall and strong, polite and caring. And he probably worked for Stefano.

Chris picked up the check and the money, examined them and then added another bill. Unable to hold it any longer, Paige let a tiny breath escape. He took one step away from his table, turned and smiled at her. She met his gaze for a split second, willing him to get the hell out of there.

When he finally did, her dilemma increased triple fold. Had he recognized her? Was that smile intended as a challenge? Would he be waiting outside?

If so, would he be at the back or front door? The last time she'd attempted an escape, he'd guessed she'd leave through a back door. Should she now walk straight out the front, or would he assume she learned from the previous experience?

Paige dropped her head onto her hands, elbows on the hard table, feeling the pull of the Ace bandage.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?"

"Yes, actually. That man who was just here, he's been following me. I thought I got away, but...” She fumbled with her napkin and dabbed a corner in one eye.

"I think I can help you."

She raised hopeful eyes to the young man, threw a twenty on the table, and gathered her bags together. He led her through the immaculate kitchen and down a narrow, dark hallway, to a heavy door. The iron latch grated when he lifted it, revealing another long hallway, this one dimly lit with recessed lighting along one wall.

"This is the building next to the restaurant. Donna owns both of them. She rents the bottom floor to a small publishing company and a guy who sells tobacco. She lives upstairs. You can go out this way."

Paige followed him to the far end, where he opened a solid metal door. Outside, it looked to be the opposite end of the block from either of the restaurant's exits.

She planted a quick kiss on the man's cheek. “You're a life saver.” She stepped into the rain and waved her thanks to the waiter, who'd already disappeared.

She found herself on a small side street, one block off the main drag. Traffic oozed past in the distance with much less fanfare and impatience than back in Barstow. To the east, the mountains were a mere darker shadow amid the heavy clouds over the tops of the buildings, which were several stories shorter than the ones in either Barstow or Fresno.

Torn between a need to stay on the main route and watch for Chris’ big yellow bumblebee and trying to keep out of sight, she elected to follow Burnett Street, which ran parallel to the main street. Here she could watch for the truck from the cross streets and contemplate what to do next.

Burnett was lined with elderly shade trees. Through the years, the heavy roots had grown up, bending and twisting the narrow tar sidewalk like a contortionist. Paige had to step carefully over fallen chestnuts and acorns. Though the worst of the rain didn't penetrate the thick treetops, large drops often plopped on top of her head or down the back of her shirt. She found herself wishing once again for a jacket. The street was densely populated with Victorian style tenement buildings whose driveways wound between the trees. Most of the homes were well kept, with neatly trimmed lawns, free of rubbish and toys. Mid-sized, mid-priced automobiles without dents or rust, attested to some measure of job prosperity in the area.

Maybe she should settle here, buy a little house, restyle and dye her hair, kick her shoes off, and set a spell. She could lose herself here, breathing in the clean smog-free air.

After several blocks, she realized she hadn't been able to reach a decision about her future, that the idea of living here in Fort Smith was probably not a good one, although she didn't know exactly why. No one would expect her to put down roots in a place like this.

Walking along the unpretentious street, though calming and stress free, didn't lend inspiration to forward thinking either. She made her way back to the main road, ever alert for ominous looking strangers. Maybe she should find a travel agency, bus, or railroad station.

She walked as close as she dared to people, occasionally receiving uncomfortable sidelong glances. She hid the suitcase on the side of herself closest to the buildings, peering into windows, searching for anything to give her a clue to what to do next. Forcing back tears of isolation and loneliness, Paige trudged on, each consecutive block further testament to what she'd done.

Paige passed an exterminator whose sign featured a large purple cockroach with the name Roaches ‘R Us emblazoned across it in gold letters. She shuddered at the extreme detail of the insect. It seemed as though the smell of bug killer permeated the very walls of the building.

Next door, a hair salon named Armand's was just opening for business. A purple-haired effeminate man unlocked the doors. He threw her a welcoming smile at first, then an oblique glance at her disheveled appearance.

Beside Armand's were a bank and an interior decorator, a florist and a travel agency. Paige gazed longingly at colorful posters of Rome, Paris and Brussels. She nearly went inside and purchased a ticket, but pushed aside thoughts of international travel, at least for the time being. She hadn't brought her passport. Besides, Stefano would expect her to escape to Europe. He owned several homes abroad and knew that she knew her way around. The organization's arms stretched around the globe, more so to Europe and overseas than in smaller towns in the Midwest. She stood a better chance of gaining permanent freedom if she stayed within certain boundaries, boundaries he'd never expect her to cross.