Final Masquerade (4 page)

Paige glanced away, and out the window, at the waning daylight and scenery that, while she'd slept, had changed from lush Fresno green to the vast arid expanse of the Mojave Desert. According to the schedule, they should be less than ten minutes out of Barstow. Another survey indicated two or three empty seats nearby, seats that, by most people's habits, would have been occupied by this albino man who'd opted instead to sit beside her.

"Do you often have bad dreams?” The man's voice was as wispy as his skin and hair.

She didn't reply or even grace him with a smile.

"You nearly flew out of your chair.” He reached across and tapped the cover of her book with a fragile-looking finger. “Planning on buying some land?"

Paige raised her eyes from his finger resting on her book to his face, still not saying a word, but sliding the book away from his touch.

He dropped his hand in his lap. “What's your name?"

She didn't answer, and he waited, stretching out the silence. Paige leaned her head back on the seat and thumped her fingers on the book cover.

"I guess it takes a while to shake off a nightmare. I know it does me. I bet you could use a cup of coffee. Please. Allow me to buy you one when we arrive in Barstow."

No reply.

"Or is it tea you prefer? Oh, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. I am Keith Davenport, born and raised in Fresno. I'm a computer technician for Lanno-Tech Industries. Been with them since ‘68."

Paige lifted her head and aimed a withering look at her seatmate, then whispered using her British dialect. “Well, Mister Davenport, I, Pauline Mason, want to be alone, isolated, detached, by myself—get the picture?"

"Pauline, do they call you Polly? Look, I meant no disrespect. I just..."

She elevated her whisper to a hiss. “Are you deaf or something? I just told you to shut up as nicely as I know how. I don't care how you do it—can it, clam up, hold your tongue, or gag yourself. Just leave me alone."

His eyebrows raised above the horn-rimmed top of his glasses. “Well, you certainly have a rotten bedside manner."

"My bedside manner is something with which you'll never have an acquaintance.” Paige slapped her book into the backpack pocket, set it solidly in her lap, and pointedly stared out the window.

Keith Davenport rose several seconds before the train pulled into the depot and was first in line at the exit door by the time they'd come to a full stop. Paige stood quickly and blended with the other people leaving the train—as inconspicuously as someone with frizzy blonde hair can do. Her eyes darted around, looking for both Mr. Davenport and a ladies room. Spotting the former, she veered left. Unfortunately, there was Davenport too, seated mid-way along a row of freestanding benches between the bathroom and the exit—her only way out. His eyes penetrated her spine as she passed.

She slammed the door of the stall and sat on the toilet, head in her hands. Her stomach growled and she realized it had been a number of hours since she'd eaten. Paige dug into her backpack for a lightweight pink cardigan with black plastic buttons, black stirrup pants, and canvas sneakers, also adding a brunette wig to the ensemble. A dab of pink lipstick and touch of eyeliner completed yet another transformation. She washed her hands and fluffed the long, straight hairdo, then peeked out the door.

In the terminal, Davenport was seated on the same bench, his eyes moving back and forth from the open newspaper in his hands, to the ladies room door.

She pulled open the door and strode past him, then broke into a run. Out on the sidewalk, Paige leaped into a waiting cab ahead of a man dressed in a three-piece suit. As the car sped off, she watched out the back window as Davenport appeared on the sidewalk, waving frantically for a taxi of his own.

"There's a twenty in it for you if you lose that cab,” Paige offered, peering over her shoulder.

The dark-skinned driver grinned. “Yes, missy. Like in the movies. Yes."

"Yes, exactly like that, except don't allow them to catch us."

The cabby's reply was to stomp the gas pedal to the floor. The car shot into traffic, carving its own lane between cars on the avenue. A chorus of honking, hollering, and finger shaking followed them. The cabbie laughed and waved gave a one-finger wave of his own. While the taxi sped through the streets of Barstow, she matched his identification tag, taped securely to the back of the bulletproof partition, with the man driving the car. Habib Farukh appeared to be about twenty years old and of Indian descent, with dark skin, hair, and accent to match.

Several blocks and tire screeching turns later, he announced, “You have no tail, lady."

She grinned and looked back for the hundredth time. “Good job. Now, find me a hotel. Not too expensive. One that has room service."

He made a number of turns away from the main thoroughfares and stopped in front of a white-brick hotel that had seen better days. He raced around to open her door, bowing and gesturing widely toward the entranceway. Paige stood on the cracked sidewalk gazing up at flashing blue neon letters attached between the second floor windows. DAYB EAK HO EL. She sighed.

"Good place for lady with runs,” Habib said. “Clean. Good food."

She nodded. “It'll have to do, won't it?” She unfolded a pair of twenties from a small wad and handed them to the cabbie.

He saluted her as she stepped inside the building. “Take good care, missy."

The lobby fared slightly better than the outside of the establishment. The walls were recently painted beige. The dark green carpet was new. The sofas and armchairs were older styles, but reupholstered in a beige and green floral pattern. At the chest-high counter, Paige dropped her pack on the floor between her feet.

The man who stepped from the adjoining office was round from head to foot. His shiny, bald pate topped an abnormally large, round head. He greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good evening, Madam."

Paige adopted her southern accent. “I'd like a room for the night."

"Single or double?"

"A single. At the front, please."

"I have only one room in front. It's on the second floor, fifty-two dollars for one night. Fifteen percent discount for extra nights.” He tapped the tip of his pencil on the open guest book and edged it toward her.

On the line for her name, she wrote, Scarlett O'Hara, and regretted it immediately. The clerk read what she'd written and a smile broke out on his face. He pointed a finger at her. “Are you...? Oh, my lord. I thought I recognized you when you came through that door."

Paige forced a shy smile and whispered, “Her granddaughter, but I don't like to advertise, honey-pie."

The man's finger went to his lips. “It'll be our little secret."

Paige filled in her address as 600 Tara Boulevard, Atlanta, then rotated the book back to him, adding a fifty and a ten-dollar bill on top of the page.

She glanced around the nearly deserted lobby. “Do you have room service here?"

He nodded then pointed again. “Great restaurant and bar through that door."

Paige flung her pack over her shoulder and started for the other room.

"Should I send someone outside for the rest of your luggage?"

She heaved an exasperated breath. “Stupid airline. Wouldn't y'all know, they shipped it to Paris of all places. Good thing I had this old carryon. It belongs to my nine-year-old, but at least I have a change of clothes."

"Airlines are so undependable. You'd think for the money they get...” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air.

She let a few seconds pass, waiting for him to finish. When he didn't, she said, “Actually, I think they're quite dependable. I can
always
depend on them to lose my luggage."

She left him chuckling at the inane joke, entered the restaurant, and slid onto a stool at the opposite end from a lonely looking man who turned glazed eyes at her arrival. He tipped his glass in her direction, then went back to staring at the bar, tracing a circle in the moisture in front of him. Paige ordered a glass of chilled merlot.

The bartender, a portly, smiling black woman wearing a pink name tag—Dottie—nodded and picked up a stemmed glass and polished it with a rag that had been slung over her shoulder. Her ample rear end was reflected in triplicate in the etched mirror behind the bar.

Paige perused the menu. When Dottie slid a coaster onto the bar and topped it with the glass of wine, Paige asked, “Honey-pie, could you ask your cook to broil me a rib-eye, rare, with Lyonnaise potatoes and a tossed salad? Can you have them send it up to Room 223? Also, coffee and a toasted bagel, no butter at 7:30 a.m."

"Sure, hon. Dressing for the salad?"

"Light Italian, on the side."

"I woulda guessed you'd pick light dressing. How
do
you keep that figure?"

"I guess I'm just on the run all the time.” Paige smiled. “I'll take the rest of that bottle too."

"I'll have them send it up with your dinner. Rough day?"

"You have no idea."

The women traded small talk until Paige's glass was empty. Dottie sipped from a bottle of spring water from under the counter and wiped the heel of a ring-laden hand across her lips. Paige left a tip on the bar, said good night, and headed for the elevator carrying her backpack confidently over one shoulder.

As she passed the desk, the concierge nodded as if they shared a secret, then asked if she'd like someone to show her to her room. “No thanks, honey-pie."

Paige's room had also been recently decorated. Beige appeared to be the color of choice throughout the hotel, but here it was combined with rose and colonial blue. She tossed her bag on the double bed and began to unpack her meager clothing. Making room for all the money didn't leave much room for a trousseau.

After a perfectly broiled steak and lengthy hot shower, Paige spent the evening reading and sipping wine, finishing the bottle around midnight. She wrestled the tiny gold coin from the zippered section of her backpack. She dragged the armchair next to the open window and flopped into it, rolling the coin around and around in her hand, her fingers memorizing the raised gold imprint of a sphinx-like woman and Greek lettering. She held it under the hot bulb in the bedside lamp and frowned. There was nothing special about this coin that she could see. She only knew Stefano had said it was priceless. It must've enraged him to discover it missing.

She stared out at the street below, dimly lit and still as a tomb. The only movement was a cadaverous orange cat, prowling and sniffing in the gutter. Paige drummed her fingers absently on the sill and leaned her forehead against the casement, forcing away the haunting vision of Luther's murder. A stray breeze ruffled her still-damp ebony hair.

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Tuesday morning dawned cloudy and cheerless. Fog hung so thick the buildings across the street stood like a dam against it. Paige could barely see the roofs of the cars parked below. She dressed in the same jeans and Winston cup T-shirt of the previous morning, slipped the same brunette wig over her hair, pulled it loosely into a ponytail, and held it with a red hair tie.

Room service delivered her breakfast. By the time she finished a second cup of coffee, rain was beating rhythmically against the windows.

She piled the pink cardigan, stirrup pants, and sneakers into the backpack on top of the money and zipped it shut, sitting on it to do so. Paige dialed 8 for the desk, remembering her southern accent. “Good mornin', sir, this is Ms. O'Hara, in 203. I'm ready to check out. Would you be so kind as to have my final bill ready? Also, could you call me a cab?"

She held the phone between her left shoulder and ear while she dug into a pocket. She set a two-dollar tip on the bedside table. “About ten minutes? Right. Thank you."

Casting an eye around the room before shutting the door for a final time, Paige sighed. The corridor was empty, no sign even of housekeeping. The elevator chugged its way to the ground floor. Paige held the door and peeked toward the main desk. No customers were about, and a different concierge was on duty. He was about fifty-five years old and no more than five and a half feet tall. Except for the graying hair, she might have mistaken him for a teenager. She stepped confidently into the lobby, smiling as she slid the key across the counter.

He compared her room key number to the registration book. “Checking out, Miss O'Hara?"

"Yes. Is my bill ready?"

"Yes. Does that mean you won't be returning tonight?"

"No."

"Miss O'Hara, I have a note here that says your luggage was supposed to arrive last night. I'm sorry to say it never came. Do you have a forwarding address for when it finally does?"

"Oh, I thought I told the man on duty last night. I had the airline send it directly to my home in Atlanta,” Paige said, nasally. “I wasn't sure where I'd be, so I thought it the wisest option.” She winked at him. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to buy new clothes, now doesn't it?"

"You women! My wife doesn't need an excuse to buy clothes."

A cab zipped to a stop in front of the glass hotel doors. Paige thanked the clerk and met the driver in the doorway. He carried an umbrella, which nearly made Paige miss the fact that it was the same man, Habib Farukh, from the previous evening. The cabbie, who now had a severely bruised face, took the backpack from her fingers and ran slightly bent over holding the umbrella over her on their way to the car.

As they reached the curb, she squinted and leaned in closer, willing him to recognize her. He nodded as he opened the rear passenger door.

"What in heaven's name happened to you?” she asked.

"Wait."

Paige felt her face grow pinched. Something was wrong.

He slammed his door and didn't slap down the meter bar. He drove rapidly for several blocks, watching closely in his rearview mirror, staying off the main streets. He slipped the car between two buses at a traffic light, ran three red lights, sped through an empty bay in a gas station, then down a ramp into a private dark, underground parking garage. He spoke to the gatekeeper saying he'd come to pick up the tenant from 6C. The guard nodded and punched a button to raise the barrier.