Authors: Cindy Davis
She found a place on Tulare and paid the middle-aged attendant, who leered at her through her open window, holding onto the ticket until she was forced to yank it from his fingers. His raspy chuckle followed her up the ramp.
Her space was on the top level. She backed in, wedging the car between a Sebring parked atop her space's dividing line and a purple La Mans. Paige got out and appraised the deserted surroundings. She sighed and leaned her elbows on the cement retaining wall, gazing out over the city. The buildings, packed tightly for fifteen or twenty blocks, gradually thinned toward the east, then faded into the vast expanse of the Sequoia National Forest.
Undulating waves of hot air flowed upward, as if pushed by an unseen fan, carrying city scents, the almost pleasant smell of burnt bacon, the sick-sweet yet somehow irresistible odor of fresh donuts, and the intoxicating aroma of someone's freshly mowed lawn. Paige stiffened as a siren wailed below, closer, closer, and then screamed past.
She brushed sandy grains from her sleeves, opened the trunk, and laid her overnight case inside, balancing it on the bald spare tire. She slid back the clasps and the scent of lavender wafted up, melding with the aromas of oil and automobile exhaust. She wrinkled her nose and unfolded a worn pair of Levi's that she'd taken from Carlotta's laundry pile. Paige slipped off her shoes. The cement floor was gritty and warm on her bare feet. She quickly put on the jeans and flung the slacks that had cost Stefano ninety dollars, into the trunk. The denim sent a shudder through her, reminding her they were the maids’ clothes. She shook the folds from a T-shirt sporting a black #3 Winston Cup racecar.
An engine approached, roaring up the ramp to the right. She ducked behind the Taurus. Heart hammering at her ribs, she pulled the trunk lid down as a beige Toyota zoomed into an empty space directly across from her.
Paige opened the trunk enough to slide out the case. She thrust it under the Sebring, into the shadow of the right rear wheel. She gripped the bumper with white knuckles, watching the car's occupant speak on his cell phone, now and again nodding or shaking his head. Twice he glanced in his rearview mirror at the elderly Ford.
For more than a minute he listened. That minute produced spasms of consternation in her limbs. He was talking to Stefano, she was certain of it. Still in a crouch, she slipped on her shoes and stole behind the neighboring Pontiac, then a Celica, and then a dust-covered green car sporting blue and white Connecticut plates. She fleetingly wondered if its owner had stashed it here, on the run as she was.
She crept between the Celica and Connecticut vehicles until she could see the Toyota. She swallowed dryly. The car was empty! She stretched higher, but still couldn't see the man.
Paige frowned and inched closer to the center aisle. She peered out near the Celica's front bumper and whipped her head back as if she'd been shot. Slowly her eyes roved up, past the neatly pressed khaki slacks, mock alligator belt, and blue button-down shirt, to a man with a cleft chin, bulbous beak, and beady eyes that were nearly lost in the shadow from the nose.
"Are you all right?” he asked.
Paige rose, dissecting him with her eyes, searching for his weapon as she dusted off her palms on her thighs. Her ears burned. The sensation spread down the nape of her neck. All instincts commanded her to flee.
"Are you all right?” he repeated, his tone held a note of curiosity.
"I ... er, lost one of my contacts."
"Show me where. I'll help you find it.” He knelt beside her, not bothering to avoid the oil and grime. He leaned down and squinted at the pavement. “I don't see anything."
"Ooh, I found it.” She pretended to snatch it up, held out the tip of a finger, then yanked it back before he had a chance to see it was empty. “Thank you for stopping, it's so rare these days that anyone helps out. Well, I have to be going, I'm very late. Thanks again.” Paige hurried toward the stairway.
Glancing back, she realized he wasn't following or even paying attention. She slipped between a pair of red sedans near the stairwell to watch, knowing he'd followed her into that garage with orders from Stefano to “bring her back—or kill her trying."
He stood beside his Toyota with his back to her, again on the phone. After a minute, he flipped the lid shut and reached inside his car for a brown sports coat, which he put on. He slipped the cell phone into an inside pocket, then straightened his tie and strode in her direction, whistling the theme from Rocky. The notes ricocheted off the cement colonnades. Paige ducked as he passed into the stairwell, envying his easy-going demeanor, something she'd give anything for—even the mob's $650,000 of which was now on its way to Minneapolis.
When the man's whistling faded, she sprinted back to the stolen Taurus. She slid the blouse off and dropped it in the trunk, replacing it quickly with the racecar T-shirt.
She took a tissue from her bag and wiped off the ruby-red lipstick that, to this point, perfectly complemented her coloring and hair. Paige slipped into Nikes, a short blond wig, and drab makeup that she thought made her look sickly and washed out. She squinted in the car's smudged side mirror, examining the changes, then adding a sporty pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. She used the lipstick-smeared tissue to wipe her prints from the entire automobile.
Paige had tucked her clothing into a plastic bag and rescued her overnight case from under the Sebring when a voice called out, “Ms. Carmichael?"
She spun to face the man from the beige Toyota, and stumbled, nearly falling into the trunk. When she regained her footing, she gripped a tire iron in one hand.
The iron made a horrific thud as it struck the man's temple. He lurched forward and crumpled to the pavement behind the Taurus. His cell phone clattered beside him, pieces flew everywhere.
She considered hiding his body in the trunk, but he looked too heavy to lift. Besides, the blood on the ground would be a dead giveaway. She frowned at the unintentional pun. Paige used her old clothes to wipe her prints from the iron, gathered her things together, and shut the trunk.
She removed her Rolex watch and gold filigree necklace and then wrestled the engraved diamond engagement ring from her finger. She ran a thumb regretfully over the enormous stone before burying everything in a dented trashcan under some filthy black paper towels.
She told herself to be more careful, to keep her eyes open. Paige added a youthful bounce to her step and waltzed past the greasy-haired attendant, suitcase swinging by her side. He lifted his eyes from the tiny television screen long enough to salute good-bye. When he didn't recognize her, she heaved a ponderous sigh. It was four blocks before the knots in her stomach finally started to untangle.
Two hours later, stomach full, and arms overloaded with bulging shopping bags and the suitcase, the blonde Paige searched for a public restroom. She located one on a nicely landscaped brick oasis that was a sentimental reminder of the patio beside Stefano's heart-shaped Santa Barbara swimming pool, and stepped inside.
She propped the suitcase on the scarred toilet seat that was definitely not a reminder of any of the ones back home. Squeezing thoughts of Stefano and Luther to the back of her mind, Paige withdrew a battered backpack and miscellaneous clothing from one of the shopping bags. She unzipped the largest partition, lined it with the $100,000 she'd kept of Stefano's money, and then carefully packed clothing on top.
A tiny brown bag held a Timex watch and some costume jewelry. Paige strapped the watch on her left wrist and added a few gold-plated rings to each hand, concealing the pale imprints on her ring fingers. From another bag came several paperbacks. The last parcel contained miscellaneous toiletries. She wrapped these, plus Stefano's precious gold coin—that she'd taken from his safe—in several layers of paper toweling, and stowed them in the third pocket of the backpack. She heaved the old stuff into the wastebasket and left the chlorine-scented bathroom.
In a parking lot behind a pharmacy, Paige inspected several vehicles for keys in ignitions, but it wasn't long before she reconsidered the idea. Authorities would connect this theft with the theft of the Taurus earlier in the day, because it sure wouldn't be long before someone discovered the dead man behind the stolen car. She kicked herself for leaving such an obvious trail of evidence.
A harried pedestrian pointed Paige toward an Amtrak Station several blocks away. Although heavy and ready to topple her off balance, she found the twenty-five pounds on her back oddly comforting. Her pace in the running shoes was light and quick, different from her usual staid and mature step.
She located the old Santa Fe Freight House without any difficulty and stepped inside the pale stucco building, breathing hard from the exertion. The station was busy and she sidestepped a white-collared man talking on a tiny cell phone nearly hidden in his huge hand, a pair of Russians talking and gesturing as though they were using sign language, and a housewife pushing an overloaded stroller containing a pair of squalling babies.
Third in line at the ticket window, Paige scanned the schedule posted on the wall. Sticking to the plan meant not being out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary. This meant buying a ticket on the next available train, departing for what looked to be Bakersfield in forty minutes, and arriving in Barstow at 8:10 that evening.
Craving coffee, Paige found a shop inside the terminal and slid onto a vinyl stool at a grimy counter. The place reeked of overused grease and cigarette smoke. Her stomach turned over a few times when she noticed the pot of mud sitting on the Bunn burner. The owner/cook/waiter leaned against the wall at one end of the counter smoking a cigarette and ignoring his customers, all in varying stages of impatience.
She cleared her throat and adopted a British accent. “Might I have a beaker of coffee, please? Fresh, if you don't mind, not that beastly concoction you have fermenting on the burner."
He grunted something that she neither understood nor asked him to repeat. He punched a button that started a new pot brewing. After an inch had descended from the filter into the waiting carafe, he plunked a brown stained mug on the counter and sloshed the weak liquid into it.
"'Nything else?” Before she could reply, he added, “Special today, hot meatloaf sangwich wit’ plenty of gravy."
"I don't think so."
"Jes’ coffee, I get it. Want cream?"
"Regular milk, if you please."
He filled a juice glass half full from a pint container and clinked it on the counter against the mug.
The milk dribbled down the sides of the glass as she attempted to pour it into her cup.
"Three bucks."
Hearing the price, she nearly gave him the cup back.
When she'd finished half, she slid off the stool and dropped bills on the counter, without a tip.
So, Stefano knew she was gone. She'd hoped for more time to get away before he realized that. From here out, she'd have to be more careful.
She found a bench away from the crowd where she could watch the station. Why was that dark-haired man staring at her?
The train car's interior was gloomy and foreboding. Paige slid her glasses up on her head, the sensation strange atop the thick wig, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
The plan was to sit at the back, to watch.
She trudged down the aisle, passing a woman and teenaged boy. Across the aisle sat an elderly couple with their heads bent together, looking at photos from a one-hour developing service. An aisle seat further back held a bearded man. He raised lifeless green eyes from his laptop and gave a wan smile as she passed.
Paige headed toward the two pairs of empty seats at the back, just in front of the lavatory. She slid into a window seat, putting a leg through one of the straps and tucking the backpack between her right leg and the wall. Choosing a rear seat was part of the plan, but the tall backrests of the seats prevented her from seeing more than a row or two ahead. Paige eyed the penguin-like conductor as he waddled down the aisle, collecting tickets, paying very little attention to her or any of the other passengers.
Paige settled back in the stiff cloth seat. It had been many years since she'd been on a train. A trip to the mountains with a blond hunk in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania was the last time. Paige's parents had bought her enrollment in the college prep school after poor grades from the Swiss girls’ school had prevented her from acceptance at any respectable college.
The hunk was a student at City College. They met at a showing of
The Godfather
. Paige had been so frightened during one scene that she hadn't noticed him slip into the seat beside her. He gently placed a hand atop hers. Two weeks later found them on the train headed for a weekend in the Berkshires. The memory was so vivid she could see his tousled shoulder length hair riffling in the wind created by the open window.
She shook off the memory and slipped a book from the front pocket of her bag. She watched out the window as the whistle warned of their arrival at a station. She searched the faces of the crowd on the platform. All unfamiliar, although she reminded herself she wouldn't recognize half the people Stefano would be likely to send.
She flicked on the overhead light and opened the book,
The Complete Dummy's Guide to Buying Real Estate
. She'd read the introduction and just four pages before her head nodded back against the headrest.
"Wait! No, please don't...” were the last words from Luther's lips before the sound of the shot had echoed in the mahogany-paneled den. The bullet was a blur, or maybe not seen at all, just assumed, since the red stain which appeared in the center of his shirt told the story. He slumped to the thickly carpeted floor; the only sound a rattle of coins in the pockets of the dying man.
"Dump the body in the usual place."
Paige jolted awake, beads of sweat on her forehead. Through sleep-glazed eyes, she glanced left, swiping the back of a hand across her forehead and taking stock of the person who'd sat beside her: a man with skin as translucent as tissue paper, and baby-fine smog-colored hair. Thin almost nonexistent lips outlined a narrow, pinched mouth. He had tiny slits for nostrils and a bright sunburn over the bridge of his nose. His gaze never wavered under her scrutiny. She felt his eyes piercing through the dark Foster Grant lenses.