Silent Masquerade

An hour later, as darkness was beginning to creep across the highway, Bill nudged Cara. “I don’t feel so good. I think maybe it’s something I ate.”

“Probably all that fried food,” Cara said, nodding.

Bill reached down for the bag he’d placed at his feet. “Listen, I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat this, and I hate to see food go to waste. Do you think you could at least eat some of it?”

“You might feel better after a bit,” Cara said. She didn’t take the bag.

He pushed it into her lap. “Please. I have a real horror about waste. I’ve seen too many kids starving all over the world.”

Cara gave him a suspicious look, but then opened the bag and looked inside. “Well, all right, maybe I’ll eat part of a sandwich and drink the milk.”

She ate daintily, but he could see she was really hungry. When he saw how eagerly she drank the milk, he wished he’d bought two cartons.

“You’ve been all over the world?” Cara asked, as if his comment had just now registered with her.

“Yeah.” Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was exactly why it was so dangerous to get next to people—the unthinking way information just popped out of one’s mouth.

“Like where?” She took another bite of sandwich, and a tiny bit of mayo stuck to the corner of her mouth. Bill looked away, uneasy about his desire to reach over and lift it off with his finger. When he looked back, Cara was dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin.

“Do you mind if we don’t talk right now?” he said, dodging her question. “I’m really tired.”

He hated the hurt that appeared in the girl’s eyes. Hated that he cared whether he hurt her or not. If he was going to stay alive, to outsmart Alvaretti, he’d have to play by Alvaretti’s rules. And the first one was, take care of number one and don’t give a damn about anyone else.

He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. After a few minutes, he dozed off for real.

* * *

THE IRON DOOR clanged shut with a threatening sound as Deacon Avery entered the small barred room where he was to meet with his client. There was a scarred rectangular wooden table with a chair at each end in the center of the room. Other than an ashtray in the middle of the table, there were no amenities in the space allotted for lawyer-client visits.

Deacon hated the room, the prison, the trips upstate. But when Franco Alvaretti sent for you, you didn’t argue and you didn’t delay. Even though Franco was in prison, he was still a formidable enemy.

He took out a cigarette and then put it back, remembering that Franco had hated smoking ever since he, himself, had given up the expensive cigars he once smoked endlessly. Deacon went to the window and winced at the barren scene below: a huge concrete-walled exercise yard that seemed to exemplify—even more than the barred doors and windows—the emptiness of prison life.

He stroked his cigarette pack and hoped this meeting would be brief. He wondered what could be keeping Franco.

As if in response to his thoughts, he heard the now-familiar sound of a key grating in a lock, and then a door on the opposite wall opened to reveal Deacon’s client and, behind him, an armed guard.

“You got ten minutes, Franco,” the guard warned, in a pleasant voice. Deacon knew instantly that this was one of the guards who were now on the Alvaretti payroll.

“Deke, good to see you, old friend,” Franco called out, holding his arms open to Deacon.

They hugged briefly in the traditional manner, and then Deacon went to the table and lifted his briefcase onto its surface. “We don’t have much time, Franco. Maybe you want to get right down to business.”

Franco put his hand out to prevent Deacon from opening the case. “This is a different kind of business, Deke. You won’t need anything in there.”

Deacon let his surprise show in his expression. He had assumed this was going to be a discussion of the business and the delegation of authority during Franco’s incarceration.

Franco shook his head. “This is personal, Deke, and I figure you’re indebted enough to me that you’ll carry out my orders.”

Deacon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve always followed your orders, Franco, you know that.”

“Good,” Franco said with a nod. “Then let’s cut right to the chase, as they say. Where is Bill Spencer?”

Deacon blinked and stared at Franco, aghast. “Why would you think I’d know that, Franco? We know he must have gone underground, probably with the WPP’s help, but I certainly have no knowledge of his location.”

“Then find out!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, find him. And do it now! The longer you delay, the more apt you are to lose him for good.”

“But why would—?”

“I want him wasted.”

Deacon blanched and gripped the table edge as a dizzy spell threatened. “Franco...it’s over... Why don’t you just forget—”

The other man leaped to his feet, knocking the chair over. “Don’t tell me to forget, Deacon. You’re not the one stuck in this place for the next twenty years, with nothing to do but remember your enemies. Or maybe,” he began, leaning forward and grabbing Deacon’s jacket lapel, his face just inches from Deacon’s, “you’re one of them?”

“No! No way, Franco, you know I’m with you...all the way, Franco.”

Deacon could feel the sweat forming on his face, behind his ears, under his arms and between his thighs.

As quickly as he’d lost his temper, Franco’s good humor was restored. He picked up his chair and sat down, smiling at Deacon.

“Good. Now, use all the people you need to locate Spencer, and then, when that’s accomplished, get in touch with me.”

“You want me to send out an...enforcer, Franco?”

“No. Just find him. I’ll tell you what to do once I know you’ve got him in your sights.”

He stood up and reached across the table to pat Deacon’s cheek affectionately. “Don’t get your marbles in an uproar, Deke. I’m not going to make you pull the trigger.”

His laughter echoed back to Deacon long after the guard had led Alvaretti out of the room. It took Deacon a few minutes to wipe the sweat from his face and stop his hand from shaking so that he could press the buzzer to summon a guard to let him out.

Chapter Two

Cara finished the food in the bag while Bill slept. It was too dark by then to see anything outside the windows, and she closed her eyes and thought about how lucky it had been that Bill felt too ill to eat the food he’d purchased. She had been so hungry, she’d been on the verge of feeling sick herself. But she had limited funds, and she had to make them stretch. She couldn’t afford to blow all her money on meals in restaurants.

When she got where she was going, and got her own place, she’d stock up on cheap things like bread and luncheon meat. She’d live on that just fine until she had money coming in. Maybe she’d land a job in a restaurant where they’d provide some of her meals.

A spasm of despair gripped her; all those years of working toward her M.B.A. and now she would be reduced to working as a waitress or something. She sighed. She couldn’t let herself suffer remorse now—she’d made her decision and followed through on it. This was no time to be feeling sorry for herself.

She glanced over at Bill Hamlin, hoping her restlessness hadn’t disturbed his sleep. His breathing was shallow and even, and his face was more handsome when he was at peace, not wearing its usual expression of wariness.

It occurred to her that they’d been on the bus together for about eighteen hours, and he didn’t look the least bit rumpled or disheveled. Maybe that was a trick a world traveler learned. Ruefully she looked down at her own outfit, which wasn’t holding up well at all. In the morning she’d go into the ladies’ room and change into one of her other outfits, though she suspected they’d be pretty wrinkled, too, from being folded in the gym bag.

Her reflection in the night-darkened window told her that her hair needed a good brushing and any sign of lipstick was gone.

Funny that a man who had traveled all over the world would end up riding on a cross-country bus, she mused, closing her eyes again. But then, she’d read about people who made treks on foot or by bicycle, sleeping in barns and hostels and living out of their backpacks. Maybe Bill Hamlin was one of those.

She took a deep breath. He sure did smell good. It couldn’t be aftershave, she realized, opening one eye to peek at him. He had a beard. Must be hair oil, or some kind of scented men’s soap.

It made her think of Doug, and she winced and folded her arms around her body. She didn’t have to worry about Doug anymore, or about her mother. Even if her mother should decide to hire someone to find her, she was pretty sure she could avoid discovery. When her car was found, they’d think she was somewhere in Boston.

A tiny prickle of fear shot through her. What if they thought she’d been killed? Her mother would never rest until her body was found and the murderer put in jail.

What body? What murderer? Giving a soft chuckle, Cara realized that scenario would never be played out.

And then, suddenly, humor turned to sorrow and, despite her determination to avoid self-pity, she began to cry quietly, missing her mother, her home, wishing things could have been different, wishing Doug had never come into their lives.

“Hey,” Bill said softly, turning his head to look at her. “Are you crying?”

“No.” She shook her head and dashed the tears from her eyes. “I thought you were asleep,” she said, her voice muffled, as she looked through her purse for tissues.

“I’m a light sleeper. When the person next to me starts to cry, I usually wake up.”

He handed her one of those small packages of tissue that were sold at checkout counters. Cara took one and blew her nose into it, handing the packet back to him.

“Keep it. I suspect the waterworks aren’t over yet.”

A fresh flood of tears proved him right. Cara leaned against the window and wept quietly.

Beside her, Bill Hamlin sat quite still, not touching her, not pretending to understand her pain or attempting to talk her out of her distress.

Cara wiped her eyes and nose and turned to him with a look of wry reproach. “You’ve done this before,” she said accusingly.

“You mean waited for some damsel in distress to get over the boo-hoos?”

Cara grinned in spite of herself and then nodded.

Bill stretched his legs, slouched on his spine and turned his head toward her. “If you ask a woman why she’s crying, she invariably either says she isn’t or that it’s nothing. If you try to comfort her, you can’t possibly find the words that will make any difference. And if you try to touch her, you either get shrugged off, punched, or drenched from the tears. I’ve learned it’s better to wait it out.”

Cara laughed. “Thanks.”

Bill smiled. It was a strangely gentle, compassionate smile, Cara thought.

“It’s okay. We all have periods when we want to go into a corner and bawl.”

“Not men,” Cara said firmly.

“Oho! You don’t know much about men, apparently.”

Cara studied her seatmate with renewed interest, her own loneliness forgotten. He certainly didn’t look the type to cry. But then, what would that type look like? Effeminate? The man beside her was hardly that.

“I ate all your food,” she said.

“I hoped you would,” he replied.

“It... I...”

“You were hungry.” Bill nodded. “It’s okay, I understand. I’ve been there a time or two myself.”

Cara was grateful that he’d relieved her of the awkwardness of having to explain her limited finances, but she didn’t want him to pity her, either.

“I could use my money for food, but I need it more for something else.”

Again Bill nodded. “Sure. Don’t worry about it. And if you’re a good seatmate and don’t snore while you sleep, I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning as a reward.”

“I don’t snore,” Cara said indignantly.

Bill folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “Good,” he said, smiling wearily. “Then you’re a shoo-in for the superdeluxe ranch steak and eggs special.”

Cara laughed and made herself as comfortable as she could beside Bill. What a nice man. And without any hint of flirtatiousness. He reminded her of her father, though he was younger than her father had been when he died. Come to think of it, he must be about Doug’s age, halfway between her mother and herself.

But she mustn’t think about the people at home; if she did, she’d start crying again.

She decided to think about breakfast with Bill, instead. She smiled at the thought. She’d use the ladies’ room and change into jeans and her pink long-sleeved knit shirt. Jeans held up better for travel. And she’d put on a little makeup and fix her hair. She wasn’t going to give him a single reason to regret inviting her to breakfast.

She was almost asleep when his head slipped onto her shoulder. Cara held her breath, her body rigid, but then relaxed. It was nice having him there, she decided; familiar and not at all threatening.

* * *

DOUG HARVARD fought for control as Beth Dunlap paced the floor, wringing her hands and weeping noisily.

“I can’t believe she just took off like that, sneaking away in the dark of night without even telling me she was leaving.”

“She did leave a note, darling,” Doug reminded her gently.

“Maybe I should notify the police, report her missing.” Beth’s voice had strengthened, the teariness giving way to resolve.

“Darling, the police would say she left on her own, that she isn’t really missing.”

“What about a private detective, then?”

It was time to bring Beth back under control. Doug went to her and enfolded her in his arms, holding her head against his chest, soothingly rubbing her back. “Listen, my dear, Cara is a grown woman, not a runaway child. Why don’t we give her time to get settled wherever she’s gone, and then, if we don’t hear from her in, say—oh, a month—we’ll talk about looking for her? Meanwhile—” he lowered his voice seductively and lifted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes “—why don’t we take advantage of our newfound privacy and get married right away.”

Beth gasped. “Right away? You mean—?”

Doug nodded and gave her a practiced smile, heavy with promise. “I mean tomorrow. We already have the license, and with Cara gone, we don’t have any family to cater to. Let’s just go off by ourselves and exchange our vows privately.” He brushed her lips with his own. “It would be so much more romantic, my love,” he whispered.

“What about my friends?” Beth protested weakly. “They’ll be so disappointed.”

Doug’s hands moved from Beth’s back to just under her breasts. He held back a smile of satisfaction when Beth gave a tremulous gasp of excitement. “I’ll be even more disappointed if I have to wait one more night to make you my wife,” he said, making his voice rough.

“We don’t have to wait,” Beth said, moving closer, rubbing her pelvis against Doug’s. “I’ve always told you I’d be willing to make love with you before the wedding. After all,” she added archly, “I’m a woman of the nineties.”

Damned near, Doug thought. But he said, “No, darling, as I’ve told you so often before, I need to know you’re all mine, entirely committed to me, and I to you, before I can accept that last, most wondrous gift from you.”

He let his fingers graze her nipples, almost as if by mistake, and had the satisfaction of hearing her moan of desire as she ground her hips against him in desperation.

He drew away, his expression one of deep regret. “Don’t make me wait any longer, Beth darling, please. I need you so.” He put his hand to his fly and clutched himself in seeming pain. “Please, darling, say you’ll marry me tomorrow, and let’s start our honeymoon now, tonight.”

He could see she’d had all she could take of his sexual game of cat and mouse. His offer to put the honeymoon before the wedding was the clincher. She fell into his arms, almost tearing his shirt open, and agreed to marry him the next day.

Doug called on his favorite fantasy in order to prepare for the night ahead. Cara Dunlap might have gotten away from him in fact, but in his mind he could still have his way with her, and visualizing breaking her to his will was exciting enough to allow him to perform like a passion-crazed bridegroom.

Hours later, as Beth slept beside him, Doug lay in the darkened master bedroom and eased himself into sleep by working out the details for making Beth Dunlap’s fortune his own.

* * *

“WE’RE HALFWAY THERE,” Bill said as he slid into the booth across from Cara. “The driver says we’re right on schedule.”

Cara put down the menu she’d been studying. “Are you going to be staying in San Francisco for a while?”

Bill gave her a strange look. “No,” he said, in a tone that prohibited further questions.

Cara wriggled uncomfortably and frowned. “I just thought, since I don’t know anyone there, it would be nice...”

“Look, kid, when this trip is over, we’re history. I travel fast and I travel alone, and I don’t take on any cargo along the way.”

Cara flushed. “I’m not a kid, for one thing, Bill Hamlin, and I wasn’t suggesting you `take me on,’ so you can drop the Humphrey Bogart routine. I just thought it would be nice to know there was someone I knew in the same city with me while I’m getting settled.”

He hadn’t meant to snap at her like that, and he knew he’d sounded like a real jerk. But as the hours they spent together sped by, he was beginning to feel more and more at risk. There was something so compelling about her—a combination of vulnerability and recklessness. Something in him yearned to reach out and either shake her or grab her and hold her tight. And that was exactly the kind of emotional involvement that could make him lose sight of his own safety concerns, make him careless.

They had another day and a half on the bus, another night of falling asleep smelling her shampoo, her sweet, clean fragrance, feeling her arm against his, her leg brushing his when she turned to say something to him. He was, first and foremost a man, one who hadn’t held a woman in longer than he cared to remember. It might be years before it was safe for him to get involved again—if ever—but while they were traveling across the country, suspended in the limbo of continuous movement, he could almost pretend they were just two normal people who were on the verge of becoming friends.

“Order something filling,” he said gruffly to Cara. “And don’t be so thin-skinned. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He hid a smile behind his menu. He could tell from the play of emotions he’d seen across her face that she was torn between indignation and hunger.

She ordered eggs and pancakes and a large glass of milk.

“That’s more like it,” Bill said, nodding in approval. “Now, let’s talk about you. What are you going to do in San Francisco?”

He had a day and a half in which to enjoy this young woman’s company. He decided that as long as he was on the bus it was safe for him to let his guard down enough to make it a congenial trip. She intrigued him, with her soft prettiness, her feisty temper, her hint of sad mystery. He would have liked to encourage her to reveal the source of that mystery but he knew that if he did, she’d feel justified in questioning him in return. He couldn’t have that.

Cara played with her cutlery and looked out the window of the café, staring off into the distance, where the desert met the horizon like a great sand-colored ocean.

“Look for a job, a place to live,” she said dreamily. “Start a new life.”

“Wipe out the old one,” Bill said, almost to himself.

“What?” Cara returned her gaze to Bill, startled by his remark. How could she respond to that? How could she tell a stranger about her mother’s obsession with a younger man whose own obsession was with her daughter? How could she explain the guilt, the shame, she felt every time she entered a room with her mother and Doug in it. And, worst of all, how could she explain how Doug had manipulated her with emotional blackmail, knowing she wouldn’t be able to bear to hurt her mother by telling her the truth about the man her mother loved?

“I...I just felt the need to try someplace new,” she said weakly.

“And you’re traveling clear across the country to find it?”

Cara nodded and returned her gaze to the window.

Doug was going to be furious when he discovered she’d finally found the courage to escape his advances. Would he look for her, risk losing her mother? She prayed that her opinion of Doug was correct, that he was just a bit more obsessed with her mother’s money than he was with Cara, that that little edge might keep him in Greensville, keep him from looking for her.

She pushed away the stab of guilt she felt over leaving her mother at Doug’s mercy. She’d turned the situation over in her mind, considered her options, made her choice. She’d live by it.

Their food arrived before Bill could ply her with more questions. Cara picked up her fork almost before the waitress set her plate down, glad for the diversion and for the bounty of food before her.

They were almost finished with the meal when the driver came in and called for everyone’s attention.

“We’re going to have a slight delay, folks. Nothing to worry about, but you’re going to have a couple of extra hours here, so take your time and enjoy the scenery. If you want to go for walks or look around the town, be sure you’re back by ten.”

“Oh, let’s go for a walk,” Cara said, excited at the prospect of seeing something of the countryside that was passing by her almost as soon as her gaze fell on it.

Bill studied her face, enjoying the flush of excitement in her cheeks, the shine in her eyes. Great eyes, he thought. Not just dark brown, but more the color of burned caramel. They glinted with golden lights every time her face changed expression.

He glanced out at the parking lot. Apart from three Greyhound buses, there was an eighteen-wheeler, a pick-up truck with a load of vegetables in the back, and two compact cars. He looked around the café. Nobody who could remotely be connected with the mob.

He looked back at Cara, whose smile was beguiling. “Okay, you’re on,” he said, rising and throwing a couple of bills on the food check.

But as they were strolling the streets of the small town, Bill was already beginning to question the reckless manner in which he was getting involved with this girl. Something about her tugged at him, at some long-buried part of him that preceded his years in the Service, his brief but disastrous marriage, even the pseudocynical years of college. She took him back to his true beginnings, to halcyon days of family and growing up in middle America with nothing to threaten the peace but the seasonal attacks of weather.

It was that life, hidden away from the rest of the country, that had made him want to make a career out of defending and protecting the things he loved and believed in.

“Look at that,” Cara said breathlessly, pointing to the mountain rise that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, making a magnificent backdrop for the row of low buildings they’d come upon.

“Makes a person feel...insignificant,” Bill said, absorbing the feeling as he stared at the mountain.

“Because it’s been there forever and will be there forever,” Cara stated solemnly. She turned from the awe-inspiring sight and looked up at her companion. “Doesn’t it make you want to stay right here and let it stand guard over your life?”

Bill glanced at Cara and then back at the mountain, shaking his head. “There are some things it can’t protect you from. There are people out there who would never stop to look at that mountain, never notice its beauty or its magnificence. People who wouldn’t hesitate to blow up the mountain if it stood in the way of what they wanted to achieve.”

Cara stared at Bill, aghast. She’d never heard such cynical talk before, never heard that note of utter futility in another person’s voice.