Final Masquerade (5 page)
Authors: Cindy Davis
Habib eased the taxi down the ramp and parked in a quiet corner. Leaving the car running, he turned and pushed the bulletproof separator glass to its widest position. He leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “I hear dispatcher say there was fare at the Daybreak and Habib knows it must be you. I need to tell you. Last night, Habib get off at ten o'clock. I take car back to garage and leave it to be cleaned for today. I do that every day. Some cabbies don't—"
"Tell me what happened."
"Dispatcher say a man waiting for me in locker room. I think the man from my ex-wife, so I think about running away. But, then I think, ‘what the hell, they can't take what I don't have’ so I go in. It's not her lawyer like I think. It's bad looking man with—"
Paige interrupted, “Did he have very light skin and dark glasses?"
"Yes, yes! That is him!” The cabby's eyes became animated, as if he'd just won the lottery. “He pull me.” He grabbed his own shirt by the lapels and yanked to demonstrate. “Like this. He bang me into locker asking questions."
"About me?"
He nodded and ran a forefinger along the edge of the glass partition.
"What did he want?"
"To know where I take you. I tell him I don't know what he is saying. That's when he hit me here.” He gestured at his gut.
Paige winced. That now-familiar feeling had returned.
"Then, he say he knows I did because he wrote my cab number. Then, he hit my eye and say he put Habib in hospital if Habib doesn't tell him. I think fast and tell him"—he adopted a whiney tone—"'No, no,’ I say, ‘please not hit me again. I tell you where she is.’”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
"Wait, wait. Not a problem. I see that you are very classy lady. I tell him you go to Fairfax Hotel, very nice place, many blocks from here."
"Did he believe you?"
Habib shrugged. “He doesn't hit me again. He went away and so did Habib, very fast, to Habib's brother house."
"I'm so sorry. I didn't think things would go this far. I don't want you hurt. If he comes back, tell him the truth about where you took me."
"No, no.” He shook his head with great energy. “Not tell. In my country, you don't dishonor self. You don't tell. Bad man can break Habib's legs. He can—"
"No. That's not how we do it in America.”
We blurt out everything we've ever known to save ourselves.
“No more hurting, Habib. If he comes back, I want you to tell him the truth. I will be gone, so it won't matter. I don't want you hurt again. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Habib nodded, but the look in his eyes said he would never divulge anything to the albino, even if the man did as promised and broke his legs.
"Where Habib take you today, missy?"
"To the airport."
He frowned, but shifted the car into gear. The gatekeeper was watching a tiny television on the shelf above his desk and didn't look up when the cab raced back up the ramp. Even so, Paige shrank into the seat. The guard pushed the button. The gate lifted and they passed without incident. She had a momentary glimpse of a morning talk show and a bearded man in the audience, flailing his arms and pointing occasionally at the couple sitting on stage.
Habib's intake of breath roused her from thoughts of mundane everyday activities.
"What is it, Habib?"
"Black car. So much rain, but I think it follows us."
"Can you lose it?"
The roar of the powerful motor nullified his words and she was thrown back in the seat. The taxi zipped through traffic in a newer section of town. Triple-decker apartments and glass fronted office buildings whizzed past in a blaze of reflected scenery.
"Hold on,” he instructed as the car swung hard, rolled up on two wheels, and threw Paige against the door. The chase car maneuvered adeptly through the thick traffic, always just a few feet from the cab's bumper.
Paige held the door handle with one hand and gripped the backpack tightly in the other. Turn after turn every skillful move Habib made was mimicked by the driver of the sleek, black car. They zigzagged into oncoming lanes, sped through underpasses, bounced up, then down from sidewalks, crashed into a hot dog vending booth and knocked over a vegetable stand. A shower of apples and oranges bounced absurdly off the windshield, competing for space with the raindrops. The two automobiles raced into a crowded parking lot, the chase car choosing a lane parallel to the cab. It sped several feet ahead of the taxi.
Paige's heart flipped over with every bump and grind of the vehicle. The black car whipped left at the end, intent on a path of interception with the cab. Habib slammed on the brakes, pitching Paige to her knees. As the villain slipped past, Habib missed the turn. The cab jumped the parking lot curbing sending a spray of dirt and marigolds into the sky and driving Paige's head into roof, then down between her shoulder blades.
Habib's hands worked adeptly, twisting the steering wheel one way and then another as he urged the taxi into traffic. He blew out a long breath.
Paige released her grip on the door handle and flexed her aching knuckles. “Good work, Habib."
Habib's only response was to jerk the wheel sharply at the next intersection, throwing Paige once again to the floor. She attempted to rise, but this time her head struck the front seat and her right leg twisted underneath her. The car remained steady for several seconds, just long enough for her to scramble back onto the seat and place a stranglehold on the door handle. She tried to swallow, but couldn't.
"When car stop, jump, run south and west to truck stop,” Habib hollered.
Paige positioned the strap of her pack securely on her left shoulder and wiped her palms, one at a time, on her thighs as the car tilted and veered left. Adrenaline surged into her limbs, preparing for the right moment to throw open the door and hit the ground running.
"Hold on! We are stopping fast."
As the cab entered the intersection of Fourth and Main for the third time in less than five minutes, Habib rammed the rear end of a pickup waiting to turn. Immediately, the black sedan slammed into the cab, crumpling the trunk compartment and thrusting Paige's seat forward until it was mere inches from the front seat.
A Volkswagen beetle crashed into the right front quarter of the cab, driving the front seat backwards, and trapping Paige between the seats. A fifth car veered onto the sidewalk to avoid the wreck, hit a building, and then a pedestrian. Agonized screams sounded over the bedlam in the intersection.
Habib threw open his door. “Run!” he hollered.
The hiss of steam joined the pelting rain, wailing voices, squealing tires, and chain reaction crunching metal. As Paige extricated her legs and flung open the rear passenger door the taxi was slammed in the left rear quarter by another motorist. The cab leaped several feet to the right, squeezing somehow between the pickup and the beetle, then pitching Paige into the street.
She landed on her knees but was instantly on her feet. She staggered back on her heels as Habib's head vanished on the other side of the cab.
"Habib!"
Paige raced around the car. He was lying on the pavement, blood spurting from a horrible gash in his head. She grimaced seeing his skull lying open to the world, his brain matter lying next to him like long-lost friend.
Paige reached down, trying to touch him, to comfort him. A bloody river etched a path along his jaw and puddled in his ear. Habib's eyes rolled up and back. His face took on a glazed, fixed expression, one that would haunt her always. A dreadful gurgle erupted from his throat.
Clawing hands tore at her shoulder and she ducked. The fingers carved gouges in her skin as someone tumbled over her. A strangled scream squeezed from her lips when she realized it was the man from the train. She folded her right fist and drove it into his left eye.
She collected her purse and backpack and ran, obeying Habib's last order—to find the truck stop. Desperation propelled her through the growing crowd of spectators. Fear and anguish that Habib, a mere stranger, had given his life to save hers tore at her insides.
She raced down a narrow, dank alley and fell against a damp brick wall. The stench of rotting garbage assailed her nostrils. She gagged, knelt beside a dumpster and threw up, over and over, until her aching body was weak and spent.
She stumbled to the other side of the alley and dropped her pack. Mindless of the litter she collapsed onto the backpack, head on her knees, arms wrapped protectively around herself. At the sound of approaching sirens, she gazed weakly toward the street. Two fire trucks and three police cars sped past. She wiped her mouth and face with the back of her hand and realized for the first time that it was tears, and not rain, that coursed down her cheeks. She cried not only for Habib but for the torment of the last three years and the strain of the past two days.
How did they keep finding her?
She wondered suddenly, if they were using some kind of a tracking device, had put one somewhere in her belongings. No. She'd been so careful. None of the clothing or belongings came from the Santa Barbara home, except Carlotta's jeans and the blonde wig, part of a Halloween costume from a party she and Stefano gave three years ago.
An ambulance raced past the alley entrance. Its high-pitched alarm echoed between the buildings like a yodel in the Swiss Alps.
Paige gulped the sour air and rose using the slimy brick wall for support. Cautiously, she stepped back onto the sidewalk, ignoring the pitying looks from passersby, knowing they assumed she was one of the homeless, the unwashed.
She walked the other way, forcing her dispirited body into cheerful normalcy. Ahead, two signs hung perpendicularly above adjacent doorways. The sight of them motivated her to forge a path toward it. The first announced the Thrifty Lady's Shoppe, and the second simply blinked COFFEE in purple neon. Vain attempts had been made to modernize the buildings along this back street neighborhood, from multi-paned glass transoms and modern neon signage to ornate canvas entryways. But evidence of the city's horse and buggy days remained in the narrow, pot-holed street, and old pitted brick.
Barely recognizing her disheveled reflection in the heavily fingerprinted window, she hastily patted her ponytail into place and spit on an index finger to wash the blood—Habib's blood—from her cheek, forcing back tears of grief and frustration. She stood inside the door, surveying the thrift shop mannequins, costumed for the upcoming autumn season in coordinating outfits of tan, burnt orange, and forest green.
Inside the building, few attempts at improvement had been made through the years. Still, the pocked, scuffed hardwood floor betrayed every footstep. The once-white paint on the tin ceiling had peeled and faded to the color of undercooked toast.
Not used to, or enjoying the idea of wearing someone else's clothing, Paige browsed among tall revolving clothing racks and shelves of pre-owned shoes, selecting a pair of new disguises. She also purchased a small suitcase, somewhat larger than the backpack, several battered paperbacks, and a black faux-leather bag with lots of pockets. She traded the blonde wig for one in a honey-color mid-length style. The quality of the new wig was cheap, and the cap looked uncomfortable, but she was in no position to be selective.
She left the store with the purchases inside a trio of large paper shopping bags. Paige stepped back onto the sidewalk wondering if they'd removed Habib's body from the pavement yet. She swallowed down a tidal wave of nausea. Where was the albino now? Had he been injured in the accident?
The bags rustled through the glass and wood door of the coffee shop. Heads turned toward the commotion. She smiled apologetically and edged sideways to walk down the narrow aisle between barstools and booths, willing people to go back to their own business, and sliding into a booth as far to the back as she could find. She deposited her packages on the stiff new vinyl seat across the table. She laid the backpack between herself and the marble patterned tile on the wall.
A waitress behind the counter held up a coffeepot. Paige nodded and eased the menu from between the sugar and ketchup containers.
She forced down a lifeless ham sandwich, then visited the ladies room where she transferred all her belongings into the suitcase and faux leather bag and left the old handbag and backpack on the floor.
Paige exited the shop armed with her new belongings and directions to the truck stop Habib had mentioned. The rain had stopped and fragments of blue peeked between paisley shaped clouds. In order to reach the truck stop, she had to pass within a block of the morning's tragedy. She pushed the memory from her mind and plodded toward her destination, deliberately looking the other way.
The Heartland Truck Stop swarmed with noise and activity. Paige was certain Habib intended for her to get lost in the confusion, although she was apprehensive about hitching a ride with anyone, not having attempted such foolishness since her high school days. She let a memory distract her, of her and Nina Breckenridge thumbing a ride from the outskirts of their Thousand Oaks neighborhood into L.A. for a day of shopping at the Westside Pavilion. The shopping center was a teenaged girl's Promised Land with the multitude of shops and guys as far as the eye could see. Every teen in the metro area wandered the wide center hallways, rarely stepping foot into the stores, with the possible exception of Spencer's Gifts. Girls with Paige and Nina's looks had little trouble attracting boys on the prowl.
The Heartland parking area reminded Paige of the LAX parking lots, except here the automobiles were replaced by tractor-trailers of every size and description. There were box trailers, flat beds both empty and loaded, even tractors bobtailing their way to points unknown.
Inside the enormous building, Paige was assaulted by aromas of home cooked food, conjoined conversations, and a true conglomeration of cultures. She knew why Habib had sent her here; it was a place she could get lost, a place where the man from the train, if he were still on her trail and if he thought of a truck stop as an option, would have a devil of a time locating her.
