Silent Masquerade

“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.”